"attire" poems
Gaze on that woman by the train.
With curves like gunpowder
that will shoot fireworks again.
As her and I once were.
Since then, of women, I've abstained.
My chest is a pyre
to the damsel I couldn't retain;
fondness that won’t expire.
You say I could never attain
and imply I'm a liar!?
Or you think either me insane
or least she's miswired?
The evidence on my brain -
melancholy, ire -
the despondent husk that remains,
need you more enquire?
...True, of her, no displays of pain;
eyes that jolt not tire,
poker voice tipping no disdain,
legs that feed desire!
For her, gone love is not a chain
hidden by attire
or flushed down a forgotten drain.
It merely retired.
Love like hers was the wind and rain
to my earth and fire.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 6:09 PM UTC
Injustice was done
on that day if you think.
Then know years later Pharaoh's
attire injustice prinked.
Their is no Moses in this
vast land in this vast crowd.
So let the Pharaoh celebrate
victory and laugh out loud.
It is correct that Allah alone
one should only fear.
But patience is not a sign
of weakness, my dear!
Your tears will not go waste
one day it will turn into a sea.
And your patience will become
Moses and will lead thee.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 9:22 PM UTC
And then in just a click of a button,
I'm all alone. Nothin' but 2 Mutton.
For I have been stranded,
and perhaps abandoned
from my dear friends.
I see some stems
of an old tree, dying in despair.
I see a new land offshore,
but the distant island has no grass.
I went to the cave, nothin’ but bats.
So I went deeper forward,
toward the mighty horrors.
I found some iron and gold,
I make a tool to behold.
After some more iron,
I acquire some attire.
Then suddenly, out of the dark abyss
I found my true and only bliss!
After a few days more,
I have my tools galore.
A long time from then…
I built myself zen
All along the old island,
a long time after my first diamond,
I see something strange…
I know something’s a change
I see it coming closer,
I peek out like a toaster.
And there a person behold!
He was in a boat, looking bold,
I went out to the shore,
After all, I’m not gonna ignore.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC
.
In a costume of conflicting emotion,
of crossing diamondic colour,
with regal posture in grief,
the Harlequin and the King,
a display of opposites
creating a composite being,
that eases her body
gently into the waiting water,
to float away serene,
on her journey to the nether.
Midnight blue and emerald green,
the regalia of ermine,
both ostentatious and humble,
robeing the aspects,
understated in crowning splendour,
the gentleman King bows,
and the Harlequin laughs,
the bi-polar reaction
to the tragedy of misfortune,
with a sting in the myth-tale.
With the dark hues of mourning,
a legend passes on her way,
across the streams of time,
on a voyage to discover herself,
carrying her Harlequin in a purse,
holding her King to her breast,
owning them both in her heart,
the medicine wheel spins,
knowing the grapes of wrath
yield the wine of spite.
The motley speckles of attire,
a starry parody of night skies,
lighting the decorated funeral barge,
gliding along the rivers of space,
worn with the mantle of sorrow,
and it sails into the sunset,
as the Harlequin and King observe,
the mandala turns,
the bier of the Queen departing,
bears their sadness forth.
The Harlequin laughs and laughs 'til he cries,
his heart grows cold, then withers and dies,
whilst the King, statuesque, memoirs his life,
lamenting the legend of a Queen, his wife.
© Pagan Paul (24/07/18)
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 5:51 AM UTC
**Festivals of my
land are**
Filled with
The brilliance of colors..
The elegance of attire..
The resonance of lights..
The flamboyance of richness..
Of
The essence of laughter..
The sense of happiness..
The fragrance of love ..
The immence feeling of Joy..
The exuberance of festivities..
The relevance of celebration..
The Perseverance of culture..
Its all about
My Motherland....
My India..
Yes !! Its that time of the year
When 1/7 th population of the world
celebrates
The Festival of Lights..
On the dark night of No Moon ..
The whole country is filled
with lights..
From earthen lamps and LEDs
To
Celebrate the win of
Good over evil..
To celebrate
The homecoming -
after the win..
The brightness of lights..
The purity of air..
The brimming faces..
The laughter echoes..
Elders, kids, adults
all come together,
To fill the land with
Sparkles and Divinity....
Diwali it is !!
Diwali it will be !!
The festival of love..
The festival of respect..
The festival of sharing..
The festival of caring..
The festival of loving..
The festival of giving ..
!!!
