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Jim Musics Apr 2018
Peepers, (at last!)
Their thousands of calls blown, wavering across the eternal swamp.

Squishing, slurping boots.
Just last week they crunched and squeaked.

Softened trickle of Crow Creek,
As it makes its way down the algae and moss covered rocks.

Chasing and swooping Red Tails' Dopplered “keeeer”

The sultry, subtle, effervescence of the first Bock beer of the year.

The longing whisper in my dreams.
All this without my hearing aids!
Poetic T Dec 2014
"slurp"
"SluRP"
"SLURP"
Heard from *tongue
and mouth
Little teeth,
Lick,
Slurp,
Chomp,
Like a baby ****** on wood,
 You look at me with a cheeky smile
What was once clean now a sticky mess
Licking a lolly,
Keeping you entertained
Looking as if after all this licking, chomping
"Slurp"
"Slurp"
"Slurp"
That its looking like when you first began,
Then as if a moment past, the lolly
That was whole now but a stick,
Tongue, teeth, mouth
Chopped away till all was gone
Just a smile though sticky lips,
"Slurp"
"Slurp"
"Slurp"
Was heard, now all quiet as just a grin
And a stick passed to daddy, and the words
*"Daddy can I please have another one "
Another short poem story inspired by beautiful but noisily slurping daughter :)
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
You choked on chariots raw. Red egg yolk suppers, churned of the milk oceans this morning you kept.
The lintel of stone turned toward dusk. Some great dynasty of submissive spirits catering your morning
Out on a cart of muse, forms of heaven cannot even hear you. You are a soporific knot in the tale of your Old womanhood. In this infinite Tuesday morning your small black eyes, like an oil tanker toppling over The intense azure sea- shipwrecked, and lost.

Departing from your childhood you slurp Coca-Cola from a silver straw. From the corner store and inside Winter yawns. There is no face, only strikingly beautiful black hair. The body under you is at home in all
My hand's fingers have to fill. All the clothes that you could carry for the two-way adventure. There are
Never enough bubbles between your lips and the glass bottle you have. Only the score of the whistleblower. And the poor symphony you had prayed for into the dial-tone phone, the deep Wilderness, that stiff forever-ago budding from your coffee cup. Neurogenesis lifted from your Fingerprints and emblazoned into this lump of human ingenuity. The hopeless octave that cut us all short.    

Every short story that was left untold. There are the brief deaths recoiling in your spiritual architecture. The ****** of morphia has bourn me awake. Inside you are often unscathed, vanishing as some of Tonight's parts assemble you, on you blue is a beautiful color. The sweet retreat that gave you life or the bountiful deaths that counted you too cutely by your side. You are the sun in my black coat. Here is my sea, your sea, you'll see.
Written for Anna Farinola

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