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#donovan
bent Hallmark card (for BJ Donovan) *”I'm a bent Hallmark card with no stamp. It won't reach my love”                    BJ Donovan (HP gone, Gray Dotted, r.i.p.)* at the drug store, loose poems, no right-sized envelopes left, loosie cigs, for newly ‘underemployed’ both, thumbed, finger oil anointed-stained, and bent all available for purchase 24/7, in these United States, in national drugstores jailed, kept in “chains” till discarded therein hides the rub-bled best,^^ great verse writings, deadline- inspired in a Ohio bullpen office, @ corp. HQ by an Eng. Lit. major composed, vetted, approved, yet marked ‘failure,’ by quality control, third Tuesday of every month, ritualized, manager freshens display, victims chosen Hallmark display, pruning the die-marked, the no-hope cards, consigned, to a green in-the-back-garbage dumpster resting place, where you just may see me climbing-in (and where America safe keeps its treasures) droning on, as per usual, I’m kicked away by a rent-a-cop, muttering insurance assurances, just business, not personal, grab what cards I can, mine, stolen pleasures, resending via insertion here ‘n there my resurrection act, a new business, wife thinks me stinks, but for me, a perfume of saved  words, an act of rebirthing, god bless America, making it great by giving Hallmark poems a second chance gonna send one of those cards in envelope, addressed to BJ Donovan U.S.A., no stamp, inside note, your poems were ordinal, small plates of sardonic pith, human foibles, on being old, recalling youth, both celebrated, Icarus and Daedalus pretty sure this poem may not get there but I believe in poetry and the US Post Office, who delivers mail to me, marked “Nat”^ and to Santa Claus, which impresses, cause I’m mythical, he’s real *your compositions were breathtaking, literally, miss your hallmarked witticisms, criticisms, glad you escaped that virus nursing home jail, if needed, write to “Nat, NYC, living somewhere in a park, scribbling close by the East River^* I’ll get it, like I got you, they know my special tree, and the rock nearby, that too, is a known hideout, no worries buddy good stuff may perish, but somehow it gets a second wind, can’t keep a good scrip, down forever... a very humbled admirer... NaTTy
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Jun 15, 2020
Jun 15, 2020 at 1:01 PM UTC
bent Hallmark card (for BJ Donovan)
bent Hallmark card (for BJ Donovan) *”I'm a bent Hallmark card with no stamp. It won't reach my love”                    BJ Donovan (HP gone, Gray Dotted, r.i.p.)* at the drug store, loose poems, no right-sized envelopes left, loosie cigs, for newly ‘underemployed’ both, thumbed, finger oil anointed-stained, and bent all available for purchase 24/7, in these United States, in national drugstores jailed, kept in “chains” till discarded therein hides the rub-bled best,^^ great verse writings, deadline- inspired in a Ohio bullpen office, @ corp. HQ by an Eng. Lit. major composed, vetted, approved, yet marked ‘failure,’ by quality control, third Tuesday of every month, ritualized, manager freshens display, victims chosen Hallmark display, pruning the die-marked, the no-hope cards, consigned, to a green in-the-back-garbage dumpster resting place, where you just may see me climbing-in (and where America safe keeps its treasures) droning on, as per usual, I’m kicked away by a rent-a-cop, muttering insurance assurances, just business, not personal, grab what cards I can, mine, stolen pleasures, resending via insertion here ‘n there my resurrection act, a new business, wife thinks me stinks, but for me, a perfume of saved  words, an act of rebirthing, god bless America, making it great by giving Hallmark poems a second chance gonna send one of those cards in envelope, addressed to BJ Donovan U.S.A., no stamp, inside note, your poems were ordinal, small plates of sardonic pith, human foibles, on being old, recalling youth, both celebrated, Icarus and Daedalus pretty sure this poem may not get there but I believe in poetry and the US Post Office, who delivers mail to me, marked “Nat”^ and to Santa Claus, which impresses, cause I’m mythical, he’s real *your compositions were breathtaking, literally, miss your hallmarked witticisms, criticisms, glad you escaped that virus nursing home jail, if needed, write to “Nat, NYC, living somewhere in a park, scribbling close by the East River^* I’ll get it, like I got you, they know my special tree, and the rock nearby, that too, is a known hideout, no worries buddy good stuff may perish, but somehow it gets a second wind, can’t keep a good scrip, down forever... a very humbled admirer... NaTTy
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54
"Colours" by Donovan.                          “Colors” by a False Poet. Yellow is the color of my true love's hair     sun dapples her gold shadings In the mornin', when we rise                         sun searching for the truest color in the mornin', when we rise                       peaking, she’s peeking, we waking, uprising That's the time, that's the time.                   her best time, sleepy doe eyed, all yellow, I love the best                                                 bangs tickling eyes, I write of sun sparks Blue's the color of the sky                           blue is the primary, the selected color, In the mornin', when we rise                         that’s chosen to be a lovers greeting, In the mornin', when we rise a cloudy white pastel of blue, That's the time, that's the time that’s the days first part, our best parting I love the best Green's the color of the sparklin' corn *green Granny Smith apples, **** In the mornin', when we rise our mouths pucker, drool, chin juices In the mornin', when we rise that’s the days first part, a best parting That's the time, that's the time that’s the days first part, a best joining I love the best Mellow is the feelin' that I get mellow is with me, all de day When I see her, mm hmm seeing her first eye blinking smile When I see her, uh huh the feeling infused, all de day, That's the time, that's the time she grants me loves freedom I love the best Freedom is a word I rarely use except when I look upon her Without thinkin', mm hmm with knowing, full complete Without thinkin', uh huh with knowing, fully, completely Of the time, of the time of every time our morning glances meet When I've been loved
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Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 9:47 AM UTC
"Colours" by Donovan. “Colors” by a False Poet.
"Colours" by Donovan.                          “Colors” by a False Poet. Yellow is the color of my true love's hair     sun dapples her gold shadings In the mornin', when we rise                         sun searching for the truest color in the mornin', when we rise                       peaking, she’s peeking, we waking, uprising That's the time, that's the time.                   her best time, sleepy doe eyed, all yellow, I love the best                                                 bangs tickling eyes, I write of sun sparks Blue's the color of the sky                           blue is the primary, the selected color, In the mornin', when we rise                         that’s chosen to be a lovers greeting, In the mornin', when we rise a cloudy white pastel of blue, That's the time, that's the time that’s the days first part, our best parting I love the best Green's the color of the sparklin' corn *green Granny Smith apples, **** In the mornin', when we rise our mouths pucker, drool, chin juices In the mornin', when we rise that’s the days first part, a best parting That's the time, that's the time that’s the days first part, a best joining I love the best Mellow is the feelin' that I get mellow is with me, all de day When I see her, mm hmm seeing her first eye blinking smile When I see her, uh huh the feeling infused, all de day, That's the time, that's the time she grants me loves freedom I love the best Freedom is a word I rarely use except when I look upon her Without thinkin', mm hmm with knowing, full complete Without thinkin', uh huh with knowing, fully, completely Of the time, of the time of every time our morning glances meet When I've been loved
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48
Politics is a shame Two Donalds to blame So if the name is black listed Please don't get it twisted I'm not one of em Named after Donovan Let me clarify Spell my name with a Y Let me testify So you can't deny I'm not one of em Named after Donovan
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Jul 11, 2017
Jul 11, 2017 at 1:32 PM UTC
Named After Donovan
My type, Then, I got help.
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Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 6:55 PM UTC
You Used To Be