"angled" poems
a (the) woman’s body (pretty pleasing)
is my reciprocal
her waist is my happy place
her neck is my doorway
the rest is
best when she is mirror accessorizing,
preening, **** upon first rising,
tallying the gains and the losses
unaware of my watching,
never satisfied she, tho she is 98% unadmitting contented,
as she shifts her weight,
from knee to knee extended alternating
with slow delicacy
for the pleasure is trebled
for her imagine image reverberates
throughout the house
for ever(y) mirror is pre-positioned,
accidentally angled just so, lol,
her image transported from living room to dining alcove
all the way to the kitchen’s bleacher seats
she doesn’t know and asks why I’m grinning,
answer is
no confessionary, no telling I’m swelling and
sinning
eyes scheming-dreaming of her reciprocity
she smiles and says
“good morning bad boy”
maybe she does know
but you won’t tell her,
we, you and me,
are pretty pleasing
she is 1/me
she is won over me
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 8:39 AM UTC
To see more and more
Every time, I used to sit at the train door!!
I didn't capture this imagery before
So, I kept my eyes wide open to store!!
Well, I must agree
You'll get to see
Wide angled views for free
All that I can recapture is a tree
And, It never stops surprising me
Meanwhile, the people who come to ***
Will mistake me for a ********
Thinking that I'd jump off to make my life Departed!!
They'll try hard to get me safe Guarded
Finally, they'll close the door and have me Discarded!!
Jun 2, 2018
Jun 2, 2018 at 5:06 AM UTC
you check on me many times a day
with my antique ears
I hear your squeaking shoes
on these vinyl floors
someone laid for those who came before
like passengers on a stalled bus
with windows that allowed only one view
I know you and I wait for the same thing
for you to check on the passenger who replaces me
he will be no different
a few more hairs, perhaps a few less stares
you will gently place your hand on his wrist
write in his chart, and maybe
glance at the date of birth,
do the mindless math
and wonder without wonder
if my replacement will have a bigger number than I
but I am still here
gazing at your angled eyes
while you count the beats
which slow a little each day
waiting for you to say
how long will this one last?
don’t worry, squeaking vinyl floor walker
when my drum stops pounding
I will try to make sure it happens
while I am asleep
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 7:42 PM UTC
I was a tender object living in your house.
The things of these were bigger than my vision and we were only a moment.
I asked for everything you never said,
But your eyes spoke what the monsters upstairs didn't have courage too..
As big and frightening as they might seem,
nothing scared you more than releasing the dark smoke in clear air,
But my lipstick smeared to the apples of my cheeks and I closed my eyes.
I created a home in your mind and it angled me to disbelief and I couldn't breathe.
I gasped air from the grips of the trees and I grew roots on my feet,
I stood whole for myself and dressed in self pity.
The clouds were closing in and my caged heart couldn't fly freely,
Yet the wind rolling against my thighs created comfort for the blind,
Yet,
My vision was not impaired;
Only merely to what you have showed me,
And I dangerously lived on sidewalks finding flowers to tape up my soul,
So
I became potted to the ceramics of solis and dreamed by luna,
But mountains weren't moved and neither did I.
I was tender,
(pause)
And
(pause)
I made home in your mind,
You left me homeless
And then I became blind
Jan 30, 2018
Jan 30, 2018 at 10:42 AM UTC
we lay together, 6:00am, body warmth touch-sharing,
as the June morning summer chill coming off its night nadir coolness
surrenders very reluctantly,
full length pajamas, blankets and coverlets in use,
keeping cold out while bodies touching generate heat -
a big difference
through these layers of cotton controversy, my right arm,
my cunning, falls awkwardly upon her, advising I am woken
and aware she is as well, hear her earbuds emplaced, make shushed
whispering noises re the future of artificial intelligence
and other such mental knottings
my awkward angled arm rests on her landscaped outline of shape,
coming to rest where legs meet at the top of an upside down V spot,
which makes no request, but accepts my bequest of steady
stroking of her ****** as an unnecessary
but atheist-acceptable to her
morning prayer ritual, kept at the intersection of the
physical and physics theorems
funny how some prayers,
where recitation comes thoughtlessly and routine,
uttered without any contemplation are yet
deep comforting for their inherency,
so I pray a stroking repetitive on her body,
well hid neath a summer coverlet,
wordlessly chanted, wordlessly accepted, silence connoting approving permission
I comfort her,
above and through a floral coverlet for her floral coverlet,
till the sun rises enough to truly warm up our plot,
my praying reaches the end of its rope,
where quality and quantity achieve unanimity resolution
no longer needed,
but am appreciated, besides my arm is cramping,
not designed for the rising, unleveled angle of her breathing bodice
my comfort is her extra comforter,
an offering of coffee my reward,
for my daily work has begun,
and I have many more poems stillborn
that require coaxing stroking
to become
witnesses to living
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 7:32 PM UTC
I thought I heard
Canadian slang
from the opposite bed-side
Like it's 2009, rub some lines off my face.
