They are sitting
turned facing away
from a world of water
Small but unforgiving
waves crash at their
They are smiling
overwhelmed with joy and
How is it that they
capture this moment
They don't concern themselves with:
or the thousands
of pounds of plastic
littering the oceans
The wind blows soft
the water feels warm
and their mother
smiles as she wipes
their salt stung eyes
on the borrowed
But quite alarming
Loves never last
X box Assassin Creed
Video gifts Elfering
The place was
No comedy act
All Gigs **** her
GIF ruff stuff
Gold digger bluff
Her bedroom eyes
I phone Maria
Sangria suits him
Just the ring fighter
My dream drink
My love, you ain't
He is singing
All geared up
The Saint lounge
How she flaunts
her drinks inferior
Writing a poem
the bomb drinker
water ripe ripples
Mon Cheri *******
Acting like a Saint
Terri spiritual Rumi
The drink scruples
Heirs of beer
At the dorm
The ((Psychic Alarm))
Your drink woke
Someone was singing
I just met a girl
((Harry Potter Hogwarts))
What a belly wash
down to her
Lions and coins
On her drenched
Tony was singing
out to Maria
The Saint moves
Natalie let me
You arrived invite
Drinks on me
Stays in we party
Drinks of so many but we must be the Saint that Godly drink let it be our destined God please don't nod when your down and out Sangria shout
I was strolling down the aisle
We were shopping there in style
With my daughter sitting smiling in the cart,
I was stretching out my hand
For the Martinelli's brand
When the apple of my eye gave me a start.
With the bottle in my grasp
I saw, coming toward us fast,
A high heeled damsel, scarfed and towing her caddie
And she smirked as I, condemned,
Stood up to comprehend
The reason, as my child said "Whisky Daddy?"
There was nothing I could say,
To make it seem another way,
To vanquish the conviction so compelling
It was the color you could tell
And the shape she knew so well,
The question that my daughter asked was telling.
Neil Stewart McLeod
This poem is published in an anthology called "A Ship In A Bottle" and is available from this link:
I trapped on the stairs full of turns
A few days so high up in the sky
A few days down in misery
Sometimes led to sanity
Sometimes led to gray
Railings full of thorns s
Down the rungs to o n u i o
c f n
Lost in the middle of your stairs
You pushed me down?
Mess catch me
I'll always be the morning dew for you
You insist on showing
You forget the thread that joined
You changed the pretty
Why like this?
You are well on which step you are?
In which can I find you?
It's not down to sadness
(You changed the meaning
The essence disappeared)
Existence is like many steps
I thought I came to the top with you
But it was an oasis
For your young you: Generator of ascending stairs in our dimension.
- Codelandandmore //20:30 PM ©
Real Cute boy, remember last mermay, It was all so fun :)
In these halls of wailing souls
These halls of ailing babes
Stand I, to them, a fiendish ghole
Needles and tubes, different sizes and grades
Heartless, I ignore their wolf like howls
Gently readying needles of different shades
Their screams echo off these walls
My ears fold upon themselves, deaf to their fear
I must continue with my mission, discarding their shrill calls
I grab a flailing arm, steadily drawing it near
In goes my needle, liquid within, into ****** halls
In hope that their shrill cries don't persevere
In these halls of wailing souls
Silence falls on ailing babes
First attempt at rhyming...
Shout out to all those who do it effortlessly
my friend asked me,
'what's your favourite ****** feature?'
i replied with, 'my eyes of course'
she said, 'but why, they're just brown'
'i don't know, i just like how when my eyes meet another ; they dont seem to frown'
instead they smile
even if im a mile
in some way, it makes me happy
hm, i dont know i guess i just like to see the beauty in everyone. in everything.
i looked up into the sky, and told her, 'well, that's why i like my eyes the most. you see?'
she looked at me, laughed for a minute and said, *'you know, you can be so dramatic at times; especially with all of those rhymes.'
^me and my friends' conversation today. xD
barricaded bones and your
my belly weeps for your song.
and from the tips of this mighty dew-dripped tree
and from the depths of this reminiscent lake
emerge patterns of varying shapes and sounds
with one universal undertone of
the way the breath pushes its way out of your lungs
through your gritted teeth
when i make you ***.
is it fitting
That on " national love letter day", I write my first to you?
I have written about you since we met.
But this, mi amo, is the first directly to you.
I had never shared my writings before you
I still have them in a notebook full of emotion
Locked with the same key that buckled my heart.
But you hold it now. So you hold them as well.
You are my first in so many things.
So I only hope I can be your first in a few.
I stand before you exposed, enchanted,
and enveloped in your love.
I have a habit of writing.
I leave notes
I'm writing something worth much more.
I'm writing you notes, poems, letters.
All about you
explaining my adoration
and pure addiction to you
Here is the first of many...
I cannot wait till I can wake up quietly,
roll over to see you
ease out of bed
and leave you notes on my pillow where my head was resting
" I am out running for your (French vanilla, cream and sugar) coffee and getting you chocolate frosted donuts, be back soon my love"
Here is to you baby.
Here is to the notes I've yet to leave
Here is to the letters I have yet to write
The poems yet to share.
Here is to you...
Because they are all yours.
Here is to the first of many.
All my letters are yours.
Here's to you babes.
To many more
Young women know all about style -
how to fix the decimal point
between them and their mothers
from Special K over 40s wanna bees
mini skirted and high heeled
trying to catch their husband’s eye
Yummy mummies in their 30’s
are separated from the new stock
by firm elastic flattened midriffs
no bulge or wobble
unlined skin taut sometimes
navel peirced or *******
their legs wear the 4” heels again
on winklepicker pointed toes
for a mid century crop
of bunioned feet.
No scraggy necks or waddle
no tea tray arses only
in the bend over show
of skimpy, lacy thongs
of ****** floss
So, **** femme fatale is cool
body object the thing to be
flouncing and preening
flirting and *******
random hook-ups on the run
in the alleys of time on the net
in the warp of space
Killer ! Whatever !
Wicked ! Yeah feral !
An ironic take on **** feminism and glam-**** kulcha.
— The End —