"alerted" poems
Ceramic white, wood richly brown
Smooth liquid....touching buds of taste
Lips chasing chatter, slithering slogan sentences
Arm reaching, lift off, exposing the pit, selecting
Combination to the gestured shape, proposing
Enlivening, trickling conversation tripping
To my left. A phone, pressing snugly, ear
Tuned up, alerted, filtering the microwave
Throng. With welcome warmth, thaw began
Icy film packaging a heart temporarily beat
Free, playing, fraternising.....roulette with Russia
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 6:15 PM UTC
You're a spoil girl.
Who have had guys spoil you?
You have never had to work for anything.
When it has ben given to you.
So, you can't get mad.
When your new guys refuses to spoil you.
He's real.
He's true.
But he's no fool.
He understand that's probably the only way the others could get to know you.
Which was to spoil you.
After you alerted them how too.
But then you met him.
And was soon confused.
He wasn't willing to play the game.
Of doing many things for you.
What he gave was small and little?
But enough to please you.
And this was somethin you didn't know how to handle?
But you can't get mad.
Cause his love should be sufficent enough for you.
Which he's trying to show you.
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 11:19 PM UTC
Out of frustration
I broke my phone screen
who cares?
nobody is going to call me anyway.
Rather your not going to call me anyway
Months have passed
Seasons have changed
And on this day of rememberance
I took every picture of you from my broken phone
and placed it into my picture folder
As I peruse though the memories
and picture yesterday;
My phone screams out a sound i had not heard in quite awhile.
So loud my heart almost stopped and my brain ran wild
Your ringtone, on the very second i click ok to save,
alerted me that you sent a text message today.
a text message...of all things, a text message...
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 2:41 AM UTC
there's a spy inside the airport
Don't ask me how I know
Just believe me when I tell you
It's your job to make him show
He's somewhere in there hiding
watching, doing spy like things
he has a spylike briefcase
tied with spylike strings
He wears a spylike trenchcoat
He's hiding in plain sight
Looking for a spy at the airport
Can occupy a child's night
You know that someone's spying
But you don't know who
And you might be the spy in hiding
If their parents act as you
A child is alerted
By a man who wears dark glasses
He's looking for an airport spy
It's speeds up how time passes
You can keep a child busy
Looking for a secret spy
You know ones at the airport
Waiting for their time to fly
May 8, 2012
May 8, 2012 at 5:08 PM UTC
The Pigeon Gent,
He woos and coos around the river bent.
Pursues his muse with artful dance and skillful prance,
With inflated neck and ruffled plumage, until his energy or luck is spent.
He then resides by ebbing tides to ponder on his next advance.
"Now Now", "Whats This" the gent exclaims,
A shadow looming from the skies.
With ***** and claps he glides and lands with full surprise,
He spies the intruder, "A fellow Brooder".
Pigeon gent cant believe his eyes.
Pigeon Gent cannot believe the sauce,
The scurge seems intent on taking his prize by force.
At once he knows he must respond,
And force this illbread vagabond to abscond.
At once chest puffed and muscles flexed,
With wild eyes he jabs and pecks.
To teach this ruffian respect,
So on his actions he may later reflect.
He stands his ground both large and proud,
To make example of this foul winged burglar from the clouds.
"You insult me sir" he shouts aloud,
To make his intentions clear for all the crowd.
For several rounds they fight and scuffle.
With intruder retreating, feathers ruffled.
Then bested suiter fairly parted,
The quarrel ends as fast as started.
The vanquished victor displays and grooms,
As peace and honour now resumes.
Soon the ripples upset the green,
An armada of ducks come on the scene.
Alerted by the heightend coos,
They race to see what act insues.
The mighty mallards, Kings of the river,
None contest their right of way.
Their ways of conduct such generous givers.
Majestic river royalty, the law is always what they say.
On bank or shallow pebbled river they have always been,
They love to feed and breed amongst the river scene.
There royal cape made up of browny reds and shimmering greens,
reflects and intejects on mirrored water skies and evergreens.
To their mates for life and lady lovers,
The mallard gent is like no others.
Such loyalties are seldom seen,
In modern times and different dreams.
Fine and lean with striking features,
Best examples of river teachers.
But at any moment no matter how abrubt,
A river duel may easily erupt.