Inner space bleeding outward,
deep red, a nosebleed,
angled points on white of The Maple Jack.
A Nip at the Sal's on Esplanade-Riel.
Grab your runners and toque,
it's warm, but not forever
and these legs are sore. Polar bears
on the sweater you wore in the Fall--
Churchill, Manitoba, the streets are full of teeth and claws.
Awoke and wanted warmth lacking.
I thought I heard Canadian slang.
I thought I heard "it'll be okay"
from the voices of feathers fletching arrows falling.
they whisper and screams sink deep behind
eyelids
closing.
A sentence unfinished,
sinking in flesh
in time
sinking
in snow and ice
sinking
in water in Summer
sinking
in memory.
I thought I heard
plans being made
and shy laughter.
I heard it 5 times. Didn't I?
Days fade, ears dull*
Walking on streets, in the cold
towards her home
I thought I heard laughter--
heard something
like laughter--
I thought I heard rain, as the Lodgepoles drank water.
I thought I heard laughter.
I thought I heard wax melt.
I thought I smelled fairness.
I thought you wanting more time
to bleed and blur tenses.
I thought I heard rivers rushing and roaring
their battle cries--
--asserting their presence.
I thought I heard cars pass and sounds of the daytime
and late March walk along bridges.
I could swear I heard something
Like Canadian slang,
sweet
water
light
laughter.
Something.
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 1:28 PM UTC
boo croon the sunflowers
and **** squeaks the jay
this garden was not tended to
and when it was, it was done with bitter blisterless hands
the weeds are creeping out now and thickening stalks
and they move out
out out
goes any sense trust we grew in this garden.
and out
out out
goes my frothy yellow blood into the humid grounds of the garden
and you mop it up and glaze over my barkless parts
boo croon the sunflowers
and **** squeaks the jay
the hose to feed me
was bent at angled corners
and the water shrieked its way through
to come out a subtle flaccid
drop by
drop by
drop
on my parched cracked tan sun slapped skins
and i was angry
that you never felt the need to untangle the hose
because you turned the faucet to full volume
so you assumed that was all the water you could give
and i needed
boo croons the sunflowers
and **** squeaks the jay
the garden is all sand colored and tired
and you don’t feel guilty
you looked at it every day
and squirted what you could on it
and picked whatever weeds you saw
but you never went beyond what looked pretty to visitors
and you let the roots rot across the summer
and now that the winter’s fallen in
there’s not enough water to keep the garden beating
and all the melted snow in the world won’t make up for it
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 11:21 PM UTC
910
Experience is the Angled Road
Preferred against the Mind
By—Paradox—the Mind itself—
Presuming it to lead
Quite Opposite—How Complicate
The Discipline of Man—
Compelling Him to Choose Himself
His Preappointed Pain—
5.6k
Studying the 'Base', 'Hypotenuse', and 'Height'
of a triangle,
My mind recalls what I witnessed in
that sensual night,
You were like an unconceived mathematical notion,
I a novice in geometry trying to draw a straight line
Of kisses on your shivering body,
How fragile those attempts were,
How lovely to see them fail,
Lying idle on the bed like a base of a building
I lured you to stood high above me,
And your hands pressing my chest as a ladder,
We're affixed like a right-angled triangle
Dizzy, and drunk exploring our area of love.
