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Salty rancher spackle is to Earthy diva smackers as Swinging hotel number is to?
Rippling cling bread is to Three lizard chariots as Indigo lime tangent is to?
Nighttime reunion planet is to Nettle lane scuffle as Soaking spider *** is to?
Fancy trance logs are to Sticky fudge lather as Vivacious gator college is to?
Cheerful blossom face is to Secret tractor rocket as Canned gremlin emblems are to?
Jealous pitchfork generals are to Heartbreaking patchwork veranda as Folding robot noise is to?
Pretty rhino rash is to Lost locket vengeance as Back pocket weather is to?
Frosted candy sidewalk is to Sneaky kook code as Shiny waffle smoke is to?
Sapphire cloud romance is to Magnetic comet lava as Blue triangle envy is to?
Vanishing honey melody is to Thermal elf pajamas as Whistling iceboat shampoo is to?
Peach mint politics is to Frozen doll pennies as Rusty anchor catapult is to?
Swollen pony fever Throbbing sword kazoo as Silent turbine science is to?
Obese germ thunder is to Stacked lemon towers as Corrupt moon jockey is to?
Demented insect whistle is to Glass trophy cleanup as Purple geode bubble is to?
Nighttime razor slime is to Lacquered dragon maps as Tint paper mittens are to?
**** camel drops are to Velvet ****** shoes as Slippery red muffins are to?
Flying hot drool is to Pale chocolate telescope as Tin trumpet ballet is to?
Expensive puppy speed is to Flowered duck mirror as Cosmic needle factory is to?
Fractured laser doodles are to Cracked butter gravel as Rubber holster straps are to?
Majestic panther fortress is to Jeweled cork target as Iron swan taxi is to?
Poisonous pepper bouillon is to ****** goat soap as Chrome feather pirates are to?
Digital gorilla scriptures are to Timid hunter stench as Frozen domino video is to?
Eccentric troll opera is to Transparent wax village as Spoiled coral agony is to?
Bizarre green metal is to Pillow eating hamster as Leather cavern ***** are to?
Eternal hurricane evidence is to Powdered rainbow perfume as Smoking yellow prune is to?
Liquid wish cleanser is to Exploding meadow ladders as Brittle rose hammer is to?
Caged foam filter is to Cherry balloon string as Ivory cactus spider is to?
Carbon puppet watch is to Sad kings compass as Elastic lace whiskers are to?
Nitrogen trolley dust is to Lazy elephant toffee as Orange toad choir is to?
Dark pole zodiac is to Blue finger blanket as Illegal bug nozzle is to?
Stinky towel cookies are to White jade caskets as Sticky snail tea is to?
Converting stellated caramels is to Mythic aerosol socks as Rubber raspberry jokes are to?
Flying clock carousel is to Whisky nut worms as Plastic fish platforms are to?
Queasy Vaseline queens are to Moody pigeon pills as Aqua mice fur is to?
Spotted bowl shadow is to Idiotic radiance lotion as Bungalow toad hearse is to?
Gushing chimney fungus is to Funky lamb acrobat as Utopian **** sprinkler is to?
Twinkling bungalow tablet is to Botanical duck rope as Bug hat ram is to?
Broken clock fossil is to Black ginger confetti as Parisian cobra meatloaf is to?
Silly Xerox ribbon is to Obedient raccoon carny as Traditional cat linguini is to?
Last astral advisor is to Elastic badger riddles as Broken circle rifles are to?
Bagged squire channel is to Temporary mosaic cake as Ancient bacon thread is to?
Wireless math army is to Moronic neon money as Pearl razor radar is to?
Rubber buzzard blizzard is to Troubled bubble wizard as Crushed hash ******* is to?
Purple birdy cure is to Tangled frost blossoms as Silken bridal saddle is to?
Unisex owl accordion is to Sugar bottomed boat as Optical nougat treasure is to?
Flavored saline rain is to Black arrow clan as Transistorized clam guitar is to?
Sharpened twig scar is to Mutant beet sonar as Baked troll mask is to?
Boxed noodle secrets are to Traditional guru buttons as Glossy marshmallow strategy is to?
Vibrating melted jelly is to Silver furniture dream as Spewing collated seats is to?
Burnt mountain pickles are to Baby preacher shoes as Sympathetic pilot pain is to?
Narrow portal treaty is to Monkey warehouse vacancy as Painted tornado trap is to?
Porch penny sulfur is to Glowing pony fat as Patched mattress bait is to?
Frigid waitress fallacy is to Graphic shrimp salute as Misted sneezing window is to?
Moist apple moss is to Daddy’s zoom seed as Downtown Pope cart is to?
