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Never let anyone tell you
How ****** up a person is
Pointing at Her or Him
At them or here with
Disdain dressed
To look like despair
God damns the
Sanctimony of fools
Black robes
Far worse for the wear
Let em point at me
I have not a care
Because just like them
I am Jack the Ripper.    I am St. Paul
I sifted salt with Ghandi
And I slit throats with King Saul
I am the ****** Mary
I hear the knocking
on my door  
It may just be the neighbor
A fiend looking to fix me
Or to score.   Either way
We’ve all been here
Countless times maybe more
Its eternity that's calling  
Remember living forever?
Before you were ever born?
I've offered every solace
I've mended every fall  
I’ve turned the other cheek
And the pious broke my jaw
My work here is near done
And trust me I had a ball    
So shed not a tear
Nor curse me to befall      
For soon you will be me
And I will be you all.
Copyright 2019 John D Christmas
No her name didn’t start with an “S” or “K”
Her first name started with an “M” and last name started with a “J”
She was such a beauty, all crystalline sometimes and no makeup ever hid her face
She was different , her green composure sometimes found a little purple lingering adding taste
She was flexible , I could make love to her anyway I want , in a bowl, a ****, wraps, or even create my own ways
I was 13 years old when we first met , she nearly took my life with the first breath
Choking from how strong she hugged my lungs I knew she was the best
She made me laugh from the first kiss until I went to sleep in my cloud-like bed
Some years have passed now and we’ve decided to get married since then
From first sight, first touch, first kiss, first hug, I knew Mary Jane would be my first love until my times end.
Love for the herbal Mary Jane is forever
Poetoftheway Feb 11
the Hail Mary transgression:
falling in love with me when it crosses over the line

guilty of the same, so even when I condemn the errant woman,
with an ice block from a Northeastern pond of no soft forgiveness,
which is still and yet, the only cutoff ending appropriate

but you woman, deserve to learn that
emboldened fantasy that crosses broken bold lines,
is a jagged rot that doesn’t cure the dreamy unreality of
the-cannot-be,
it’s pouring hot water on scalding burns entrenched

guess time to share that your fantasy is the
number one commandment
that this boy also violates routinely so he has a phd of experience,
and the burn proofs when he thot he too could be,
Cervantes, the knight errant, lover of the impossible woman

I, guilty as charged by “The Duke,” am an idealist and bad poet,
so many poet-women here I secret cherish at levels that are nonsensical, absurd, ludicrous
and hold the fantastical fantasty of them dear,
so close and so near, so mine

wrote them each love poems, and they know it,
now, here, in my confessional booth,
my priestly punishment always the same,
ten thousand Hail Mary’s,
but I cheat the cohen priest,
and just write another poem,



this one is about the line that never can  could  will be
crossed, hail mary!
The Duke from Man of La Mancha
Mary Worth, Mary Worth, Mary Worth... they've called to you.

Through the looking glass as the shadows grew.
With the candles lit, young people they stare.
In a fit they call to you, but you're never there.

Or are you... Mary Worth, sitting behind the glass, brushing your locks as the church calls to mass. They call to you... three times it's said, yet you never appear, at least not before bed.

You sit and you stare, with your hateful eyes, if only they saw you and how you despise; each of the children, the girls and the boys, who call out your name, in a dark room, with their toys...  You're ready for them, You could get them tonight but instead you just wait until the moment is right.

But I know the secret and I have the charm, You can't get to me Mary, You waited to long!

A hair from the devil, who's a long tailed fellow.
A ribbon on a bone from a wicked old crone.
Add a pinch of dust from a vampires bust.

I have it all in my little silver box and it's shut up tight with three shiny locks.

Now I am protected. I know the way, but watch out children or you'll be spirited away! Make sure you take heed of the galloping steed for it's death herself coming for you with a spider's stealth.

She'll wrap you up in a blanket so cold.

You'll never wake up...

You'll never grow old.
A little poem to go along with this children's Mary Worth ceremony https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Eo0Uh741DG8
I was seduced
in Barnes & Noble,
lured to the  poetry section
next to coffee and pastries

I touched her Blue Iris,
fondled her Red Bird
and recounted why
she wakes to watch
the early sunrise

She looked better than I remembered
in a brown jacket
with a striking
emblem of a bear
on the front
She took me to her tent
near Truro
and told me of turtles, toads,
hermit *****,
and her fear
of ridding her garden
of a small harmless snake

I spill my passion
on the beach’s sand — our bed for now

Under her cover
she shares phrases,
moles, verbs,
and curves
of sweet new perceptions

We are intimate beyond belief
through her verbal kisses
which bring sweat to my palms

I’m high, hallucinating
on Mary
my drug of choice

I’m having an affair
with Mary Oliver
I am re-posting this in light of the recent death of Mary Oliver.  I miss her
Kenya83 Jan 18
Time floats away but there’s no regret
I’ve read verses of trees, of hope, of contentment
I shed a tear, or more, words can have that effect
I am blessed with your gift of words
You were granted death
My thoughts are sad but light, you lived a full and grateful life
Your departing year matched my arrival
I hope for your future, spread on wings
And you feel light breeze among those beloved trees
For Mary Oliver
acacia Jan 18
Rest easy, Mary. Rest softly, Mary.
The first poem I had ever read by her was “The Terns”. Here it is: The birds shrug off
the slant air,
they plunge into the sea
and vanish
under the glassy edges
of the water,
and then come back,
as white as snow,
shaking themselves,
shaking the little silver fish,
crying out
in their own language,
voices like rough bells--
it's wonderful
and it happens whenever
the tide starts its gushing
journey back, every morning
or afternoon.
This is a poem
about death,
about the heart blanching
in its folds of shadows
because it knows
someday it will be
the fish and the wave
and no longer itself--
it will be those white wings,
flying in and out
of the darkness
but not knowing it--
this is a poem about loving
the world and everything in it:
the self, the perpetual muscle,
the passage in and out, the bristling
swing of the sea.
L B Jan 18
"The  Spirit Likes to Dress Up...

...to be understood,
to be more than pure light
that burns
where no one is —

so it enters us —"
I think God feels the same way.  So do I.
She understood the glories of physical life.
Steve Page Dec 2018
I tell ya.
Angels
are not as much of a flight risk
as you first may think.
The cherubim however
are flighty
and way more likely to fly off
at the baby's first cry
Like they've got somewhere else to be.
Just try. You'll see.
Not even a bye-bye.

But angels, oh man.
Angels -
I'm a fan.

You can set your Sat Nav
on an Angel.
Dreamtime or lunchtime,
they'll be your guide.
- Sublime.

Me and Mary
were fans.

- Jesus!
Put those nails down.
If your mum catches you with those, she'll go spare.
Joseph got used to Angel visitations.
Raylind Nov 2018
What good is tall grass?
Your blue eyes cupped in my hands, already

I've asked the saints to dunk me under
in all undue riches
save me from my Only One

Ocean shores love knees to touch
craving almost as much our love long whispers
heads bowed
Our toes realizing chorus and green
and tame it no longer, tumbling
so fully-it shocks us to the tips of our hair splits
not even sandy yet

Offering my jewels to Pharaoh
maybe he could take this price off my head,
my wheels off, nights pink tongue from my window

Over the beds of yellow and orange prayers, still blooming
I step beside the ****** to ask,
but not forgetting,
blue ball caps that scream
over the tops of curly heads

and where am I but always with you at the beach?
a heart in the deep end
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