Battle can ensue and rage,
As both apponents approach and engage.
For they mate for life as duck and wife,
A rarity in any age or life.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC
July 4, 2015
Grandson Tony and Grandpa went to Mickey D's for breakfast. Grandpa was ready to vacate the premises when Tony barred the door. "Just a little while longer Grandpa." So Grandpa sat back down.
Soon a cake and five of the Mickey D people appeared and sang happy birthday. Tony was apparently being a little secretive and alerted the establishment when we clocked in. Grandpa cut four pieces of cake. Two to take home for Lucy and Grandma. Two for Tony and Grandpa.
Tony then ask if he could give his piece of cake to someone. "Sure you can." grandpa replied. There were two tables with grandparent types and parents sitting 10 feet away. Tony picked up his piece a cake and a fork and squeezed in between the two tables and placed the cake in front of the young fella who eagerly began eating it. Grandpa then noted the boy had Downs Syndrome. The people at the table were pleasantly surprised at what had just happened. A grandmother came over where Grandpa was sitting and express that it was a very thoughtful thing Tony did. The whole thing rather blew Grandpa away. But that's the way Tony is. Full of surprises.
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 12:27 PM UTC
Thylacinus Cynocephalus.
Tasmanian Tiger, Tasmanian Wolf,
A crepuscular hunting nocturnal beast,
Carnivore by nature, feasted upon wallaby,wombats and roos,
Caught by female of the species,
Was he a feline or a lupine beast, hyena perhaps,
No, this strange creature now probably extinct was marsupial with pouch,
Female with pouch to grow her young, male had pouch of his own,
Protected his crown jewels within a scrotal pouch,
Appearance of a stripy dog,
Looked rather like a tiger,
Had amber eyes filled with fire,
This diamorphic beast, (Means the chap was larger)
Had four toes on hind feet and rigid tail of kangaroo,
It's gait was rather odd,
Could move like kangaroo, if it so desired,
Strange call, a guttural sound, alerted his family when he was abound,
Shy secretive little creature,
Kept himself locked out of sight,
For in the late 188os, early 1900s these creatures had a bounty on their heads,
The bounty hunters had such fun, left our world with nearly none,
Last beast in the wild as noted,shot by gun by Mr Batty,
1936 the last captive creature died in Hobart Zoo,
Reported name was Benjamin,
Book called The Djin-jum Man, said man, Batty man maybe, was cursed for killing the last of their kin,
Poor things,
Living legacy remains,
On Tasmania's coat of arms, two of these fine beasts support the islands emblem,
Probably gone but never overlooked,
Still being sought but never found!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
This was really difficult, hope its quite accurate!
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 4:33 PM UTC
I look at you all see the love there that's sleeping
While my guitar gently weeps
I look at the floor and I see it needs sweeping
Still my guitar gently weeps.
I don't know why nobody told you
How to unfold your love
I don't know how someone controlled you
They bought and sold you.
I look at the world and I notice it's turning
While my guitar gently weeps
With every mistake we must surely be learning
Still my guitar gently weeps.
I don't know how you were diverted
You were perverted too
I don't know how you were inverted
No one alerted you.
These were two verses from a demo version of the song that didn't make the final recorded version:
"I look at you all, see the love there that's sleeping
While my guitar gently weeps
Problems you sow are the troubles you're reaping
Still my guitar gently weeps
I look at the trouble and hate that is raging
While my guitar gently weeps
As I'm sitting here, doing nothing but ageing
Still my guitar gently weeps"
And then this verse which came from another take of the song and is now included on the Love Album
"I look from the wings at the play you are staging
While my guitar gently weeps
As I'm sitting here doing nothing but ageing
Still my guitar gently weeps"
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 2:24 AM UTC
Nothing So Sensuous
Last night, I went back in time and met Alice Liddell in 1862.
Alice Pleasance Liddell, known for most of her adult life by her married name, Alice Hargreaves, inspired the children's classic Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll, whose protagonist Alice is said to be named after her. See her, greet her, in my banner photo, and all will clear.
