#andrew - Hello Poetry

#andrew

If you cast a rod and catch the moon, lock the reel; prolong the night— some the owl on the old tree isn’t yet wearing glasses, yet tries to hoot— some as long as the reel’s locked, the night’s— the attire it’ll be dark ‘till the owl, the night-blooming jasmine, and sun— become jaded; ‘till the owl wears glasses; ‘till the reel’s locked the owl must hoot— some.

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Jul 16, 2024

Jul 16, 2024 at 9:28 AM UTC

If you cast a rod and catch the moon, lock the reel; prolong the night— some the owl on the old tree isn’t yet wearing glasses, yet tries to hoot— some as long as the reel’s locked, the night’s— the attire it’ll be dark ‘till the owl, the night-blooming jasmine, and sun— become jaded; ‘till the owl wears glasses; ‘till the reel’s locked the owl must hoot— some.

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The river is quiet with velvety darkness. The moon leaves her perch, the clouds as her garment. A trail of dreams, lucent with meaning, battered, not broken, follows, careening. He rowed through the bayou, Searching for the stars; But the branches of the cypresses Had captured them in jars. His little iron lantern, Flick’ring kernel of light, Won’t discern though it burns Gold as sylvite. You saw him there, A statue of wax; You took your hammer And shattered the glass. Though, like a bird, He’d molted his cloak, You remembered the password— To which he awoke. You did not know (for how could you?) That I was all alone. But still you deigned to look at me And bind my broken bone. My anxious wings had taken flight; The perch bore not a trace— You taught me how to not recoil When human hands embrace. You didn’t know what you had done. You didn’t know what you had done. You couldn’t have known what you had done. But thank you anyway. Oh, Jonathan— May your heart enfold: Can’t you see your gold? Can’t you see you’re gold? The constellations still evade— I’ll climb the tree. Keep ascending; no dismay (This I decree!) I’ll catch a star, I swear, some way— On wings of chim-choo-rees. But if I die before that day, Will you take one home for me? . . . . . There in that desert, Hot as the stars, I played my harp And you the guitar And with the smell Of creosote On the cool wind You shed your coat. Wending through the branches, Aloft in the sky, Laughing and joking All through the night, You found your love, To my great delight— And when you pair embrace, I can’t help but sigh. Let me bear that spear Thrown by your dad. (“Don't worry or fear; The blood’s not so bad!”) No!—could you have been saved Had I been there in time?— For I’d rather brave That dagger in your spine! Jonathan, my dearest friend, Won’t you lift your eyes? Though you bleed and from there grieve, The seed of God’s inside. I see your fear, though not so clear, For you take care to guard. But you will neither raze nor pierce Your son where you’ve been scarred. You hardly know how much you’ve grown. You hardly know how much you’ve grown. You can’t imagine how you’ve grown. But you have. You have. Oh, Jonathan— May your heart enfold: Will you see your gold? Will you see you’re gold? . . . . . The grass may wilt and flowers fade, But He steadfast remains. And though carved ice resigns to melt, It runs into the lake. For what are we but jars of dust?— Made that we may bear The image of Him who painted us, Who deigns to hear our prayer. We do not know where we will go. We do not know where we will go. We can’t begin to fathom where we’ll go. But—know it’s not in vain. . . . . . When moths at last consume my clothes, Will you remember? Where stone-faced, dusty night arose, Will you remember? When light endures its final throes, Will you remember? Should I be lost within this grove, Will you remember? When street-doors shut and grinding slows, We will remember. Though hunters maim and shades enclose, We will remember. All praise to God—the veil’s deposed; We can remember. Because from death the Son arose, We can remember He will remember. When, from my grave, the cypress grows, You will remember. And when you sleep 'neath mountain snow, I will remember. The epilogue eternal goes— “We shall remember!” Forevermore we shall compose, cleansed by the ember. Oh, Jonathan— May your heart enfold (And should I be told?): Do you see your gold? Do you see—you’re gold?