Jan 12, 2021
Jan 12, 2021 at 1:50 PM UTC
My father worked with a horse-plough,
His shoulders globed like a full sail strung
Between the shafts and the furrow.
The horse strained at his clicking tongue.
An expert. He would set the wing
And fit the bright steel-pointed sock.
The sod rolled over without breaking.
At the headrig, with a single pluck
Of reins, the sweating team turned round
And back into the land. His eye
Narrowed and angled at the ground,
Mapping the furrow exactly.
I stumbled in his hob-nailed wake,
Fell sometimes on the polished sod;
Sometimes he rode me on his back
Dipping and rising to his plod.
I wanted to grow up and plough,
To close one eye, stiffen my arm.
All I ever did was follow
In his broad shadow round the farm.
I was a nuisance, tripping, falling,
Yapping always. But today
It is my father who keeps stumbling
Behind me, and will not go away.
5k
Tepid damp and lukewarm night,
Build your camp by rivers bright;
Sable black and and somber grey,
Silt the river's arms away.
Island tenements rent for cheap,
Bakèd bricks in plinths lie deep;
Stores of merchants and their wives,
Sheltered from the thund'rous tides.
Glance on that maternal shrine,
Softly angled toward the Rhine;
See the men with flowing beards,
Seldom entertaining fears.
Moon illumes a stony pose,
Sun sustains a garden rose;
Temple pillars bathed in or,
Leave mute shadows on the floor.
Olifant horns begin to sound,
Tribesmen fall upon the town;
Riding with the northern gust,
Trampling the homes to dust.
Yet, as gateside rocks abound,
From the ashes, rises now,
Where that city met disgrace,
A mighty fortress in its place.
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 2:40 PM UTC
Her red shoe heels
made clicking sounds
aloud,
around the hall
attracting attention;
his shoes,
alluring, plush,
black magic silence
power worn on feet
cried for recognition.
loudness gravitated
towards silence
black silence angled wild red
he measured her
foot to hip,
she focused on his intense face
the silence
with in the precinct
approved their
illegitimate cravings.
Avarice for attention
came together
held hands,
kicked up their heels,
to **** competition
in foot fetish.
Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 2:58 PM UTC
I asked the question but may never know
But let’s give it a go
I ask the question again, how does Mary Poppins angle her umbrella?
It seems precise
Maybe Magic is the advice
It seems the winds are always in Mary Poppins favor
But too some of use with ordinary conventional umbrella’s that’s hard to savor
Mary Poppins seems to just glide through the air and her umbrella stays in tact
Actually, could be more than fact
With these so called conventional umbrella’s, people would be lucky if our umbrella’s didn’t turn inside out and became stems of its former self
But Mary Poppins umbrella is not like everybody else
When a breeze comes along, the ordinary conventional umbrellas simply bend
What was an umbrella always comes to an end
They just can’t seem to take the wind
I guess Mary Poppins can
Magic controls the umbrella on when
But we really don’t know how Mary Poppins umbrella stays straight
However, it’s Mary Poppins story of fate
Yet that is something only Mary Poppins can appreciate
As for us ordinary people can associate
It’s definitely a magical thing
The Mary Poppins name having a bling
She’s like a Queen who masters her own sling.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 2:23 PM UTC
Artist
The only description of her
The way her eyelashes glitter
In the shining sunlight
The way her pale face
Is angled to imperfection
In a captivating way
Where you have to feel every curve
Every indent on her cheeks
The way her wrists are stained
With the color of her hair
A raw red
Exploding into the world
Exposing her
From all the rest
It's just a shame
That art is only admired
After it's lifespan is gone
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC
Why do poets and photographers love fleeting things?
Angled shafts of sunlight piercing a mass
of clouds. A rainbow flashing from dragonfly wings.
Water drops beading like shards of glass.
The fluttering shape of a sycamore’s shade.
The sun sinking into its reflection
In a purple bay. Smoke’s shadow. The rayed
Curve of a finger reaching for perfection.
Whatever churns, bursts, rocks, flies,
Foams, flickers, roils, evades
In pigments of impermanent dyes
We try to fix before it fades
Once I mourned the endless dying
Of here and now, the present always past
Elegized each moment, sighing
Beauty is loss and can never last.
