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Dog and Goat perform the wool rite,
A deluge of silver flashing forward.
South wind where best perch to weather?
Lie me basking in your splendour!

Cast around the hill back footed,
Sky clad before spent beech leaves.
New greens are flashing here and there,
A Frost that whitens morning air.

Storms blow to cleanse Her of her dying,
Him of sins inside Spring flowers.
Dance for it is time to plant new seed,
Luperci pressed in chick ****!

Exalt in stirrings deep as marrow,
Have dandelions mark the passing.
Though limbs of Oak hold up pale plaster,
The Summer comes in Springs soon after.
abecedarian Jan 2018
rite like Dylan/past the point of no return

all my life wanted to rite just once like Dylan.

but too set in the errors of my way to complement/compliment a master of the phrase, the original tunes I hum’em all
plagued and plagiarized and yet pleasing

head the Head over to the refrigerator, arrive in one piece,
but totally not remembering why I came this way,
cause i am way way past the point of no return

Oh yeah oh yeah cool brother Corona light to succor the soul,
while roasting body slow in a lavender bubble bath and it ain’t
even noon and no no room for company, this solo wonder-boy
tripping alone

pay my bills in the bath, winnow the widow-maker reading list,
good ****** on a free sundaey and there ain’t no football to watch and autocorrect authority don’t like ****** it only godded one D, as if He needs two D’s to mess us up better

the Corona doing magic trick disappearing so fast and here i am
certified past the point of return and there ain’t no more beer
in the general vicinity

so now the time to summarize my little darlings;
don’t break beer bottles in the bathroom,
don’t pay your bills in the bathtub when u gots 53.42 in cking,
don’t take your iPhone unsheathed into the same vicinity

all you will be left with is maxed out cc’s,
messes you want
not to tangle with,
brain leavings of a bad poem half write,
it isn’t even bad dylan mimicry
but confirmation you passed the point of no return

and u happy hum
don’t think twice it’s alright
it is all on my cover photo
Benedict May 2018
Call it a yard, call it a shed,
That vessel grew up in bed,
With a covered head,
So that its frame did not get wet,
But better yet,
Many times,
Resins used were left to dry,
Into the cracks their poxys pry,
To amalgamate the creaking ply.

And only when the final *****,
Twists its way to something new,
To tie the lace of this floating shoe,
Still sitting under rusted roof;
When the metal files are swept away,
And the hazel mast accepts its stain,
By a whitened brush proclaimed,
Only then does she take her name.

For a day or two she’s left to linger,
Poised at the top of her sheltered slip,
A proud and shining ship,
Held in place by the gasping grip,
Of the steadfast holding line.

Her ivory sails lie week and flat,
And there is irony in that,
For a girl already waxed and named,
With canvas cut and metals tamed,
Perched there upon that ledge,
Has yet to take her newborn breath.

Through forward rings two ropes are thread,
To heave her from her resting bed,
Call it a yard, call it a shed,
Into the water below,
A world she does not yet know,
But there she is bound to go.

Soon her airtight helm will taste that salted swill,
Her rudders will shoulder the force of a thousand men,
And by her maker’s will,
She will not meet her end.

Bang,
Goes the steadfast holding line,
As the forward rope force applies,
Without a wince or a whine,
Does our vessel bid goodbye,
To her sheltered bed,
Call it a yard, call it a shed,

And with one final gracious bow,
Into the wet of the sea she ploughs.
Ammar Mar 2018
Oh this feeling of always being rite
**** this feeling of always being rite
When you love and hate an emotion at the same time
Jim Musics Jan 2018
As we realize, clams don't grow in sluices.
They must never be preoccupied with color.
They are content to be gray and to never move.
“Spit”, is their answer to any question,
And no person can tell how old a clam is by its growth lines.
It can be assumed that the are the owls' enemy, because they reject runcible spoons.
Their tongues retract at the smell of honey.
They must hate bees, flowers and peace as an action.
They are the only argument for Beau Brummell.
I wrote this in 1966-8
I could say I just came across this, but I deliberately looked for it and the many other scribbles that I've carted around with me through all the many places that I lived from there to here.
Brent Kincaid Sep 2015
Where were you when you heard
First heard some legendary song?
Does it get permanently hooked
To that time in life as it went along?

When I was twelve years old
I was coming home on the bus
A car radio playing Elvis singing
That’s “All Right Mama” passed us.

Freezing my *** in a weapons plant
When I first heard “Everybody’s Talking”.
I had no money and no good car
But I almost started walking.

All the time I was driving
“Light My Fire”, was always playing
With that bridge you couldn’t ignore.
I always link going west on I-40 to
My introduction then to the Doors.

T’was almost fifty years ago today
Sergeant Pepper and his band did play.
I was working as fry cook in KC
Wishing I could afford to run away.

I heard Yes singing “Your Move”
In Hollywood on Sunset and Vine.
I had no idea who that group was
I only knew they were new and fine.

Bopping down Hollywood Boulevard
And fashionable in Frankenstein shoes
I was styling with my pleated bells
Singing “Staying Alive” as I would cruise.

Music changed for me again, for the better
With the opening of Yellow Brick Road.
Elton made that dramatic opening bit
Opposite of a country *****-backed toad.

Barbra and Donna in great duet called
Were wailing out “Enough Is Enough”.
I was thinking finding a better team
Than those two divas would be tough.
Brent Kincaid Jul 2015
He was a fine broth of a man
And I loved dallying with him
In afternoons of sun and breeze
My lovely one-man harem.
Such a delightful odalisque,
I suspended thoughts of time.
I greedily took up my guitar
And seduced him with rhyme.

As we fed each other sweets
And made coffee by the jug
We laughed and smoked ***
Together naked on the rug.
We told each other stories
Of places we had been
And astounding miracles
Each of us had seen.

We talked of **** dancers
And clever men of magic
And how the loss of innocence
Was not altogether tragic
Because we got to learn
And could use it to grow
And understand the secrets
We recently did not know.

He taught me how to love,
This man of many stories.
I learned to welcome mystery
And search in it for glory.
He showed me how to look
And see people as unique
And not some mass idea.
I grew up from that peek.

That simple time of learning
And laughing with a man
Who had the gift of sharing
The way to understand.
He took me from my childhood
And showed me how to live.
He gave me a gentle heart.
The best thing one can give.
SøułSurvivør Jul 2015
---

i
prepare
the
squirrel
we
will
have
for
dinner

i
go
to
the
­church
of
autumn
trees

the
sun
weeps
russet
through
stained
glas­s
leaves
and
its
beams
dapple
the
moist
forest
floor

i
prepare
t­he
squirrel's
precious
spirit
for
its
travel
thanking
it
and
tell­ing
it
I'm
sorry
it
had
to
die

but
my
family
is
hungry

later
to­day
i
will
teach
the
strangers
to
harvest
the
corn
we
taught
them­
to
plant

i
only
wish
they
were
as
grateful
as
i
am
for
the
squi­rrel


soulsurvivor
(C) 7/6/2015
WHO IS MORE GODLY?

The people who came to this
continent FIRST have a
beautiful spirituality

Before the Spanish et al came the
"savages" counted coup in battle
rather than killing their enemy

Sometimes i am ashamed of my own race

Maybe the Mormons are CORRECT
Jesus Christ came
HERE FIRST
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