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May 12, 2022

May 12, 2022 at 7:22 PM UTC

Jonathan / Epilogue

The river is quiet with velvety darkness. The moon leaves her perch, the clouds as her garment. A trail of dreams, lucent with meaning, battered, not broken, follows, careening. He rowed through the bayou, Searching for the stars; But the branches of the cypresses Had captured them in jars. His little iron lantern, Flick’ring kernel of light, Won’t discern though it burns Gold as sylvite. You saw him there, A statue of wax; You took your hammer And shattered the glass. Though, like a bird, He’d molted his cloak, You remembered the password— To which he awoke. You did not know (for how could you?) That I was all alone. But still you deigned to look at me And bind my broken bone. My anxious wings had taken flight; The perch bore not a trace— You taught me how to not recoil When human hands embrace. You didn’t know what you had done. You didn’t know what you had done. You couldn’t have known what you had done. But thank you anyway. Oh, Jonathan— May your heart enfold: Can’t you see your gold? Can’t you see you’re gold? The constellations still evade— I’ll climb the tree. Keep ascending; no dismay (This I decree!) I’ll catch a star, I swear, some way— On wings of chim-choo-rees. But if I die before that day, Will you take one home for me? . . . . . There in that desert, Hot as the stars, I played my harp And you the guitar And with the smell Of creosote On the cool wind You shed your coat. Wending through the branches, Aloft in the sky, Laughing and joking All through the night, You found your love, To my great delight— And when you pair embrace, I can’t help but sigh. Let me bear that spear Thrown by your dad. (“Don't worry or fear; The blood’s not so bad!”) No!—could you have been saved Had I been there in time?— For I’d rather brave That dagger in your spine! Jonathan, my dearest friend, Won’t you lift your eyes? Though you bleed and from there grieve, The seed of God’s inside. I see your fear, though not so clear, For you take care to guard. But you will neither raze nor pierce Your son where you’ve been scarred. You hardly know how much you’ve grown. You hardly know how much you’ve grown. You can’t imagine how you’ve grown. But you have. You have. Oh, Jonathan— May your heart enfold: Will you see your gold? Will you see you’re gold? . . . . . The grass may wilt and flowers fade, But He steadfast remains. And though carved ice resigns to melt, It runs into the lake. For what are we but jars of dust?— Made that we may bear The image of Him who painted us, Who deigns to hear our prayer. We do not know where we will go. We do not know where we will go. We can’t begin to fathom where we’ll go. But—know it’s not in vain. . . . . . When moths at last consume my clothes, Will you remember? Where stone-faced, dusty night arose, Will you remember? When light endures its final throes, Will you remember? Should I be lost within this grove, Will you remember? When street-doors shut and grinding slows, We will remember. Though hunters maim and shades enclose, We will remember. All praise to God—the veil’s deposed; We can remember. Because from death the Son arose, We can remember He will remember. When, from my grave, the cypress grows, You will remember. And when you sleep 'neath mountain snow, I will remember. The epilogue eternal goes— “We shall remember!” Forevermore we shall compose, cleansed by the ember. Oh, Jonathan— May your heart enfold (And should I be told?): Do you see your gold? Do you see—you’re gold?

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Eden’s Weeds (Andrew Crawford) “seed buried somewhere six feet deep beneath dry bones and brittle debris, lost in all of eden's weeds” Andrew Crawford <><>><> you tripped exploring mine own eden's weeds, more precisely, tripped me up, your poring over, my one hundred year old poems, flawed, by many spilled tears, aged old, for and over them, and now, once again, je vous réponds s'il vous plait this poem planned, title chosen, well before you exercised my memories, disinterring by your fingers, (surprise!} but the content you also now provided, @ ten to midnight, your privacy invasion, a very fine sleep deprivation excuse to compose one more time who knows, perhaps this next one could be ”flawless”^ not likely though, flawless never found amidst the weeds though in Eden chances are, chances are, not impossible, for that’s the place where slow, simple songs get replayed, celebrating lovers of life, its pleasant harmonies, go figure over, over again, like a rolling stone, until friction finally wins, yes ”my own chosen speed”^ is a-slowing, direction home, finally, the mosses occluding new words and combinations, concealed, like a moss, got no roots, birthed by shedding spores airborne, my new old poems, plucked from air, words passing by in phrases your phrase, eden’s weeds, hit my irises, insisting it deserved, instant cognition, two words, demanding special education, accolade recognition, perhaps if I stick around, for a few more poems, I’ll learn to write as beautiful as you.

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Jun 17, 2020

Jun 17, 2020 at 12:31 AM UTC

Eden’s Weeds (Andrew Crawford)

Eden’s Weeds (Andrew Crawford) “seed buried somewhere six feet deep beneath dry bones and brittle debris, lost in all of eden's weeds” Andrew Crawford <><>><> you tripped exploring mine own eden's weeds, more precisely, tripped me up, your poring over, my one hundred year old poems, flawed, by many spilled tears, aged old, for and over them, and now, once again, je vous réponds s'il vous plait this poem planned, title chosen, well before you exercised my memories, disinterring by your fingers, (surprise!} but the content you also now provided, @ ten to midnight, your privacy invasion, a very fine sleep deprivation excuse to compose one more time who knows, perhaps this next one could be ”flawless”^ not likely though, flawless never found amidst the weeds though in Eden chances are, chances are, not impossible, for that’s the place where slow, simple songs get replayed, celebrating lovers of life, its pleasant harmonies, go figure over, over again, like a rolling stone, until friction finally wins, yes ”my own chosen speed”^ is a-slowing, direction home, finally, the mosses occluding new words and combinations, concealed, like a moss, got no roots, birthed by shedding spores airborne, my new old poems, plucked from air, words passing by in phrases your phrase, eden’s weeds, hit my irises, insisting it deserved, instant cognition, two words, demanding special education, accolade recognition, perhaps if I stick around, for a few more poems, I’ll learn to write as beautiful as you.