Tired felon trickle is to Holographic squirrel candle as Wild ray hay is to?
Deadly zero chalk is to Folding wilderness chart as Curved ******* vacuum is to?
Hollow porcelain pellets are to Strawberry rain stencils as Microwave taxi nomads are to?
Wasted machete balcony is to Crumpled creature confessions as Fridge fuzzed fruit is to?
Sloppy demon damage is to Squeaky puppet chuckle as Mental arcade combat is to?
Monster trout stories are to Lewd pirate cocktail as Locked mammal grommet is to?
Rotting rope network is to Tragic toy goat as Cotton submarine shoes are to?
Complex pepper dance is to ****** cloud cushion as Marching taxi holiday is to?
Mental petal collectors are to Spooned barn putty as Dork factory fiction is to?
Hot spotted tops are to Timed stepping pests as Yogurt notching tartar is to?
Crazy dog comics are to Ambitious cartoon sphinx as Pavlov’s zinc ballet is to?
Soiled spinster wedding is to Padded razor wound as Floating fish map is to?
Slippery leopard pants are to Perfumed nut button as Dart wizard party is to?
Needy alien elephants are to Barking garden gnats as Quasar focused paper is to?
Slanted heart **** is to Bronzed cliff sandals are to Cunning jockey jokes are to?
***** thumbprint massage is to Holistic princess memory as Sliding dental sword is to?
Drifting wood whistle is to Fluorescent carpet powder as Foam dragon whistle is to?
Chopped web shadow is to Immortal vermin soup as Collapsing porch conspiracy is to?
Stolen thunder chant is to Haunted comet heart as Swollen throat portrait is to?
Fragrant frost parfait is to Grumpy caveman *** as Random stingray solo is to?
Squeaky polar turbine is to Silent lava fever as Oversized lunar fulcrum is to?
Synthetic dew droppers are to Pocket poster paste as Hypnotic screen dog is to?
Symbolic whirlpool nausea is to Dreaming tree phantom as Log badge bracket is to?
Camp hippo map is to Horseradish seizure insurance as Distant insect mirror is to?
German lady sherbet is to Stuntman laundry wax as Hungry butterfly ghost is to?
Fly smudged foil is to Amped maze coil as Shifting optic terror is to?
Automatic sheep floss is to Panoramic tanker anchor as Throbbing bone pillow is to?
Mutant clown village is to Nightmare translation treasure as Spotted spectral chakra is to?
Blind roach tweat is to Hermit worm tiara as Divine logo ritual is to?
Glueless gun stamp is to Malicious spam pump as Floral toffee pods are to?
Dudgeon mist removal is to Menacing bolt smacker as Boating duke shadow is to?
Costly metal plungers are to Creaky buzzing gushers as Glowing star cushions are to?
Raked barge sludge is to Crusted cream glitter as Zircon gutter babble is to?
Fake gold scholar is to Amish ******* mogul as Faithful ***** choir is to?
Sacred limo prayers are to Fried mice café as Splintered ****** thimble is to?
Dealing rabbit decals is to Pelican bongo festival as Patched equator rot is to?
Freedom gourd gasoline is to Cobblers studying acorns as Desecrated dice crater is to?
Tattered tapestry rod is to Busted particle scanner as Bogus piffle catalogue is to?
Trifle truffle raffle is to Last lamb laminate as Segmented cake goggles are to?
Domestic tackle tactic is to Ticking tic talk as Cordial corps coordinates is to?
Tucked duck caftan is to Sunken ramp ruckus as Wretched ranch rhetoric is to?
Clearly incomprehensible directions are to Useful archaic nonsense as Antiquated skeletal outline is to?
Bewildered beasts feasting are to Lazy busybodies resting as Vaccinating brave volunteers are to?
Lucky wagon dragons are to Famous gargoyle gargle as Formal postman funding is to?
Furrowed shroud chowder is to Borrowed tartan pajamas as Martini mixed algebra is to?
Cowgirl balloon helium is to Chewy glucose habitat as Stationary monument movement is to?
Diamond powered powder is to Diagonal diameter diagram as Purposely condensed expansion is to?
Organic iodine capsule is to Gleaming beach probe as Dominant dome static is to?
Shaving wrinkled targets is to Petting sensible monsters as Selling invisible whiskey is to?
Frozen piano architecture is to Note dotted clouds as Screaming Korean worms are to?
Sonic plant website is to Telepathic climbing clam as Bored protein exercise is to?
Gourmet mollusk cone is to Numb poodle caravan as Asian raven radar is to?
Obadiah Grey Dec 2013
Sphincter factor nine approaches
food for the fish n roaches
methinks its time for me perhaps
to open up the rearward *****.


