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Mohammad Skati Jan 2015
All emergency crews can not shovel or                                                                   Can not do anything until those blizzards                                                   Come to a standstill anytime and anywhere                                                Simply because all works will be useless ...                                                  The whole life is down and that is enough to tell                                                The whole people anywhere and everywhere ...                                                 Man is weak creature in front of God's authority ...                                             The whole image is completely white and wonderful,but                                  The whole life is down to its bones anywhere and everywhere ...                                      Blizzards are cruel tyrants simply because                                              That's it ...                                                                                                    We're all besieged by those blizzards endlessly ....                                  We feel like our inevitable end comes closer ...                                               Either we give up or we pray God to protect us ....                                 We can not hide our faces from what's going on ,but                                   We need to admit our weaknesses in front of God's fate ...                           As long as blizzards persist in hitting us like this ,then                                We have no choice until everything back to normal ....
Mohammad Skati Jan 2015
Snows challenge our existence and                                                                         We're completely incapable of                                                                                Doing anything ....                                                                                                   Life-threatening blizzards challenge                                                                     Us with their shapes and their sizes ....                                                                   In front of God's ability ,                                                                                          We become like tiny grains of sands ............                                                          Ugly blizzards are ugly monster                                                                          That prey on us ....
Willa Kong Apr 2015
Each life is nothing but a small snowflake.

Each is unique,
and soft.

Each lasts for merely a moment in time,
but its impact lasts.

Each can create dangerous blizzards,
only when many decide to hate.


Each can create a soft snowfall,
as beautiful as a White Christmas,
when many decide to love.


Life can be a snowstorm
a tranquil snowfall.
An analogy with life through snowflakes.
Maggie Emmett Feb 2015
Advice from Freuchen , the explorer

When Arctic blizzards blow
in Northern Greenland
and your supplies are low
and dwindling
the best advice is build an igloo
and wait out the storm.

And when you hear the wolves
howling with hunger
and prowling on your igloo roof
it’s best to go outside
and sing - only occasionally
though you will fight to be heard
above the judder of the wind.

Inside the igloo will be problematic
the walls seem to close in
as claustrophobic days proceed
it’s not an illusion
but a fact
each breath freezes moisture in the walls
and breath by breath they thicken
spaces close around your body
breathing yourself in a coffin of ice.

There’s no instrument of death
devised by man to so terrify
as being locked in space and time
each breath reminding you
of that closeness to that final loss
of breath and an icy Arctic death.
© M.L.Emmett
tranquil Oct 2013
schemes of naked solitude
engraved in storyline
as broken wings unsure
of blizzards lost in time

in different senses we
find dreariness alone
how ficklest root of us
strikes wilderness unknown

and know how hard it seems
to let go of your eyes
in mind of throbbing veins
in sifted crimson smile

feels as blessed we were
or cheated if it be
fallen to tricks of time
as treasures rest in sea
"Angels of the love affair, do you know that other,
the dark one, that other me?"


Angel of fire and genitals, do you know slime,
that green mama who first forced me to sing,
who put me first in the latrine, that pantomime
of brown where I was beggar and she was king?
I said, "The devil is down that festering hole."
Then he bit me in the buttocks and took over my soul.
Fire woman, you of the ancient flame, you
of the Bunsen burner, you of the candle,
you of the blast furnace, you of the barbecue,
you of the fierce solar energy, Mademoiselle,
take some ice, take come snow, take a month of rain
and you would gutter in the dark, cracking up your brain.

Mother of fire, let me stand at your devouring gate
as the sun dies in your arms and you loosen it's terrible weight.


Angel of clean sheets, do you know bedbugs?
Once in the madhouse they came like specks of cinnamon
as I lay in a choral cave of drugs,
as old as a dog, as quiet as a skeleton.
Little bits of dried blood. One hundred marks
upon the sheet. One hundred kisses in the dark.
White sheets smelling of soap and Clorox
have nothing to do with this night of soil,
nothing to do with barred windows and multiple locks
and all the webbing in the bed, the ultimate recoil.
I have slept in silk and in red and in black.
I have slept on sand and, on fall night, a haystack.

I have known a crib. I have known the tuck-in of a child
but inside my hair waits the night I was defiled.


Angel of flight and sleigh bells, do you know paralysis,
that ether house where your arms and legs are cement?
You are as still as a yardstick. You have a doll's kiss.
The brain whirls in a fit. The brain is not evident.
I have gone to that same place without a germ or a stroke.
A little solo act--that lady with the brain that broke.

In this fashion I have become a tree.
I have become a vase you can pick up or drop at will,
inanimate at last. What unusual luck! My body
passively resisting. Part of the leftovers. Part of the ****.
Angels of flight, you soarer, you flapper, you floater,
you gull that grows out of my back in the drreams I prefer,

stay near. But give me the totem. Give me the shut eye
where I stand in stone shoes as the world's bicycle goes by.


Angel of hope and calendars, do you know despair?
That hole I crawl into with a box of Kleenex,
that hole where the fire woman is tied to her chair,
that hole where leather men are wringing their necks,
where the sea has turned into a pond of *****.
There is no place to wash and no marine beings to stir in.

In this hole your mother is crying out each day.
Your father is eating cake and digging her grave.
In this hole your baby is strangling. Your mouth is clay.
Your eyes are made of glass. They break. You are not brave.
You are alone like a dog in a kennel. Your hands
break out in boils. Your arms are cut and bound by bands

of wire. Your voice is out there. Your voice is strange.
There are no prayers here. Here there is no change.


Angle of blizzards and blackouts, do you know raspberries,
those rubies that sat in the gree of my grandfather's garden?
You of the snow tires, you of the sugary wings, you freeze
me out. Leet me crawl through the patch. Let me be ten.
Let me pick those sweet kisses, thief that I was,
as the sea on my left slapped its applause.

Only my grandfather was allowed there. Or the maid
who came with a scullery pan to pick for breakfast.
She of the rols that floated in the air, she of the inlaid
woodwork all greasy with lemon, she of the feather and dust,
not I. Nonetheless I came sneaking across the salt lawn
in bare feet and jumping-jack pajamas in the spongy dawn.

Oh Angel of the blizzard and blackout, Madam white face,
take me back to that red mouth, that July 21st place.


Angel of beach houses and picnics, do you know solitaire?
Fifty-two reds and blacks and only myslef to blame.
My blood buzzes like a hornet's nest. I sit in a kitchen chair
at a table set for one. The silverware is the same
and the glass and the sugar bowl. I hear my lungs fill and expel
as in an operation. But I have no one left to tell.

Once I was a couple. I was my own king and queen
with cheese and bread and rose on the rocks of Rockport.
Once I sunbathed in the buff, all brown and lean,
watching the toy sloops go by, holding court
for busloads of tourists. Once I called breakfast the sexiest
meal of the day. Once I invited arrest

at the peace march in Washington. Once I was young and bold
and left hundreds of unmatched people out in the cold.
peter oram Dec 2011


This thorny hedgehog world is rolled into
oblivious winter sleep, where fierce dreams
have clawed a hold and block the probing beams
that keep on seeking for a passage through—

a sleep so heavy and so deep it seems
the sleep of someone who had dared to go
to all extremes, had nothing left to know
or do. As winter ices up the streams

and blizzards howl and hurtle snow on snow,
the  narrow valley teems with soldiers who
must face the foe upon the frontier to
that cold new country where we all shall go.


