"billowy" poems
Someone is singing a song, it's somewhere written.
The ocean breaks in billowy dances, the seas open up
Get it off the chests, put a notion through onto the cloud
that won’t just fall, won’t just stop and drop: it will float
to the measured moves, only then will it roll in,
pop into the million blooms, wreathed rosy lips,
set out bowls of colours before the one is pouring in!
A song like King David sang and everyone heard.
It’s the sweet song sang in every mother tongue;
a perfumed speech is heard sweeter than the nectar,
wreaths round each patch of earth as part of a tongue.
In all different variations, directions it’s being sung!
Mathematically composed that rhythmically spans
fashion in both, or you choose science or arts.
It’s a lyric sung with finest curvy swaying dance.
Feel the thrills deep down through the atomic level.
still the variety motions in various directions turn on,
and nowhere near that looks, drawing a pause!
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 11:15 PM UTC
Eyeing on the night - its out.
Mirroring the colour of the Moon
every star flocks in the sky!
Just spare an eye - maybe the
missing sun keeping an eye out!
For it only fancies the billowy
sea in the black night.
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 1:08 AM UTC
Angelic minds, they say, by simple intelligence
Behold the Forms of nature. They discern
Unerringly the Archtypes, all the verities
Which mortals lack or indirectly learn.
Transparent in primordial truth, unvarying,
Pure Earthness and right Stonehood from their clear,
High eminence are seen; unveiled, the seminal
Huge Principles appear.
The Tree-ness of the tree they know-the meaning of
Arboreal life, how from earth's salty lap
The solar beam uplifts it; all the holiness
Enacted by leaves' fall and rising sap;
But never an angel knows the knife-edged severance
Of sun from shadow where the trees begin,
The blessed cool at every pore caressing us
-An angel has no skin.
They see the Form of Air; but mortals breathing it
Drink the whole summer down into the breast.
The lavish pinks, the field new-mown, the ravishing
Sea-smells, the wood-fire smoke that whispers Rest.
The tremor on the rippled pool of memory
That from each smell in widening circles goes,
The pleasure and the pang --can angels measure it?
An angel has no nose.
The nourishing of life, and how it flourishes
On death, and why, they utterly know; but not
The hill-born, earthy spring, the dark cold bilberries.
The ripe peach from the southern wall still hot
Full-bellied tankards foamy-topped, the delicate
Half-lyric lamb, a new loaf's billowy curves,
Nor porridge, nor the tingling taste of oranges.
—An angel has no nerves.
Far richer they! I know the senses' witchery
Guards us like air, from heavens too big to see;
Imminent death to man that barb'd sublimity
And dazzling edge of beauty unsheathed would be.
Yet here, within this tiny, charmed interior,
This parlour of the brain, their Maker shares
With living men some secrets in a privacy
Forever ours, not theirs.
6.3k
I dropped by my favorite place today, released another exhausted breath. My pants were bulging out and the fat kept me stretched out. I hate that feeling. My stomach turned into billowy waves of expectant marks, pinning through my outer skin. I hate that feeling. When I sit, my thigh provokes every nerve in my body. If she has thoughts, she'll be a demon whispering through the wind. My unkempt hair is spinning around like gravity does not exist. Somehow, I failed to sigh out the black smoke forming all over my body. My skin, when pinched, is like soft straps that cannot be withdrawn from their owner. My skin is like the skin of my ancestor—it keeps stretching widely, tirelessly, and unprovoked. My heart is tightening its grasp on me. God, please help me! My eyes! I swallowed all my tears away, but my reflection still reflects the dark hue of the moon. When it is sad, the moon exposes his true nature, just like rolled down skins on my neck. My hands go from gently holding my heart out of my chest to weighing the weight of my body. If I let out my thick heart, my body would be lighter and my skin would be a plethora of scars and clay. If I abandon thee and such a calloused body, art will find me beautiful, and that is one of the moon's other sides. It's thick and uncooked. The heavens may not forsake an insecure moon, but a woman hates her reflection when the moonlight lights on her flesh. "Mirror, mirror on the wall..." I called and they did not answer. I froze in my seat and waited until the sun bloomed and dried my tears. Yet I still could not breathe. I went into the sea and swam with the lonely whales. The sun reflected on the waters. I reached letter fourteen, but it was written by someone else. The ambience of the calm ocean washed over me. I released a breathy sigh, and the light went to take me.
Feb 1, 2022
Feb 1, 2022 at 1:28 PM UTC
A little while, a little while,
The weary task is put away,
And I can sing and I can smile,
Alike, while I have holiday.