**
Sharing,
Caring,
Loving,
Giving....
The young kids rhyme..
We teach them by action,
That we want them
to remember...!!
Happy Diwali..
The festival of lights..!!
**
Sparkle In Wisdom
Nov 2018
Nov 3, 2018
Nov 3, 2018 at 8:43 AM UTC
In India pongal is the best festival
It is not a mere ritual
We celebrate it in January
It is very very customary
It lasts for three days
Bhogi,sankranti and kanuma are the days.
On the first day we have a holy bath
Thinking that it sets us on the right path
Early in the morning we sit around the bhogi fire
Thinking it is the demon Ravana’s pyre
We put on a new and attractive attire
Dreaming life is a joyful boat shire
Children make wreaths of cowdung
Throw them into the fire like a gold ring
The villages are full of colourful bullocks
We sing folk songs taking neem sticks
The bride groom leaves for the mother-in-law’s house
The bride waits for him wearing a new saree and a blouse
Father-in-law gives the groom a costly gift
Mother-in-law makes a sumptuous feast
Younger sister-in-law teases the groom
The bride and the groom confine to the room
Mother prepares delicious dishes and pickles
Father goes to the farm worshipping the sickles
On the last day we go to the temple fair
I hope I made the happy pongal very clear
Yours sincerely,
JVL NARASIMHA RAO
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 7:32 PM UTC
A musical trance seance under control by the hand of a shadow
A "Du hast" to a "Loco" To a "beautiful people"
A fraction of symphony, Sent by the gods of rock
Spiderweb rooms an corridor covered with the entrance to darkness set in place with danger light's, Strobe lights, an a fog machine set on auto
A haunted feel to a shack left cold an abandoned.
Equipped with superior beings and extended solo's of 6 string guitar's along with drum's and distorted bass guitar, setting the rhythm for our soul's,Feeding threw 4 large kickers.
This shadow was me
Venom
Decorated in crow face paint, Along with black attire to match my attitude
People came and went and came again
Supporting my and there craving for sublime sound
But one, the one, my goddess, my angel of death came to my dwelling, she came with a message
To indulge in my love
But also to give me a message of misery
To break me free of this chaotic world i was fixed in, with a bite to my fingertip the purified pressure was on
She wore the same colors as I
Only more dragged inline's
More pain, More beauty than she could see
I stared into her crystal corroded bloodshot eyes
I seen deep within herself
I saw pain, I saw hate for her fire, I saw hate from others
I had seen everything and nothing
I arose from my slumber to meet her in the darkness or mothers sleep
To give mother a great vision, a great dream and it was this
My angel of death, Meeting face to face, Eye to misery, Cure to disease, Beauty to ugly.
The words rolled off her tongue like the greatest embrace to a lover
Her words were sweet and seductive
Sprinkled with tears of a suicidal mind and a scarred wrist.
Then in a perfect moment are perfect tender love met with crying eyes and black lipstick.
Within that moment i ingested her misery
I took it and gave her what she deserved
Beauty
After the release of this lover's choice
We met vision and from there i seen the truth
I could never release her from this insanity
Only pamper or even embrace it
This timeless motion of misery will never stop ticking in my heart
Not till it expires!
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 10:33 AM UTC
In the fragile shimmer of your tears lies tragedy.
The bone-white curve of the moon hooks onto the past.
The night has dragged on, endless, stilled to frost;
Who is it upstairs, lost in bone-chilling despair?
Rain plays light on the ruby-red windowsill.
All my years of life on paper, blown astray by the wind.
So distant are my dreams, they become mere threads of fragrance hanging in the air.
Drifting, wind-strung, into your likeness.
(CHORUS)
The chrysanthemum shattered, the floor is strewn with tragedy; your smile has already faded to yellow.
Petals land softly, breaking hearts; my matters of the heart lie in peace.
The northern wind is frenzied, the night is not yet spent; your shadow can't be cut away.
Leaving me, alone on the lake’s surface, to become two.
The flower already nears its dusk.
Once brilliant as the sun, it's fallen, dispersed.
Fate cannot bear the world's way of withering.
Worrying that the river will prove uncrossable, my autumn heart* tears in half.
Scared you won't reach land- a lifetime spent wavering.
Hear the horses charging hysterical on someone's landscape.
The great changes of the world only whistle past my unchanging martial attire.
It grows light out, just slightly. Gently, you sigh; a night spent in this cryptic melancholy.