But now I think I had it wrong. In fact
(I learned this from an artist’s eye)
Fleeting beauty reappears faster than we react,
At the speed of a daydream flashing by.
All around, light coalesces into form,
Form explodes into light,
And we live lavishly inside this storm
If we can learn to see it right.
Beauty multiplies, tapering, swelling:
Reshaping, reforming, now familiar, now strange.
This gaudy blur in which we’re dwelling
Is the permanence of change.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 8:32 AM UTC
Thugs with Pens & Aerosol Cans
Thugs with Pens
Hell-bent; not on cultism
Just airing the other sentiments
That don’t make it to primetime
Thugs with pens
Not poking out eyes
Just venting spleen
Sick of the lies
Thugs with pens
Deserve to be heard
They don’t poison your brain
With stacks of *****
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans
Can change your mind
In ******* time
Thugs with pens
Can make a dent
They don’t need to insert
Un-readable, un-interesting
Covert small print....
Thugs with pens
Don’t need no script writers
Or advisors nor signatories
Witnesses, nor dodgy men
With gold plated fountain pen nibs
To make amends
Or throw in no hidden clauses
That secretly **** your life blood
Thugs with pens
Don’t aim to pierce your skin
But make their mark
Deeper within
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans
Completely uncensored
champions of free speech
The establishment want suppressed,
silenced, deleted; terminated.
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans don’t
Schedule meetings
To fix the minutes
And schedule another meeting
And keep ‘minutes’
As square angled
And unproductive
As formal conversation
Thugs with pens
Aim venomous ink
At headless politicians
That squawks like chickens
Bending over
For the *************
Bank-beefing corporations,
Controlling the masses
With ***** little catchphrases
And mounds of munitions
And illegally enforced restrictions
On your movement and free expression
Honest men
Have nothing to fear
From Thugs with Pens & Aerosol Cans
These “thugs” seek asylum
From countries
Where the law’s
Not bought and bent
Thugs with pens & aerosol cans
Are made to wear monikers and masks
Thugs with pens
Don’t turn on its own
Neighbours and citizens
To perpetuate myths:
A ****** ************* lie…
A thing that never happened!
(That’s for all of you dumb wits
out there
Who believe most of the ****
That’s drip fed
Your sensation addicted minds
Most of the time,)
Time you started reading between the lines
In fact get a pen
Or an aerosol can
Write your own lines
Start broadcasting
Reclaim your space
Before you’re completely neoned
Into the shade
And corralled under the spell
Of a TV screen
Or an anger raising headline
That conducts the flow
Of the status quo
Load up your magazines
With ball point pens
And sharp edged writing nibs,
Strap on a belt of aerosol cans
Reclaim your right to free expression
In public spaces
Join the rag-tag army
Of intuitive
Self-knowing men
The End: is well begun,
George Orwell
Should never have written
That blueprint,
‘1984’
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 8:59 AM UTC
I want the hollow
Cheeks.
The full, adipose, smooth
Lips.
The white-boned,
Pearls she calls
Teeth.
I want the bright, clean,
Sun bleached
Hair.
The fine, sharpened,
Ready for scratching, Spotless
Nails.
The refined, sculpted,
Long, profiled
Nose.
I want gold to flake,
Off my ageing,
porous, dull,
Skin.
I want the protruding,
Famished, angled
Bones.
I want the pumping,
Arrhythmic
Heart.
The tired, hissing,
Tar coated, smoker’s
Lungs.
The round, fleshy,
Cellulite covered
***
The motherly, but
Childless plump
*******
I want the barren,
Bleeding, afflicted
******
I want the faint,
Wispy, high-pitched,
Call that she calls a
Voice.
The bruised, bulging,
Porcelain polished, etched
Knuckles.
The wide, protruding,
Ballooned up, dangling
Hips.
The numb, heavy, metal
Flavored, gum bleeding
Mouth.
I want the skewed,
Backwards, lost
Pedals she calls
Feet.
I want the hearing less,
Wax, pus covered,
Ears.
The lost dull, lifeless
Dumbed down, blue
Eyes.
I want to be her,
All of them, and none.