This thorny hedgehog world is rolled
into oblivious winter sleep,
where fierce dreams have clawed a hold

and block the probing beams that keep
on seeking for a passage through—
a sleep so heavy and so deep

it seems the sleep of someone who
had dared to go to all extremes,
had nothing left to know or do.

As winter ices up the streams
and blizzards howl and hurtle snow
on snow, the narrow valley teems

with soldiers who must face the foe
upon the frontier to that cold
new country where we all shall go.
THIS IS THE ULTIMATE IN FORMAL CHALLENGES! the poem has two forms, recto and verso, which are identical in content but must conform to the following:

Recto:  60 feet in 12 five-foot lines, rhymed ABBA BCCB CAAC
Verso:  60 feet in 15 four-foot lines, rhymed VWV WXW XYX YZY ZVZ (terza rima)

it will become clear very soon that
A=X, B=Y, C=Z
which makes the verso become in fact the following:

most important though: the result must be a real poem which has sense, music, cohesion and something to say....

go on - i dare you...
She was the rain
when I was spring
but summer became I,
alas it was just a fling

Naked branches in a
dendritic pattern
fastening on to leaves
as Fall fell.

But drives away the soft snow
the blizzards unwanted
a stormy winter

Skyward, the dark side of the moon
drawn to the faint traces of light -
continuously teased the edges
of the forgotten surface
obsession consumed I
to start a spin

I grow to become the
hunter only to see
the chamois conquering
my struggle

like an insect trapped
in the strings of
the eight legged
she beast
beating a
rhythmic tune
signalling a

the end of me
no bang
only a cleaver
silently shushing
with an overdrawn

Rigo Torres May 2010
Calming sounds of water droplets,
pounding on the floors.
Tiny water droplets running over people,
running over mountains.
Blizzards of powder
whitening the peaks of glorious mountains,
and slowly,
covering the tracks of this violent world.
The tides softening the cliffs up above
evenning the jagged edges.
The jagged edges of humanity
cannot be softened or overcome
unless we realize that united,
like water droplets flowing on the floor,
we can overcome whatever comes,
like the blizzards at the top of the world.
I WAS born on the prairie and the milk of its wheat, the red of its clover, the eyes of its women, gave me a song and a slogan.

Here the water went down, the icebergs slid with gravel, the gaps and the valleys hissed, and the black loam came, and the yellow sandy loam.
Here between the sheds of the Rocky Mountains and the Appalachians, here now a morning star fixes a fire sign over the timber claims and cow pastures, the corn belt, the cotton belt, the cattle ranches.
Here the gray geese go five hundred miles and back with a wind under their wings honking the cry for a new home.
Here I know I will hanker after nothing so much as one more sunrise or a sky moon of fire doubled to a river moon of water.

The prairie sings to me in the forenoon and I know in the night I rest easy in the prairie arms, on the prairie heart..    .    .
        After the sunburn of the day
        handling a pitchfork at a hayrack,
        after the eggs and biscuit and coffee,
        the pearl-gray haystacks
        in the gloaming
        are cool prayers
        to the harvest hands.

In the city among the walls the overland passenger train is choked and the pistons hiss and the wheels curse.
On the prairie the overland flits on phantom wheels and the sky and the soil between them muffle the pistons and cheer the wheels..    .    .
I am here when the cities are gone.
I am here before the cities come.
I nourished the lonely men on horses.
I will keep the laughing men who ride iron.
I am dust of men.

The running water babbled to the deer, the cottontail, the gopher.
You came in wagons, making streets and schools,
Kin of the ax and rifle, kin of the plow and horse,
Singing Yankee Doodle, Old Dan Tucker, Turkey in the Straw,
You in the coonskin cap at a log house door hearing a lone wolf howl,
You at a sod house door reading the blizzards and chinooks let loose from Medicine Hat,
I am dust of your dust, as I am brother and mother
To the copper faces, the worker in flint and clay,
The singing women and their sons a thousand years ago
Marching single file the timber and the plain.

I hold the dust of these amid changing stars.
I last while old wars are fought, while peace broods mother-like,
While new wars arise and the fresh killings of young men.
I fed the boys who went to France in great dark days.
Appomattox is a beautiful word to me and so is Valley Forge and the Marne and Verdun,
I who have seen the red births and the red deaths
Of sons and daughters, I take peace or war, I say nothing and wait.

Have you seen a red sunset drip over one of my cornfields, the shore of night stars, the wave lines of dawn up a wheat valley?
Have you heard my threshing crews yelling in the chaff of a strawpile and the running wheat of the wagonboards, my cornhuskers, my harvest hands hauling crops, singing dreams of women, worlds, horizons?.    .    .
        Rivers cut a path on flat lands.
        The mountains stand up.
        The salt oceans press in
        And push on the coast lines.
        The sun, the wind, bring rain
        And I know what the rainbow writes across the east or west in a half-circle:
        A love-letter pledge to come again..    .    .
      Towns on the Soo Line,
      Towns on the Big Muddy,
      Laugh at each other for cubs
      And tease as children.

Omaha and Kansas City, Minneapolis and St. Paul, sisters in a house together, throwing slang, growing up.
Towns in the Ozarks, Dakota wheat towns, Wichita, Peoria, Buffalo, sisters throwing slang, growing up..    .    .
Out of prairie-brown grass crossed with a streamer of wigwam smoke-out of a smoke pillar, a blue promise-out of wild ducks woven in greens and purples-
Here I saw a city rise and say to the peoples round world: Listen, I am strong, I know what I want.
Out of log houses and stumps-canoes stripped from tree-sides-flatboats coaxed with an ax from the timber claims-in the years when the red and the white men met-the houses and streets rose.

A thousand red men cried and went away to new places for corn and women: a million white men came and put up skyscrapers, threw out rails and wires, feelers to the salt sea: now the smokestacks bite the skyline with stub teeth.

In an early year the call of a wild duck woven in greens and purples: now the riveter's chatter, the police patrol, the song-whistle of the steamboat.

To a man across a thousand years I offer a handshake.
I say to him: Brother, make the story short, for the stretch of a thousand years is short..    .    .
What brothers these in the dark?
What eaves of skyscrapers against a smoke moon?
These chimneys shaking on the lumber shanties
When the coal boats plow by on the river-
The hunched shoulders of the grain elevators-
The flame sprockets of the sheet steel mills
And the men in the rolling mills with their shirts off
Playing their flesh arms against the twisting wrists of steel:
        what brothers these
        in the dark
        of a thousand years?.    .    .
A headlight searches a snowstorm.
A funnel of white light shoots from over the pilot of the Pioneer Limited crossing Wisconsin.

In the morning hours, in the dawn,
The sun puts out the stars of the sky
And the headlight of the Limited train.

The fireman waves his hand to a country school teacher on a bobsled.
A boy, yellow hair, red scarf and mittens, on the bobsled, in his lunch box a pork chop sandwich and a V of gooseberry pie.

