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Looting Autumn comes to pad his lustrum
w/ nacarat flags of havoc stricken.
Summer her frigid singe to his auburn
heart submits, a spinster lately slickened
by April showers cold on the rebound.
It's the last chance saloon of the seasons
for me really: in a relative stound,
thieved reels will superabound. No leaves on
electrum bark, shredded komorebi,
shall shivelight Puck Id's way to March. As if
honking peonies post-peotomy,
that last stark solis occasus won't live.
Penultimate sunset's 1 pleasuring
brumal babyblues that'll be blind by spring.

***********
***Schwa­rze flocken
snowdrift in macular
massacre this winter, my vitreous
humour's all kohl. In Miltonic crosshair,
a vision of Hell, & that vision is
blind as a doorpost. Longer days to come
won't de-ice the subfusc verglas windscreens
to my soul. No so-so solatium
of another solis ortus shall beam
lasik Prozac to my optimism
cortex by time the sap rises anew.
Anarchy Optrex blackguards the prism,
apes archaeopteryx's worm's eyeview.
Flyleaf sun, blotted source of all inklings.
Next Summer's over; I'll be blind by spring.
Birds of Paradise Lost!
Cloacal kiss turns Glasgow.
Even when your heart is ghost toast,
collect £200 & pass go.

Buckle up tight!
Ostrich midnight
on an inept flight
to IMPACT!

Bubbawrap skintight,
ostrich midnight!
A blindman's kite
is my fuct flag.

Bats of Paradise Regained!
She's a joker & she's twofaced.
Passions that peng **** inflamed
occasioned smoker's toothpaste.

She's a kawaii harpy,
she's Azrael of Sunshine!
She's my Hawaii harpy,
she's Azrael of Sunshine!
Words' Worth Apr 2019
Torn posters
Broken cigarettes
I've been wanted by the police
Chased out of my room
Of torn posters
And broken cigarettes
The life of bounty head is a cruel one
Salinger has nothing on me
I'd smoke if I were playing around rye
Catching people just like the cops beat around the bush
Knocking on your doors telling you have been framed
For a poor and direct assumption
Jazzy Cloud
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
Hint:  see his sonnet on his second wife Catherine, specifically the line--"...vested all in white--"



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXVII)


Snow.  Was last summer traipsing through a tale
Of mirey puddles?  Ah.  Tis wet fr'intents,
But with frore air presiding all's white hence
Or icy, like the curving claws that hail
From silent eaves, no scimiter--in pale
Excuse for fancied heights--but fringing thence
The void twixt roof and far below, a sense
Perchance of grasping in their scope's detail.
I look out half surprised all's buried fer
The umpteenth time, as flakes cavort now through
Unnumbered hours likeas soft mists in tour,
Sip that espresso foamed milk crowns anew
In thoughtful silence, not unlike that pure
Calm listning as snow falls in silence too.