Why wilt thou go, my harassed heart,
What thought, what scene invites thee now?
What spot, or near or far,
Has rest for thee, my weary brow?
There is a spot, mid barren hills,
Where winter howls, and driving rain;
But if the dreary tempest chills,
There is a light that warms again.
The house is old, the trees are bare,
Moonless above bends twilight's dome;
But what on earth is half so dear,
So longed for, as the hearth of home?
The mute bird sitting on the stone,
The dank moss dripping from the wall,
The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o'ergrown,
I love them, how I love them all!
Still, as I mused, the naked room,
The alien firelight died away,
And from the midst of cheerless gloom
I passed to bright unclouded day.
A little and a lone green lane
That opened on a common wide;
A distant, dreamy, dim blue chain
Of mountains circling every side;
A heaven so clear, an earth so calm,
So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air;
And, deepening still the dream-like charm,
Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere.
That was the scene, I knew it well;
I knew the turfy pathway's sweep
That, winding o'er each billowy swell,
Marked out the tracks of wandering sheep.
Even as I stood with raptured eye,
Absorbed in bliss so deep and dear,
My hour of rest had fleeted by,
And back came labour, ******* care.
3.9k
you know exactly what you
are doing
to me
every day, of every week,
us at work
together,
knowing so little of each other,
you tease
me with the breezily
brush
of your billowy blouse,
brushed
by your sweet, soft-sleek
breast
against my arm or shoulder or back,
against me
brushing
-knowing that you do this
just to see me
blushing
just to laugh it off
in passing
as my stiff *******
belie my casual, response
my hard to stifle sigh
when you
brush
me.
-By Alexandra Eames
Aug 4, 2020
Aug 4, 2020 at 8:56 AM UTC
When you come to my thoughts
You are none other than the billowy embodiment of a reminiscent memory
and also a current everlasting longing
You are the memory of a being or idea
one can feel and remember vividly
but can not zero in on,
for you are the intangible
the winding wind
You are those spiraling twines that place intermittent along grapevines
You are the ancient scrolls from wise days before paperback
You are the spin in the reaching center of a handcrafted wreath
And within all these
individualities and collective,
Lies your scent comprised of multiple scents
You are the mighty togetherness
Your arrival to earth escaping from birth
gave these words to the minds of the kind
You are the winding wind who spins and twines, wreathes and scrolls who lands from time to time and when you do drop for a spell
This location of harboring landfall
is a day of new tradition,
the first step you take on new land on that new day
Becomes the origin of a new holiday
In my thoughts you are the mortar of the earth
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 9:21 AM UTC
The Universe is our Kamasutra
constellations, red tailed comets
brilliant devas, divine horsemen
prance through the galactic playground
everywhere and in everything
our eyes behold a starry courtship
Romance impregnates the very air
we breathe
billowy breezes caress our bodies
and the sun does not hesitate
to shower us with burning kisses
mysterious lady of the coven night
cools the passions of the day
with dreamy moonlight and
soft melody
Innocent, pristine
we experience, explore and
enjoy the sacred foreplay
blooming in the garden
of our chakras
So vastly turned on
feeling high
expansive
all inclusive
How can we contain the
bliss that courses
through every particle
and atom towards its
ultimate collective
consummation
Lord Shiva and Goddess Parvati
locked forever in the throes of Love
“Spirit and Nature dancing together”
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
My spirit is too weak; mortality
Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep,
And each imagined pinnacle and steep
Of godlike hardship tells me I must die
Like a sick eagle looking at the sky.
Yet 'tis a gentle luxury to weep,
That I have not the cloudy winds to keep
Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye.
Such dim-conceived glories of the brain
Bring round the heart an indescribable feud;
So do these wonders a most dizzy pain,
That mingles Grecian grandeur with the rude
Wasting of old Time—with a billowy main,
A sun, a shadow of a magnitude.
2.8k
I know a bit about
*learning to dance in the rain
like nobody is watching*
but...