(REPEAT CHORUS x2)
Sep 6, 2017
Sep 6, 2017 at 7:34 PM UTC
Mirror
by Kajal Ahmad, a Kurdish poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My era’s obscuring mirror
shattered
because it magnified the small
and made the great seem insignificant.
Dictators and monsters filled its contours.
Now when I breathe
its jagged shards pierce my heart
and instead of sweat
I exude glass.
Keywords/Tags: Kajal Ahmad, Kurd, Kurdish, translation, mirror, shattered, magnified, dictators, monsters, jagged, shards, sweat, perspire, leak, bleed, extrude, protrude, glass
The Lonely Earth
by Kajal Ahmad
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
The pale celestial bodies
never bid her "Good morning! "
nor do the creative stars
kiss her.
Earth, where so many tender persuasions and roses lie interred,
might expire for the lack of a glance, or an odor.
She's a lonely dusty orb,
so very lonely! , as she observes the moon's patchwork attire
knowing the sun's an imposter
who sears with rays he has stolen for himself
and who looks down on the moon and earth like lodgers.
Kurds are Birds
by Kajal Ahmad
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Per the latest scientific classification, Kurds
now belong to a species of bird!
This is why,
traveling across the torn, fraying pages of history,
they are nomads recognized by their caravans.
Yes, Kurds are birds! And,
even worse, when
there's nowhere left to nest, no refuge from their pain,
they turn to the illusion of traveling again
between the warm and arctic sectors of their homeland.
So I don't think it strange Kurds can fly but not land.
They wander from region to region
never realizing their dreams
of settling,
of forming a colony, of nesting.
No, they never settle down long enough
to visit Rumi and inquire about his health,
or to bow down deeply in the gust-
stirred dust,
like Nali.
Bi Havre (“Together”)
possibly the oldest Kurdish poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I want us to be together:
we would eat together,
climb the mountain together,
sing songs together, songs of love,
songs from the heart, sung from above.
I want us to have one heart, together.
Many words in this ancient poem are in doubt, so I have excerpted what I grok to be the central meaning.
And because Kajal mentioned Rumi, here are my translations of Rumi:
Raise your words, not their volume.
Rain grows flowers, not thunder.
—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Birdsong
by Rumi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Birdsong relieves
my deepest griefs:
now I'm just as ecstatic as they,
but with nothing to say!
Please universe,
rehearse
your poetry
through me!
Apr 1, 2020
Apr 1, 2020 at 3:00 AM UTC
In ruck and quibble of courtfolk
This giant hulked, I tell you, on her scene
With hands like derricks,
Looks fierce and black as rooks;
Why, all the windows broke when he stalked in.
Her dainty acres he ramped through
And used her gentle doves with manners rude;
I do not know
What fury urged him slay
Her antelope who meant him naught but good.
She spoke most chiding in his ear
Till he some pity took upon her crying;
Of rich attire
He made her shoulders bare
And solaced her, but quit her at cock's crowing.
A hundred heralds she sent out
To summon in her slight all doughty men
Whose force might fit
Shape of her sleep, her thought-
None of that greenhorn lot matched her bright crown.
So she is come to this rare pass
Whereby she treks in blood through sun and squall
And sings you thus :
'How sad, alas, it is
To see my people shrunk so small, so small.'
7k
Many have seen it within holy brains.
I've also found Terror on political lanes.
Most have spotted in religious garbs.
I've even seen Terror in Leader's barbs.
In hammer and sickle and in flag red.
Saw Terror when it left believers dead.
It came from skies on land of rising sun.
Horrifying, ugly Terror spared none.
Most have seen Terror in rebellious fire;
But I've even seen it in democratic attire.
In bullet cruel Terror can always be seen;
But I have even espied it in ballot mean.
Each has seen Terror in AK47's shine;
But I have even figured it in M4 carbine.
Things left unsaid may I dare to inform?
At times I have seen Terror in uniform.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 9:48 PM UTC
I am a woman , I should be timid - They say
I am a human , I know no limit - I say,
My existence is not meant for your judgment
Crushing me is not a sign of your triumphant,
My love for you has always been abundant
Why am I the one to make all the adjustments,
Look into my eyes , you'll see a twinkle
Savaging it , is so sinful,
My demand for freedom makes you reluctant
Clothed in societal norms , I have to bear its repercussion,
How are the governing laws so different for Both
What makes you so nervous of my growth,
Why do I have to fight for what is my right
Why do you enjoy my plight,
Being submissive is declared my attire
No one hears what my heart desires,
I am not the one to dance on your note
I am a volcano that erupts on my own,
I don't demand anything extraordinary
All I seek is equality,
Equality to Breathe without fear
Equality to be safe my dear!!!!!