------------------------------------
AAChoo !!

Oh, liddle sister, Josephine,
you sure don't keep your
nose real clean.
got stalactites
o' pure pea green
my infectious sibling
snot machine.
----------------------------------------
I thought that I might shoot the breeze
with God or Mephistopheles
and ask them please to ease my wheeze
of my bad back and dodgy knees
---------------------------
Croak with the raven
bluff with the crow
the urchin
the field mouse
beneath the hedgerow
in a flurry they scurry
away away go.
Yelp with the *****
howl with the hound
and bay at the moon
till the sun comes around.
------------------------------------------
Gino's bar and grill.

Away, away afore Bacchus
doles out befuddlement
and Morpheus has his way,
lest I awake to find myself
in the company of
sodamistic bedfellows
with buggery in mind.
---------------------------------
Harry Potter has grown a beard
he lives alone and turned out weird.
Dumbledore, Albus, no more
turned his toes and 'ad a snore,
Voldemort, who's *** is taut
has no nose with which to snort.
====================

Ahem !!

Behind two Lilies- sits Rose,
then Daisies
for two and a bit rows.
with Poppy, and *****
Petunia, Primrose.
and Bryony - who gets up
- my nose.
----------------------------------------------
Amen.
God bless the Cows - for beef burgers.
God bless the Pig - for their bacon.
God bless the wife n her sharp knife
for the slice of their **** she's taken.

-------------------------------------------------
We can, no more fetter the sea to the shore
nor the clouds to the sky
or tether the glint
in a lovers eye,
As sure as the shore loves the sea
so shall I love thee, together,
together for eternity,

-----------------------------------

It bends for thee
sweet chevin,
the cane thats cleaved
by three,
wilt thou now
sweet chevin
yield, my friend ,
for me.
-------------------------------------------------
There's Marmalade then Marmite
and Jams thats jammed between
the buttered bread of bard-dom
a poets sweet cuisine.
---------------------------------------------
I took up campanology
and fired up my ****.
I rang that bell
to ******* hell
till the busies
came along.
--------------------------------------------
so, I've been whittling away
at a buoyant ****-
fashioned something approximating
a poo canoe-
in it, I intend to
surf the **** tsunami of old age
to-- death;
I have named it Public - Service - Pension.


----------------------------------------------

A surreptitious delightful tryst,
with my honey, my sebaceous cyst.
she's my pimple, my wart,
my gumboil consort.
she's the zip, in which
my *******, got caught.
--------------------------------------
Frayed at the bottoms
ripped at the knee.
baggy and saggy
big enough for three.
faded and jaded
and stained with ***
but I'm due for a new pair--
Yippeeeee!!

---------------------------------------

Ther­e's Cockerel in my ear
and he bills and coo's for you
whenever you are near
goes - **** a doodle doo !!!!!,,,,,,,,

---------------------------------------------

Oh,­ for the snap shut skin
in the blue twang of youth
and to un-crack the spine
on the book of love.
now the gulping years
have flown away
we take sips of the night
and are spoon fed the day.