I know way more about
dancing like a *****
in the kitchen
despite the warden
standing aghast
eating up his own
billowy firebreath
soliloquy reprimands
I earbud block
shimmy, pivot and pop
raising vibration tornado
toss it a flippant middle
and cheeky smile
without breaking stride
devil dismayed
lips keep on syncing
as if I can hear demeaning
demonic procession
but I already know
what he’s saying
*stop dancing like that
in front of our son*
you mean…
to the beat of my own pulse
shaking divine creation
diffusing rainbow throes
undulating radiant orbitals
all for my own blissing?
one day that boy
will be a man
who knows
better
than to ever
call a goddess
a ***** in the kitchen
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 4:26 PM UTC
there’s a hole in your sheet
just large enough for my arm
to tuck away under the cotton
& above the swollen, wet mattress.
you smell of *** and confidence;
the lamplight glistens on your skin.
tracing the scars on your skin
until they’re white as a sheet,
i gently kiss each one, confident
that you will return them. armed
with love you leave the mattress,
our fortress of white billowy cotton.
as you reach for your cotton
boxers, i marvel at your skin.
left alone on the lumpy mattress,
i cover myself with the sheets,
exposing just my face and arms.
i love watching you walk; confidence
seeps out of your pores. confidence
i can touch under the cotton
when i’m wrapped inside your arms,
flesh to flesh skin to skin
together for hours under the sheets,
our own world on this mattress.
i feel secure on this mattress
knowing i can always confide in
you. rain’s coming down in sheets,
soaking the plants hidden by cotton.
you return with shiny drenched skin,
soaked roses bundled in your arms.
wiping my tears with my arm,
i leap up from the mattress,
the thorns have pierced your skin.
i pull them out with confidence
and lead you to the cotton
where we’ll play under the sheets.
on this mattress we’re both confident.
my arm tucks away beneath the cotton
skin to skin under the sheets.
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 1:36 PM UTC
"io sol uno."
-Dante, Purgatorio
There I was,
the comic-tragic star of my own motion-picture,
bold beneath the springtime Italian sun hung high
--a heavenly fixture,
illuminating the gold-leaf enframed frescoes in
kaleidoscopes of colours,
baking dry the pigeon droppings upon the flagstones
they smothered,
where I, in all my self-serving recreation,
posed proudly in a costume of my own creation,
an operatic villain clad in a billowy blouse of black,
the Campanile Tower like a sentinel behind my back,
as movie cameras panned and zoomed,
paparazzi photographers capturing me
and freezing me,
in all my wicked, medieval glory,
floating and gloating in the dank aroma of the Venetian seas,
*"I'm the shining star!
--Look at me, look at me!"*
-the super-special star I always knew I'd be,
a painted parody,
a harlequin of displaced passions
for all to laugh at and see,
before slipping silently
into the ornate basilica,
dim and dark as night,
thanking Mother Mary (for nothing) as I sparked
a votive candle's light,
not really sure or caring
where my life would lead,
just as long as the Azure Queen
shed Her Grace on me,
me,
me,
...until I fell
and fell
to the mockery of a home
I made in Hell,
hard and forever and fast,
the only fool left alone in my solo cast,
adrift with no direction,
****** and lost,
me and my frivolous theatre,
squandered an an extravagant cost.
_____________
"io sol uno" means, "I, myself, alone."
This poem is a true-life story.
__________
See the Piazza San Marco, Venice, Italy:
http://www.carfree.com/design/pix/sqlg110venice_piazza-san-marco.jpg
Sep 13, 2010
Sep 13, 2010 at 11:01 AM UTC
The night is soft and billowy,
Beckoning me deeper into her velvet embrace.
The dark air caresses me,
Like a smooth, silken hand stroking my face.
The breeze carries with it the scent of autumn;
decaying leaves, campfire smoke, pumpkin spice and pine needles.
A heady cocktail that rouses something in me that no other season can.
This, is my favourite time of year.
The bare trees, colourful leaves and crisp breeze soothe my mind.
The long nights of candlelight and incense soothe my soul.
Draped in moonlight and watched over by the stars,
I drink the wine of ancient Roman nights,
of sacred pagan rites,
of owls' sleepless flights,
of lustful lovers' bites,
That dark and warm midwinter wine.
And it is here
As I lie naked beneath the gentle gaze of the moon,
Vulnerable and exposed,
Innocent and joyful,
With child-like wonder at the beauty that surrounds and encompasses me,
Sipping the crimson nectar of the gods,
That I feel whole.