Aug 3, 2017
Aug 3, 2017 at 3:36 AM UTC
While they noticed the stretch of kohl in her eyes,
I could see a pacific of emotions trapped.
While they admired her blushing cheeks,
I could read the paleness she painted red.
While they were going gaga over her smirk,
I could fathom the depth of pain that debarred a hearty gale.
While they were lured by the cascade of her hair when she unscrewed the bun,
I could feel the onus of the tantrums she wanted to turf out.
While they were hypnotized by her mesmeric curves,
I was stunned by the withstanding efficacy of such a fragile body.
While they adored her attire and scarves,
I could trace the bruises she carried with poise.
While they were hung up by the glory of her face,
I could do no help but ride out at the scars she concealed with sprightliness which was the most beautiful thing my eyes could ever have a view of and it left me dazed...
And my mouth wide opened.
-Aparajita Tripathi
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 3:36 PM UTC
The princess who chose
To live in exile
Holding the hand of her husband
With a beautiful smile
Framed in a guile by Ravan
But she didn't fall in his wicked ways
Despite being held captive
And tortured for nights and days
She refused to go with Hanuman
When he came to rescue her
Insisted that Rama come openly to defeat her captor
In Rama's honor exile did she prefer
On the Ravan's defeat - to prove her purity
She had to walk through fire
But the flames neither touched her body
And nor her attire
The fire bowed in her honor
But that wasn't enough
For the clouds of gloom
Were towering above
The world has never been fair to women
Despite of proving her purity
Sita had to leave
It was the height of cruelty
Cause Rama was as weak
In the face of his men
As strong he was
In front of Ravan
Rama- the man
Sita loved enough to die for
Asked her to leave
To the path that led abhor
Just imagine the way Sita would be looking at Rama
With whom she had to part
For he was standing dumb like a statue
When her world was falling apart
Would she have accused or looked down at him
As she asked mother earth to swallow her
She was going back to where she came from
In order to save the last shred of her honor
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 3:12 PM UTC
A part of me smoulders within..
When the world is serene
And the eye resists a lonely tear..
The loneliness embraces my conscience,
and the lullaby of memories lures me to the lane..
Where the mothers's lap complemented a nap..
Where the Dad's jokes evoked pathos..
The friend's smirk,
The brother's ****
The bickering girls,
The lustering guys,
The barbie attire,
The teacher's satire,
And the useless tinkling laughter..
And when I drag myself to the prevailing adolescence,
All I think for,
All I lust for..
Is the sweet lullaby of memories..!
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 5:46 AM UTC
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want to get hit by a Mercedes.
I want to get run over by a Porsche.
Something big.
I want to get smeared against the pavement
by a Cadillac Escalade.
I want to get hit by one of those big ********
who drag gasoline across the continent,
but I want the driver to be a manic psychopath.
I want him to stalk me on the sidewalk
and then run me over slowly.
He's not any coward, not like those bald patriarchal
Corvette drivers in polo shirts tucked into khakis.
No, he's a great fat man, a hairy beast with
a crooked stare that slows the pulse on impact.
I want the police to cringe or get scared interrogating him,
and haul his truck somewhere to be inspected.
I want the price of gas in nearby areas to go up
by at least fifteen cents for two weeks.
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want to roll over the windshield,
and drag under the bottom for about ten yards.
I want to separate at the middle and leave organs on his
left side view mirror and hanging on his hood ornament.
I want to seep blood deep into his car,
and when he turns on his heat,
he'll smell my blood full blast in his face
burning.
I want to wreck the car inside and out.
I want to get hit by a car with a McCain sticker on the bumper.
I don't want to get hit by some middle class Ford or Honda,
or someone's shit-level Chevy or beat up jalopy.
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want the driver to make his tires scream like banshees,
and leave four long streaks of rotten burned rubber on the asphalt.
I want him to step out in business attire, and gasp, inwardly.
I want to flip off the sky, because my aim is bad,
and call him a coward for hitting the brakes.
I want him to think,
"What did I do?
Is he Okay?
What am I going to do?
