"accolade" poems
” she is quick to object"
Mumbai, to receive the accolade of “Role Player
Attempt to hit back at their perceived “bully.”
They don’t fall a little; they crash into muck...
submission,
hopelessness,
impunity,
corruption,
hypocrisy,
law and family ...
to ***** you since they’re not saints,
they are neither saints nor priests,
There’s a new order coming from mayor.
We won t **** you all ....
We will just shoot the ****** that —
if there is no ****** it would be useless.
she is quick to object".
Fighting sexism and misogyny,
nonetheless open and willing to listen,
wear bug spray going forward,
“inform the court that we did this”
“didn’t like that.”
,” she is quick to object".
Mar 20, 2018
Mar 20, 2018 at 10:06 AM UTC
Young athlete who just joined the game
Keep your hopes high while running low
Towards success must be your aim
For you to wend, for you to go
E’en if you lose, e’en if you drop
Trodden by feet of rivalry
Get right back up and never stop
And win this race with chivalry
Ne’er seclude yourself, ne’er be coy
Don’t take in vain each accolade
Don’t be too scared, don’t over joy
And don’t let worthy honor fade
Never go blind with dark distress
Nor deaf with roars of losing so
Young athlete, don’t apply duress
But keep dreams high while running low
And even if you go too deep
Down the path you should not have set
Your worthy honor always keep
With bravery, ne’er with regret
Keep running on, keep running still
At the far end, light you will see
Keep running with force, if you will
You will soon grasp bright victory
And don’t let such grand rewards go
But don’t keep them so you may boast
Keep your dreams high while running low
And keep on trying if you lost
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 4:57 PM UTC
Listen my dear daughter, to my first song of caution
Earmarked for you my wonderful sire, come and listen,
That tall old man with white hair all over his head
Standing over there is not good; he is gnomish in the mind
Be careful with him, he is not human in the heart
But a mermaid of Yoruba poetry, just like Thespis of Greece
Even the pecuniary psychopomp of Sweden gave him an accolade
His heart is selfishly full of avarice; he wants everything for himself,
Don’t recite him any of your poetry, lest he spells an abyss
Against your juvenile poetic talent, he will fool you with a gift;
A white sheep or a scarlet goat for your birth day anniversary
Please don’t take it or anything else from him, as nothing from him is genuine
But only machinations of evil spell aimed at mahyeming your talent
Finally to decimate your girlhood and life, this is my caution
For you dear little African girl.
Listen my dear little daughter, to my second song of caution
That short man in a Muslim gear loafing yonder, is suspect
The Muslim beret on his head is merely a smokescreen to aghastly behaviour
He is in no way an avatar of god of love and humane piety
He is a terrorist working with Boko Haram and Algaeda
He is an Alshabab that is bombing young girls in Mombasa and Nairobi
All over Kenya he has killed the young people; his long egret-white sari is not for holiness,
It is merely a nefarious sanctum of grenades, other tools of work in terrorism trade
His loudly prayers, body movements and pocket bursting monies are only a stunt
To have you kidnapped into death conduit, once you goof to join his courts,
His sanctimony is a total picaresque film, (s)heroes of terror the centerpiece
And thus, this is my caution for you dear little African girl.
Listen my dear daughter, to my third song of caution
Those tourists thronging our streets are deadly *** pets, they also skulk ****
Their handsome outlook is not a stamp to any good conscientiousness
They derive pleasure from poverty and *** tourism; they yearn to see a girl in poverty,
Often rarely will they help an African girl, out of milieu of beggarly squalorism,
Instead they go straight for the purse between your thighs,
Regardless of the legacy they leave out of this lewdness, they are showy,
They regret not in their Byronic broadcast of *** and fatherless urchins in the poor streets
Foundation for their further poverty tourism, this is my caution for you dear little African girl.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 4:20 AM UTC
the final curtain on one of the longest running
musicals ever, some people claim to have
seen it over one hundred times.
I saw it on the tv news, that final curtain:
flowers, cheers, tears, a thunderous
accolade.