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An artist with mad composition A confused disposition Double the list of failed repetitions With pencil in hand, I looked at you. I began. And drew pictures of what your insides might look like. Black and green, Strokes of yellow and tangerine Like LA skies I saw you in a dream Now you’re right before my eyes And I close. with pencil in hand I began, And drew pictures of possible futures if you decided to hang And drew pictures of me with neatly tied up hands Behind my back With pencil in hand I drew your eyes looking at Me. Piercing Unconditionally If the divine did lead me Double the reason To have you in me Deeply. I had a muse I can use, with pencil in hand I began And drew peaceful days with you by my side And drew wild *** parties, ****** and chicken thighs And drew you with me And drew pictures of what that could mean doesn’t matter to me So long I see you in peace So long I have with me A pencil in hand, some paper And so I began

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Mar 24, 2020

Mar 24, 2020 at 9:51 AM UTC

Rocksteadylettie

An artist with mad composition A confused disposition Double the list of failed repetitions With pencil in hand, I looked at you. I began. And drew pictures of what your insides might look like. Black and green, Strokes of yellow and tangerine Like LA skies I saw you in a dream Now you’re right before my eyes And I close. with pencil in hand I began, And drew pictures of possible futures if you decided to hang And drew pictures of me with neatly tied up hands Behind my back With pencil in hand I drew your eyes looking at Me. Piercing Unconditionally If the divine did lead me Double the reason To have you in me Deeply. I had a muse I can use, with pencil in hand I began And drew peaceful days with you by my side And drew wild *** parties, ****** and chicken thighs And drew you with me And drew pictures of what that could mean doesn’t matter to me So long I see you in peace So long I have with me A pencil in hand, some paper And so I began

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Roses are Red and Violets are Blue! Why keep craving for that someone new Is it his smile? Well I smile too Is it his eyes? But I've got two Its not me, No! its You! You was Bae and I was Boo my heart marched forward While yours withdrew, subdued by the view of Andrew Now my nightmares are alive and my fears came true Of how she left me For a **** Tattoo

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May 8, 2018

May 8, 2018 at 8:06 PM UTC

Roses are Red and Violets are Blue! Why keep craving for that someone new Is it his smile? Well I smile too Is it his eyes? But I've got two Its not me, No! its You! You was Bae and I was Boo my heart marched forward While yours withdrew, subdued by the view of Andrew Now my nightmares are alive and my fears came true Of how she left me For a **** Tattoo

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If angels were given to govern men, neither external nor internal controls would be necessary First, control the Governed Next, control private interests over public rights In republican government, legislative authority necessarily predominates, on extraordinary occasions, it might be perfidiously abused power surrendered by the people to the administration, unjust views of the major interests of the minor turned against both parties society itself will be broken many parts, interests class of citizen, rights of individuals Or the minority will be in danger of the majority the best security— rights of every class, will be diminished Justice is the end of; civil society

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Dec 21, 2017

Dec 21, 2017 at 4:10 PM UTC

Cut-up of Federalist 51

If angels were given to govern men, neither external nor internal controls would be necessary First, control the Governed Next, control private interests over public rights In republican government, legislative authority necessarily predominates, on extraordinary occasions, it might be perfidiously abused power surrendered by the people to the administration, unjust views of the major interests of the minor turned against both parties society itself will be broken many parts, interests class of citizen, rights of individuals Or the minority will be in danger of the majority the best security— rights of every class, will be diminished Justice is the end of; civil society

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Have you felt the pain in my city yet ? Winds on a surge, Houses and minds overturned, Life's taking an unwanted turn. You can't be surprised, This hurricane has no soul. These roads leading to your path of destiny Been cracked by too much debris on main street The president isn't gonna do too much about it, He's too comfortable laid back in his seat. Chop Another Tree. How can america come together in a nation wide crisis When we can't come united to solve the real everyday problem ? These power lines and houses been falling Flood levels in Florida and Texas are rising Didn't this world learn about broken hearts in New Orleans ? Keeping your life in order As the ones that love build on pain to peace Only if you see through the rain, life's tears, a world's need. Have you felt the pain in my city ? ©MH

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Sep 16, 2017

Sep 16, 2017 at 12:05 PM UTC

manuel-hutchinson-iii

Have you felt the pain in my city yet ? Winds on a surge, Houses and minds overturned, Life's taking an unwanted turn. You can't be surprised, This hurricane has no soul. These roads leading to your path of destiny Been cracked by too much debris on main street The president isn't gonna do too much about it, He's too comfortable laid back in his seat. Chop Another Tree. How can america come together in a nation wide crisis When we can't come united to solve the real everyday problem ? These power lines and houses been falling Flood levels in Florida and Texas are rising Didn't this world learn about broken hearts in New Orleans ? Keeping your life in order As the ones that love build on pain to peace Only if you see through the rain, life's tears, a world's need. Have you felt the pain in my city ? ©MH