The horses fathom a snow to their knees.
Snow hats are on the rolling prairie hills.
The Mississippi bluffs wear snow hats..    .    .
Keep your hogs on changing corn and mashes of grain,
    O farmerman.
    Cram their insides till they waddle on short legs
    Under the drums of bellies, hams of fat.
    **** your hogs with a knife slit under the ear.
    Hack them with cleavers.
    Hang them with hooks in the hind legs..    .    .
A wagonload of radishes on a summer morning.
Sprinkles of dew on the crimson-purple *****.
The farmer on the seat dangles the reins on the rumps of dapple-gray horses.
The farmer's daughter with a basket of eggs dreams of a new hat to wear to the county fair..    .    .
On the left-and right-hand side of the road,
        Marching corn-
I saw it knee high weeks ago-now it is head high-tassels of red silk creep at the ends of the ears..    .    .
I am the prairie, mother of men, waiting.
They are mine, the threshing crews eating beefsteak, the farmboys driving steers to the railroad cattle pens.
They are mine, the crowds of people at a Fourth of July basket picnic, listening to a lawyer read the Declaration of Independence, watching the pinwheels and Roman candles at night, the young men and women two by two hunting the bypaths and kissing bridges.
They are mine, the horses looking over a fence in the frost of late October saying good-morning to the horses hauling wagons of rutabaga to market.
They are mine, the old zigzag rail fences, the new barb wire..    .    .
The cornhuskers wear leather on their hands.
There is no let-up to the wind.
Blue bandannas are knotted at the ruddy chins.

Falltime and winter apples take on the smolder of the five-o'clock November sunset: falltime, leaves, bonfires, stubble, the old things go, and the earth is grizzled.
The land and the people hold memories, even among the anthills and the angleworms, among the toads and woodroaches-among gravestone writings rubbed out by the rain-they keep old things that never grow old.

The frost loosens corn husks.
The Sun, the rain, the wind
        loosen corn husks.
The men and women are helpers.
They are all cornhuskers together.
I see them late in the western evening
        in a smoke-red dust..    .    .
The phantom of a yellow rooster flaunting a scarlet comb, on top of a dung pile crying hallelujah to the streaks of daylight,
The phantom of an old hunting dog nosing in the underbrush for muskrats, barking at a **** in a treetop at midnight, chewing a bone, chasing his tail round a corncrib,
The phantom of an old workhorse taking the steel point of a plow across a forty-acre field in spring, hitched to a harrow in summer, hitched to a wagon among cornshocks in fall,
These phantoms come into the talk and wonder of people on the front porch of a farmhouse late summer nights.
"The shapes that are gone are here," said an old man with a cob pipe in his teeth one night in Kansas with a hot wind on the alfalfa..    .    .
Look at six eggs
In a mockingbird's nest.

Listen to six mockingbirds
Flinging follies of O-be-joyful
Over the marshes and uplands.

Look at songs
Hidden in eggs..    .    .
When the morning sun is on the trumpet-vine blossoms, sing at the kitchen pans: Shout All Over God's Heaven.
When the rain slants on the potato hills and the sun plays a silver shaft on the last shower, sing to the bush at the backyard fence: Mighty Lak a Rose.
When the icy sleet pounds on the storm windows and the house lifts to a great breath, sing for the outside hills: The Ole Sheep Done Know the Road, the Young Lambs Must Find the Way..    .    .
Spring slips back with a girl face calling always: "Any new songs for me? Any new songs?"

O prairie girl, be lonely, singing, dreaming, waiting-your lover comes-your child comes-the years creep with toes of April rain on new-turned sod.
O prairie girl, whoever leaves you only crimson poppies to talk with, whoever puts a good-by kiss on your lips and never comes back-
There is a song deep as the falltime redhaws, long as the layer of black loam we go to, the shine of the morning star over the corn belt, the wave line of dawn up a wheat valley..    .    .
O prairie mother, I am one of your boys.
I have loved the prairie as a man with a heart shot full of pain over love.
Here I know I will hanker after nothing so much as one more sunrise or a sky moon of fire doubled to a river moon of water..    .    .
I speak of new cities and new people.
I tell you the past is a bucket of ashes.
I tell you yesterday is a wind gone down,
  a sun dropped in the west.
I tell you there is nothing in the world
  only an ocean of to-morrows,
  a sky of to-morrows.

I am a brother of the cornhuskers who say
  at sundown:
        To-morrow is a day.
Katlyn Orthman Oct 2012
Hills on top of fathomless hills  
Where I have built my home
I walked here through the driest desserts
Swam here through the deepest seas
Hiked here through blizzards on mountains
A little piece taken each moment  
Until I reached these hills
At top the rise of the earth
I look out at the universe
I can look out and say
I have been here
I have left my mark
Where it is the most important
I can look at the people building
Their  homes and dreams and goals
And know they to will stand about
Their own hill, they will know that they
Made a difference in the world
Just by breathing the air
By making one laugh
And with that I may stray to the Mothers
And be sound , knowing I did my part
THE BOY Alexander understands his father to be a famous lawyer.
The leather law books of Alexander's father fill a room like hay in a barn.
Alexander has asked his father to let him build a house like bricklayers build, a house with walls and roofs made of big leather law books.
  The rain beats on the windows
  And the raindrops run down the window glass
  And the raindrops slide off the green blinds down the siding.
The boy Alexander dreams of Napoleon in John C. Abbott's history, Napoleon the grand and lonely man wronged, Napoleon in his life wronged and in his memory wronged.
The boy Alexander dreams of the cat Alice saw, the cat fading off into the dark and leaving the teeth of its Cheshire smile lighting the gloom.
Buffaloes, blizzards, way down in Texas, in the panhandle of Texas snuggling close to New Mexico,
These creep into Alexander's dreaming by the window when his father talks with strange men about land down in Deaf Smith County.
Alexander's father tells the strange men: Five years ago we ran a Ford out on the prairie and chased antelopes.
Only once or twice in a long while has Alexander heard his father say "my first wife" so-and-so and such-and-such.
A few times softly the father has told Alexander, "Your mother ... was a beautiful woman ... but we won't talk about her."
Always Alexander listens with a keen listen when he hears his father mention "my first wife" or "Alexander's mother."
Alexander's father smokes a cigar and the Episcopal rector smokes a cigar and the words come often: mystery of life, mystery of life.
These two come into Alexander's head blurry and gray while the rain beats on the windows and the raindrops run down the window glass and the raindrops slide off the green blinds and down the siding.
These and: There is a God, there must be a God, how can there be rain or sun unless there is a God?
So from the wrongs of Napoleon and the Cheshire cat smile on to the buffaloes and blizzards of Texas and on to his mother and to God, so the blurry gray rain dreams of Alexander have gone on five minutes, maybe ten, keeping slow easy time to the raindrops on the window glass and the raindrops sliding off the green blinds and down the siding.
Mohammad Skati Feb 2015
Before huge blizzards happen ,                                                                                         There must be complete readiness                                                                                       From those emergency crews just                                                                                                            To clear streets fully to us anytime ...                                                                                                                                                   The crews' wonderful readiness is                                                                                     Something great and fabulous ......                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           Salt's piles must be available just                                                                                       To get it spread on the grounds .......                                                                                         If those emergency's crews are not                                                                                           Ready,then it's better not to come                                                                                      Simply because readiness must be                                                                                       Fully without any hesitations anytime ...                                                                                There are a few blizzards extending                                                                                   Global and all emergency's crews                                                                                                        Must be prepared here and there .....
Amitav Radiance Jul 2014
Your silence is like blizzards
Dampening the passionate fire
Numbing all emotions
paige Jan 2014
snowflakes remind me of people