-----------------------------

Zeus made the Moose to be somewhat obtuse,
a big deer- rather queer- I fear.
then God gave him the nod to look funny and odd
the spitting image of you - my dear !!!

---------------------------------------

Knobbly Nobby.

Nobby has a great big nose
a great big nose has he,
and nobby knows
that his big nose,
is big, as big can be,
nobby has two knobbly knees
two knobbly knees has he,
his knobbly knees,
are as knobely
as knobbly knees can be,
don’t pity dear old nobby
for soon it’s plain to see,
that nobby has a great big ****
as big, as big as three !
now nobbys **** is knobly,
as knobly as a **** can be,
so nose and knee and ****
make three,
and we - are ****- ely.

----------------------------------

The Woman that wouldn't eat meat,
had reeaally, reeaally big feet,
her **** was as big as an hermaphrodite brig
and her **** were as hard as concrete….


--------------------------------

Hearken the clarion call of the crows
afore the snow-
they caw,
hey, get your **** into gear lads-
we gotta feckin go !!!

-----------------------------

Gods pad

I took a peek within
your house
wherein on pew, I spied
a mouse,
and in his hand,
a Bible clasped,
and out his mouth,
a parable rasped,

---------------------

I'd say she had
a pigeon loft in
her eyes and
bluebells up
her nose.

But then again
I wear a flat cap

and stroll through meadows.

----------------------------

Would you care to buy our house?
It's minus Mouse n devoid o' Louse,!
Spiders, Roaches, Bugs or other,
have all been eaten by my brother,
snaffled up n swallowed down
then jus' crapped out a - yellowish brown.
so would you care to buy our house?
from an oddly pair -- devoid of nous

-------------------------

Though the Crows got her eyes
and the Worms got her gut.
comes as no surprise
death can't keep her mouth shut.

-------------------

Bevelled slick edges
and reeaal eeaasy slopes.
Chilli dip wedges
with fresh artichokes.
Wanton loose wenches
and swivel hipped ******
Daft dawgs and dentures
and granddad - who snores.

-------------------

Been whittling away at a buoyant ****
and fashioned something approximating a canoe,
in it, I intend to surf the **** tsunami of old age;
I named it, "Public service pension"

-------------------------------

.
Well,
     I could wax on the wings of a butterfly
but, I ain't that kind o' guy.
rather kick the nuts off ******* squirrels
pluck the wings off - blue assed fly.
I'm the stuff that flops off dog chops
when he's up for it and high.
an infection in your sphincter,
a well
that's jus' run dry.

----------------------------------------------

befeathered­ and bright scarlet
is my ladies bonnet,
jauntily askew and -
lilting on a paramours
grin.

"- Gladlaughffi -"

I'm reliably informed that dear ol' Muma
sported a goatee around his **** sphincter,
now, whilst this is merely educated speculation
from my esteemed friend his "groom of the stool" ! 
who was in fact required to wear a mask,
ear muffs and a blindfold whilst he went about his business,
He did possess reeaaally sensitive fingertips
somewhat akin to a blind man reading brail,,
and, swore blind that said "**** sphincter' spoke him in Arabic
and asked him for a quick trim, (short back and sides)
I myself being a practising proctologist of some repute
am inclined to believe my friend the "groom of the stool"
as I've come recognise -- Arsolian when I hear it !!!!!!!!
-------------------------------------

In a Belfast sink by the plughole
where hair and gum gunk meet
'erman the germ-man  and toe jam
bop the bacillus beat.

________

Doctor this I know as fact
that I have a blocked digestive tract,
I'm all bunged up and cannot go
my trump and pump is - somewhat slow.
I need unction jollop for junction wallop
some sorta lotion to give me motion.
If you could please just ease my wheeze
then I needn't grunt and push and squeeze.

-----------------------------

They are breaking out the thwacking sticks
and sparking Godly clogs
pulling tongues through narrowed lips
at the infidel yankee dogs.

------------------------------------

As a paid up member of the
lumpen bourgeoisie poetry appreciation society
I can confirm without fear of contradiction
that poetry is indeed baggy underwear
with ample ball room, voluminous in the extreme
and takes into account
the need for the free flow of flatulent gassiness
that is the want of a ****** up poet.