~~~~~~~~~
nothing so sensuous
as to watch a woman,
nay, a woman child,
brush her hair
in the mirror.
sensuous,
more than sensual,
all my senses
affected.
luxuriating in a gift that
cannot be
bought,
her head titled,
then thrown
from her chest as far back,
your eyes see waves
of chestnut in
slow motion,
the smile on her face
for the knowing that
she has
sorcerer succeeded
in capturing
all of you.
mesmerizer,
she languidly strokes
her hair,
though it needs it not.
no, she brushes you
to your
knees,
your eyes,
see her eyes,
in the mirror,
the woman's sensuality
maddening.
every sense alerted,
you body fired,
far beyond
merely stirred,
she has you,
and then she asks...
would you brush my hair?
have you ever been in love?
*have you ever had to tell someone
you no longer loved them
though you still did?*
you answer:
Oh yes, Oh may I?
yes, with you totally, at this very instant.
**yes, for I
must leave you
and return to
my time, my age,
150 years from now**
*the only way
I can do that
is to lie to myself,
no, I do not love you
that much,
not that way,
pretense,
for the agony of this*
impermissible desire
is such ecstasy,
that I can
only dare to
write of it,
in my time,
lest I fulfill
it in ours.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 5:40 AM UTC
I live in Moshi,Tanzania,
As a child,one day I got lost,
A maasai took me to his home.
He lived at the foothills of the majestic Mt.Kilimanjaro,
His home was a kraal (hut)
made of stone,sticks and cow dung.
I cried for my parents,
So he fed me milk and blood from a cow,
He pierced a hole in the cow's neck,
He put a bamboo and told me to drink the blood,
It was warm but I vomited,
Gradually, I got used to it.
The maasai's way of life is communilism,
Hunting,gathering and raiding neighbours cattle.
Theirs is an age set system for men,
The children look after the herd,
I joined them having fun,
No school, no lessons or homework.
Then,there were the Morans,the youths,
They wore black **** cloths,
Carried a spear in one hand,
Their faces were painted with white ochre.
They protected the clan and the cattle,
From predators and other tribes.
They lived in a circle of huts called manyatta.
After being circumcised the Morans were taught the art of warfare
The bravest warrior got to wear the feathers of an ostrich.
The senior morans could marry and settle down,
The Moran who jumped the highest got the best girl.
The Laigewenanis trained the morans to be warriors,
My maasai was a laigwenani,
Like all maasais, he was tall and lean,
He wore a bright red shuka cloth with black stripes,
A red tartan blanket was slung on his shoulder,
He always held a long bladed stabbing spear,
His long hair was tightly braided,
He had ochre painted on his body,
He had no children and treated me like his son,
He would take me to teach the morans about warfare.
But,he had to take the permission of the chief, the Laibon.
The Laibons were the chief religious leaders,
They settled disputes,
They decided when and on whom to attack.
Luckily,after two months my maasai and I had gone to a game reserve for hunting,
A game warden found me.
He alerted the police and I was taken home safely.
But,I missed my maasai and their pastoral way of life.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 5:12 PM UTC
For the first time ever; I truly do not care
if you, him, or her wished me a happy birthday;
But, I wouldn’t mind if you did. Though it is fair;
I am one of the lesser friends; I am a boring play;
A play so fake; I am of made up characters,
Sometimes I am the flattering villain in smiles,
And at times I am a copy of the Westerners,
At others, I am gullible, yet I never am;
I pretend to be; but I am miles away,
For interesting I am not; so funny at least be,
Says my brain; for maybe they will remember,
That my birthday was today; It is an endless plea:
I always remember and prepare pages of wishes,
For almost everyone, but all I get is 4 days late
One liners sent out of guilt; to stop the guilty itches,
Not out of care, love, or from genuine friendly state;
I deserve it; for again; I am merely a boring play;
A paradoxical headache of weird introverts,
And annoying extroverts; I barely even weigh,
To a normal person; I am made of endless alerts;
Alerted, focused, attentive; all on your acceptance;
I am what I feel you want me to be; a nice man,
A racist gangster, a diplomatic figure; I am resemblance,
I resemble everything I see in you and scan;
I am stardust that was never meant to shine,
I am a thread; intertwined as I feel pleases,
I am a road with temporary signs; I am grapes;
For you I squeeze myself into juice; or ferment
Into wine; I am a fake play where you write scripts,
I submit, because all I cared about is receiving,
A birthday wish. On that one day in the entire year;
I do not want even want gifts; because when you don't,
I feel like I am ceasing to exist; slowly deceasing
from everything that we were: teenagers ambitious,
WhatsApp stickers collectors, School runaways,
Kids deceiving; it feels like I am dead; for the dead
Do not receive birthday wishes; I feel peerless;
A white beans *** lidless, a body complete limbless,
A walking sickness, a moving flesh in stillness,
unpardoned by my faux and obvious silliness.
