Games on the phone with me,
even if we're going to the promised land.

Lasers shine on my mind.

Fresh flowers delivered to the promised land.
Yet we have a nice evening, and that makes me really think
that anything is possible.

But I just wanted a lot more of the world.
Even if multiplied,
by the end she hated me.

So don't look at the end of days,
but the truth about the paperwork
with a friend's little girl

who was having a good night out.
With the exception of Hannah.
But I just wanted a lot more emphasis on my mind.

You left it all behind.

Everything we built together.
Other than the red carpet
and upholstery cleaning services in my dreams?


I often play predictive text tennis with my close friends. Tonight I thought I'd see if my phone could write poetry. It didn't do too badly. I just added line breaks and punctuation.

My love for you is not described as the
Things you do for me and want me to do
For you, my love can be compared to a
Love so dear and a sky so clear and blue
I’m not the one to be affectionate
I know at times I seem to be heartless
That does not mean my love isn’t passionate
That won’t change my love for you regardless
The sound of your voice can put me to ease
Nothing about it can be tedious
It brings me home, serenity, and peace
I’d steal fire for you like Prometheus
Given to me by the grace of the Gods
You, I will love against all of the odds

Tsunami 2d

I carry a coat
Filled with my past
Its has old notes
Scrawled across like signatures on a cast

I have spirits living in the pockets
Demons sinking in through moth eaten holes
They whisper your name in sonnets
Convey and disclose

This cloak
Is ancient
Is heavy
The apparitions do nothing but reminisce

Mummi despised
wearing clothing belonging to the deceased
“It is bad luck to not let bhoots subside”
She spoke at me
Rather than directly to her beti
But what of the ghosts I am forced to wear mother?
When will they leave?

Beti= daughter
Bhoot = ghost

You are allowed to guffaw at me, considering what came before this.


Snow.  Likeas if what, eh? mists' fragile veil
Haunts gathring darkness as white caps from hence
That thought of April in the wings, suspense
Put back to sleep with frozen kisses' scale
Of niceness was't?  Rain's tripping through t'avail
Culled naked lawns in yellowed Death, which thence
Are tucked 'neath that chill coverlid, and whence
Straps on its boots 'gainst crunching forth, hope pale?
Nah.  It is Janry still, and violets' tour
Shall not be guaranteed until the dew
Once more rests silver on green carpets fer
Soft light and warmer hours lost under blue
Skies nary iciness skulks in as twere.
Tonight we'll shiver, glad the furnace knew.


Talk about the landscape changing when your back was turned as it were, as if the world itself were your naughty child, was that?



O! did I cherish that more ghastly sense
Of light, how tis gone with the shadows' pale
Forms likewise, blue heavns masked in sheer betrayl,
Nor but this duller blank of nothing hence
Which region clouds own, dead leaves silent thence
Upon these naked limbs, with nary frail
Breath save tis frozen air whose keen detail
They shiver to, as I, sans aught suspense.
Or wait.  Now Paul "likes" me as well.  In poor
Excuse, and for the first time ever--ooh!
I sent a man a "smile."  Now what, as twere?
Let me hear Bach and pick up Shakespeare to
Align half wakened dreams, lest I chafe fer
Long minutes oer vain hope. as none quite woo.


(Perhaps someday soon I'll let him read all I've written for him, who knows?)

"...what is seen, but what is UNseen, for what is unseen is eternal."


Twas MY lake once as twere, which now in pale
Morn's fragile Sunday calm is placid hence
In slate-grey silence wandring voices fence,
But don't as frore winds own this Janry scale
Of lost joys I view from afar in sheer betrayl,
The naked trees' black silhouettes as thence
Sae gaunt or rattling bony fingers, whence
Is't that the only call I catch--winds' hail?
Snow melted by rain,  how th'expanse lies fer
Blue heavns' half clouded eye so dead, yet to
My soul's perception, 'ginning now to stir
With hope, though March is but a dream.  We knew
So many things, once, and the lake as twere--
Its bosom like a mirror--shows 'gain what'd woo.


You know?

Here, just listen to this:  []  


Lo, coffee in wee tazos as from thence
How sparrows gaily call is't? to avail
Dawn's warming light which wears Spring in betrayl
'Spite frigid airs, me chattring to Dad hence
About when buds will 'gin to peer fr'intents
Upon the distant tree; and whiles I hail
Such notions, he sez Winter's in detail
Too young yet, noting he's no hopes for sense.
I was not happy, was I?  Just in tour
Seeing how that April haunts the waking view,
Likeas October did one June as twere.
Snow melted by the brief thaw's rain, these blue
Skies oddly wear an eye akin in poor
'Scuse to late March.  And really, what is new?


Well?  Isn't music a hearty change and too refreshing, c'mon, isn't it though?

January's thaw was ever wont to deceive even the lacklustre souls with visions of sugarplums was that?


How blue dusk fringes that wee chance t'avail
Myself of scribbling...ere we dine.  Spring hence,
Despite frore winds' most cruel breath, tiptoes thence
Within these longer hours of light.  Though frail
Perhaps in guise, yet O! in keen betrayl
Nor with aught joy, my very soul can sense
Its eye as if upon these wastes, til whence
Is only whether next month shall wax pale.
Yes, will ole Febry yield to April fer
All that?  I feel it in my bones anew,
Half shivring to acknowledge what, as't stir?
Ah, wherefore do I shrink from May, and rue
The hope of daffodils and violets, poor
As all my ecstasies therein?  Who knew?


Shall we say it's fun racing the clock when you've only 10 minutes?

[My beloved Mum died 2 years ago today.]


This wan light draws up shadows for pretense,
Their fragile shapes like ghosts in sheer betrayl
Upon dry lanes bleached ere for safety, pale
Blue skies with half an eye, winds piercing thence
Nor but too bitter as they scour from hence
The frore and stubbled fields none wander; frail
And icy clouds with grey battalions hail
Is't who'd observe in passing?, like's good sense.
I cherish naked trees' black forms in tour,
Now clustered by the graveyard, tombstones to
Effect 'non dotting hallowed ground is't? poor
As our fond notions, dim hours' greyer cue
Sae perfect as Death owns that space as twere,
While leering at souls through these minutes too.


NOTE: L's 7-8, coming down the slope to the intersection and sitting at the light, I don't know why those fluffy grey clouds against the icier white in blue skies struck me suddenly as a vision of enemy aircraft coming in for a raid over the masses of houses sprawling across from left to right.

Nathan, aka Nateive Son, will probably make a point with me, come to think on't, cuz--


Yes, Shakespeare whileas fiddles seem t'avail
This warming chance to simply breathe; a sense
Not warranted of carefree joy's pretense
Half waltzes like these soft blue skies' detail
Mulls spring ere time, as if the thrilling scale
Of higher temps could waken for intents
The daffodils yet buried 'neath snow's dense
But melting whiter coverlid gone stale.
Piano too, for strings, ere that sweet tour
Of cherished lines is quite sufficient through
Long use is't?  How Will inks his love 'til we're
'Non prey to  black ink's breath just as he knew
We aught to be and swore was so, though's poor.
These frore hours we trudge through know what 'gain too?


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