-----------------------------------------------

She's a rough hewn Trapezoidal gal
a gongoozler o' the ol' canal.
She's copper bottomed n fly boat Sal.

I'll have thee know that
that there hat
is a magic hat,
it renders me invisible
to the arty intelligentsia
and roots me firmly
in the lumpen proletariat .
-------------------------------------------------------
Said the sneaky Scotsman, Jim Blaik.
if the pension, you wish to partake,
bend over my son, lets get this thing done
and cop for this thick trouser snake !!

I met my uncle Albert,
down at Asda, in aisle three;
he got there in a Mazda,
jus' a smidgen after me,
said he'd traversed Sainsburys,
Tesco Liddle n the Spar,
but not one o' them flogged Caviar
Truffles or Foie gras.


He sidled past the pork pies
streaky bacon turkey thighs
a headin for the french fries
n forsaken knock down buys,
shimmied 'round the ankle biters;
expectant mums to be,
popin pills for bloated ills
in the haberdashery.

Fandango'd o'er the cornflakes
and the spillage in isle four

-----------------

I'm linier and analogue,
a ribbon microphone man
mired in the dust of the monochromatic,
the basement, the attic.

------------------------------

Simple simon met miss Tymon going to the fair,
said simple simon to miss Tymon - "pfhwarr what a luverly pair"
of silken thighs and big brown eyes and scrumptious wobbly bits,
Said simple Simon to miss Tymon---------- shame about you **** !!!

So sad sweet Shirl thought she'd give a whirl to clubbercise n pound

Squat, slightly,
tilt head 45°
and squint.
See the shimmering blurry
dot in the distance?
That, timorous ****,
is ME !
Fast twitching my
narrow white ****
to the pub.

There was a young lady named Sue.
whose ***** and **** was askew,
whilst taking a ****
she'd aim it and miss
and she lifted 'er hat when she blew.


Oh Mon Dieu !!

Obi.
island poet May 2018
“Moby ****,”  Herman Melville

<•>

~for the lost at sea~

after a year of saltwater absence and abstinence,
return to the island caught between two land forks
surrounded by river-heading flows
bound for the ocean great joining

the Atlantic welcomes the fresh water fools,
bringing with them hopefully, but hopeless gifts of obeisances,
peace-offerings endeavoring to keep their infinite souls

sea accepts them then drowns the
warm newcomers in the unaccustomed
deep cold salinity, which
sometimes erodes
sometimes preserving
their former freshwater cold originality

I’m called to depart my beach shoreline  unarmed,
no kayak, sunfish or glass bottomed boat needed,
walk on water and my toes, ten eyes to see the bottom,
no depth perception limitation,
reading the floor’s topography,
millions of minion’s stories infinite,
many Munch screaming

god’s foot, heavy upon my shoulders,
a daytime travel guide, hired for me,
not a friendly travel companion,  nope,
God a pusher showing off a drug called deep water salvation,
designated for the masses, can handle large parties

my in-camera brain  eyes,
record everything for playback -
the lost and unburied, bone crossword puzzles

walk shore to ship, on soles to souls,
is this my new-summer nature welcome back greeting?

puzzled at the awesomeness of vastness,
conclude this clarification for me of the occluded-deep,
is a stern reminder of my insignificant existence,
my requirement to walk humbly, spare my sin of vanity, and
forgive my trespasses upon the lives of others

perhaps then the infinite of my soul perchance restored,
older visions clarified and future poems
will write themselves
and sea to it my predecessors
be better remembered

Memorial Day 2018
Kara Rose Trojan Sep 2011
The modern robots are all dead --
the metal ones rusted,
the human ones bled.


For courtesy's sake, we'll call it square --
A voicemail's ghost
in a tentative field.


Manner's are infants' wails hung out to dry --
a starving microphone
with tubes pinched shut.