I want to be lost,
Unwilling, tame, voiceless,
Mindless, childless,
Sexless, man-less.
I want to be her, but I
Can’t.
I cannot because I am
Thought burdened, fat,
Violent, screaming,
Child laden, broken nosed,
Coarse.
I cannot because dirt
Flakes off my young
Skin.
Because my heart pumps,
Oxygenated blood,
At a steady, rhythmic
Beat.
My voice baritones,
Deep, bottomless,
Whispers.
I sit on flat, concave
Muscle.
My lungs breathe,
Strong, fresh, smog-less
Air.
Yellow stained, grainy, calcium-ridden
Teeth.
Dark, musty, greased
Hair.
I want to be her,
But I won’t.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 1:18 PM UTC
A hand on a throat, where if all fingers touch, the throat
turns to ash. The villain of an anime I now watch
clutches the hero with his middle-finger aired
before the vital moment. I jump
on holiday off a cliff
and my chest stumbles with simulations. My body angled
poorly as I could slap headfirst. I was warned that my feet
should sink first if I merely fall. If I dive, my fingers
should first touch the water. I am depressed
the months before. College student, America. So far off, so cold
from the landlock of my birth. And the summer
study-abroad, double-abroad. In Italy
I was watching the Creation show itself on old ceilings
in marble-rooms, looking for some culture
that might have been ours if not for the pillagings that brought
gold and bodies to shape that gold into buildings like this. So I jump
and fall. And shiver emptily. It is the same feeling as the nights
on the bed thinking of futures without this self. Thinking as if
I did not exist. Ignored emails from therapists. And here *this
feeling!*: it made me want to live. So I jump again
on the higher ledge. My friend afterwards asks if I'm okay.
I'm shaking slightly. I'm without words. I laugh
with the same absence as any birth. A baby's confused cry
without tears. A long way down. What blue-green water,
as if dug for in the earth and sold for courtyard dances.
It glimmers all over my body, frizzes
up my hair as my ****** curls soak it, squeezes it down my face,
down towards my neck like fingers.
The villain walks away. The next time the hero sees him
he should be careful. He will have decided to **** me by then.
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 11:51 PM UTC
My eyes are wet
and lips wide open
hair angled slightly
that way.
These times of moving
have come to still
in pictures
we feel
we're living.
Now in looking we are sure to fail
the colors
came out
sideways.
The Moons not there
my colorless hair
unhappy
with just being.
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 9:22 PM UTC
~and for Harlan, who loved this one best~
*"for tandem is the ever-changing, graying color of their fierce attached tenacity"
waking/walking in
careful pacing regular lock steps,
like new cadets, counting cadence,
in perfect silent, almost motionless,
except for the minuscule quivering of
slightly parted moving lips
these two elders,
still now plebes,
freshmen
but of a latter, graduated stage,
demonstrating robustly
the slow shuffle-along,
a well practiced dance conjured
'in tandem'
her arm, crooked in his,
his other hand,
in protective custody of a
knight's armored chain glove
encasing hers,
he, shuffling just,
a precise, intended half-a-beat slower
lest she ever think
that she, ever be a drag upon him
hair, his,
threaded with daily,
new arriving grays,
proudly accepted
as the privilege of
graceful aging
hers,
disguised with periodic outings,
outings for the hidings of life's bookmarks,
conceding nothing ever to
time's lunatic desire to separate them
modest in dress,
styling hints of pasts' elegant,
the man's hat defiant,
daringly jaunty angled,
a small scarf to handbag knotted,
matching his Windsor knotted tie
the passers-by, all smile,
the signal charm of an
end game processional,
thinking so sweet,
yet mine eyes detect more,
something
hardy and radical
a fierce, fierce fierceness,
both fighters in the resistance,
armed with tandem tenacity,
ground given,
but only inches surrendered,
wounds resisted by
scar skin toughened
by the caress of ions bonding
under the pressure
of atomic level mutuality
worn out,
well past Purple Hearts,
no capitulation feared,
to the ever changing,
enemies' new disguises,
they,
a two person platoon,
each,
having the other's back
and I burst into tears on the street,
a train of out loud moans,
even groans emitted,
like a string of perfect pearls
breaking,
clattering on an asphalt terrain
weeping
not
from visions of the inevitable,
sighing
not
from the certitude of a
cycle's uptime ending*
but jealous furious by this reminder delightful,
angry at myself, for having lost so many wasted years,
mine, the loss greatest, for absent was the
fierce tenacity of tandem
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 8:41 PM UTC
It is docking it is tocking in the winter garden locking
over still and heavy knocking that defies the very dew.
