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Saige Apr 3
Little tails wiggle waggle up and down the walk,
I follow after their orange laughter, wishing they could talk.

Well, talk they can, and talk they do,
While I am listening out of view.

I giggle at their rubber feet flip-flopping on the ground
and smile at their velvet feathers while I try to make no sound.

When I get close, food bowl in hand, trying to gain their trust
They quack a warning that says 'Stay clear!' - my mission is a bust!

The little couple waddle on, eyeing me with care,
I watch until I see them taking off into the air.

Now I'm waiting for tomorrow when I hope to see them,
Margaret and Philip, as I have fondly named them.
If you like to go to the park and feed ducks (like I do), please consider this: Bread is not good for the ducks' health. Yeah, they love to eat it, but it's like junk food for them -- it doesn't provide the nutrients and minerals that they need.
SO PLEASE: If you want to feed the ducks, consider getting cracked corn, birdseed, barley, oats, frozen peas or corn, halved grapes or duck feed for them. The ducklings will thank you.
βœ”οΈ: πŸŒ½πŸ‡

🚫: 🍞 🍿🍩 πŸͺ
by Michael R. Burch

after Philip Larkin's "Aubade"

It is hard to understand or accept mortalityβ€”
such an alien concept: not to be.
Perhaps unsettling enough to spawn religion,
or to scare mutant fish out of a primordial sea

boiling like goopy green tea in a kettle.
Perhaps a man should exhibit more mettle
than to admit such fear, denying Nirvana exists
simply because we are stuck here in such a fine fettle.

And so we abide . . .
even in life, staring out across that dark brink.
And if the thought of death makes your questioning heart sink,
it is best not to drink
(or, drinking, certainly not to think).

Originally published by Light. Keywords/Tags: Philip Larkin, Aubade, abide, death, mortality, religion, drink, drinking, drunk, alcohol, fettle, mettle, Nirvana
Brandon Conway Aug 2018
What goes on in your glowing head
when you sit in front of your harp
eyes wide shut your fingers thread
and pluck, syncing with our heart

the way you majestically play
fills my ears with angelic tones
stunned, I can't look away
from your heavenly flowing bones

Harp forged from Hephaestus' gold
pluck and pick easy as a river's flow
soft harmonies of Philip Glass enfold
and just for a moment, forgotten woes
Philip E Odiete Nov 2017
Where are the mist gone?
Where are the temperate resting?
Where did the hours fall?
Why fall into disappearance now, and not then?
Where was the sight then when beauty unraveled and was available?

They graves upon a dark mountain.
Not of blackness you see,
But of sweet chocolate and glowing skin of tenderness.
They have rest upon the dark cheeks.
Not of darkness you see,
But of softness and amiable cheeks.
They have been shortsightedness,
Not of you but of me.

It is like a river that runs from the nose of a highness peak,
Falling down like a waterfall of silver lining that create ripples of smile and series of laughter.
This is not a mountain of rocks,
It is a mountain of flesh.
This is not a mountain of dried leaves and dead plants,
It is a mountain of a living heart upon a consumed soul.
It is love.
It is Sholaye's.

Her smiles run through the sea and cause the ocean to fall heavy.
Her dimples is less seen yet drinks the ocean dry.
Her eyes are reflection of the best things that life can give...
A momentum of peace,
A monument of joy and laughter,
A mortgage of what true love is.
It doesn't cry, yet a droplet of tear is carried upon a chariot.

Hola, did I mention her voice?
It doesn't yell, yet it echoes across the valleys.
It doesn't sing, yet everything that falls to her sound dances.
I was blind before, but now I can see.
But what do I see?
A sense of emotion perhaps... Or a fence of what seemed to be loved?

I can only wait at the sideline...
But upon a thousand dreams, I will walk through the shores with you.
I can only have a glimpse of your affections...
But upon a thousand desires, it is most cherished.

Aye, the mist are here.
The temperate aren't resting,
But the sun is rising.
And my sight have caught its beauty.
JGuberman Aug 2016
There was a time when I would've dutifully
left a note to my mother
pinned to the chest of my corpse swinging in the bathroom.

Then there was a time when I
wouldn't have left a note,
and finally there came a time
when I wouldn't have hanged myself.
Nimkin is a famous character from Philp Roth's "Portnoy's Complaint"
Lux Capacitor Mar 2015
We can remember it for you wholesale
once we clear the stage of initial erase
Sure I might lisp on a drunk night,
exasperated and claiming in collapse,
I'd rather pack rat the memories in one place
and consign my pain away to tall tales.
I'm drowned, running down wi-fi 6th street.
Printing my soles to follow my heels
as inescapably I lose track of me.
Andrew Wenson Nov 2014
Just 'cause I eat don't mean I waste
Didn't they pick the brain best for me
'fore I came out into the big sterile box?

Anyone speaking anything:
Look at, glare, scowl
Sniff palms before dance party
a little talc, not scary no more
Personality a *****, shoes too big
won't buy new, no new new no!
I'm faking it for a ticket to ride
source my quotes and I pretend
to tolerate your music blog monologue

Come on with me to manifest dreams!
space behind the couch where kief is free!
Couple decades to spare and the **** stacks high
Playing the bucket like a drum
Fair-trade hand-made local organic counterfeit bills
No Mama, I don' wanna punch card.
Dad, I ain't payin' rent 'er union dues
Tax man's comin' eat the root strike it too!

If I was a hippie don'tcha think I'd giggle?
I'm a good choreographer but this costume's threadbare
All the chakras in the world can't melt cold bars
The Black Iron Prison is bigger than God.
I become small, let me be the breath......
The baby's first laugh.

— The End —