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Once upon a time we had the hymnal propped by the kitchen sink so's I could learn; years later Mum would sing along with me, and now...I like never but once in a blue moon dare to sing aloud, for missing her to tears. (sonnet #MMMMMMCCXLVII) What's happened to--me? Rainy hours detail Thet eye with silver's touch while green lawns fence The minutes fog obscures by vague suspense With softest carpets rolled out to avail, And I'm not erm, my own in sheer betrayl; Erst naked trees lost to mists' whitish sense Of yonder, I could shiver, and do hence, Cuz in a blink I'm his upon that scale. One comment like my wont five days ere, poor As what? now he distracts aught hours 'til through Suggestion I am giggling, sober, tour His deepest sorrows, and maunt say he'd woo?! Of course, I'm better searching violets, fer All that. Let purple wink low, saying we knew. 05Apr17b

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Apr 15, 2017

Apr 15, 2017 at 12:58 AM UTC

So I Sang Loudly Oer the Dinner Dishes

Once upon a time we had the hymnal propped by the kitchen sink so's I could learn; years later Mum would sing along with me, and now...I like never but once in a blue moon dare to sing aloud, for missing her to tears. (sonnet #MMMMMMCCXLVII) What's happened to--me? Rainy hours detail Thet eye with silver's touch while green lawns fence The minutes fog obscures by vague suspense With softest carpets rolled out to avail, And I'm not erm, my own in sheer betrayl; Erst naked trees lost to mists' whitish sense Of yonder, I could shiver, and do hence, Cuz in a blink I'm his upon that scale. One comment like my wont five days ere, poor As what? now he distracts aught hours 'til through Suggestion I am giggling, sober, tour His deepest sorrows, and maunt say he'd woo?! Of course, I'm better searching violets, fer All that. Let purple wink low, saying we knew. 05Apr17b

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April...my early sonnets...leaning on the windowsill as the streets were mad rivers, Mum in bed just behind me--ya, I've long been the nightowl, though how many times I'd hang out with her when I did. (sonnet #MMMMMMCCLXVIII) Ah, silver gloaming whose soft light is thence More yellow than wee baby leaves' detail Of green chartreuse as rain now waltzes, pale Yet with that subtler voice in tow, lawns hence Thick carpets laid out 'gainst grey racks a sense Of pink like fragile mists haunts to avail, These naked boughs in lingerie black's scale Just tinges, April clothed ere nightfall, whence? O me! The blacktop sports thin puddles fer A touch of wet, and Friday's hallowed to Some, good cuz dunno why, as we talk. Were It taxes or the missiles elsewhere, who Shall--what? I listen, laugh, want Andrew, poor As saying is, and recall Mum: all we knew. 14Apr17c

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Apr 15, 2017

Apr 15, 2017 at 1:20 AM UTC

I Used To Nestle Here...To Be.

April...my early sonnets...leaning on the windowsill as the streets were mad rivers, Mum in bed just behind me--ya, I've long been the nightowl, though how many times I'd hang out with her when I did. (sonnet #MMMMMMCCLXVIII) Ah, silver gloaming whose soft light is thence More yellow than wee baby leaves' detail Of green chartreuse as rain now waltzes, pale Yet with that subtler voice in tow, lawns hence Thick carpets laid out 'gainst grey racks a sense Of pink like fragile mists haunts to avail, These naked boughs in lingerie black's scale Just tinges, April clothed ere nightfall, whence? O me! The blacktop sports thin puddles fer A touch of wet, and Friday's hallowed to Some, good cuz dunno why, as we talk. Were It taxes or the missiles elsewhere, who Shall--what? I listen, laugh, want Andrew, poor As saying is, and recall Mum: all we knew. 14Apr17c

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Hi. waves with a happy smile (sonnet #MMMMMMCCLXVII) "Your Jenny." And these blank skies thinly pale, The baby leaves 'non shiver to winds' sense Of sheer caprice, their soft chartreuse lit thence As if translucent while birds wing oer, hail With voices my heart knows from June's detail, Like summer's breath flirts 'cross green lawns more dense And ruffled carpets, daffodils bright hence In deepest yellows smiling to avail. Oh, Andrew! Song of Songs talks of what fer Effect seems mine, though we're but friends--yet ooh! That's how she knows him, yes. Warmth's waltzing tour With singing lightly on the air and dew What twinkles in morn's eye is ours as twere, Whiles I want violets as I wait for you. 14Apr17b