the way some come down in soft, gentle drifts
and some in harsh, thrashing blizzards

some sit nicely on your sleeves
and some fly straight into your hair

it doesn't matter how the snowflakes drift to you, or how they stick to you
each and every snowflake is different and unique

it always takes more than one try to find that perfect snowflake

so go outside, be brave
your perfect snowflake is waiting for you somewhere out there
now im just ?????????????
I AM a hoodlum, you are a hoodlum, we and all of us are a world of hoodlums-maybe so.
I hate and **** better men than I am, so do you, so do all of us-maybe-maybe so.
In the ends of my fingers the itch for another man's neck, I want to see him hanging, one of dusk's cartoons against the sunset.
This is the hate my father gave me, this was in my mother's milk, this is you and me and all of us in a world of hoodlums-maybe so.
Let us go on, brother hoodlums, let us **** and ****, it has always been so, it will always be so, there is nothing more to it.
Let us go on, sister hoodlums, ****, ****, and ****, the torsoes of the world's mother's are tireless and the ***** of the world's fathers are strong-so go on-****, ****, ****.
Lay them deep in the dirt, the stiffs we fixed, the cadavers bumped off, lay them deep and let the night winds of winter blizzards howl their burial service.
The night winds and the winter, the great white sheets of northern blizzards, who can sing better for the lost hoodlums the old requiem, "**** him! **** him!..."
Today my son, to-morrow yours, the day after your next door neighbor's-it is all in the wrists of the gods who shoot craps-it is anybody's guess whose eyes shut next.
Being a hoodlum now, you and I, being all of us a world of hoodlums, let us take up the cry when the mob sluffs by on a thousand shoe soles, let us too yammer, "**** him! **** him!..."
Let us do this now ... for our mothers ... for our sisters and wives ... let us ****, ****, ****-for the torsoes of the women are tireless and the ***** of the men are strong.Chicago, July 29, 1919.
Serenus Raymone Oct 2012
Mother Nature

(Poem by Serenus)

Mother, Oh Mother

You’re such a woman scorn

Your children mistreated you

And now we’re caught in your storm

Your womb, birthed the earth

And from the earth, we were born

We use to be so close

But now we’re just a family torn

Smoke stole your sweet scent

We scorched your beautiful hair

Your skin sealed in cement

Suffering from thirst, but we didn’t care

We force fed you poison

We put a price on your head

Taking your gifts for granted

And we left you for dead

But Mother, Oh Mother

You have come back

With a vengeance!

Your temper is heated

With no signs of forgiveness

Your touch use to be gentle

Tough-love, but modest

But your backlash has been brutal

The judgment of a goddess

Hurricanes, acid rains,

Monsoons, tsunamis

Droughts, water spouts

And quakes that sneak up calmly

Blizzards, floods, tornadoes, and wildfires

And we never cried for you Mommy

Now our situation is absolutely dire

We are begging for a day that’s balmy

To protect yourself from your people

You are fighting back

And all we can do is stop our evil

Reflect-and stand back

But Mother, Oh mother

Can we be saved?

Or have you sealed our fate

For the way we behaved?

…Before she can be her children’s savor

Rescue us, from our own bad behavior

She must save herself "first

So don’t blame her

She’s a mother

Protective power

Is in her nature

She said she’ll get back to us later

…First she has to communicate

With “The Father”…Her creator
Lovers all are soldiers, and Cupid has his campaigns:
I tell you, Atticus, lovers all are soldiers.
Youth is fit for war, and also fit for Venus.
Imagine an aged soldier, an elderly lover!
A general looks for spirit in his brave soldiery;
a pretty girl wants spirit in her companions.
Both stay up all night long, and each sleeps on the ground;
one guards his mistress's doorway, one his general's.
The soldier's lot requires far journeys; send his girl,
the zealous lover will follow her anywhere.
He'll cross the glowering mountains, the rivers swollen with storm;
he'll tread a pathway through the heaped-up snows;
and never whine of raging Eurus when he sets sail
or wait for stars propitious for his voyage.
Who but lovers and soldiers endure the chill of night,
and blizzards interspersed with driving rain?
The soldier reconnoiters among the dangerous foe;
the lover spies to learn his rival's plans.
Soldiers besiege strong cities; lovers, a harsh girl's home;
one storms town gates, the other storms house doors.
It's clever strategy to raid a sleeping foe
and slay an unarmed host by force of arms.
(That's how the troops of Thracian Rhesus met their doom,
and you, O captive steeds, forsook your master.)
Well, lovers take advantage of husbands when they sleep,
launching surprise attacks while the enemy snores.
To slip through bands of guards and watchful sentinels
is always the soldier's mission - and the lover's.
Mars wavers; Venus flutters: the conquered rise again,
and those you'd think could never fall, lie low.
So those who like to say that love is indolent
should stop: Love is the soul of enterprise.
Sad Achilles burns for Briseis, his lost darling:
Trojans, smash the Greeks' power while you may!
From Andromache's embrace Hector went to war;
his own wife set the helmet on his head;
and High King Agamemnon, looking on Priam's child,
was stunned (they say) by the Maenad's flowing hair.
And Mars himself was trapped in The Artificer's bonds:
no tale was more notorious in heaven.
I too was once an idler, born for careless ease;
my shady couch had made my spirit soft.
But care for a lovely girl aroused me from my sloth
and bid me to enlist in her campaign.
So now you see me forceful, in combat all night long.
If you want a life of action, fall in love.
Mohammad Skati Jan 2015
That pretty city never ever sleeps ,but                                                                    Those ugly blizzards forced it to do ...                                                                    All pretty streets,roads,and all alleys                                                                      Got shut down completely ....                                                                                  Only that white gown covers all of its                                                                    Landscapes fully and ghosts roam its                                                                     Nights without any disturbances ....                                                                       Blizzards slap everyone and everything                                                                 With their upper-hands anytime ....                                                                                     Nature rules outside and                                                                                     Everyone remains inside ....                                                                                 As long as these strong blizzards prevail,then                                                   That pretty city will be shut down ...
Mahnoor Kamran May 2017
I climbed slowly,
slowly on the mount of aspirations,
On        succint        savoury        dreams,
As i see the success peaking from thousand miles above.

I grip the cold stone
tighter, harder,
My passion,
my hardwork,
As i swiftly float
from    the   ground.

of laze and evil,
Reign against me,
trying to break my hold.
Yet the fire of my
Still burns

My thick woolen
coat hugs me tight,
My faith, my values,
Protecting me from
the blizzards of
jealousy, vile,
As i wind
my way

A glance
And the horrid past knocks
on the veins of my sullen heart,
Yet this soul will give up
no more.