What if I lose my license?
How will I get to work?
How will I pay for this.
Does my insurance cover
vehicular manslaughter?
I'm not alone right?
I'll get through this.
I'll survive.
I'll just be another statistic.
That's all."
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
The sun bakes down heavily on a plastic micro planet in Orlando, Florida
where crowded trams drop American bushels of tourists into an alien world.
Quickly fantasy comes alive
through a corporation of disguise.
The workers mask themselves in a drapery of familiar life
-like costumes to charm little children’s hearts.
They smile wildly, carving a clear dimple line on the but of their cheeks. Walt’s Disney World
must have driven every one of America’s circuses out of business.
The flying trapeze is too elegant,
people now want to be strapped in,
buckled up and whipped around
to forcibly experience the true velocity of entertainment.
Even the participant’s attire is geared for this third world oblivion. Neon ***** packs rest like bloated kangaroo pouches
on fat sweaty old lady’s round hips, their plump fingers
holding on to leashed harnesses reined to their child’s small chest.
This is vacation,
strangers of people in massive conglomerations
with confused expressions and burnt faces.
Even the food seems wickedly unnatural,
like an artificial order of burning plastic and sour dough surprise.
Waiting is the enthusiast’s pastime as parades
of anxious voyeurs are captivated by a trance
fixation of lights and whistles.
They line up like schools of lemming,
plunging on rides,
one by one.
This is the place
Where memories are made
And dreams come true
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 12:25 PM UTC
In vain to me the smiling mornings shine,
And redd’ning Phoebus lifts his golden fire:
The birds in vain their amorous descant join;
Or cheerful fields resume their green attire:
These ears, alas! for other notes repine,
A different object do these eyes require:
My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine;
And in my breast the imperfect joys expire.
Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer,
And new-born pleasure brings to happier men:
The fields to all their wonted tribute bear;
To warm their little loves the birds complain:
I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear,
And weep the more, because I weep in vain.
5.3k
psychologism, i.e. neo-racism, neo- due to it being without any collective ethnic collectivisation, best insinuated by marijuana users, grouping alcoholics with ****** sharp shooters; they think they have the moral high ground, but they talk jack sh-: medicinal marijuana is synthetic marijuana / ore without casual-use effects, it's not the sh- you put in your **** have a *** change and tell me about children suffering from cancer while you're at it: because those starving children of africa adverts... are really really working... knowing that the man in control of such charities earns over half a million a year - post-colonialism only really works while you have former colonial indigenous peoples nearby, then you can milk that ***** cow from the locals... make sure you think the nairobi international airport has a dirt runway and you'll feel all ******* fuzzy giving money to these companies... post-colonialism only works like that... import some former colonials to milk the former colonial whites into coughing up money & guilt... then watch the irish get leery with sarcasm at almost anything... and the scots gear up pride and become politically malignant... the good friday agreement? tony blair did as much as / avoiding-tax cigarettes smuggled from eastern europe west of the ural mountains exchanged in belfast... but geographic borders were never used in rhetoric in politics... because ireland was always further west than iceland: as oaths go... it was a neighbour of liberty iseland... with the true statue of liberty in a moulin rouge cancan attire, skirt up, flame extinguished - although ***** as hell: and in koranic reality, requiring a harem for her three holes.
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 10:22 PM UTC
Earth is my bedroom and toilet;
an empty cup, my self employment
Days of empty stomach churning,
a forced sermon at "Sunday Breakfast"
Fast-food places are my kitchens;
Shelters,my free hotels and free meals
Police are my nemesis;
human rights, a foreign fantasy
Jail cells are my places for philosophical,
contemplated thought
Filth is my every day attire;
alertness, my only protection
Weather is my lover or enemy;
cold empty stares, my other human contacts
Loneliness is my constant companion
New horizons are never sought
by this man-of-no-land
,
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 4:19 PM UTC
Again the time has come for all to gather round the fire,
"That time again", we say, while we assess the money drained,
The looks of disappointment from the ***** with stupid attire,
And truth will leak from drink fuelled mouths, with need to be restrained.
Your mum is singing drunkenly, while flirting with the vicar,
And dad is out the back sneaking a joint with cousin victor,
The dog is ******* aunt Jemima's artificial leg,
And someone just had a turkey fart,the kind that makes you sicker.