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 3:16 PM UTC
Texas mud, a mud that cakes
A mud that strikes fear
In boots and trucks alike
After fresh summer rain
Billowy clouds rolling a long
Singing their thunderous song
Natures long cool drink
I was muddy once
Moms words i didn't hear as i hit the back door
Thoughts of squishy toes and big smiles
A freshly made mud pie for my sister
I was muddy once
To a boy of ten 2 acres goes on for miles
A whole mess a villains ever willing to meet
The business end of my B.B. gun
And the neighbors nurf gun
I was muddy once
From the trenches of France
To a foxhole on Mars
Only fenced in by the outermost stars
I couldn't be bested
Backyard hoops to creek jumping
Swing sets to sword fights
I was muddy once
The only thought of future
Was what tomorrow would bring
New adventures, new places to see
And all you can drink sweet iced tea
I wanted to be something great when i was a kid
I wanted to be great
I wanted to be a paleontologist, doctor, lawyer, cop, superhero, captain of a yacht, a and mountain man, and never wanted to get married cause girls had cooties and dolls
As it turns out I am none of those things
As it turns out, what i needed most
Was i ran rarest away from
I became something i never thought i would be
I became something i never thought i could be
I am becoming a servant of the King
The mud which once covered my hands
Bound my heart in a thick, clogging bog
Only when i thought no longer of receiving glory
I began to poor grace out from this imperfect jar
Glory pored to a being more eloquent than I
Who hath poured mercy like wine
Love as a fire
Turning my so called foundations into Texas mud
Turns out God doesn't want me to be a doctor
Turns out God wants the willing not the able
i found something bigger
Than the thoughts i thought i knew
How glorious days of old
A tear to my eye and a distant memory
To stretch and grow is one thing
A loss of splendor another
When others think of yesterday,
Dream for tomorrow
Dream and dream big,
For God is bigger still
He rejoices in imagination
Delights in the mind of a child
Reclaim that which we've lost
For you were muddy once
I was muddy once
Apr 12, 2011
Apr 12, 2011 at 1:30 PM UTC
Please, oh please
can you spare a drop
of the liquid flowing through you,
dripping down your sweet ****
I am quite parched
I’ve been barren for months
Please can I drink in
your billowy lumps?
Pour into my crevasse
Make me bloom with life
Moisturize the cracks I’ve earned
from loneliness and strife
I’m a desolate island
desperate for nature’s touch
but too far from land
for one shower to be enough
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 4:55 PM UTC
If then by the river where tears are hung low and stream albeit with its flow, then I must remind myself to fly with the blueness of my sacred scars.
I must peek around the bushes of this musky forest and hung low beneath the painted glass sky, where painted by shallow blue and bland pinkish canvas and clouds hanging grey and brisk.
I must learn to be still where birds flee when they gather around my presence and sing screeches of pain and hope.
I must lie down the billowy surge of these big waves that tries to weigh me down; for I must learn how to sing under the water and keep my nose dry and eyes swelling while I was beneath the painted glass sky.
For even when the trinket beads of my sweats holler at the sight of my numb hands and feet carried away by the quantum of the deep blue sea and the way it glorify the kiss of the clouds,
I must be like the rain so I can stay gloomy forever and the river may have its story to tell how its philanthropy saved me from a bucket of bloods from the war.
Jun 18, 2021
Jun 18, 2021 at 3:43 AM UTC
Tears of creation
fall from the overcast blanketing
of the billowy, white fields overhead,
blended with a requiem
that only the absence of dawn could manifest,
and kissed upon
by the ever-fluorescent canvases
of smoke, and flame
that carelessly intrude
upon the horizon.
Oh,
how fastidious is the misting
that blesses this premature day,
invoking a spontaneity
within the mundane clockworkings
that symbolically define
the average,
the everyday
and the norm.
Glorious is this sight to behold.
Not only by our soulpanes,
but through the remainder;
our entire spectrum of sensory awareness
that we are so gifted to have received,
yet,
rarely do their values go little more
than depreciated.
The refreshment
that quenches our starving skin,
and slowly enfilms us
with the caressings of unrequited purity.
The dampening of the air
that perpetually enthralls
even the most tolerant
resisters to aroma.
The crispness;
unadulterated,
and without perversions of the modern day;
enrapturous are the resonant entrails of the strata
that ever so gently envelop,
and awaken our slumbering buds.
And finally,
but without conviction,
the resound of symphonic harmony,
abound with the alluring enchantment
that,
in seamless refrain,
could only be achieved
by such a reverent miracle of nature.
These are the moments in which I revel.
And blessed be Her,
who benevolently grants us
with such an immaculance
of cornerless beauty.
Graceful, and sacred is the oasis in the sky.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 6:52 PM UTC
If you want flowery poetry
Hit pause, backspace delete.
I write on a lot of subjects;
Only a few could be called sweet.
I’m not into swirling windstorms
Or describing billowy clouds.