The weary body,
driven by heraculous force,
through the steep slopes of time,
Against enormous storms and stints,
With an armour of patience,
Finds itself on dome of

of unscathed bliss,
Enamour for success,
And it's sweet sweet honey.
That slowly melts in my heart,
On top of the mountain,
Where everything is

the top,
the hardwork,
the giant path looks small,
As the heart prepares to climb,
Another                              mountain.
No goal is small. No dream is small. And neither the sacrifice and hard work involved to attain them. And dreams come in all shapes and flavours, just like the paragraphs of this poem!
gd Jan 2014
It's been so cold lately,
causing blizzards of ice to break some promises.
These snowy endeavours are embroidered with a pure white lost lust,
hidden behind a mirage of warm sunrises,
which remind me of
is where I found you,
hidden away behind a curtain of my carelessness
and amongst the budding flowers, I discovered a hidden gem between your smile.
It glittered like the sun and caressed my ego with flirty innuendoes;
we laughed with our eyes and touched with our voices,
captivated by the city of love whilst captivating each other.
Though, the days grew longer leading to
is where I loved you,
but hadn't known it yet. I ached for your company as if it were air,
filling my lungs with your scent; memorized and mesmerized
just as easily from your bright eyes and small lips.
The long days mimicked the long nights that seemed to keep us inseparable
like how the wind kiss the leaves everyday until they
is where I fell for you -
hard, building up my heart with hope only to bruise it black and blue.
But how ironic could it be that the seasons changed as quickly as your mind?
It's been as cold as the days doomed by early sunsets
which could only mean
is where I lost you,
yet the worst part of all seems to be the frost
knocking at my window every single night
just to remind me that I should have left you
behind in autumn.

Just a massive thank you from the bottom of my heart for all the feedback I received from (m)elody. You guys are all wonderful!
Creep Jan 2015
It is snowing today...
How fitting.
You came in and took me like a blizzard,
Left me in awe,
Blew me around,
Showed me your love,
And I showed you mine.

But you blew away, left.
Remnants of you remain,
Then, contaminated,
And finally,
Particularly for anyone. Sorry I can't write today. I have a lot on my mind.

happy little pill
by troy sivan
Vivian Elise Jun 2015
Day two of the coldest winter
Even the defrost cycle on my long car rides to clear my mind will not make these bones anything else than frigid
We were a blizzard, our love affair, cooped up in my room for 5 days
We didn't leave bed except for the necessities, we didn't leave bed except for coffee and cigarettes
I'm not ready to admit it's over yet
My room strewn with artifacts that once belonged to you
The ring you gave me now a holy and sacred treasure
That sits in my teacup altar to the gods I may or may not believe in
I don't believe in many concrete ideas
But I believe in the idea of you
I love the idea of you
The creases in your smile
As you kissed my neck in the night
Now I wake up alone and reach for you
Only to find the dogs have taken your place
Don't get me wrong, I love them so much
But the sanctity of your skin could never compare
To the warmth provided by the mongrels I share my bed with
I'm rambling
I'm not making any sense
Like our love affair
Too fast to fall
But it made so much sense
Written in January
Mohammad Skati Jan 2015
It's not just to rain or to snow anytime ...........                                                        Rains and snows are Winter's .............................                                                      Winter is consisting of special feelings and emotions                                              Around fireplaces ,stoves,and any kind of enjoy those                                               Wintry nights anytime,anywhere,and everywhere ..............                                  That pretty season is unique in everything it contains                                              Even those hard times we face during storms and blizzards ...                                Writing poems about Winter elevates any poet's                                                        Feelings and emotions anytime ....................                                                                To be in that wonderful Winter means                                                                     To be in a special beauty of nature itself ........................                                       Winter dances greatly and wonderfully with its tools                                            To tell us that it loves to hug and to embrace everyone of you ....                   _____________________Wi­nter's profile - عن الشتاء
Timothy Nov 2016
O lief pure snow shall garnish ev'ry tree
As Winter Storms compel snowflakes to fly,
And make drab landscape daz'ling sight to see
Whilst grey clouds swell and fill up sapphire sky.
Bold firs and pines all capp'd in feath'ry snow
And just a hint of emerald is seen;
Sometime snow drifts, sometime harsh blizzards blow,
Which leaves behind a lovely Winter scene.
But frozen still may be both lawn and lake,
And hoarfrost lines each windowpane with care;
Slow melt, slow thaw, slow crocuses awake,
And Time moves on 'til dawn of Spring we share.
     For though cold Winter reigns with ice and freeze,
     I hold within my mind sweet Springtime breeze.
© Timothy 29 November 2016 10am EST
Lief here meaning, soon. Archaic word.
(Bergen)SEVEN days all fog, all mist, and the turbines pounding through high seas.
I was a plaything, a rat's neck in the teeth of a scuffling mastiff.
Fog and fog and no stars, sun, moon.
Then an afternoon in fjords, low-lying lands scrawled in granite languages on a gray sky,
A night harbor, blue dusk mountain shoulders against a night sky,
And a circle of lights blinking: Ninety thousand people here.
  Among the Wednesday night thousands in goloshes and coats slickered for rain,
  I learned how hungry I was for streets and people.
I would rather be water than anything else.
I saw a drive of salt fog and mist in the North Atlantic and an iceberg dusky as a cloud in the gray of morning.
And I saw the dream pools of fjords in Norway ... and the scarf of dancing water on the rocks and over the edges of mountain shelves.
Bury me in a mountain graveyard in Norway.
Three tongues of water sing around it with snow from the mountains.
Bury me in the North Atlantic.
A fog there from Iceland will be a murmur in gray over me and a long deep wind sob always.
Bury me in an Illinois cornfield.
The blizzards loosen their pipe ***** voluntaries in winter stubble and the spring rains and the fall rains bring letters from the sea.
Yonnick August Dec 2018
"Someday we will foresee obstacles,
through the blizzards,
through the blizzards."

Beautiful words filled with hope,
words so relatable.
Words coupled with a soothing sound,
thank you,
Syd Matters.
Reference to a song I think is really good. The words are so relatable.
It's called "Obstacles" by Syd Matters.
Carter Ginter Jul 2014
Why can't I control my mind?
I'm alone and anger is all I can find.
Each day the evil spreads
Deep into my heart and inside my head.
I'm unsure of where it rose first
I only feel it digging deep, getting worse.
I hate everything I see
No. I hate me.
I'm the worst, most days
Easy to see why people don't stay.
I treat everyone terribly
Unfortunately, even my own family.
So "he" can reject me at the Gates of Heaven
I swear Hell can't be much worse than the places that I've been.
Day after day drag out and in
Clawing and tearing and wearing my skin.
Oh where did I go?
When did I get surrounded in this never ending snow.
Blizzards of pain and confusion
It's too clear to me now that I'm no longer losing
I've lost.

I am thirty this November.
You are still small, in your fourth year.
We stand watching the yellow leaves go queer,
flapping in the winter rain.
falling flat and washed. And I remember
mostly the three autumns you did not live here.
They said I'd never get you back again.
I tell you what you'll never really know:
all the medical hypothesis
that explained my brain will never be as true as these
struck leaves letting go.