I do not care about not getting birthday wishes;
But I cannot not overthink what it means.
Nov 22, 2023
Nov 22, 2023 at 4:25 PM UTC
The bullet was made by an expert
discovered when removed.
At the autopsy of a young guy
one of several just arrived.
Not a gang war it was known
but a ****** working alone.
The public scared out of their wits
the police under pressure.
Three dead this boy the latest victim
attacks in varied locations.
Was it by somebody from the military
an expert with a unique ability.
No clues was not good to hear
the public afraid to be here.
Tall buildings made them easy targets
when would the next strike be.
Though summer the temperature cold
through information they trolled.
As another victim was gunned down
more evidence was found.
Two teenagers saw a man with a case
get into a city works van.
Contacting with what they had seen
a new image came on the screen!
Every law officer was instantly alerted
a face found to fit description.
An ex soldier with traumatic stress
caution the critical word.
Quickly a sighting was received
the entire force relieved.
A gun battle ensued policemen hurt
not killed in the line of duty.
A swat team eventually shot him dead
in a disused ammunition factory.
News soon spread of the snipers demise
the gloom factor began to rise.
You can never argue with a bullet!
The Foureyed Poet.
Jun 15, 2011
Jun 15, 2011 at 1:20 PM UTC
The world is out of balance: koyaanisqatsi!
Numinous, my heart's nemophilist alerted to the danger,
yet presently in rasasavada, espies the solstace moon and cries
in acatalepsy: Mamihlapinatapai with the hunter within...
Should I embrace this smultronställe,
cought in the ostranenie of meliorism,
or drift from this vorfrued to sophresyne;
My only desire is the nurishing erlebnisse of metanoia,
of my dérive towards sehnsucht:
of rasasavada, that I may insulate myself from the Weltanschauung
of modern society, hiraeth to a nefelibata.
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 6:11 PM UTC
Revenge for her parents death the drive
that became her passion.
The story began when she was a child
witnessing their killing!
Every detail taken in by her big eyes
to get the killer the prize.
Seventeen years painfully trickled by her
becoming an assassin.
As the hatred coursed through her veins
revenge drove her on.
Though wanting to seek the love she craved
retribution on her soul engraved!
She had found a man making it complicated
her fine tuning distorted.
This new friend had found her mobile phone
saving her photo image.
Trying to find out about this mystery female
allowing others to find her trail.
Gangs had lost foot soldiers to her expertise
who acted like a shadow.
For the first time had to be far more aware
her parents murderer alerted.
The last pages of her diary soon completed
could this evil be defeated?
Knowing he would catch up with her soon
she prepared to strike first.
Entering his mansion in a covert manner
dispatching silently his crew.
Until he was there without support alone
recognising his arrogant tone.
From a hidden point confronted head on
glaring with a cold stare.
Going to fire the gun held in sweaty hand
diving found a hidden weapon.
A bullet went right through her shoulder
he was quick though much older.
Her shot caught him in a main thigh artery
shattering the femur to.
There before her the man she hated so much
was now at her mercy.
She had prayed for years to see him die
openly then did she cry!
One more deep breath she shot him in the head
cruelly on his face a smile as he lay dead!
Knowing she would be a target vanished from sight
revenge in the end did not feel right!
The Foureyed Poet.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 8:20 AM UTC
(I)
People used to light candles to ward off
prophesies such as this. Stopping, each
motherly representative, for 75 seconds
or less,
to tip match-spark to wax-thread
and hope for the best.
What ceremonial significance now
do we seek for to slow the approach
of what we know is waiting?
Oncoming march of death-knolls and unhappiness
bound up in silence
where
once we laughed uncensored at and for
the characters who spun throughout
this town, that school, the city, our lives.
All being, understandably, becomes
efficiently replaced with obvious simplicity.