Not into extolling autumn leaves
Or conifers standing proud.
I try to select the human things
Whether good or even bad.
Sometimes I wrestle with
Life twists that make us sad.
I try to speak for everyman
And that includes the women.
I try to reflect life circumstances
And the results the travel with them.
So, crooning polysyllabically
Is seldom my favorite tune,
Nor is waxing limerickally
About June, and spoon and moon.
Instead I’ll probably take to task
Those who live in sappy hope
A prince shows up in their life
A proper romantic dope.
I write the rhymes about crooks
That steal from your children
And the supposed leaders
That ****** and abuse women.
I write about parents who
Ignore what their children need
And instead find their joy
On selfishness and greed.
After so many millennia
We really need to stop
Waiting for someone else to come
And be the moral traffic cop.
It is us who need to change
And teach our children accordingly
Because the way we are fixing things
Humanity is progressing dismally.
So keep your butterfly couplets
And views of rain on hedges.
We are falling apart as humans
And it’s visible on the edges.
It will only take a few crazies
With power enough to wield
And this planet, and us of course,
Will no longer have a shield.
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 6:59 PM UTC
Dave took his little boy for a stroll. Hand in hand, they went, as-three-year old Brody loved walking with his daddy. The spring weather was finally here, and green color was starting to return back to the landscape. Brody stopped and pointed up in the air, and shouted, "Daddy, look! Birds running in the sky!"
A flock of birds flew on by, fleetingly, and Dave smiled down at his son beaming up at him. Oh, that little-man-in-the making! It was like father, like son! Dave used to say such things when he was his age, yet he never heard it put that way before. Birds running in the sky--wonder what the birds thought of the ant-men down below? He exclaimed to his son, "Those critters have feathered wings, and they can travel like airplanes! And they can also relax a while and soar through the sky like they were floating on air! Like balloons!" Dave put his hands out like he was an airplane and Brody followed his lead.
"I want to fly!" Brody declared, running around in circles with his outstretched arms.
"Me, too!" echoed Dave. He knelt down on one leg and pulled his boy next to him and pointed to the sky. "When I was a kid I thought those clouds were made of marshmallows. My dad used to say to me, 'Let's go outside and play catch under the marshmallow roof'". The cottony, white clouds were billowy, three-dimensional puffs of fluff, stuffed up in various patches as if to decorate the big, blue sky.
Brody gave his father a big boy squeeze, a precious moment, indeed. Dave never wanted to lose that imagination that he could share with his son, and his son could share with him. They both continued on, making their way under the marshmallow sky.
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 3:08 PM UTC
Heart's cover sealed in burgeoning prime
Fading leaves folded in the book of time
Follicles of love blanched on the pages sublime
Billowy blades dulled with eroding sands that modulate and slime
Bleached, seamless threads spliced in the deep recesses of my mind
Glossy words overgrown, strangled with thistle and thyme
Each, dilated syllable devoid of reason and rhyme
Each segment underscored with a stagnating byline
Every, amorous allusion deconstructed; devoid of design
Each, sterile refrain resounds a doleful chime
Remaining, truncated edition a lapsing memory; requited pantomime
Aug 8, 2011
Aug 8, 2011 at 8:00 AM UTC
Oh, the white Sea-gull, the wild Sea-gull,
A joyful bird is he,
As he lies like a cradled thing at rest
In the arms of a sunny sea !
The little waves rock to and fro,
And the white Gull lies asleep,
As the fisher's bark, with breeze and tide,
Goes merrily over the deep.
The ship, with her fair sails set, goes by,
And her people stand to note
How the Sea-gull sits on the rocking waves,
As if in an anchored boat.
The sea is fresh, the sea is fair,
And the sky calm overhead,
And the Sea-gull lies on the deep, deep sea,
Like a king in his royal bed !
Oh, the white Sea-gull, the bold Sea-gull,
A joyful bird is he,
Throned like a king, in calm repose
On the breast of the heaving sea !
The waves leap up, the wild wind blows,
And the Gulls together crowd,
And wheel about, and madly scream
To the deep sea roaring loud.
And let the sea roar ever so loud,
And the wind pipe ever so high,
With a wilder joy the bold Sea-gull
Sends forth a wilder cry.
For the Sea-gull, he is a daring bird,
And he loves with the storm to sail;
To ride in the strength of the billowy sea,
And to breast the driving gale !
The little boat, she is tossed about,
Like a sea-weed, to an fro;
The tall ship reels like a drunken man,
As the gusty tempests blow.