A scared off circuit in surgical riptides --
Our favorite pastime
alive on the screen.
ciannie Oct 2015
the trouble lies
in your thighs
plump skin, of pink, apricot, nutmeg
fresh flesh fetched far
taught to knee, cuffed at ankle
red carpet to round hips
they ripple, as you stomp
as they should
you're a peach bottomed girl of pear tree house

she is a willow girl
her legs, they wind
country lanes that slim and thin
less lard, longer length
one music note to pink, apricot, nutmeg toes
pillars under sacred, upholding
the light twist of hips
is there the same problem
does it there lie
in that girl's thighs?

your thighs are equally moulded
pink, apricot, nutmeg
soft and plump and trembling, still
in mountains, or molehills
you're a peach bottomed girl of pear house
she is a willow tree girl of birch place
together, women
you have thighs
and neither of
those thighs
lies
relating to the 'thigh gap' issue- as long as you're healthy and happy, you're beautiful, from your thighs to wherever. (male and female issue, despite my all-femaleness here)
NeroameeAlucard Nov 2014
To my ladies with a little extra meat on your bones
There's no reason you should cry or think you'll forever be alone!
If you don't have a Barbie doll waist
and if you have a bit more jelly in every place
You know what that means, you have a whole lot more ****, and when you were built to contain
All of the love, passion, and ****! that's what you were built to maintain!

Now to quote the late great Freddie Mercury
His music is something I hold very dear to me
And this is dedicated to my thick women with style by the pound
and I quote, "Fat Bottomed Girls you make the rockin world go round!"
ryn Sep 2014
Toting the mysterious bundle and sporting a sore back
I drag my feet up the last few steps, expended of vigour
I almost couldn't resist prematurely looking through the sack
Remembering the words from the wise old seer

Grimacing I walk a slow gait to get to the table
Set the bundle down and relieve my weight onto a chair
Parched throat but wait longer I am unable
Curiosity takes charge and into the gift I will tear

Blood is pumping along with an increasing heart rate
Fingers scrambling clumsily over the strings that bind
Nails digging frantically into this package bearing my fate
Gnawing thoughts of uncertainty flooding my mind

At last my fingers win the battle that lasted
The final string has fallen... Obstinate knots all undone
I pick the cloth by the edges to have it unfolded
The contents inside reach out like rays of the sun

Corners of the cloth open up like a fully bloomed blossom
Exposing the treasure that lay solemn and quiet inside
Common objects we'd normally perceive as random
Petty things now important as they attempt to guide

I pick up the first and notice an engraving on it's stem
Between my fingers - an unassuming feathered quill
Barely legible, such little space the words do cram
"Here is your sword... Draw blood and let spill"

More riddles, I sought to examine the next
A flat bottomed vial filled with jet black ink
On it is a label with scrawling of time worn text
"Here is your blood; let flow what you think"

Lastly, lay bound up sheets of yellow stained parchment
They reek of age-old herbs; intoxicating slightly
At the top of the first, a note scribbled not so recent
"Within these pages, you must bleed to find Sanctuary"

Staring down at the objects laid in front of me
In hopes of discovering something I should miss
Then finally it struck me, so plain to see
I'm using the instruments now, writing to find release...
See "Dear Mystic"
See "Dear Seeker"
See "Sanctuary"
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
angry men who do not know I do not have a dollar or a cig to spare. Ugly irrefutable contagion-handed howlers. Angry mischievous heathens that pantomime on 6:00a.m. sidewalk, Wicker Park gallow stop-sign, choreographed gutter-punk drunk walk. And of all he wants and could ever want splits down his gooey membrane brain in the outline of a noun shaped fragment of a clause, "Couldja spare 80¢ for the train," but of course I don't spare on the ellipsis or the period. Semi-colons I won't! My rubber-bottomed leather boots lash out, heavy scraping sounds trail this mirrored shadow half an angle behind me.

*****!! Blonde framed sunglasses from American Apparel, a gift from my sister in a folded Ray-Ban case is scattered on last nights bedroom floor, my girlfriend has certainly not noticed, the gloom-coated morning sun spray has not noticed; but I have unzipped a fissure in the ocular lens. My heart skips a beat. Her bedroom might as well have swallowed them whole. Now the house can halt and have the shade, swaying in Spring air in 10:22a.m. shadows. The aviator himself Howard Hughes would strike me with his 488 aircraft. Edwin Starr in his invincible sinister calypso of War would turn me round. I was sturdy as a rock until I began to forget my forgottens. These unknown unknowns I knew I needed. I'm over a quarter-century on to noon going nowhere- and quite blindly.