I have not seen this particular musical
but I know if I had that I wouldn't have
been able to bear it, it would have
sickened me.
trust me on this, the world and its
peoples and its artful entertainment has
done very little for me, only to me.
still, let them enjoy one another, it will
keep them from my door
and for this, my own thunderous
accolade.
from The Olympia Review - 1994
4.5k
It is so peculiar of man to desire imperfect,
But that's just the way to getting perfect,
In the quest of love,
We only never find what we seek,
Pride squanders what we desire most,
No accolade will pride bestow,
As love wont emerge to your blind soul.
For as long as you soar as Eagles,
The fattest Mice will be for Owls of the dark.
Love is stronger than pride,
Though pride soars great heights,
Love grows even when a man is dying,
Pride never. Except your pride despair,
Love being greatest to you shall never be fair.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 12:32 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
But I remain a believer in my ancestral religion
Whose God is wele but not the Germany world, it is a religion,
Like most of universal ancestral ones,
With appalling moral threshold,
When Elijah Masinde of dini ya Misambwa
Despised those who condemned man as notoriously religious
He meant human religious approach to life is absolute in nature
However diverse religions compete for human ears
Rich ones glorified in the luring away of modal ears
But all are devoid of spiritual impetus
Disappointing the progenitors of religious imperialism
These short-cutters in matters of sanctimony
Will not come to our heaven
They will get me sharing a cup of tea
With my sister- in-law; Mary, the mother of Jesus
And I will shun them, I will not know them
I will not invite them to a heavenly cup of tea
They will be suffocated by cadaverous appetite,
For we honor our religion with ancestral regard;
The Faith of Our Ancestors
But in ridicule they call us kaffirs, pagans, christo-pagans,
Animists, atheists, gentiles, non-believers, mediumists,
Rebellious rebels or whatsoever they call us;
The anti-muhamedan-mis-christologists,
Let them delude themselves,
If they disparage us with sick contumely
Abreast the dumbfounding development in sciences
Plus so fortuitous humanistic awareness,
Humanity in Religion has to adjust optimally
Religious masters have to help
Interpret the religious Books, bible, gita, quran
All Written or verbalistically in the glory of epical orality
In tandem with the best centered
Life extant,
Otherwise selfish religions becomes an old wine bag
With its old and stale wine,
You will persuade Russian carousers to drink
But to your chagrin, none will condone, your stale wine
Do not seek to sell your faith
Because every human community
Has an ancestral faith
Respect them all for that is gods in their accolade of
Omonipresecence,
Any man or woman without religion is dangerous
But do not advantagize yourselves
At the expense of people of other faiths
It is good you reciprocated
Planet earth is our only sure and known abode
If we lived well here, and there is another world
For those who will be good, we hope the conclave of Gods
Would all sit in judgment for their credit
And reward those who helped humble humanity
Of their religions as well as those of other religions
As for all the Gods love humanists.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 10:17 AM UTC
Your morning smile is precious.
It gives me happiness.
Smiling is indeed contagious.
Your smile puts me on “daily autopilot”.
You make me believe I can fly like a dove.
Is this the power of love?
Your smile is a catalyst to beauty not makeup.
To accolade your smile I trade a boffola for laughter.
Just to relax your muscle tension.
Oh yes, laughter restores the body’s natural energy.
I see the light through your crystal white teeth every morning.
It chases all nightmares like sunrise chasing the darkness.
A morning without you by my side is void.
I’m addicted to your morning smile.
