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I dreamt it snowed
Nectar and powdered sugar,
Dusting nature's lips.

I recall the kiss from her
Not-so-innocent curiosity,
Come-hither in her arched brow.

How the morning breeze
Grew wanton,
Lifting her nightdress,
Until naked she pirouetted about
The cloister garth.

I dreamt of flowering moonlight
And his potent stem,
Filling her
With stars and shivers,
As she burst, for goodness sake,
From all the little blissful parties
Drumming her garden wall.

I dreamt of fecundity
And funnel cakes,
Soft and sweet and round,
Her milk a spring,
Laden with gift of life.

Intuitive opaque areolae,
The shape of things to come,
The very ones from which
She'll nurse their young.
To the amazing wonder that is a woman's body
( I have posted this poem of mine on several different international poetry sites everytime there is a school shooting in the U.S as I care about all children deeply and feel for innocent lives lost.
This time in Uvalde, Texas, USA)

https://youtu.be/40KtlqpCN0I

TELLY TROUBLE AND DANGERS
What kids are watching on telly
are crimes and crimes in all variety!
Crimes of hate
crimes of passion
acting it out at shocking rate
thinking in some wild fashion
then ending up cell mates
TV can **** their compassion
Their coffins enter cemetery gates

When kids watch their movie heroes
shoot down people with the gun
they are incited to do the same
to achieve some thrill and fun.

When they see their very film star
slash someone's throat in a fit of anger
they think well of crimes of rage
and plunge everybody else into danger.

The tendency to portray the violent scene
luridly and shockingly on the Big Screen
Ah, even for the small screen, tis the gory
that makes for the dark and thrilling story.

Now that technology's long opened
this wily pandora's box,
the dispersal of amplified social ills
just ain't no hoax

The rowdy hoodlums and reckless gangsters
are simply by-products of Tv influences
The world watches the thriving of the bully-boy pranksters
passively in helpless terror of their offences.

It's all portrayal of the ******, the obscene
by that devious Silver Screen
And the horror movie
though it may seem groovy
begets the horrendous
and drills evil thoughts subliminally
into the subconscious!

Viewing those gruesome swashbuckling films
gives rise to morbid sadistic whims
Flipping through the TV channels just ponder
if the telly's the perfect channel
of information is it a proper panel?

Dad always tells me, 'fear ye the roaches' flicking antennae?
While you oughtta fear the influence of 'em' flickering images by dish antennae'.

It's an unrestrained dark faking
of real life reality exaggerating
Whether it's Bollywood in the East
or it's Hollywood in the West
they don't merely impart tactics of defence
but rather those of aggressive offence

Just verbal tougher gun laws couldn't halt
even underage shooting sprees
Rather it's stringent scanning of Tv content
and banning citizens from acquiring guns
that might make it forever cease

Parental supervision too tis gravely essential
should've been of parental code quintessential
So the next time you catch your youth or teen
absorbed and engrossed while glued to the screen
Just sleuth a bit just to make sure
that for the ******* he's not too keen!

Only a mere single merit that I dug
as I drank cappucino in my mug
that atleast one couldn't live in a bubble
daily watching this bubblebug.
https://youtu.be/MttSW45ren8
Can't we see, our choice to be.

           A part or Apart
 Jul 2022 Chuck Kean
Ginn Mosxa
Wanted to fix you
Gave you all the love I had
It left me broken

Still if i could just
Save you, then I would break one
Thousand times, again.
I want my sister back, Crank...
Hard to say goodbye
Hard to laugh
Hard not to cry
‘Till the ebbing tide
Brings a sunset day
Heart’s breaking
Oh but is it real
This numbness
Inability to think
Inability to feel
One last drink
Hands shaking
So hard to laugh
So hard not to cry
Say goodbye
As birds fly away
Even they know
When it’s time to go
It's a bad **** day here in
Texas.
The winds are hot and it's
starting to rain.  

I cant find my coat.  It got
lost at your funeral.  Now
my dry cheeks are wet
and i cant see where to go
The cracks in my face
are artificial.

The frogs are jumping after
phantom bugs, drugged
on the arid silence

I dont know how to do this.
Alone is an art form. No one
said it was Easy.  Willie's song
playing in my mind like a
jumping blue frog in the desert
that has come inside

I crossed the line too late.
All of your self is in the
pillow i no longer use.

I think i will read through
the afternoon. I can always
Cry in bed.

Tomorrow is another anniversary.

Caroline Shank
1.9.2022
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