From effortless performances
of what made our lives important
back in childhood years when living
was stable and guaranteed,
now to this mongrel era of constant migration
beckoning....
The familiar is no longer our youth’s
careless summer holidays.
The Familiar is now a land where
people don’t bother with any ideas
of an ideal existence beyond
what lottery tickets may bring.
Those who inhabit here are
more alerted to the purpose of lighting
coals in winter to shelter the children
and to keep the windows from cracking.
In summer find these same awaiting with
patient ears to heed any advice
which keeps them from going completely insane.
(II)
Go now, away
,begin
your quest, foolish schoolboy.
An entire adolescence’s
comeuppance is due.
Time now to seek recompense
for the years you waited
for anything significant to happen.
Time to seek girls with inviting eyes
and lilting vowels to offer favors to.
Abled with a catalogue of charmed
intoxicants. All softened by
a plentitude of weekdays waking
at three in the afternoon.
(Does “afternoon” exist in layman’s terms? Does
he simply made do with morning, day and night?)
Then on your flight make haste
to ensure your visit merely brief.
Like only one dimension of
your day-persona be a hawk
that delivers messages
back to the ivory towers of
new central HQ, while remaining
all cloak and whisper.
Messages from where people live
but no longer speak,
as result of an assigned sense
of failure,or complimentary
wrongdoings sought, what sorrow achieves.
Shattered lives, Ending dreams.
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 11:55 AM UTC
The cat mews at the moon
It got the hint that soon
The moon would slide down west
Hide beneath horizon to rest.
The moon it can afford a rest
After romancing earth in jest
For the cat no rest is in sight
It has to hunt through the night.
But the cat has lunar allergy
Moonshine gives it lethargy
With eyes drooping and dreamy
It mews Beethoven symphony.
The mice they aren’t easy cheese
Don’t fall prey with any ease
They run and find the hole quick
Alerted by the mewing music!
The moon thus plays on cat a trick
Diverts the predator to music
To give its preys some respite
As the cat mews Beethoven in moonlight.
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 1:23 AM UTC
In the East, the sun luminously gleamed
And bid the nebulous vapors fly
Changing the gloom into radiant blaze
Cheering the languid drowsy sky
Lying in bed, I looked around,
Saw my room so cozily set
With things just enough to make it fit
For a sweet haven for me to rest
Each little thing in it began to muse
In a language discernible for me to grasp
Of the secret of success so elusive to man
Which striving to catch, oft slips off his clasp
The clock ticking away at the wall
Alerted in a tone of rhythmic resonance
That ‘each minute is precious and dear’
And not to waste it in trifling appurtenance
While the ceiling fan, spiraling above
Discreetly hummed, “Be cool and do not fret”
The open window, to me did urge
To ‘look out far and watch the world in beat’
The mirror neatly fitted on my bureau
With a gleaming countenance beckoned me
Asking me to ‘reflect’, ere venturing into anything
That from fatal fallacies, I shall ever be free
The calendar hanging inside the room
Reminded me not to lag or put off things
But keep my assignments and learning up to date
That to great heights, I can soar on wings
And the woolly carpet gently mused;
“Bend your knees and kneel down to pray
With a heart copiously filled in gratitude
Before a God who didn’t leave you aimless to stray"
With such counsel, silent and salient
Got out of my bed with resolutions profound
To greet the morning and start the day
In greater zest with a mind, saner and sound
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 6:49 AM UTC
I'm not sure if I should complain anymore
Maybe this is my fault, I literally chose this life
Clothes on the floor, in the bathroom, overflowing everywhere
And she sleeps comfortably
4 more weeks
Lights burning until 5 am when you should probably be asleep because we both know you'll probably sleep through your 8 am, 8:15 am, 8:30 am alarms
And your classes, how many have you missed this semester?