I, who chose two times
to **** myself, had said your nickname
the mewling mouths when you first came;
until a fever rattled
in your throat and I moved like a pantomine
above your head. Ugly angels spoke to me. The blame,
I heard them say, was mine. They tattled
like green witches in my head, letting doom
leak like a broken faucet;
as if doom had flooded my belly and filled your bassinet,
an old debt I must assume.

Death was simpler than I'd thought.
The day life made you well and whole
I let the witches take away my guilty soul.
I pretended I was dead
until the white men pumped the poison out,
putting me armless and washed through the rigamarole
of talking boxes and the electric bed.
I laughed to see the private iron in that hotel.
Today the yellow leaves
go queer. You ask me where they go I say today believed
in itself, or else it fell.

Today, my small child, Joyce,
love your self's self where it lives.
There is no special God to refer to; or if there is,
why did I let you grow
in another place. You did not know my voice
when I came back to call. All the superlatives
of tomorrow's white tree and mistletoe
will not help you know the holidays you had to miss.
The time I did not love
myself, I visited your shoveled walks; you held my glove.
There was new snow after this.


They sent me letters with news
of you and I made moccasins that I would never use.
When I grew well enough to tolerate
myself, I lived with my mother, the witches said.
But I didn't leave. I had my portrait
done instead.

Part way back from Bedlam
I came to my mother's house in Gloucester,
Massachusetts. And this is how I came
to catch at her; and this is how I lost her.
I cannot forgive your suicide, my mother said.
And she never could. She had my portrait
done instead.

I lived like an angry guest,
like a partly mended thing, an outgrown child.
I remember my mother did her best.
She took me to Boston and had my hair restyled.
Your smile is like your mother's, the artist said.
I didn't seem to care. I had my portrait
done instead.

There was a church where I grew up
with its white cupboards where they locked us up,
row by row, like puritans or shipmates
singing together. My father passed the plate.
Too late to be forgiven now, the witches said.
I wasn't exactly forgiven. They had my portrait
done instead.


All that summer sprinklers arched
over the seaside grass.
We talked of drought
while the salt-parched
field grew sweet again. To help time pass
I tried to mow the lawn
and in the morning I had my portrait done,
holding my smile in place, till it grew formal.
Once I mailed you a picture of a rabbit
and a postcard of Motif number one,
as if it were normal
to be a mother and be gone.

They hung my portrait in the chill
north light, matching
me to keep me well.
Only my mother grew ill.
She turned from me, as if death were catching,
as if death transferred,
as if my dying had eaten inside of her.
That August you were two, by I timed my days with doubt.
On the first of September she looked at me
and said I gave her cancer.
They carved her sweet hills out
and still I couldn't answer.


That winter she came
part way back
from her sterile suite
of doctors, the seasick
cruise of the X-ray,
the cells' arithmetic
gone wild. Surgery incomplete,
the fat arm, the prognosis poor, I heard
them say.

During the sea blizzards
she had here
own portrait painted.
A cave of mirror
placed on the south wall;
matching smile, matching contour.
And you resembled me; unacquainted
with my face, you wore it. But you were mine
after all.

I wintered in Boston,
childless bride,
nothing sweet to spare
with witches at my side.
I missed your babyhood,
tried a second suicide,
tried the sealed hotel a second year.
On April Fool you fooled me. We laughed and this
was good.


I checked out for the last time
on the first of May;
graduate of the mental cases,
with my analysts's okay,
my complete book of rhymes,
my typewriter and my suitcases.

All that summer I learned life
back into my own
seven rooms, visited the swan boats,
the market, answered the phone,
served cocktails as a wife
should, made love among my petticoats

and August tan. And you came each
weekend. But I lie.
You seldom came. I just pretended
you, small piglet, butterfly
girl with jelly bean cheeks,
disobedient three, my splendid

stranger. And I had to learn
why I would rather
die than love, how your innocence
would hurt and how I gather
guilt like a young intern
his symptons, his certain evidence.

That October day we went
to Gloucester the red hills
reminded me of the dry red fur fox
coat I played in as a child; stock still
like a bear or a tent,
like a great cave laughing or a red fur fox.

We drove past the hatchery,
the hut that sells bait,
past Pigeon Cove, past the Yacht Club, past Squall's
Hill, to the house that waits
still, on the top of the sea,
and two portraits hung on the opposite walls.


In north light, my smile is held in place,
the shadow marks my bone.
What could I have been dreaming as I sat there,
all of me waiting in the eyes, the zone
of the smile, the young face,
the foxes' snare.

In south light, her smile is held in place,
her cheeks wilting like a dry
orchid; my mocking mirror, my overthrown
love, my first image. She eyes me from that face
that stony head of death
I had outgrown.

The artist caught us at the turning;
we smiled in our canvas home
before we chose our foreknown separate ways.
The dry redfur fox coat was made for burning.
I rot on the wall, my own
Dorian Gray.

And this was the cave of the mirror,
that double woman who stares
at herself, as if she were petrified
in time -- two ladies sitting in umber chairs.
You kissed your grandmother
and she cried.


I could not get you back
except for weekends. You came
each time, clutching the picture of a rabbit
that I had sent you. For the last time I unpack
your things. We touch from habit.
The first visit you asked my name.
Now you will stay for good. I will forget
how we bumped away from each other like marionettes
on strings. It wasn't the same
as love, letting weekends contain
us. You scrape your knee. You learn my name,
wobbling up the sidewalk, calling and crying.
You can call me mother and I remember my mother again,
somewhere in greater Boston, dying.

I remember we named you Joyce
so we could call you Joy.
You came like an awkward guest
that first time, all wrapped and moist
and strange at my heavy breast.
I needed you. I didn't want a boy,
only a girl, a small milky mouse
of a girl, already loved, already loud in the house
of herself. We named you Joy.
I, who was never quite sure
about being a girl, needed another
life, another image to remind me.
And this was my worst guilt; you could not cure
or soothe it. I made you to find me.
a polar vortex
swirls eastward
on Siberian Tiger paws
bounding over
Appalachian Highlands
gobbling geography
gelling Great Lakes
spawning Erie blizzards
sculpting Wabash ice floes
clogging commerce all
along the Ohio River Valley

this voracious
juggernaut’s wide maw
bears icicle teeth
laughing as it swallows
Pittsburgh, Little Philly,
and a Big Apple, before
gorging itself on
generous portions
ladled into
simmering crocks
of steaming
Boston Baked Beans

blue arctic
air blasts roar
bursts pipes
savages the heat
of blasting furnaces,
bubbling boilers, hot
belly stoves frantically
drinking oil, flaming gas
burning wood and
burping soot

the blistering
jet stream claws
screech a slashing
stratospheric hum
as Frigidaire blasts
swallows breath
brittles limbs
chafes cheeks
gnaws earlobes
crystallizes tears
nibbles nostrils
cubes snot
numbs toes
bites digits

diving sub zero
gradient subdues
batteries to
deaden states
delays buses
derails trains
cuts power
constricts veins
preys on
and animals

get the homeless
off the street!
bring the animals in
check on your
elderly neighbors
don’t get caught outside
and shut the **** door!
do you own stock
in the Public Service?