But the Sea-gull laughs at the fear of man,
And sails in a wild delight
On the torn-up breast of the night-black sea,
Like a foam cloud, calm and white.
The waves may rage and the winds may roar,
But he fears not wreck nor need;
For he rides the sea, in its stormy strength,
As a strong man rides his steed.
Oh, the white Sea-gull, the bold Sea-gull !
He makes on the shore his nest,
And he tries what the inland fields may be;
But he loveth the sea the best !
And away from land a thousand leagues,
He goes 'mid surging foam;
What matter to him is land or shore,
For the sea is his truest home !
Mary Howitt
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 9:02 AM UTC
Where hast thou floated, in what seas pursu'd
Thy pastime? When wast thou an egg new spawn'd,
Lost in the immensity of ocean's waste?
Roar as they might, the overbearing winds
That rock'd the deep, thy cradle, thou wast safe--
And in thy minikin and embryo state,
Attach'd to the firm leaf of some salt ****
Didst outlive tempests, such as wrung and rack'd
The joints of many a stout and gallant bark,
And whelm'd them in the unexplor'd abyss.
Indebted to no magnet and no chart,
Nor under guidance of the polar fire,
Thou wast a voyager on many coasts,
Grazing at large in meadows submarine,
Where flat Batavia just emerging peeps
Above the brine,--where Caledonia's rocks
Beat back the surge,--and where Hibernia shoots
Her wondrous causeway far into the main.
--Wherever thou hast fed, thou little thought'st,
And I not more, that I should feed on thee.
Peace, therefore, and good health, and much good fish,
To him who sent thee! and success, as oft
As it descends into the billowy gulf,
To the same drag that caught thee!--Fare thee well!
Thy lot thy brethern of the slimy fin
Would envy, could they know that thou wast doom'd
To feed a bard, and to be prais'd in verse.
1.5k
Capitalizing on my looks, I thought
captivating personality.
I asked to take me home, my girl,
take me home tonight with you;
To the land of far off myths, my girl,
of make believe and fantasy.
Take me home my new found friend.
Take me home with you tonight
to the locks and docks downtown,
to the foothills of the Port.
Once I said hello, I knew.
Once your hand was deep in mine,
I couldn’t help but wonder, girl
were we headed for some bliss,
or a land of distant past.
Take me home I begged, take me home.
Take me home my lovely friend.
Take me home with you at last.
To the locks and docks downtown
To the foothills of the Port.
Spacious skies appeared once more
in my thoughtful, thoughtless mind.
The billowy clouds shadowing
all that was left for me.
Away I know, but I don’t know where,
take me home my Miss, take me home.
“It is not your need to know such things
I’m not going home with you.
To the locks or docks downtown,
nor the foothills of the Port.”
Forget the docks, the locks, the Port
I didn’t like you anyway.
I’m simply a postman in distress
who knew your mailing address.
Take me home my girl, take me home,
to the outer reaches of my town .
I only wanted to find my way
but forgot my GPS.
Dec 7, 2010
Dec 7, 2010 at 7:34 AM UTC
Smoke fills my lungs, while serenity fills my mind.
I cruise by yellow green fields speckled with horses and cows.
The way the sun hits my eyes makes me want to dive head-first
into the billowy, pillowy clouds swimming in the sea of sky.
Lining the road are a million green hands
linked to thousands of branches that wave hello.
I let my thoughts wander, but they never get very far,
so when memories of you start flooding my car,
I roll my windows down to let you float away.
It’s easier being happy when there’s nothing to say.
I let my hand surf the wind, effortlessly shooting up and down,
yet always safely secured to my body.
Feeling, maybe, how a baby feels when she’s tossed through the air
thrilled, but well aware, of the adult standing there,
but - that’s as if a hand could feel these things.
I know the things my hands can feel,
and for now they are floating, flying, free
past the horses and cows and yellow green fields.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 4:50 PM UTC
I had to remember to forget
The howling rustle of the leaves
The chaos from the T.V. set
I saw the shapeless silhouette
That crept behind the dancing trees
I had to remember to forget
All is not over yet
More howling as the widow grieves
The chaos from the T.V. set
She is left cold and hungry and wet
Cursing those ****** thieves
I had to remember to forget
That innocent, frail brunette
Wiping her eyes with her billowy sleeves
The chaos from the T.V. set
She smokes another cigarette
Ashes fall onto bruised knees
I had to remember to forget
The chaos from the T.V. set
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 9:22 PM UTC