Don't even reply
I chose this life the moment I chose to live here
But I didn't choose you
I didn't choose random civilians sleeping on our floor
Only to be alerted to their random comment on our behavior at 6 am when it's dark and the last thing a girl wants to hear in the midst of darkness is an unfamiliar male voice
4 more weeks
I did not choose your habits
The dishes have been piling up and
Is that mold on your sponge, don't answer that either
You laugh at the strangest things and maybe there shouldn't be a smile on your face while holding sharp objects
I did not choose my polar opposite in the worst possible way
We are like literal day and night and I never thought that I would hate it this much
4 more weeks
Just 4 more and then nothing but the bliss of being alone again in a safe place
My space
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 2:06 PM UTC
rainy days come and they go.
so blissful they breeze by the seems of all we fail to know.
picking up the left behinds and whisking them away to a land..far away.
back in my day we would say "rain rain go away.. come back another day.
But unlike any other day i feel a calming comfort when alerted by bursts of winds and when the storm settles you'll fell better.
rainy days get the best of me.
they get my creativity.
they get that unlike the rest, i have yet to express the simplicity that's instilled in..rainy days.
we nuzzled together to ward off the cold but behold this rainy day came to the rescue to hold you in my arms. This blanket was our armor. this rain was our guard.
these memories will be ours.
soon enough the stars will appear in the distance and then we may dance & kiss til the end is near but sit for a second while the rain does his dance. give it chance to prance for a moment. for soon we shall own the night
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 10:27 PM UTC
I was alarmed as nobody
paid attention to me:
if there was a Plan B -
it was to die - dramatically.
A hangman’s halter I took to swing
snapped and failed my neck to wring.
Then I drank of hemlock deep:
all it did was make me sleep.
Wide awake I’d somehow made it back
I laid me down on a railway track
Alas! never once was I alerted
all trains had been diverted.
It seemed a good idea to me
to drown myself in the Dead Sea:
buoyant in such drink, I did not think
no swimmer there is known to sink
From a high rise parapet I dropped over
and landed in a cushioned bed of clover.
I tried to cut my jugulars but By Heck!
the blade was blunt and just grazed my neck.
A contract killer - hired off the shelf -
took the money then shot himself
after stating though he’s willing
I was not worth the killing.
By now getting frantic
on the internet I met a tantric
guru whose advised me tarry
“All I needed was to marry…
…It is a kind of death, all near
and dear pity you - but it’s clear
you get everybody’s attention
and in obituaries never a mention”.
.
Tobias
May 31, 2019
May 31, 2019 at 6:35 AM UTC
Dropping it for the first time
lysergic acid diethylamide
there on
Pescadero's beach
with night hunkered down
in the dunes
We howled at the waves
of the wild Pacific
stamped our feet
on the dense moist sand
and miracles radiated outward
from each footfall
uncounted stars
galaxies somewhere deep
in that gritty sky
the sand alive
with phosphorescent life
Oh and we laughed
swore oaths to each other
spied the turbid moon
as if for
the first time
her hair in a mess
of wind-torn cloud
It was perfection by the sea
until
some wise old hippies
alerted us to our danger:
"The heat's in the parking lot, man."
Panic.
Crawling like drug-addled moon dogs
on our bellies
through the dunes
to find a near-empty
parking lot.
No heat.
No hippies.
Only the wan moonlight
vacant pavement.
And so in our glorious excess
to a sandstone cave
where a box of whispers
was found
and poetry invented.
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 3:18 PM UTC
Today I saw an ad on the TV for the good life
$129.99 and all you ever wanted delivered to your door in a box
Shipping and handling included
The man in the commercial had a big smile on
And a golden retriever by his side
Were sitting under palm trees
Smoking cigars...
Who doesn't want a cigar smoking golden retriever?
So I called up the toll free number and demanded a good life...
One week later the box came in the mail
"There's no way a golden retriever could fit in there"
I thought to myself
"Not even a puppy retriever
These must be the cigars"
No cigars
Just pills
"Of course" thought I
"Eating these will take me away
To an alternate reality
With palm trees, smiles
And cigar smoking dogs
Duh"
So I ate the pill and closed my eyes
Awaiting lift off
Like I've done so
Many times before
One Mississippi
Two Mississippi
Three, four, five Mississippi...
And you know what happened next?
My **** got hard for hours
That's it
Who's the sick SOB
Who's idea of a good life
Is an unexplainably long
Lasting *****
I alerted the authorities
Called the FDA
They must have the answers...
They just told me to visit the nearest hospital
Everything will be fine...
From that point on
I have been lost inside
And refuse to go outside
I shut my windows
And I lock the door
I can't make sense of it...