We see storms and angels crumbling under load of dearest kindling and the fire and gases burning in the skies where clouds are churning and the snow, hail, sleet, and ices come to split the air in slices as it settles over houses, villages, shoes.
Waiting huddling drawing the blankets hot and heavy with a fear of powerful nature in the windy savory few.
Now we see and hear the howling like a wolf entangles scowling as she tries to say her fowl and angry message to the blew.
I am never quite so settled as when all around me crumbles and the anger of the desert makes the inner anger moot.
And the people seem to gather in their individual lathers but they all believe the madness that the storm will never pass. But pass it does and finding with the dawn a calm descending, yes, a calm that is so different that it seems to crush our ears. We are happy to look outward and even hear a skylark and to see the streaming sun rays flitter over piles of snow.
Ever angled up in heaven we almost see a dragon or a cannon that's protecting rampart walls.
And we know that we are safe here but it was such a battle that the scars are not quite healed.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 2:17 AM UTC
One day when I'm angled and slight
We can stay up, drowning in starlight
Limbs left cold
Hearts left warm
Fragile, wavering in a midnight storm
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 2:55 PM UTC
When it comes to strong form
When angles are always precisely norm
Grows an alluring mathematically touched creation
Inspired by pure calculated scientific divination
Such an alluring symmetry to behold
Causing the circle’s envy to unfold
For this angled beauty’s strength enforced
Its sold core mass equally divorced
It’s rigid looks captivating us all
Luring architects to its enchanting call
Ancient Greek hands carving stone shrines
Securing their beauty for all times
Its slight outer angles enduringly tease
Yearning us to brush with ease
Who came up with such design?
Was it indeed a gift divine?
However it did come to be
We all can enjoy with glee
Well all but rectangle and square
As they sulk with envious glare
Murmuring curses over hexagon’s slight curve
Endlessly plotting to mathematicians they serve
Scheme upon scheme developed to suppress
The sheer allure designed to impress
Despite all this the hexagon persists
Engaging us all in mathematical trysts
Never will we lose an eye
No matter how hard we try
For the beauty a hexagon reigns
Over the kingdom of geographical gains
Forget not what you see here
Our ancestors have made it clear
Line upon line attached in twine
Measured precisely from sips of wine
The hexagon is a wonder indeed
Allowing us our own mounted steed
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
In one's lifetime, comes a moment or two,
when a sunny day's sky of powder-blue
turns to an utterly gloomy black night
not at all a beautiful twilight
:::just a dark firmament...no homing birds in sight
When in a flurry,
it comes naturally,
to want to sit...on the ground,
on the floor...just somewhere down
with both palms cupping jaws
resting on knees are angled elbows
discontent and stagnation
nag one's imagination
heartbeats
............are drumbeats
glances are fleeting
unfocused:::::escaping
such are vain attempts, to dismiss
avoided thoughts and scenes:::to release
::::and decide...all must eventually cease
yet.........it's never easy to find peace
can't just forget sounds of voices...and sweet laughter
jokes and conversations that came, before and after...
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::
they are tattooed in the mind
::::::::: they are ::::::::::
::: i n d e l i b l e ::::::::::
:::: e s p e c i a l l y ::::
:::on:::moments:::when:::
:::we struggle the most:::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::::only:::to:::realize::::::
::::::::::::::::::[[[]]]::::::::::::::::
::::::::[[ memories ]]::::::::::
::::are:::a::::[[metal cage]]
::::::::::::: and we :::::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::: are :::::::::::::::::
:::::::[[captured birds]]:::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
it usually takes long:::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::to be freed:::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::;;;;
::::::from being:::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::held:::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::[[ c a p t i v e ]]:::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
(November 2015)
Sally
Copyright January 13, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 9:56 AM UTC