Every Friday, without a doubt;
On her porch, sometimes with friends...
my wife, on a girl's night out:
the neighbor sees me but pretends
she doesn't and plays the game-
smoking and drinking her wine...
watching me doing the same,
her smile as big as mine.
She dances as the evening fades,
all the while looking at me...
I'm there looking through the shades,
she moves so deliciously.
Her husband is never at the house,
not really sure where he goes...
So she engages in this cat and mouse-
assured that no one knows.
If alone, after several drinks,
she sits in her big chair....
angled for me, correctly she thinks
I'm aroused as she flips her hair.
She touches herself, I do the same-
am nervous but fully engaged...
as she climaxes, she mouths my name;
This can't be real, I must be deranged.
And so it goes, as it is each mid-week,
I look forward to another Friday...
hoping one day of this we'll speak-
who knows, maybe someday, we'll play.

William Lacey Turnbull 9-19-2017

I am a hunter, armed with a net
a bucket by my side, my feet wet
for I stand in a river, silver and deep
fishing for words that I hope to keep
in a pool of my own for future use
if struggling, will have no excuse
not to write, for it is how I breathe
a tapestry of words I have to weave.

William Lacey Turnbull 9-16-2017

I am floating in the ethereal...
alone, grasping at air
arms outstretched, trying with futility
to gather my scattered thoughts.

None of this feels real....
makes no sense as I stare
into the abyss, no trace of stability-
not a single idea caught.

Still, I will appeal
to my inner poet's care....
bestow upon me the ability-
victory in word wars, fought.

William Lacey Turnbull 9-16-2017

A nod to those who suffer from writer's block. I have yet to myself but am not on the same playing field. I hit from a batter's tee...

When leaves begin to turn,
the elders all yearn
for the time when the forest still sung.
A time when the rivers ran
more swift than a deer can
and the trees were still but young.
They chant up to the sky,
spirit eagle flies,
and they listen for confirmation;
Native Song plays on,
long after they're gone,
resting in the Great Indian Nation.

William Lacey Turnbull 9-15-2017

*I had not added to the Native Song collection in some time. If you like this, please read the others- I thank you for your support.

So many to commend,
where do I begin?
I think I'll start right from the heart,
fond memories, wearing a grin-

Pradip was first to reply;
I was shocked, I will not lie-
Read his works and realized
he writes through a romanticist's eyes

Words in the wind favored a collection:
my Cherokee spirit writing in reflection;
Nature's Song meant to focus one's affection
to the past and our surrounding perfection.

Cne' inspired a longing within
to caress her lovely alabaster skin
A Texas beauty and seductress of sin
that I can only dream of, to my chagrin

Jason, who informed of the site
and urged me to let it go and write;
so many words poured out that night,
leading me to now, and it feels so right.

Then there is Jamadhi Verse;
a beautiful person with which I converse-
her poetry so inspiring and freely dispersed
to heal all wounds and dispel any curse.

So many many more,
I most sincerely adore,
anticipating each write, up all night-
balled up paper upon the floor.

William Lacey Turnbull 9-14-17

When asked why I write, I had no direct answer......
how do you explain why you breathe?
When posed the question as to why I place them here for all to read, I answered, without hesitance, "to read my poetry is to truly know me".

Though I have always been known as a social butterfly of sorts, agreeable and approachable, it is here among so many talented poets(though I am not), that I truly feel accepted:

For all my weaknesses
For all my strengths
For all my doubts
and worries at length
For all my oddities
and my troubled past
Thank you Hello Poetry...
I've a home, at last.

William Lacey Turnbull 9-13-2017

Candi's heart was hard shelled-
sweet but hard to reach;
despite so many lick after lick,
remained intact and out of reach.

Candi's love was like chocolate-
luxurious and rich, so fine;
regardless of how often tasted,
I always knew she wasn't mine.

Candi's memory is like childhood-
experienced & yearned for in earnest;
moments filled with scents and tastes-
now her sugar mocks me in jest.

William Lacey Turnbull 9-13-2017

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