Why would I need to visit the docs?
I'm not the one thinking
Long lasting ******
Equals the good life
****** don't make retrievers smoke cigars
I'm not the one with the problem
Am I?
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 11:52 AM UTC
I love the sounds of seagulls and I know why
It makes me think of special days gone by
Early morning walking thru the dunes
Listening to them ‘singing’ all their tunes
Racing the surf, jumping waves and building castles
With those gulls flying low with all their chatters
They glide by with eagle eyes and notice all
Just in case a wee morsel of food might fall
The countless hours we lay upon the beach
Listening to every little screech
They came and looked at us and then
Decided they were not into our Zen
And when the ocean winds begin to blow
And gusts of air move in with every flow
These creatures catch the air and soar along
And keep us all alerted with their song
And now I close my eyes and take a breath
And feel the sea air in my chest
I hear the rise and fall of seagull sounds
When they frolic in the air of coastal grounds
©By Jane Jan 16, 2011
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 6:29 PM UTC
Karma was child from a humble family whose dream had a spoonful of wishes. She never thought of a hen sitting on her plate for lunch until her body shaped to capture the focus of the community.
Her and hard work were inseparable, and motivation sparked from her deeds. This was short lived by blindfolds of moments. She then landed in a ditch of blessings which surpassed her baring as paper made solutions to all her faults and soonest laziness took her for a companion.
Yes, she had completely forgotten her path neither could she trace her background, for looks bought her a ticket to a lifestyle and rather failed to resist becoming stingy.
She learnt not the meaning of love for it carried no sense, and the she needed not to learn of true love, oh how could she for to her it was a monster that stole opportunities.
The caterpillar she was grew into a butterfly one seen by many and so touched by those whose hands could afford the beautiful colours of its petals. Souls fell apart over the turned beauty of the wings that went toxic. The meal that went bad before the harvest of a promised yield.
The love to taste of the night shinning sun evolved many to empty pockets and others to bundles of regret to disease and misfortune. It wasn’t her making nor desire, it was the glory of Gods carvings that alerted those near and far to come eco and share of visibility of a living being stationed as nature.
This beauty scorched mens eyes day in and day out as she melted souls and flowers faded in the sun. she glowed on gentle pockets, never invested any seeds for a tomorrow. Time wasn’t her ally, it brought a change in season as the clouds ushered in rain sprouted new and better yields that out competed the market of the former.
Clouds shrinked and a dark tomorrow was born, the wine tasted more bitter than old wine in a new bottle. Then the veterans got and adopted new medals at the cost of the old fades of the butterfly contests.
What was left was a story tale with a bunch of little and innocent ferries whose direction was unfolded but hope set from a single ray through the thickest forest.
Thomas Bron Mukama
#herdsmanofprogress
Feb 26, 2019
Feb 26, 2019 at 2:33 AM UTC
You come from a line of pleading
heavy enough to slam the door, dampen the folds of flannel sheets or
a furrowed brow.
'More' I hear your glossy eyes breathe.
They've been softened by endless searching
Scan after scan.
We've made a game of it.
We readily laugh at our preposterousness
believing love could grasp and stay, the last shriveled grape on a branch
smaller than the others.
Sweeter, too.
What we have precedes us, I say
Grimacing since I don't know exactly what I mean by that.
Once, in a dream, I walked down a corridor adorned with empty picture frames. It ended at a desert clearing, laced beneath a silver sky.
My ears alerted me first: before me lay a jumping cactus before me, embracing a teary coyote softly whimpering a prayer as thousands of needles sunk more securely into its fur.
I laughed and still couldn't tell you why.
I held my hand more closely to the shadowy breath, every release a firm match to my own.
Either to help it or endure its hateful bicuspid sink into my rigid flesh
I waved my hand faithfully before the dog.
Diverted, the stab of the plant wounded me instead.
I awoke, floating down a gushing claret river
The blood shimmering beneath me was my own.
My jaw split slightly enough to taste the salty tang of my demise.
Looking down, the once-pale tunic I wore was stained, candied.
I open my eyes to see your patient breath escape, confirming the truthful slumber I pray for you.
I expect you are told to say the most, so I tell myself through your waiting ear:
Love is irrevocably illusory.
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 2:54 PM UTC