But then, still she could stand upright and find me. Her neck crooked, looking onward through the East, the gristly roots of rhubarb buried in her searching fingernails. She's threaded worse, and of course if I could just tell her- this is the kind of nursing which requires acute temperament and flexibility. I am thus on a journey to strike nonsense and fear from the idiotic vocabulary that put this nonsense in my head. Split through me like a butter knife into my apotropaic. Perhaps tar water could cure my ails. If not, certainly a sliver of vanilla would set me straight. Or if could just rain rain rain all day, then I'd make do without, but she is at school. My pistons are racked and nervous, and I'm not going anywhere but my rucksack stoop. I am camped in midwestern Spring soup. Fog, rain, and shade. The nightmare of day.
Inspired by William Butler Yeats 'Beautiful Lofty Things'
july hearne Mar 2021
cherry blossom was his smoking hot girlfriend.
they moved in together, probably in 2007.
he met her online, he was married to a woman
who he said was a fundamentalist. they had four kids,
three daughters and a son.

he wrote a lot about how his fundamentalist wife had turned
the three daughters against him. as the years went by,
he forgot their birthdays and ages because it hurt too much,
so he wrote.

"cherry blossom, you're going to make it
with your unbroken man who i hope to thank
one day for making you happy", he wrote
in a journal entitled "the last one"
dated late September of 2012.

they broke up in mid August 2011

from a journal entry dated at the end of October 2012:
"ten things you want to say to ten different people"

cherry blossom was first on the list
cherry blossom's unbroken man was second on the list
cherry blossom's son of a different baby daddy was third on the list

his own son was fourth on the list
his daughters were not on the list at all.

he was glad she was with a good guy. he didn't have to worry about her. unbroken guy was a good guy, he loved unbroken guy for that. her son was a good guy, he was glad that her son got to hang out with him and his son.

according to the public messages his friends left on his profile and the last time stamp on his activity feed,
he must have died almost three years ago,
in mid August, 7 years to the exact date
he had posted a journal entry explaining
that they had broken up and cherry blossom was moving out.

7 years is the same amount of time
it took for jacob to get rachel as his wife
after being deceived into marrying leah.

he had other journal entries too,
they go back to 2008, so some of them
cover his time with cherry blossom

cherry blossom was smokin hot,
they had *** parties
cherry blossom got all the attention
because she was smokin hot

he had bottomed to his vanilla fundamentalist wife
who turned his three daughters against him
but cherry blossom was his submissive
so cherry blossom was the way

cherry blossom introduced him to swinging, ****, and gang bangs
his fundamentalist wife, who he never got a legal divorce from,
turned his three daughters against him.

he had 342 friends and 13 followers on his fetlife profile,
five left public messages on his wall after he died.
cherry blossom was so smokin hot.
"does anyone recall
the saddest love of all
the one that lets you fall
nothing to hold"

Paul Westerberg "Love Untold"

Michelle Obama took a page out of Dr. Levine’s opinion. She has a homosexual puppet sidekick to “inspire” LGBT+ children on her upcoming children’s food show.

In the new Netflix series “Waffles + Mochi,” the former first lady is joined by an effeminate puppet sidekick, Busy the Bee, to help Mrs. Obama teach children how to “eat healthy.”

Jonathan Kidder, the puppeteer behind Busy the Bee, makes sure that children understand Busy the Bee is LGBT. Why do your children need to know such ****** exists in a show about making healthy meals?

Kidder explained, “Making children aware of the puppet’s same-*** proclivities is important because he wants to use his character to inspire more LGBT+ kids.” He went on to say, “They never said overtly, ‘We need you to be as gay as possible, please.’ But I got the sense that they liked that I brought this diversity to the mix.”

So far, Kidder is one of the only openly gay creators in children’s puppeteering. A gay puppet with a same-*** loving handler.

He joked that “all puppets are a little bit gay” and he hoped to bring more diversity to “Waffles + Mochi” by channeling his own “dry, gay sass” personality and sexuality through Busy.

