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Frozen in time
The heat pulls me
Out of hiding
No longer a
Berg threatening
Your passing ships
I melt but you
Don't want me to
I promise you that
Ice King
Lawrence Hall Jul 17
But Yevtushenko...

                      A tribute to Penguin paperbacks

When they
Take us away
For reading
For thinking
For writing

Those Penguin paperbacks all tattered and taped
Discovered when they empty our pockets
Be used against us in their courts of law

But Yevtushenko might corrupt our jailers
Today is Yevgeny Yevtushenko's birthday (1932).

Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.
Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  The Road to Magdalena, Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, Lady with a Dead Turtle, Don’t Forget Your Shoes and Grapes, Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, and Dispatches from the Colonial Office.
Poetress2 Apr 8
The Penguin waddles,
on the ice, he is graceful,
in his peaceful home.
OC Aug 2018
Back and forth, a charming wobble
On a rugged rag she hops
Chasing traces of burst bubbles
Left by little soapy drops

Lightly pruned palms gently pressed
Hid behind a fresh new towel
In a formal evening dress
Like a royal clumsy fowl

A relentless Déjà vu
Is refusing to clear up
Like a lipstick smudge that drew
On the lip of a tea cup

Nearly done, a dreamy gaze
Smiling as she turns about
For her beauty I do praise
We chose to stay and not dine out
An old favorite.
Vyiirt'aan Nov 2017
Small beaks
                    Amongst the frozen peaks
          Sliding over small blankets of ice
                    The frozen terrace and its cold embrace
          Bright sapphire shimmers under the sunlight

Community within municipality, a band unbroken
          Where affection lingers to a land lost
                    A land sought-after by many

The frigid landscape where loyalty lies
          The royal forest of snow and ice
The keylock rings, the shackles ramble
                    For it is the pilot
                              Straight into the locket

And everything my locket carries
           Beyond the arctic scenery
                                              of lies.

                                              *Guide me home.
Isaac Ward Nov 2017
A man spoke to me today,
On the train home from work,

He reached for my hands,
Carelessly, as if it were natural,
His were leather, rough,
With grinning eyes,
And tired lips,
He spoke,

    I am a penguin.

Now, I thought, that was odd,
But who am I to judge?
So I remained patiently quiet.

    I am a penguin,
     With my tattered suit,
      I care for my young-
       And for my mate,
        Whom I love deeply.

How sweet, I thought,
That he could care so much,
But what is the point?

    I am a penguin,
     The stone I got my wife-
      Was the shiniest on the beach,
       And I braved seals,
        For her, I am enough.

Now, that's adorable,
But his hands were firm,
And sweaty,
Leave me alone, my eyes asked.

    I am a penguin,
     But I tire of it,
      And perhaps for a moment,
       I'd rather be a dolphin,
        And swim away, with you...

But sir,
I said,
Do you know what I am?

    No, why?

        I am obsidian,
       Dark, hard, sharp,
      Forged in the fires of chaos,
     And if you hold me without care,
    I'll cut a *****.
coral422 Oct 2017
The greatest story ever told
Is a love story of a lonely Humboldt
One sided, until his time was through
Yet the world to him was his paper waifu

He taught us love has no bounds
Between penguin and a poster, weird as it sounds
He gazed upon her until the very end
Oh how strong was his love of a kemono friend

May you rest forever in peace Grape-kun
We won't forget you anytime soon
Now, every time I go to a petting zoo
I will always remember how much you loved Hululu
Martin Narrod Mar 2017
Heaps of her across the deserted plains, oily fingers reaching up and over the horizon until all of the numbers fill her pockets, her father worried, and her muses covered with goat-head's thorn. Where does she start to fuse her needs with the weapons in their suburban corolla of lilacs and wanton redolence? It's the opacity in her finger nibs and the dozens of names she felt closing over her legs sideways, until she awakens in the night to take the blood dripping cotton tissues off of her face, off of her bed-side dresser table. She can't even paw forward or undress her wetness in haiku. Everyone she knows doesn't know her. Everything she's seen, doesn't seem to be there for her anymore. That's the trade they told her to barter for, the golden seals and vitamin needs she's gobbling up by the palmful every morning by seven.

Seven for the circus or the mimes, seven for the cloves hanging from the door and seven for the queries that strike back her abcesses and cost her seven by the quart and seven for the plastics. Seven dancing backwards towards a rook or a *****, seven inside her chest playing guitar with David Bowie, seven at the doggerel, and seven for the stitch and the obtuse- only a creature of seven might go for her, in a spot of doves, crank, and soda it is poison, seven is her ***** line, her sexuality, her sinfulness, and her latitude over and over again. Seven makes her want for tomorrow, seven takes tomorrow and throws itself up against the wall, pledging a game in the summer, seven to a trip of caramel and dukes, seven for the prince and the painting of the two of them, seven for the winter, and for the shadows that stretch curiosity past the breath of a summons', seven for the day and seven for the evening, seven scratches her ears and pulls out her hair, seven is the ring and the blue phantom buried somewhere far, far away, green is what's left, but seven knows which way the rain comes and who is going to follow it through.

There is a numbness that radiates on the fringe, a tickly discomfort not even a narrator could let out or down to a name on the mountains near the **** plateau that conquers her nuance, and shakes the both of them to core of the fight. This is not a flag that costs us in coins or in dollars. This is the worry chiseling our shapes and our buttery hips, a stacked set of crazy in a photograph off the leash of only a few. And it calls them to the night when it's only three of us left, until every cord is untied, until every verb is set in its caste, or ringing out to the tremolos of rapture, and the musicianship of pepper-jacked sneezes in the ambers and umbers that although startling, we've all learned to convert our averages in order to swing under the storm, and baby each of us with an elixir of myriad captures, images, and violent abuse.

While the words can yield, and the festivities can hoard each of the simple new experiences against travels of women, and pictures from Mussorgsky riling up soft drinks and evocations towards the center where all of us sometimes will let ourselves, let loose. Something horrendous and cold plugging into the sugars, something quiet, nearly a friend of reminders, crustaceans and ocean making this top-down beach of faces for all to shake and roll with or set forward a cacophony of abuse. Until in a breath she calls for the infinite intuition sheltering her and our window from the pain of misuse.

That is the photograph where we have been looking to live, here is the memory we spent our minds trying desperately to relive in the shade and in the snafu, against the bark and the piano keys treating our rise. Within our skin and our pupils, our silver bookends and/or the mammals we don't use names for but for whom we've been introduced to.
Pauline Morris Mar 2016
A most gracefully bird, but not of the air
White caped waves are his clouds
Water proof feathers is what he wears
He stands on the beach mighty proud
His wings won't let him fly
But through the ocean he quickly glides
You'll never see him in the sky
Behind the corral is where he hids
When lion seals are on the prowl
His play ground is a winter wonderland
He is by far the best dressed fowl
With his dashing tuxedo he looks mighty grand
By design he was denied freedom of fight
But that my friend doesn't make him sad
For in the ocean so deep he reaches new heights
The icy slides are his launch pad
He certainly is a wonderful bird
To call him anything else would be absurd
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