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 5:31 PM UTC
i given nothing
i abandoned
i adopted
i dropout
i garage
i Apple
i NeXT
i Pixar
i Apple
i pilfered i
i invented i
i produced i
i market i
i retail i
i am i
i am
i
i tech beauty
i consumer fetish
i whom you love
i sleekest widgets
i Toy Story
i Macintosh
i macbook
i Lisa
iTunes
iPod
iPhone
iPad
i more
i rebel
i genius
i visionary
i entrepreneur
i world changer
i exceptionalism
i capital market hero
i bigger then business
i cool capitalism
i myth
i "the man"
i worker
i employer
i boss
i thief
i savior
i billionaire
i venerated
i vanity
i Buddhist
i prophet
i redeemed
i 1 in 300 million
i America
i sing the pathos
i am the creed
i define the ethos
i Steve Jobs
i amassed riches
i accolade crowned
i ingratiate world
i virtue
i success
i creativity
i favored
i Midas
i bedeviled
i tested
i afflicted
i retire
i human
i mortal
i succumb
i eulogized
i leave legacy of i
i am an MBA case study
i employed workers
i peddled intrepid product cycles
i subject of amusing anecdotes
i am heroic corporate folklore
i grew pods full of music
i incite kids to thumb phones
i captivate consumer imagination
i built rock solid balance sheet
i erected toxic Chinese factories
i enriched investors
i am the cool corporate brand
i inspired a million unused i apps
i hipster capitalism
i imposed my will
i insisted
i am that i am
i cannot take it with me
i leave blue jeans
i leave NB sneakers
i leave black collarless shirt
i will be asked what
i did with the time
i was given?
i did the best i could
i played the hand dealt
i parlayed it into a royal flush
i filled it up with i
i ask why
i am no more?
i leave the world
i am no more
Godspeed Beloved
Steven Paul "Steve" Jobs
(February 24, 1955 – October 5, 2011)
jbm
Oakland
10/6/11
Nov 4, 2011
Nov 4, 2011 at 10:40 PM UTC
Where has it gone?
I used to be good,
I used to be a poet,
Who could fine the words and pick and choose,
I could tell you my story and make it relatable,
I could make you feel any emotion and make it real.
Where has that gone, where is my fire my imagination?
I was the best,
And Please I know, its arrogant but I do not mean to deceive,
Even the famous ones, they bore, but with me everything became lore,
So much accolade, so much triumph,
Born under skill and pain the mightiest,
But it’s disappeared,
From misuse and disrespect.
Hopefully hiding, realistically gone.
There is no magic cure no band aid for my loss, my pain.
Do no be me, do not second guess.
No longer regret, don’t fret.
Just go and write your soul,
Don’t forget it, don’t let it pass,
Release it let the talent and emotions flow.
Because one day it will be gone,
And your lone talent no more.
And your going to be alone,
Without even the words to implore.
Mar 30, 2010
Mar 30, 2010 at 5:53 PM UTC
the Hello Poetry portrait gallery
is becoming full of empty frames
what individuals had a hand
in these harassment games
we've been deprived of many
talented written contributions
the villainous mob most adroit
with their unwarranted executions
blank boxes tell of an almighty
mischief being awfully made
by they who are wanting
to garner every accolade
under a serious threat our
fraternity of poets are thus far
and of seeing unfilled cubes
there leaves a permanent scar
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 10:27 PM UTC
how Eye make love,
this popped into my head
tho questioning this quest,
what purpose served, unknown...
lacking the infatuation to poetry write,
the mind retreats to the basics,
eye write with no destination,
wondering at the wonderment
of this basic actionable accolade...
sometimes,
be the
operative word,
sometimes
cooperative,
is the operative...
sometimes,
is but a
it just depends
who
is the initiate
and who possesses the initiative...
every story has a different
author, ending...
sometimes slow,
sometimes muy rapido
in foreign tongues
in foreign places,
the only commonality be that
wonderment
eye wish this not to be explanation,
eye wish this to be an explication
of the texts of sensual visionaries,
imagining the helping to happening,
the passageway to and from
where the mind begins,
the body completes its origination
oft I close my Eyes,
listening to hers,
her eye voices directing me,
what will be the course of our
course,
miss no Michelin starred landscapes,
through hers, mine Eyes triumphant...
tour guide excellente
cannot explain
why the temp sometimes
solar flares,
why the temp sometimes
is a glacial expedition,
tongue led,
from toes to eyelids...
always buy tickets for a
round trip flight...
how
is a titillation, begging you to read & expose,
there is no how, only sometimes better,
sometimes different...
why
is a question needs no asking...
when
when the shape of her profiled neck,
reflects shadows of further inquiry,
when her décolletage collects me
as she and her designer intended...
when
she laughs uproariously at my piquant,
suave and debonair one liners,
requiring kissing tickling calming
when
tears spill when reading
a new takeaway poem mine,
needy for a tongue to collect that spillway...
just being friendly appreciative and thanking
where
is when
the how and
the why
intersect
the intemperate weather of
being alone
subtle suggests
auto recollections
now know
the how, when, where and the
why,
my Eyes compose this elegy
of memories of past and present...