beware the polar vortex
and next months heating bill

Sonny Boy Williamson
& Otis Spann
Nine Below Zero

mEb Oct 2010
Upon his glottal’s larynx spreads a lingual deformity. Isolation as a result from tuggo disaffiliates. Misshapen promontory in the direction of upper-body inflammation. Not only above torso alone, location;head/injury;mouth/main informative;tongue.
The boy’s tongue was permanently horned. A horn of 18 inches shy, where taste buds formulate, he owned a lone spike. He wasn’t abraded by the unfoldment of onlookers around. His irregular attachment was a main confidant. Criticized, he was not welcomed by towns near. Citizen’s were baffled and disgusted, ridiculing him daily, he did not impale with grieve over appearance. Enmity he wanted and craved. Among the works of flesh, square inch niches, repugnance revealed. Revenge, revenge. Vindictive spirit shelled so timely and calm. Remaining this state of sumptuous integrity made him stronger each go about. These goes were so stimulus, adding to the *** of hatred. Deep into the tundra’s most vile he intruded. Went so every month or few, for weeks at a time. For this sheet of rigid earth so contiguous to the town made the worried weary, the skeptical seared, and the nautical not so knitted with directional sense. This was his consummation of gathering. The place of being a being. The dry winter amid eight months was restricted, so the moment a due mustn’t be bothered. He had his reason of validness for course. A rich succulent from the bearings of plant life on cliffs. Repelling an obstacle such as was ludicrous for even one born the ever so adequate and society defined norm. Now having a tongue with a horn, some sought might as well die to be reborn. He had to, to stay alive. The liquid, which sit so treacherous, was the mold to mouth medicine. To speak at all it must be attained. Not only a curdling death trap waiting to swallow, the boy had to get a plentiful amount for the hard hitting winters collied. His tongue could swell like the storms, loud crimson on the esophagus. To die of asphyxiation was his dodge of ultimatum.
While passing by a local television in a thrift shop-
“Today’s Newscast: Blizzards, moving in at speeds of 94 mph. Predicted to cover like a blanket for 12 months. Ice Age relative people, this one is gonna be big! Stay indoors at night, the barometric’s indicate that from 9PM to 4AM temperatures as low as 28- will stouten for the next year. Once again people, stay indoors at these hours, get your needs when available. Back to you Ronda with the quintuplets birth today!”
Plucked and grit witted he stood. He felt the trepidation of abhorrence swaying in orbit around him. How to emanate from this delay? At least five clones of self did not exist for him. Merriment struct pro, while the cons derived from which they know. Exultation when despondent, how greatly that gift could gab. Despoilment of that, he weighed options out. To altercate thick snow or simply, let it go. Afraid to die unrivaled, the off cutting is wisest. Since his first second to now he’s flourished with his horn. Obliteration to the occulted manifestation mannered as an antique replica of anyone catching him by twice by day. Remove it, remove it, remove if you want life in your years that follow. Remove it, ever so. Remove it, cut and sew. Cut and sew. Remove.
This plateau poisoned place stay calm, anticipating climate of tempest bold reaches, anyone who was anyone was not so. Negative degrees. How could he retaliate the opposite, while acquiring a surgeon field hay day buck builder? Eruption turns the wave of cons. An only equal precision, deciding, tonight is the night. To assemble the tools, publicly was questionable, no more, through. He will emerge to the lands and people a new man, sustained, and hornless. No more. From scratch he will vender what’s needed. Wood was chiseled under the last moon viewed for three sixty three days ahead. Uprooted vines of old pine will hold the bark tight. Breath revealing around the outsides of his appendage. Like a fork in the road, which way can you go, for him air strides both. Scuffling fearful towards the pike of the tundra, he is where wanted by none. A be all end all as you could alleviate ones slightest sympathy, the courage it takes, ****** immense. His sweat was not seen, but there it consists. One hand grappled around his earthly dagger, tongue positioned in an outward arrangement. Travail glowing all over him as an aura unlanguid with no disruption veering. Abound now, without great weight on his shoulders, he’s lived. Ascending keen eyes towards the blood bath around his feet, going both ways around the fork and road. After relinquishing his steady gavel, the checking of his pulse is counted. 5, 6, 7, 8, seconds, still life to live. For the very first ritual to come, placed in his mouth, the tongue. The rigid roof so unfamiliar and new he bestowed in his joy of such a common flank. The tundra felt warm as he inside let over pour. Once more a milder gasp as he vociferates to the last moon for the year. On his peak, and favored place of being, he let out his tongue. Sharp inclement so hawkish and frosted he felt. The lilliputian of no pain, heeded by first snow to wane.
this was inspired by the album art of Morgul;
Roisin Sullivan Jan 2014
You hit me like a blizzard
Hits the northeast, fast and strong.
At first it seems a blessing,
Get time off from school or work
And spend the day off lounging.
But then the cold starts to set
And the sharp winds start roaring
Threatening to break the house
As snow piles up around
Making me a prisoner.
Heavy clouds clutter the sky
And hard hail pounds on the roof
Like a terrified heartbeat.
And I start to wonder why
I thought this was a good thing.
I'm only thankful that like
Blizzards you eventually
Are gone from my life as well;
Leaving behind bright blue skies
And hope for a tomorrow.
Cunning Linguist Jul 2019
*****, I’m still deft like a leopard;
Repping these streets,
Still chasing da paper
Quick wit the maths,
SoCal’d-rap c u lator
Innovate it & faded,
I drink it straight up, no chaser

Backw(ar/oo)ds I’m facing
I’m trippin’ my laces
Inhaling clouds of a thousand lit vapors
Sowing my seeds,
Young man he ain’t got no patience
Be wading my way
Thru a crowd of y'all haters

Insane bro,
How they still don't know my name
Money and fame
I scream while I slang,
It's lame
And I can't move my feet,
my knees are weak
Padlocked to my mafkin’ seat

****** around and popped some molly,
U know I be boolin’
Wit a couple of y’all thotties
My Impala’s no ‘Rari
I’m not saying sorry,
***** I got no money
My Mom’s where my house be

I see you sneak dissin’
Just gonna squeeze this in
I’m a heathen and I mean it
~Ope please excuse the dopeness,
I’m just wokest with the flow dontcha know it?
Best have some hands to throw 4sho,
Unless u glow wit it

If I had as much love
As I had **** in my pants,
I’d fill you up at the first glance,
Given the chance
Got u entranced,
We **** when we drance
I’ll show you London,
You show me France yeah

Suicide’s on my mind
Though I can’t seem to find
Motivation inside
I say I wanna try
But I’m wasting my time
Just want some good vibes
Hmu if you find em?