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Apr 15, 2017

Apr 15, 2017 at 1:18 AM UTC

Wait. Oh! That was Never My Forte

Hi. waves with a happy smile (sonnet #MMMMMMCCLXVII) "Your Jenny." And these blank skies thinly pale, The baby leaves 'non shiver to winds' sense Of sheer caprice, their soft chartreuse lit thence As if translucent while birds wing oer, hail With voices my heart knows from June's detail, Like summer's breath flirts 'cross green lawns more dense And ruffled carpets, daffodils bright hence In deepest yellows smiling to avail. Oh, Andrew! Song of Songs talks of what fer Effect seems mine, though we're but friends--yet ooh! That's how she knows him, yes. Warmth's waltzing tour With singing lightly on the air and dew What twinkles in morn's eye is ours as twere, Whiles I want violets as I wait for you. 14Apr17b

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...miss Andrew. L14: Will didn't? (sonnet #MMMMMMCCLXV) Ya, moonlight at my feet whileas in pale Excuse strings whine oer how I slumber thence? The violin half shrieking, thet eye hence Just stares down through my window to detail My auld duvet as if on purpose, frail White on the side I allus choose, a sense Of what? 'non waiting in sheer silence, whence Note how, and switch the radio off to scale. I'm hungry now tis midnight--is that poor? Twa sips of coffee, cold and stale ist too?-- Twelve hours 'go when twas fresh---and who cares fer All that by now? Not me. Let Shakespeare do Up lines none read cuz oh! we love as twere His plays. We don't, at that. But ah, who knew? 13Apr17c

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Apr 15, 2017

Apr 15, 2017 at 1:15 AM UTC

One Big Fat WHOCARES? And I--Forget It

...miss Andrew. L14: Will didn't? (sonnet #MMMMMMCCLXV) Ya, moonlight at my feet whileas in pale Excuse strings whine oer how I slumber thence? The violin half shrieking, thet eye hence Just stares down through my window to detail My auld duvet as if on purpose, frail White on the side I allus choose, a sense Of what? 'non waiting in sheer silence, whence Note how, and switch the radio off to scale. I'm hungry now tis midnight--is that poor? Twa sips of coffee, cold and stale ist too?-- Twelve hours 'go when twas fresh---and who cares fer All that by now? Not me. Let Shakespeare do Up lines none read cuz oh! we love as twere His plays. We don't, at that. But ah, who knew? 13Apr17c

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Shake-speares sonnets back in the day... (sonnet #MMMMMMCCLXIV) Oh me! I never knew sich weary hours a sense Of being half sick owns, whilst naught does avail, This fevered longing mine as clouds' thin veil Shows fragile blue skies, and warm notes from hence Akin to daffodils' gay yellows thence Abob to vagrant winds, where ne exhale But haunts like to a ghost in sheer betrayl, Nor moves the baby leaves hung in suspense. Pink mists frame naked boughs as buds now tour Those blackened skeletons of trees I do 'Non cherish in their wanting state, rain fer All that a moistened kiss mair fit to woo Than ist Baroque strains I sip coffee's cure To? Andrew, I swear oh, how I love you. 13Apr17b

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Apr 15, 2017

Apr 15, 2017 at 1:13 AM UTC

Yes, Coffee Over Shakespeare, Wanting YOU

Shake-speares sonnets back in the day... (sonnet #MMMMMMCCLXIV) Oh me! I never knew sich weary hours a sense Of being half sick owns, whilst naught does avail, This fevered longing mine as clouds' thin veil Shows fragile blue skies, and warm notes from hence Akin to daffodils' gay yellows thence Abob to vagrant winds, where ne exhale But haunts like to a ghost in sheer betrayl, Nor moves the baby leaves hung in suspense. Pink mists frame naked boughs as buds now tour Those blackened skeletons of trees I do 'Non cherish in their wanting state, rain fer All that a moistened kiss mair fit to woo Than ist Baroque strains I sip coffee's cure To? Andrew, I swear oh, how I love you. 13Apr17b

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Um, my apologies to Lindt, dunno where that flavour originated when I first tasted it. [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y7FeeKWVi5Q] (sonnet #MMMMMMCCLVIII) Lindt was the standard for good choclate, hence Gone to the dogs as Dillon's to avail Tastes like the thing itself, whilst in betrayl Swiss choclatiers own powdered milk for sense?! And our Wisconsin pride on top fr'intents-- Or what? I nibble one and t'other, frail As private testing is, and call both pale, Milk choclate nothing to the real stuff, whence? Charge me with aye, a fault and swear tis poor, I'll put on Broforce' soundtrack, thinking too-- Ha, what?! Being "friends" is--stop there as it were. Trust in the LORD with all thine heart--and do Not figure. I love Andrew. Rain blots fer Effect aught blue skies, and no choclate's you. 10Apr17b

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Apr 15, 2017

Apr 15, 2017 at 1:11 AM UTC

Was't That Confection Or--?!