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 9:18 AM UTC
.*pre-scriptum alternatives... either a bus-driver... or a garbage-man... ha ha... Leibniz... was a ******* librarian!*
a zookeeper,
a warden in a prison...
or some obscure,
accolade role
in an asylum...
i'm being pushed the role
of a chemistry teacher...
mind you... i know that the best
way to pet cats,
is to "ignore" them,
let them play their
solipsistic hide & seek game
with plain view of the target...
but i'm thinking of 3 dream jobs...
horticulture isn't an option...
must be the sort of man
with a floral pattern
rather than a sky-scraper
in my underwear
to provide gender
exclusive role play...
whatever the hell the means...
but teaching children
chemistry?
d'ah ****
i want to be on the forefront...
a gorilla zookeeper,
a prison warden,
an accolade
for what's the upper tier
of nursing,
namely, inside an asylum...
but i won't ever get a chance
to prospect myself for such roles...
hence the poetry...
given that i'm a chronic drunk
in England, but a sober
sparrow in Poland...
come to think of it...
i'm ever only drunk,
when i start talking...
alone, drinking?
i can catch a judge
play-thing sober...
but those are my dream
jobs...
and in all three instances...
none, are advertised for
potential applicants...
like a safe pass into a business of
past, trans-generational funeral homes...
just like they said:
it's not what you know,
it's who you know -
unless of course there's a merger,
and you're thinking
about emperor Nero stabbing
himself in the neck...
within the confines of a self
acknowledgment, "question".
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 8:29 PM UTC
on the adrenalin of popularity they thrive
it pumps within their veins so inflated
if there were none they'd not survive
an accolade won't make them feel deflated
they've got to receive all the bolstering
it pumps within their veins so inflated
always gathering plaudits for a holstering
which brings unto them that air of rise
they've got to receive all the bolstering
the supporter base not going into demise
devotees keeping the pulse throbbing swell
which brings unto them that air of rise
to be the premier acts in a long spell
falling out of favour they'll not easily tolerate
devotees keeping the pulse throbbing swell
much adulation ever liking to slate
falling out of favour they'll not easily tolerate
on the adrenalin of popularity they thrive
if there were none they'd not survive
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 10:42 PM UTC
I have been insulted for sharing out
my peasant songs, pataphorical poems,
on the table of the cultural patriarchy
the insults have come in a serial flow
into my dark soul a basin of condemn,
it began as my duty to take my poetry
to the bottom of African latrine,
followed by volley of insults like ;
cerebral panicking insensitive idiot,
a gifted ******** of arsolian poetry
One other contumely went aboveboard
to announce me a better dead ******
i wondered how much one can ****
without erstwhile duty of creation,
now i have been condemned in starkness,
to be a beautiful walking ghost
of William Seward Burroughs,
Uhm! folly of eugenics, No! i am wrong,
this accolade, i seriously decline to take,
my innateness is not wounded at all,
by anything near to genetic disorder,
i am only conscious of my luckless past,
of Slavery,colonialism,wars,re-colonialism
Then poverty spiced by open ridicule ,
And partly trenchant and half-honkey tease
firmly fuelled by racial intolerance,
i have now been mistaken in awry,
to be a looming ghost of William Burroughs,
and i am not
i am purely my self,
without imperious wide blood
any where in my by black veins,
i may easily have chimpanzee blood,
Flowing turbulently through my vessels,
but no tincture of white blood in my zoo,
Burroughs broke his virginity with a *****
i have remained a ****** for three decades,
As African virgins marry only virgins,
Burroughs was the king of underworlds;
chasing lessbian prostitutes and gays,
to quench his mad erotic appetite
the turf in which i am a better sham,
Billy was a serial criminal, ever on the run,
my soul is clean as new pin,
in fact gorgeously dressed
in the unique royal attires
of as a Bristol pin merchant,
Billy worshiped crime and drugs
my piety is anchored on freedom of all,
Billy went to Latin America for *****
i have been there to mourn Gabriel Garcia,
the Nobelite who was alone in deathly solicitude
Billy never lifted a finger against tyranny,
my arsolian poetry is center-pieced on nothing,
other than African chantings for liberty,
freedom for the white and black peasants
perhaps to unyoke themselves,
from the yoke of vicious human avarice.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 9:03 AM UTC
Tribute to the fallen
Guardians of the union
Accolade to the warriors
Combatants sworn
Standing straight
Before their Lord
Eulogy to the brave
Salvo of respect
Applause to the Eagles
Conscripts of the sky
Medal of the departed
Proud on their shoulders
Offering to our cadaverous
Salute to our gone brethren
Gone, not forgotten
We think them dead
We perceive them not
Living are they,
in their love of the Lord
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 7:11 AM UTC
Took the bus home.