Said I'm havoc wit astounding clout
Blow clouds spit them fractals wow
shifting shapes, him prismatic now
-I’m in another dimension
Guess I never questioned
the consequences
of my pathetic aesthetic

Ya I wear a ****** mask
so you can’t see my pain
Tell me does it resonate,
Does that penetrate your brain?
Man everyday, it straight feel the ****** same
So let’s just vegetate
Now watch me steady levitate
I’m breaking loud,
Falling apart like towers to a plane
Flowers to a flame burning down,
Mayday, mayday
You melt the beams in my heart,
What can I ******’ say?
Catch me diving headfirst in them opposite lanes
Then my mind,
Gets flushed down the ******’ the drain
*****, if you ain’t a succubus
Get the **** up out my gravy train

I smoke big doinks
Gets my mind zoinked
To the point I’m anointed

All about the jinkies
When I'm smoking on that ******,
Take you to the movies,
Tryna feel up them *******
Finna get *****,
I’m no noobie wit a Hoop-D
Shoot my shot up in the *******,
When I hit her wit da roofie

That beat slap harder than a drunk stepfather
When you feeling up his daughter
Got some choppers in the locker,
-Steady mob but I’m a scholar
Now they droppin’ all these dollas
Got the armor to conjure
& conquer the darkest monsters
Hollerin at my partner,
Slobber on my whopper while I stomp em’
Noggin I’m finna clobber
Coldest shoulder on the mountain

My manhood hooked in the crook of ur nook
Y’all wanna tip toe but I don’t pussyfoot,
Wanna throw bows?
Tell ya *** not to look
Vibrate in the ****,
You could say that ***** was shook

Yeah my lines are blurry,
Insufflate blizzards in a fury
Digging where the sewage be
For all these ******* I am luring

Skewering all you limp *****,
Ripe for the barbequing
Cos I been roastin y'all ***,
This **** just ain't ****** new to me

Suckle on my Johnson just to savor the taste
That’s real cheese flavor,
Parmesan off the grate
Got some fries with that shake,
Know those thighs make me quake,
Great Value™ cellulite it’s processed Equate™!

Assassinate you with stealth
God's not gonna save you
When you’re screaming for help
Guns drawn, black lung,
***** I shoot from the belt
Dead-Eye in the sights,
Just need five perfect pelts
Gettin’ litty
Spend $50’s
Pet kitties
**** *******
On this niftier side of ******
while I acquire the wealth

Yo, I smoke a rello
To un-harsh my mellow,
Y’all yellow bellied fellows
Can’t reach my own level

Don’t like my rhymes?
You can fight me
Ignite whilst I smite thee,
From the sky
These bolts come to strike, see
Now I’m magically
Sporadic as lightning

Got Gucci on my zipper -
Throw me a bag, u kno I’ma flip her
Call me Jim Lahey, *****
Cuz’ I am the ******* liquor!
Gonna put on my slippers,
And rock you wit da dripper

In tha cut,
I’m tripping ****
Yuh rolling up that indica
soundcloud. com/duderocketship
Lyn-Purcell Sep 2018

One can never see nor hold the same
the same flake twice, but that cannot
be said for the Queen whose skin
is as white as a star and just as cold.
A plum blossom who thrives off
the winters and blizzards.
Her silver locks tousled in her wind,
her eyes were icebergs of the deepest
blue and yet they burn with kindness
Her thin lips form a smile when a
flake falls in her palm, her open
hand becomes a fist.
But then unfurls like a flower
in spring to reveal a plum blossom
petal that glides away to the song of
Winters may be cold but it brings
warmth -
lovers grow close,
families bond
children laugh
Memories form...
The Fae swirl leaving trails of shimmering
blue as she looks to the distance.
Her white robe billows, so cloud-soft.
'The Summer's sun has become Winter's,'
she closes her eyes and exhales.
'I feel your warmth and pride, Sister Summer.'
'My dears?' the Fae flutter by her head
in waiting. 'Be sure to have apricity embrace
them all. In hour of the Summer's Queen.'

Here's the second free-verse! ^-^
Nausea has cleared up alot more so I'm taking things slow and steady.
Enjoy! Let me know what you think
Lyn ***
The lion had just lost his dear wife,
Madam lioness a couple of years ago,
She was in the prime of her life,
When she succumbed to deathly udder cancer,
Mr. Lion grieved with all energy of the bereaved beast
To make it worse, he was also terminally ill
Of the vicious lung cancer, boring his windpipes,
That when he respired sweet music came out,
Like classical xylophones of eyeless Mehrun Yurin,

His sons were away commanding respective territories
Each son a territory in the order of traditional monarchy,
No one was to cook for the sick lion, don’t mention washing,
Hence the sons hired the squirrel alias madam Caroline,
She cooked as she did all other chores in the palace,
She was good in a concocting a matchless soup
From white mushrooms and cured goat’s meet,

As Caroline cooked she also sampled by tasting for her perfection
This little by little tasting made her to increase the strength,
Her skin became smooth, her buttocks swell
Her tail became shorter and steady, but very clean,
Her skin very oily and comely, exuding no evil smell,
Her walking style purged to majestic fashion
Even the type of songs she sang
Were not peasant spirituals,
Mr. Hyena wondered and wondered;
Is the squirrel pregnant?

Only to discover she was not,
But she has a new job;
Of cooking for the sick king lion,
Hyena also heard from the public domain
That she often cooks, goat meat and mushrooms,
But the ram tail twice in week; Tuesday and Sunday,
Jealousy and bigotry, malice and prejudice ganged up at once
And gripped the hyena simultaneously,
And swore to himself that come anything;
Spells of sunshine or blizzards of snow,
He must and must; root out the squirrel
From the palace kitchen,

That bright morning he went to the palace,
Singing a Christian song in praise of Lazarus,
Who resurrected from the dead,
He entered the palace still singing,
He commanded every to stand, put off the laurels,
For he wants to pray for the sick,
He made long and noisy circumlocutions of a prayer,
With regular stamping of feet and amen,
Commanding the devil of cancer to leave,
The lungs of the king, the mighty lion.

He said final amen and all sat down
Two sons of the king, the young lions,
Were all in somber moods, their father was sick,

From the kitchen, the squirrel surfaced,
With goats meat on a metallic platter,
He served the sick lion first,
Then each of them present,
On the first taste of food,
Hyena lost control of nerves
His tail jumped out of the white trouser
That he was wearing that day,
He ate voraciously with a crazy appetite,
No such delicious food had ever crossed his way.

He cleared his food first as expected,
Then he kept mum like a stooge,
Only wagging his long tail
His long tongue hanging out
Flagging in avarice like leaves of banana,
When all others stopped eating,
Hyena began in form of a question,
To which the lion’s family listened
Indeed with kingly caution;
Am asking you the king,
Why is Madam Caroline the squirrel,
Eating your food everyday,
And you are dying of a treatable disease,
To which she has the medicine,
Why is she betraying you?
To such a simple death?

All the lions plus the sick one
Jumped to the squirrel with all horror,
For the squirrel to bring the cure
Or the be killed first be the lion dies,
She pleaded for a minute to bring the drug,
Hyena in full gear of happiness
As his friend chews misfortune,

She blamed her small body size to be the  barrier
To bringing the medicine for king lion,
But nonetheless medicine was available,
Lions roared tell us! Where is the medicine?
In a soft voice the squirrel said;
The only cure for this disease of the king,
Is a fresh liver of a male hyena!

The hyena was frozen with surprise,
Like any other foolish bigot,
He begged to leave as his time was over,
No answer came to his request,
Other than abysmal darkness
Of violent death gulfing his body,
King lion drunk Hyena’s blood
In addition to the liver
On the squirrel’s instructions,
The lion became well
And began walking strong,
Out of this joy
King lion  promoted the squirrel
To be a minister of health
In the kings palace.

— The End —