Um, my apologies to Lindt, dunno where that flavour originated when I first tasted it. [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y7FeeKWVi5Q] (sonnet #MMMMMMCCLVIII) Lindt was the standard for good choclate, hence Gone to the dogs as Dillon's to avail Tastes like the thing itself, whilst in betrayl Swiss choclatiers own powdered milk for sense?! And our Wisconsin pride on top fr'intents-- Or what? I nibble one and t'other, frail As private testing is, and call both pale, Milk choclate nothing to the real stuff, whence? Charge me with aye, a fault and swear tis poor, I'll put on Broforce' soundtrack, thinking too-- Ha, what?! Being "friends" is--stop there as it were. Trust in the LORD with all thine heart--and do Not figure. I love Andrew. Rain blots fer Effect aught blue skies, and no choclate's you. 10Apr17b

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Wonder which of my favourite kites I am? (sonnet #MMMMMMCCLV) Read antique sonnets, yet don't hear them, frail As voicing David Grey oer coffee thence Is, lost to western beaches' surf from hence And which I almost listen to in pale Excuse, while Illinois' blue skies detail These moors and wasted prairies winds pass whence I canna say oer, whispers in a sense Where Or'gon's ist? tore up auld trees to scale. Our houses wink to golden light as twere, Whiles Andrew's feel the hurr'cane damage to Effect. Suppose I don't know what I stir In asking, he swears I shan't know 'til through What ist? the ache's root we unearth in tour: All. And I love each minute lost to you. 09Apr17a

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Apr 15, 2017

Apr 15, 2017 at 1:09 AM UTC

I'm Only Scared of Trying to Fly--

Wonder which of my favourite kites I am? (sonnet #MMMMMMCCLV) Read antique sonnets, yet don't hear them, frail As voicing David Grey oer coffee thence Is, lost to western beaches' surf from hence And which I almost listen to in pale Excuse, while Illinois' blue skies detail These moors and wasted prairies winds pass whence I canna say oer, whispers in a sense Where Or'gon's ist? tore up auld trees to scale. Our houses wink to golden light as twere, Whiles Andrew's feel the hurr'cane damage to Effect. Suppose I don't know what I stir In asking, he swears I shan't know 'til through What ist? the ache's root we unearth in tour: All. And I love each minute lost to you. 09Apr17a

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Kick me? Kiss me. (sonnet #MMMMMMCCLIII) As greyish twilight's pink clouds on the pale East haunt lo, the first note of dawn, blue thence Mair ghostly oh! I think "how calm tis hence--" Like ninety-mile winds had been here, the frail Peace breathless nor but waiting to avail. And where the golden shafts draw fir trees' dense Forms on dead houses' silence, know that sense Is odd, cuz our electric'ty ne'er went stale. Oh Andrew! My heart's on the West coast, poor Though just friends augurs, where th'uprooted crew Of ancient trees and battered houses that your Eyes know too keenly mar the waking view. And your heart grieves to note all, whiles mine fer Just having you okay, gives thanks oer you. 08Apr17a

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Apr 15, 2017

Apr 15, 2017 at 1:07 AM UTC

I Swear It's Been Too Quiet Here

Kick me? Kiss me. (sonnet #MMMMMMCCLIII) As greyish twilight's pink clouds on the pale East haunt lo, the first note of dawn, blue thence Mair ghostly oh! I think "how calm tis hence--" Like ninety-mile winds had been here, the frail Peace breathless nor but waiting to avail. And where the golden shafts draw fir trees' dense Forms on dead houses' silence, know that sense Is odd, cuz our electric'ty ne'er went stale. Oh Andrew! My heart's on the West coast, poor Though just friends augurs, where th'uprooted crew Of ancient trees and battered houses that your Eyes know too keenly mar the waking view. And your heart grieves to note all, whiles mine fer Just having you okay, gives thanks oer you. 08Apr17a

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Kick me, I smile too gaily for the sparrows these days. (sonnet #MMMMMMCCL) Now twilight falls upon what was and thence Sifts out more lucid notes, how silence' pale Breath hangs oer naked trees until their frail Stance, like to ghosts half frozen in suspense, Waits for the darkness sans a voice, though hence Ah, Mavis' hallowed strains aught thrill t'avail. Me left alone and whispring in betrayl, "Oh, Andrew--!" blue skies thicken oer that sense. Yes, I watched orange splash stone walls left as twere Forlorn with empty eyes that stared out through The greyish windows as lo, clouds donned fer Effect, ah, purple, fuschia winking too Oer houses left in shadows none in poor 'Scuse shifted. Come, tell me when he'd not woo. 06Apr17c

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Apr 15, 2017

Apr 15, 2017 at 1:03 AM UTC

Dearest Me. I Might Almost Be...Happy

Kick me, I smile too gaily for the sparrows these days. (sonnet #MMMMMMCCL) Now twilight falls upon what was and thence Sifts out more lucid notes, how silence' pale Breath hangs oer naked trees until their frail Stance, like to ghosts half frozen in suspense, Waits for the darkness sans a voice, though hence Ah, Mavis' hallowed strains aught thrill t'avail. Me left alone and whispring in betrayl, "Oh, Andrew--!" blue skies thicken oer that sense. Yes, I watched orange splash stone walls left as twere Forlorn with empty eyes that stared out through The greyish windows as lo, clouds donned fer Effect, ah, purple, fuschia winking too Oer houses left in shadows none in poor 'Scuse shifted. Come, tell me when he'd not woo. 06Apr17c

