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Druzzayne Rika Nov 2017
Tomorrow's morning light
will it be as bright,
will it clear the dark of night,
or will there be shades in sun
a very cloudy turn
maybe calling the rains.
Without further ado
i offer my literary missives anew
fur ye to ponder and brew
from meister mwm of his motley crue,
whom dwells in a nada very complex edifice
which numb burr oof offspring equals deux
whereby this spouse i.e me kind of resembles an emu
whence money a edified reader considers
dis goy wit sum brain cells 2 few
chomped on by an carnivorous elder gnu
and said two female progeny sired
from one ova plus super seminal glue

swimming swiftly via viscous hue
genetic heritage comprised predominantly Jew
with one late uncle Lou,
who himself wed a milch cow,  she frequently did moo
which found me to rue
what comprises reality to be true
that all humans originated from the primate zoo.

**** Sapiens Sale hums lot
witnessed vicious thermal winds that blew
thick mass of cremated ashes
across rubble strewn,
and severely cratered landscape!

The devil made mince meat
as like one huge lumbering ogre
and grim reaper
rolled up into one
not so jolly green giant did slay
good will to all men,
and spat out pox with an emphatic nay
triumphing over godly salvation
using eponymous accursed pitchfork
made merry and rolled in the hay

simultaneously sneering out in delight
at wanton death and decay
whereby civilization forever mutilated
perforated said spindled
and inappropriately sensually fondled
world wide web structure
where once proud arm strong spikes radiated
now sundered in total chaotic disarray!
I’m like the Midwest weather forecast.
I’m stuck in summer.
I hate the dead of winter.
It rains in the spring.
fall is the ******* worst.
It’s autumn's curse.
All I see are dead leaves,
falling to the floor.
Piled in the corners,
they’re sticking to my rake.
It’s kind of overwhelming.
I really cannot focus,
when all these leaves are here.
I wish I could switch gears,
to get rid of all this fear.
The leaves they're flying instead of falling.
I guess this is the part that's beautiful,
the magical somewhere in between.
Perhaps falling isn't
the ******* worst.
It’s that special time between
the winter and autumn,
when it’s sometimes snowing,
and there’s no sunshine
to come leaking through.
The clouds are thick at this time.
I wrote five short poems over the course of the months April 2015 to February  2016. This is what I put together in chronological order.
Meg B Dec 2015
And even when my mind is foggy
And my eyes are glazed

Your image remains as clear as ever.
unwritten Aug 2014
one of the first times we talked
there was a thunderstorm going on
at your end,
all the way on the other side of the world
(or so it seemed).

perhaps i should've taken it as a warning of sorts --
that i would become enthralled by you,
just as i am
by thunderstorms,
and that you, the storm itself,
would wreak beautiful havoc
upon all that i was
and change me forever.

i was oblivious:
unknowing of the fact that soon
i would be in the eye of the storm --
a ship being beaten down by your
catastrophic flashes of blinding lightning
and the roaring waves you would leave behind.

perhaps i should've taken it as a warning of sorts.
but i didn't.
i was blinded by the serenity
that so often comes before chaos.

the calm before the storm,
if you will.

but like i said,
i am enthralled by thunderstorms,
so maybe that is why,
even after the calm ended,
i still loved every second
of our twisted downpour
and didn't so much mind
the empty hull i'd become.

my darling --
you were the storm
and i was the ship
that slowly burned
with every strike of lightning.

quickly positing this with horrible wifi hello. i also hate the ending of this poem but I'm too lazy to change it.
Kyle Kulseth Aug 2014
With passing days queued up
          for the forecast foreseeable
Tuck into the routines' reserves
          deplete when permissible

Shot through the feet
          with what we can't forget
run on through the limp
          past the end of the sentence
                                             and sit
                         In the glow
                  remain undeveloped
                  stay unreconstructed
                  drop the curtain
                 on scenes interrupted

Dot your i's
          with up-slanted slash marks
sparks fill my eyes when
                            I read through your retorts
Blank page.
                                                        Blank page.
A waltz through a minefield
reeling jigs over headstones
          when digging through
           plain white lines

— The End —