Paid my $2.50,
no special discount.
Spent my day selling my wares,
But did not sell enough to
Pay the daily rent,
Hell, to even pay for lunch.
Gave up my seat for sweet,
Baby-child laughed at my
Gallantry, I think,
For his exclamations were
Of the shrieking pleasurable variety.
Saw Macbeth last night,
In the end, he dies,
Same as when I saw it
Last year.
Le plus ca change
The Frenchies say,
Wonder if they still wear berets
And say "Le Weekend?"
In the winter,
The buses are overheated,
So winter coats become furnaces.
I am rendered,
Ash and smoke.
Nothing new there too.
Missed my stop
Writing this,
Happened before,
Hope it happens again.
Came home to the customary
What's new,
So I said
Not too much
But,
Somebody decided that ole
Poem I wrote two years on,
Should be the
Poem of the Day.
That's sweet, my love ,
You surely will be
Insufferably happy and
Impossible to live with
for at least the next
five minutes.
So take the trash out,
Before we leave,
Then pick a place to dine,
For not a thing in the fridge to eat.
So to the compactor,
I strode, thinking Shakespeare
Didn't have to do this, I'll bet,
But started smiling,
Ear to ear,
A ***** eating
Big ole
Grinning,
Nonetheless!
Thinking,
The question is,
How does it feel,
This poem of the day
Accolade,
The answer,
of course!
It feels, like,
I am,
I am just like {you, man}
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 5:13 PM UTC
A rupturing, promising, hell-bent accolade.
The falling out between lovers ...
And the gut-wrenching fools of this night.
Your time here is almost done.
So cover the light under a paper-thin parasol ...
And the demons are sure to grace the fountainhead.
Still, fear drives us mad.
Laughing amid the distant crashes of emerald rockets ...
And the splitting sides of smiling crocodiles.
Whatever.
Feb 3, 2011
Feb 3, 2011 at 5:28 PM UTC
The candle is lit and the house slumbers as
I turn the pages of this most personal tome it is not magik but memory
that urges the turning.
From the Oh so careful initial lines of a Very young woman beginning her search
with every I dotted and T crossed
every day logged and noted .To the busier
days of finding teachers and noting the questions that HAD to have answers.
With accolade's that came when at last I was asked to lead and the tears and uncertainty when the time had come to leave.
The wonder and renewal that comes with teaching and the pride as my students stand on their own and go forward.
Too the life moments when my attention was scattered a parents passing the ending of a marriage
Every drop of candle wax and oil stained sheet recalls vivid memories and tears and laughter.
My Book is not as pretty as I once thought it would be ,
But I met My Lady in its pages and for that I will every be grateful.
Solita Shadoewalker
Mar 6, 2010
Mar 6, 2010 at 4:08 PM UTC
My eyes are glazed over and my mouth is hanging open.
I sit here and feverishly type, gathering momentum
To swing the creative cavalry inside my mind forth
And to **** all that throws itself in front of my periphery,
So desperately catcalling my attention.
I live in a creative vacuum,
From the hum of the fan
And the slamming of the doors,
To the static from the TV set
And the voices. Those voices.