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[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pgdQf34SYSo] I swear, I love him. *Note, the eyes (back in Edmund Spenser's days) have been known as "lamping" which L11 tries for cuz of rhyming. (sonnet #MMMMMMCCXLVIII) Cold blue peers thinly oer the rippling sense Of greener carpets laid out for thet pale Eye's scrut'ny ist? Grey, fluffy cloudbanks scale Hours down in more uncertain light as hence Ah, golden shafts look fragile whiles they fence Long naked trees with thoughts of warmth's detail, Winds trying to whisper, and the firs exhale In hoarser notes as wont, me silent thence. Cuz Andrew does not put his finger fer Aught on my lips, no. Yet he does 'non too. Are my lamps shining in betrayl as twere? I swear, he humbles me without a clue Or touch, and reaches for my heart, to stir What's been long in the tomb, likeas we knew. 06Apr17a

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Apr 15, 2017

Apr 15, 2017 at 1:00 AM UTC

Oh, Please Don't Let Me Think!

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pgdQf34SYSo] I swear, I love him. *Note, the eyes (back in Edmund Spenser's days) have been known as "lamping" which L11 tries for cuz of rhyming. (sonnet #MMMMMMCCXLVIII) Cold blue peers thinly oer the rippling sense Of greener carpets laid out for thet pale Eye's scrut'ny ist? Grey, fluffy cloudbanks scale Hours down in more uncertain light as hence Ah, golden shafts look fragile whiles they fence Long naked trees with thoughts of warmth's detail, Winds trying to whisper, and the firs exhale In hoarser notes as wont, me silent thence. Cuz Andrew does not put his finger fer Aught on my lips, no. Yet he does 'non too. Are my lamps shining in betrayl as twere? I swear, he humbles me without a clue Or touch, and reaches for my heart, to stir What's been long in the tomb, likeas we knew. 06Apr17a

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White benches, torque wrenches And a little love from me. See my soul or **** it using existential creeds. They did, They used magic to gain what their fate had sealed Twisted and crushed and gained eternal fields. Flaming fiery feuds boiling deep within my soul. Attractive and repulsive electrons sparking it to gold. "I am the alchemist, Behold led-based souls that turn to gold which I, too had foretold" Love is not as basic as the colours of the night. Love is warm, not quick to frighten, it mentally delights. Feelings are strong, so is love the infinite ration. Connections, attractions from persons of compassion.

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Aug 17, 2016

Aug 17, 2016 at 2:32 PM UTC

White benches, torque wrenches And a little love from me. See my soul or **** it using existential creeds. They did, They used magic to gain what their fate had sealed Twisted and crushed and gained eternal fields. Flaming fiery feuds boiling deep within my soul. Attractive and repulsive electrons sparking it to gold. "I am the alchemist, Behold led-based souls that turn to gold which I, too had foretold" Love is not as basic as the colours of the night. Love is warm, not quick to frighten, it mentally delights. Feelings are strong, so is love the infinite ration. Connections, attractions from persons of compassion.

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The full moon haunts me, it only reminds me of those nights: The nights that I would sit by my bed, doors locked and window drapes open. I would hold the box cutter in one hand and the codeine in the other. The tears would roll down my face. The screaming downstairs never stopping. Wait. It stopped. Now there is sobbing and there are sirens. But the sirens aren't for me, they belong to the poor woman downstairs. She obviously didn't see the icicles outside, with their cold warnings. Or the man on his porch, preaching the devil to all that entered my house. Silly girl, the man on the moon isn't as kind as he seems. He loves to come out for death, and death only.

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Dec 16, 2015

Dec 16, 2015 at 10:26 PM UTC

The full moon haunts me, it only reminds me of those nights: The nights that I would sit by my bed, doors locked and window drapes open. I would hold the box cutter in one hand and the codeine in the other. The tears would roll down my face. The screaming downstairs never stopping. Wait. It stopped. Now there is sobbing and there are sirens. But the sirens aren't for me, they belong to the poor woman downstairs. She obviously didn't see the icicles outside, with their cold warnings. Or the man on his porch, preaching the devil to all that entered my house. Silly girl, the man on the moon isn't as kind as he seems. He loves to come out for death, and death only.

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I see you at my door, huddled against the night in your Kermit-green jacket and purple pants like a refugee from a rainbow. Patiently waiting for my enfolding arms, to spirit you upstairs for flannelette passion which makes us feel safer than the safest ***

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Feb 20, 2015

Feb 20, 2015 at 1:07 AM UTC

REFUGEE FROM A RAINBOW

I see you at my door, huddled against the night in your Kermit-green jacket and purple pants like a refugee from a rainbow. Patiently waiting for my enfolding arms, to spirit you upstairs for flannelette passion which makes us feel safer than the safest ***

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Walking home alone on Saturday night, social sounds spilling around me then fading in my slipstream, I round the corner of my street and an image of your face rises to combat the cold that searches for the marrow of my bones. Hope flutters like a wounded bird into the pale sky of a vision desperate with longing. Forgive my physical hunger. You were right to deny it because by morning you had given me a far greater nourishment.