The christmas lights have fused again, so grandad's on the roof,
Sheer will power keeps him up there,and of course, martini vermouth,
Grandma's lost her teeth,and someone screams near the eggnog,
They're sent flying across the room and land in the fire on a log,
You feel your patience slipping as the pandamoniem mounts,
With thankless moans of "Oh well, its the ****** thought that counts",
And not forgetting Glenn, invited by your mum, but why?
So you and he can marry, and honeymoon in Hawaii.
With no idea that Glenn is gay, i guess the joke's on her,
I mean, what straight guy wears his y fronts entirely made from fur??
The night draws to a close,as bitter, crying family leave,
And relief is all too short, as there's still new years eve!!!
Dec 20, 2009
Dec 20, 2009 at 7:54 AM UTC
you can hear the echo via Zizek the Slovak,
well, attire me in slavic myths and
i'll be mumbling purrs in mud too
for a helium bubble to become a comedian,
i know a jittery ******* addiction
when i see one...
if one thing the catholic schooling system
taught me was how to avoid
sniffing glue and how to recognise
a Freudian apostle - still, with all
the hippy **** you'd think
sniffing glue was what Ukrainian existentialism
prescribed with paracetamol,
catholic education just said: no no.
**** me it's the late 90s and we're talking
post-Chernobyl antics...
but that's how i see the left, leftist politics,
the right
utilises prefixes and suffixes in the
old stance of simple pre- pro-
anti-
qua-
-so so...
the left? oh they're right in there...
their prefixes are
Marxist-
liberal-
Hegelian-
whatnot...
they don't
use abstract prefixes,
their prefixes
are concrete,
they want the porridge in their mouth
to ensure a slur that never comes,
among a range of onomatopoeias they argue
from the perspective of the hushed and ushered crowd,
via one observation: Stalin clapped after a speech
to enjoin with the crowd, a real big brother,
****** never clapped, a sitting-duck method;
i'm not advocating, but by a proxy placebo dynamo
experimenting, it's called experimenting with
thought rather than practising with will,
former no chance of footstep evaluation for
cult status imitable -
the left intellectual
has no rubric of thought concerning to and fro -
it has to be concrete layered and a shut off
perfect architecture without fault -
it can't be what it is -
con-
has to be conservative
pro-
has to be socialist
you once said legitimate
transparency - but you didn't say legislation -
well, the left understood it as legislation,
the right too wanted legitimate transparency -
the green party said we could have neither
but could have the replanting of a thousand
oak trees with a Robin Hood placard on the first
oak tree replanted in Sherwood Forest...
b. ~ d. ~... shot ~100 bent arrows into a bullseye -
hurrah! hurrah! maid marian lost her virginity
too! to a broomstick rather than maradona's
fingernail toothpick!
at an essex market the cockney shouts (out of
place): *** yer courgettes! *** yer courgettes!
ta fa a pudding! ta fa a pudding!
*** yer cucumbers! tooth firth 'un!
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 9:50 PM UTC
Dear Santa
all i want for Christmas is a penny lover
a women that enjoys the small things in life
the lincolns instead of the benjamins
thrift instead of trendy
peanut butter instead of steak
my bottom shelf written poems instead of polish
the small things in life, Santa
the small things
is that too much to ask for
your gift to me
sans the star spangled spangled
the fireworks
the silver, glitter and confetti
i would endear
can you help me Santa
i dream
i dream real
a simple snowfall
me with her on the bunny trail
doing the bunny hop
later sharing a hot cocoa
borrowing heat, and time
Santa in my dream
i can see my mirror
a pincher
a thinker
wrapped pretty
maybe in ancient ski gear and attire
but together
and maybe in love
santa, in retrospect
i ask for a lot
because my heart would be filled
Merry Christmas
Logan Robertson
12/3/17
Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 7:45 PM UTC
****** empowers those who flaunt
the shape imbued by deity
by wide degree that willingness
to express beauty’s form
empowerment becomes the goal
once a choice is expressed
by displaying more or less
skin’s gamut is then blessed
divestment of draped attire
spans the spectrum from slight to all
whether the ankle only shows
or lack of raiment is complete
that span is chosen by the self
society is asked to stand mute
don't suggest what should be
except to honor certitude
the superficial or complete
exhibition is the private trek
played out in public without remorse
rejoice for those who made their choice
skin as sanction to celebrate
costumes bent to serve a will
no longer hiding the natural
****** displaying love of self.
© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180907.
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 8:52 PM UTC