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Jim Davis May 7
Look at that there!  
Wow!  a witticism!
Ouch... it bites!

©  2019 Jim Davis
Or coulda said a “sally”. But who knows what a sally really is?  ,
Sally S Ali Apr 24
What is:

the time for a rose
the music for a tree
the sleep for a lover
the silence for a bee
the daylight for Kafka
the wine for a butterfly
the loneliness for a sailor
the white colour to the red

What is the world,
when i look into your eyes?
Sally S. Ali
Smoke Scribe Mar 2018
my sally my Sally

a wonderful double entendre
for it’s time,
my internal clock chiming

to sally forth and give the due
to where dew in her garden resides,
poetry becoming sweet tears
in all our eyes
when the philipina rain thirst quests our quenching

there is no reason no request for
this sally poem but a tickling thought suggests that a good friday. could be the trigger, or that
pandora bringing me Ave Maria as I compose
when
the due and the dew and the do are a
trinity

the best poems are the un-requested  but the most needed,
the most holy
ronnie hunt Jan 24
My therapist says I'm doing really well and when she says it, she makes eye contact and her posture is relaxed and I didn't even mention her tone yet but think of your mother when you've been heartbroken for the first time if you're the kind that has been heartbroken and if your mother is a soft one but mine is and I am and she was like that.
Her tone was that of my mother when I was heartbroken for the first time.
In love at its simplicity
A love of stitches and bones
A pumpkin king and his queen
A love story so holiday known
Curiosity and intelligence
Risk taking and cautiousness
She sought for her independence
He was persistently adventurous
They were match made opposites
Though likewise they yearned for
Something meaningful outside their grasp
That couldn't be found within their norms
He sang to finish her song
She replied in harmony
A simple duet to simply express
Their love at its simplicity
Jasmine dryer Dec 2018
she had a chance to make us sane
to bad little sally ran away
but its ok
its ok

its not like our minds are falling a
                                                              p
                                                         a
                                                                   r
                                                           t
the longer and longer
the doctors make us stare at the
c h a r t
but were smart
the only problem
is that we don't know where to start

we wait for sally
to make us sane
to bad little sally
has ran away

our rooms are soft
sally said like clouds
padded softly
for when the voices get loud

little sally
why so blue?
miss sally
what did we do to you

she had we chance to make us sane
to bad miss sally
has ran away
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2017
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


This is not a poem.  This is about a poem.

Poems require words.  This poem does not require words.

This poem requires memories' muscles.
This poem requires what is called colloquially love.

Learn that what we share here is not poetry.

Your poetic senses that produce the words that mark you present
are but surgical tools to extract, release the whole and the parts of you that help shape that single sense borning in your chest that defines you at any particular moment.

Quæ est mater Laureat.

She is the Mother Laureate.

She is the boundary you must learn to cross to be more than a re-arranger of letters and alphabets, but a translator of the human essence and fill our veins with the a sense of awe and wonder felt when we read each other and think aloud,
"yes, exactly, that was and is precisely what I was feeling."

She is the glue that keeps us sticking here, sticking together, each of us sticking to it.  

You do not know her?  
No worries, she will find you when you least expect it, perhaps
when you need it.

This is not a poem.  This is a human who's a poem.

Understand the difference and then you may begin a journey
that has no destination other than weaving the connective tissue that makes us anticipating excited when we log on.

Happy Birthday Mother Poet Laureate!

I do not think I can write a better not poem for you.  
Forgive me then, if going toward, I repost this every
October 24th as long as the chemical composition of
blood, God, spirit, logos or reason runs free within,  
exiting as words encased in tears that formulate into
human poetry.

nattyman

P.S.There are 800 poems here with Sally in the title, and least 700  are about Sally B.   If you like, please  feel to free to add yours, old or new.
Absent deliberate intervention
     vis a vis suicide,
supposed "natural" longevity
     of generic human primate ride
ding ******* across avast
     broke back mountain minus pride
defies accurate prediction,
     though hypothetical

     projections can override
unknown factors, whereby
     excluding misfortune nationwide
(and/or globally deadly accidents,
     catastrophes, diseases, mudslide,
fatalities from gunshot, et cetera)
     unexpectedly arise dismissing by landslide

mortal adversity can be generally,
     and more accurately spell joyride
ding calibrated to continue,
     thus subsequent existence,
     viz getting inside
scoop of this basic fellow, aye surmise
     to continue for many another hayride
say...two score plus more orbitz,

     whereat linkedin, flickr ring guide
by invisible hand snapchatting
crackling and popping fireside,
twittering whatsapp pining
     during eventide,
watching virtual twilight at dockside,
witnessing artificial intelligence,
     perfectly mimicking

     illusory edenic countrywide
vibrantly melds scenic
     ideal tonic bedside
counting black sheepish crows,
      thence set sleep number
      putting all worries aside
while merrily rowing boat
     with gentle creatures alongside.
Alex McQuate Mar 2018
Pain ignites,
Your shoulders and biceps set ablaze to to the beat,
To this resurrected tune from the plantations of long ago,
A specter that hangs over the shoulder  when heard.

Up,
Down,
Hold that ****,
And you start to think this Sally chick might just be a real cold *****.

Up,
Down,
Rinse and repeat the pain.

It's just 30 reps,
Why is it so infernally difficult?
Up,
Down,
Hold,
The pressure builds in your muscles and your brain,
Pratcher & the Gardeners heedless of your pain.

The last chorus,
Just a little bit more,
Is it just you or is the music slowing?

The women are weeping,
At the poor departure of poor ol' Luxe.

The song cuts,
You sigh in relief,
As your body crumples on its own accord,
Sick of your efforts and insanity.
RyMo Mar 2018
What if Sally never sold the seashells?
What if she simply strolled the seashore without wanting any more?
With nothing to do but to love and adore?
Because she knew well that deep down in her core,
She had more in this present moment than ever before.
So instead of setting up shop and selling some shells,
She took a moment to stop and started smelling the smells.
Sally smelt the breeze both wispy and sweet,
And she felt the ocean kissing her feet.
And in that present moment she understood the truth,
That wealth was not acquired behind some seashell booth,
But rather it was in the sea and in the shells themselves,
And never could it be found on some capitalistic shelves,
Sally smiled because she knew so much more than before,
She smiled because she knew the tide would bring more shells ashore.
*inspired by the low tide in Puerta Penasco, Mexico in October 2017*
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