I feel there is a poem in me
Or a song,
That will claim the hearts of others
And tug on the hems of their peripheries
Just as these homely distractions do to me.
Until then I must write and write harrowingly.
I must disregard the rules set down by centuries of genius
And throw back the paradigms put forth
By every raised eyebrow and polite accolade.
I am only twenty-one and I have not yet felt the ache of age
But I can feel the atrophy bite in my bones,
Making me cower at this transient life
And again I find myself at a desk by the window
Feverish, so feverish.
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 3:33 PM UTC
awry, askew,
the poetry comes badly, clawing,
life as well, faring poorly,
the obvious linkage stinkage
allows a milliseconds smile,
a brief fiefdumb accolade of
distress confirmation
DH Lawrence appears in the inbox,
he too, awry, askew,
tufts of wool clouding life like dust,
rust and must, an old friendship renewed,
the cold ex and in-eternal suggest
frequent naps and hibernation,
so much so that this script was
commenced and committed years ago
and lay forlornly in the ***** snow
fallow and shallow drafts from prior years
To every season there is a turn,
a turning of the *****
yet the hacking cough from focculent dust on the floor of the world
fills the lungs continuously, knows no respite,
the spittle and the phlegm ejected herein,
a disarming poem of dissatisfaction, alas, alas,
the dust thickens and is not lessened
~for Medusa daughter~
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 2:35 PM UTC
The way I expressed it didn’t fully
make sense to my dearest
who only likes men.
It's never sat right to me
the pride of a parent in their straight child's love life,
the "don't ask don't tell" for a gay daughter
I used to see red as a fad that
had passed and a warning that I’m
not desired;
But I’m seeing clearer now,
Rose-colored glasses might
actually bring life into focus.
We're all fruity and nonconforming
girlfriends and boyfriends and partners each
Others cringe hearing "queer"...
Yet there’s something more in it:
We don't have an explicit gaze,
We have possibility, and the subversion of male eyes.
So I’ve always been nearly regal like The Lady of Shalott, or Lady Lilith,
The Birth of Venus,
Flaming June,
The Accolade— and I
like *** and I
feel wanted and I
am a commodity--
Don't a man look at me but
I will take a boyish girl's gaze
only her eyes focused on my *******
Sleep over after the first date, for a change,
And remain soft in shape
She murmurs a lover’s desires:
Wear your identity on your sleeve,
In the curve of your back, on the scent of your hair and upon your hips, which invite her hands.
Once, I said "let's make it cinematic
Like that one *** scene that's in Mulholland Drive"
But now: "Touch me, baby"
It's finally the normal way.
Jan 25, 2024
Jan 25, 2024 at 2:25 PM UTC
The palpable concern which I get and which is on its increment every day..
“YES ITZ MIE DAD”
The love preserved deep in heart and with an apt attitude towards life..
“YES ITZ MIE DAD”
The balanced and the devoted way towards his profession
“YES ITZ MIE DAD”
The curiosity and depth as if a techie in computer..
“YES ITZ MIE DAD”
The infallible way in which i always get my queries sorted out .
“YES ITZ MIE DAD”
The glance which exalts us every weekend..
“YES ITZ MIE DAD”
The person whom I accolade..
OH! YES ITZ MIE DAD..
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 2:35 AM UTC
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.
Jun 17, 2020
Jun 17, 2020 at 12:31 AM UTC
A Long Long Time Ago
Came a Man without an Ego.
He would Sell Fine Lemonade.
And as Time Passed by
Many Many did accolade.
As time passed by
His clients got bored
And slowly dwindled.
So he had to offer perks
And good discounts.
Soon came many more
who would offer Lemonade and more.
The Market Place got Crowded
And Thousands also doubted.
The Original Seller
had to do something
Else would be wiped out forever.
Retorted to Brainwashing his Clients
Spreading Lies and Deceits.
Some came in his sway.
Soon many Sellers went away
And a few still decided to stay.
Now the Original Seller is still selling.
The Old Lemonade in a new way.
But is always so scared of a few.
Aware that the lemonade has to change.
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 12:39 AM UTC