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Feb 20, 2015

Feb 20, 2015 at 1:04 AM UTC

A FAR GREATER NOURISHMENT

Walking home alone on Saturday night, social sounds spilling around me then fading in my slipstream, I round the corner of my street and an image of your face rises to combat the cold that searches for the marrow of my bones. Hope flutters like a wounded bird into the pale sky of a vision desperate with longing. Forgive my physical hunger. You were right to deny it because by morning you had given me a far greater nourishment.

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There he is, between the Siberian Tiger and the Maui's Dolphin, **** Mobilis Nullius. She does not own a cellphone. Text for her is the letters and words that make up a book. If he wants to take a picture, he'll use a camera, thanks. She doesn't want to download, upload, freeload, overload, girl, you've got to carry that load of debt to the telco company. He watches movies in the cinema and he doesn't want to be hooked up to the internet or caught in the ever-widening net of commerce. She's happy with the ancient ways, songlines on the landline lines on the land where a woman can walk away and hear only the ringing of bird song, lines on the land a man can follow to the heart of somewhere lost and know only peace.

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Feb 20, 2015

Feb 20, 2015 at 1:00 AM UTC

There he is, between the Siberian Tiger and the Maui's Dolphin, **** Mobilis Nullius. She does not own a cellphone. Text for her is the letters and words that make up a book. If he wants to take a picture, he'll use a camera, thanks. She doesn't want to download, upload, freeload, overload, girl, you've got to carry that load of debt to the telco company. He watches movies in the cinema and he doesn't want to be hooked up to the internet or caught in the ever-widening net of commerce. She's happy with the ancient ways, songlines on the landline lines on the land where a woman can walk away and hear only the ringing of bird song, lines on the land a man can follow to the heart of somewhere lost and know only peace.

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I'm finally understanding why you meant so **** much. Why I still find you in the cobwebbed corners of my mind. You were the only one, out of all the guys in my past, that has actually liked me, for me The others, they saw my *** and were instantly drawn in. For you, my body was a plus, an advantage to being with me. It was the first time I had ever been touched by a guy, and it was also the last time I was loved for more than my body. You knew me for more than a big **** but you still didn't want me When I broke up with you (or did you break up with me? It happened so many times in my head, I'm not really sure how we ended) When we broke up, you weren't just breaking up with my body, like everyone since you had, you were breaking up with my personality. I can change my body, but my personality is permanent. That's why you meant, mean, so much to me. You not only rejected my body, but you rejected me I finally figured it out

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Jan 3, 2015

Jan 3, 2015 at 10:59 PM UTC

it all makes sense now

I'm finally understanding why you meant so **** much. Why I still find you in the cobwebbed corners of my mind. You were the only one, out of all the guys in my past, that has actually liked me, for me The others, they saw my *** and were instantly drawn in. For you, my body was a plus, an advantage to being with me. It was the first time I had ever been touched by a guy, and it was also the last time I was loved for more than my body. You knew me for more than a big **** but you still didn't want me When I broke up with you (or did you break up with me? It happened so many times in my head, I'm not really sure how we ended) When we broke up, you weren't just breaking up with my body, like everyone since you had, you were breaking up with my personality. I can change my body, but my personality is permanent. That's why you meant, mean, so much to me. You not only rejected my body, but you rejected me I finally figured it out

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The guy I love is a video addict. He loves to see me naked, and almost always tell me he loves me when he can. I believed that he was the one, that he would be able to drag me out of the darkness. Instead he caused it. What the **** is love? ************ to your hot girlfriend? ******* her senseless whilst telling her she is beautiful? Is it pouring your guts to her and telling her that all you need is her? The girl I love is stable and shy Quiet and remorseful. She is everything I have wished for. Sadly I will always go back to the guy. I don't know what we have or how we even got it. We both do know that one day We will be happily divorced with kids silently loving each other because that, in the end is what we really wanted all along.

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Aug 26, 2014

Aug 26, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC

The guy I love is a video addict. He loves to see me naked, and almost always tell me he loves me when he can. I believed that he was the one, that he would be able to drag me out of the darkness. Instead he caused it. What the **** is love? ************ to your hot girlfriend? ******* her senseless whilst telling her she is beautiful? Is it pouring your guts to her and telling her that all you need is her? The girl I love is stable and shy Quiet and remorseful. She is everything I have wished for. Sadly I will always go back to the guy. I don't know what we have or how we even got it. We both do know that one day We will be happily divorced with kids silently loving each other because that, in the end is what we really wanted all along.

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