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  Sep 2014 Shaded Lamp
Seán Mac Falls
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
   And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
       The song-splayed sounds of light
   And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
       Brambled in bay, garland in violet
   When blades could ***** and not make bleed,

And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
   In that glow, once knighted we must serve
       Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
       And the vernal song sang lowly
   Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.

At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
   The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
       Brown as the yellowed beech
   Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
       Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
   I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.

Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing ****, heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
   And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
       Damp fires hailed the rising
   Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
       For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
   In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Inisfáil (Inish-fall) ] Gaelic word meaning: Isle of destiny, island of the fall, Ireland.
Shaded Lamp Sep 2014
Hard to swallow
Harder to digest
This ****** Biblical
****** contest.
In the blue corner
God and his beard
In the red corner
The beast most feared

Let's count the death toll as delivered by the "Good Book"

Good aka God

Two million, four hundred and seventy six thousand,
six hundred and thirty three


(plus the incalculable deaths caused by mass floods and plague etc.)

versus

Evil aka Satan

Ten

(all ten in cooperation with/ at the order of God)

Who should you run to?
From who should you flee?
Is reading these words
a punishable act of blasphemy?
If so, strike me down now
before I kick start a revolt.
Or please show me sign, by...
lighting my HP lightning bolt!
BANG!
Shaded Lamp Sep 2014
Without direction
Just here to live, love
and cause as little harm as possible on the way
I repair my torn clothes
Wear shoes till they leak
and treat my mind and body the same
Mother earth inspires
Humanity fascinates
Society irritates
Guess that's why I dig the blues
My Story for Mr. Cole
  Sep 2014 Shaded Lamp
Jack
My poetry *****



I’m so tired of writing

My fingers are sore

My poetry *****

I’m becoming a bore



Sticking a verse

In front of your face

Oozing with love

All over the place



Creamsicle colors

Metaphors thick

Wasting your time

Making you sick



Finding a title

Spending the time

Just like this poem

Something to rhyme



Or it could be free-verse…

Drifting on metallic clouds in copper spoons

dreaming in patterns of silhouette shadows

and my foot falls asleep



Maybe a Senryu



Read at your own risk

Dumb crap being written here

***** bags needed



Perhaps a Haiku



Softly floats the bird

Atop morning glory skies

**** thing **** on me



Or a Tanka, a Sonnet

A Villanelle or an Assterring

The last one is nothing

I made up the **** thing



So you see I’m no poet

Least not anymore

For what you are seeing

Is what you abhor



And I’m not complaining

Not here on this screen

My pen is on empty

I’m ready to leave



I’m so tired of writing

My fingers are sore

My poetry *****

I’m becoming a bore
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