17Feb19a
"...all in white---" has such a sanctified sense, doesn't it?  I've wisht countless times to amend the text notes on that reference since even David M. Mains failed to realize whence Milton culled that idea.
Francie Lynch May 2018
I'm ******* with Robert Frost
And the guy who wrote Paradise Lost.
I ain't happy with Aristotle,
And especially John, the weird Apostle.
Don't mention, please, Shelley or Keats,
Blake, Byron or Wordsworth;
Each and every one you see,
(If you're ready for the truth),
Took their themes from me.
Don't look aghast,
Don't tsk and titter,
Their thievery's left me
Mean and bitter.
Just because they said it first,
Doesn't mean I find it just;
It doesn't give them ownership
Of my themes and authorship.
I write of Roads, Good and Evil,
God and Satan, love and leaving.
I know, I sound like I'm bleating,
But I won't stand for this beating.
Although they're merely dust and bones,
They don't have the right to own
All the great lines I have sown,
Like The best laid plans of mice and men.
(I said that before Robbie Burns).
Let me make this crystal clear;
If I was there, or he were here,
I'd sue the *** of Will Shakespeare.
where shall one begin with an unknown task
as there's not a manual of instruction
to follow in the exact construction
yet one cannot be fazed by its ask
ad-libbing may get knitted on the bask
so why allow any type of obstruction
it'll mean one is certain for destruction
on-ward till there's a near finished cask
Milton supplied the writing assignment
hence one took a huge risk attempting it
his format came without apt document
the sonnet improvised every bit
a plan not seen anywhere to complement
the novice didst garner abundant wit
Timon chukwuonu Dec 2017
My RAIN DROP
AS FAR FROM MY HEART
I SEARCH FOR YOU
IN THE DEPTHS OF YOUR LOVE
I WAIT FOR YOU
YOU ADDED A DROP INTO MY HANDS AND ITS HARVEST MY HEART
THE MORE, I SEARCH FOR YOU
THE MORE, YOU SWING INTO MY HEART;OUT OF CONTROL
AM WITHOUT THIRSTY
AND AM WITHOUT RANGE
RANGE IN TIME BUT YOUR RAIN ALWAYS REACH MY CLAIMS
I SET OUT FOR YOUR LOVE
ONLY TO FIND YOUR LOVE , GROWING INSIDE MY HEART AS A BRIDGE ACROSS MY WALLS
WHAT MANNER OF CREATURE ,ARE YOU
THE SOUND OF A THOUSANDS LAUGHTER "IN MY HEART"
AM NOT SHY OF YOUR TERROR IN THE LAND
AS FOR ME , YOUR UNSTABLE SOUNDS CALL FOR US TO LOVE MORE AND MORE
EVEN, WHEN YOU STOP FALLING, YOUR RAIN BROUGHTOUT BRIGHT LIGHT INTO MY EYE'S
THE LITTLE SOUNDS AS YOU FADE AWAY FROM RANGE IS LIKE A RIVER FLOWS WITHIN ME
YOUR LOVE AS WASH ME CLEAN AND YOUR TERROR AS FOUND ME TERSE
YOUR LOVE IS MY RAINDROP.
FB:Timon Timonlibrarynigeria.
Em@il:timoneychibuike@gmail.con
☎:+234816096­3957
My love is pure and natural ...it's for those who are heart broken and widows.
Seanathon May 2017
Firm collar
White as snow

Crisp and with an edge like steel
Cutting, not cold

Unblemished is he?
No

Considered rough,
Perhaps

Although in a certain way, he walks
Straight past his friends and his foes

Not aimlessly though

For where poise meets focus
There is also dignity

And a calming aura to be found
Amidst the calamity

With a hint of conflict
Though he speaks

His words are bound
To fairness and justice
To the law and to love

And though he spoke once
Not arrogantly

This is the sound of a constant man
Who is capable of change, and yet, is found

In a pattern which drowns out the breeze
Like the whippoorwill that’s lost its tree

By this you'll know, that you've seen
And crossed the path of a pensive man

Intent on this, to understand

Her
Him

And all around
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bP4SD4DvnIs
Though Adam & Eve were so cute
With God they had a dispute
Thrown out of the garden
Without any pardon
And all because of some fruit
ConnectHook Sep 2015
‘TERENCE, this is stupid stuff:
You eat your victuals fast enough;
There can’t be much amiss, ’tis clear,
To see the rate you drink your beer.
But oh, good Lord, the verse you make,         
It gives a chap the belly-ache.
The cow, the old cow, she is dead;
It sleeps well, the horned head:
We poor lads, ’tis our turn now
To hear such tunes as killed the cow.         
Pretty friendship ’tis to rhyme
Your friends to death before their time
Moping melancholy mad:
Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad.’

  Why, if ’tis dancing you would be,         
There’s brisker pipes than poetry.
Say, for what were hop-yards meant,
Or why was Burton built on Trent?
Oh many a peer of England brews
Livelier liquor than the Muse,         
And malt does more than Milton can
To justify God’s ways to man.
Ale, man, ale’s the stuff to drink
For fellows whom it hurts to think:
Look into the pewter ***         
To see the world as the world’s not.
And faith, ’tis pleasant till ’tis past:
The mischief is that ’twill not last.
Oh I have been to Ludlow fair
And left my necktie God knows where,         
And carried half way home, or near,
Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer:
Then the world seemed none so bad,
And I myself a sterling lad;
And down in lovely muck I’ve lain,         
Happy till I woke again.
Then I saw the morning sky:
Heigho, the tale was all a lie;
The world, it was the old world yet,
I was I, my things were wet,         
And nothing now remained to do
But begin the game anew.
lines from "A Shropshire Lad"  

by A. E. Housman (1859–1936)
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