He said his job was to let Michelle Obama’s sidekick “be colorful and let my rainbow out through him.”
Yenson Dec 2018
Listen you nice genteel ladies out there
We know you'll adore a charming, intelligent
smart, humourous, caring, loving and sensitive
charismatic man

We know you'll absolutely love a decent, wholesome
capable, balanced, brave, courageous Alpha male
we know you'll really like a versatile, poetic,
gentleman, able to do nearly everything and do it well
Even animals and children love him too

We know you'll just melt for this man who is an amazing lover
Wonderfully equipped, experienced, unselfish, rhythmic
hard yet gentle, graceful motion in hot ocean
Slow hands and arousingly hot touches, a great lover
who just adores women

Well forget it Ladies
We do not like this Elitist, well rounded intelligent lovely man
He is banned, banned, banned banned
How can we rogues, coarse, uncouth, insensitive semi-illiterates
compete with Mr Wonderful, who leaves ladies buckling in
rampant throes of multiple *******
Who makes love to your fine senses as well as your bodies

How can we, under endowed minutemen
with no grace, style or starmina, much less a romantic nuance
compete with our Mr Amazing with the mostest

We are flat bottomed pale skinned, weedy looking lot
we have little manners, we can hardly hold intelligent conversation
we don't do charming and all that *******
We are not keen on personal hygiene, that's for poofs
Forget looking groomed and polished, that's for poofs too
when drunk and we can just about manage to get it up
It's slam, bang, no thank you ma'am, nothing
poor gals left unsatisfied, unappreciated, any wonder most are turning to each other these days
Us loutish men, just reach for another pint, see you later, get your *** out...

We are working-class dumbos and proud of it
we are pirates and Robin Hoods, we take from the Decent Upscales
we fight them and harass and hound them, torment their *****
we destroy their reputation, degrade them
we can't do better, why should they have an easy life
And all the fun of the ****** fair

Look at the toffee nosed Emmanuel Macron in France
Rich background, privileged, he gets into power and start
messing with the working people, we are now dealing with him
That's what they do if you give them room
They diss the ordinary people and tell us its living intelligently
while they wine and dine and make love in Champagne
Well, not anymore, they don't, we've got there numbers now

The same with our charismatic intelligent Mr Wonderful here
We are sorting him out good and proper, we are on his case
So any ladies go near him or seen befriending him
is a class traitor and would be dealt with accordingly
We have put a *** and relationship ban on Mr Amazing
Let him see what doing without means, lets see him suffer
deprivation and hunger and hopelessness, we have been for years

I dare any of you ladies go near him and see what will happen
we will shave all your hair and put you to public shame
like those collaborators ladies in France after the 2nd WW
We will ostracise you like we have Mr Wonderful
we will smear and degrade you and  your life will be made
impossible.

This is Class war and you Ladies have been WARNED
Can you imagine it, not only rich, privileged, brilliant, capable
confident, self-assured, smooth, suave, charming, articulate,
presentable, wise and balanced, He's also gifted with a big ****,
and from all accounts he really does know how to use it
Jezz...how ******* fortunate can an elitist get!

Well you ladies are sure missing a good thing going
but we don't mind cutting off our long noses to spite our faces
Granted some nice girl could found happiness and the most amazing man and both could do a lot of good in the society and bring happiness to others
but we don't think rationally, that's for the elitists

We are mindless yobbos, thugs, hooligans, no-good, immature,little dicked ruffians and malcontents
We are anarchist, tall and proud
We are crazies, sad and pathetic and we do not care

So you ladies stick with your class and make **** sure
it's a No dice to Mr Wonderful  

NO NO NO it's a RESOUNDING NO from all working people
  ESPECIALLY YOU LADIES, just better know that YES from you
and it's the guillotine and not only your hair will be for the chop!

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!
This is a PEOPLE'S ROYAL COMMAND
why can't I help always seeing the funny side of life. wake up laughing, go to bed laughing, life really can be so absurd, funny and interesting.
NuBlaccSoul Aug 2016
This waiting room is painted of pain,
featuring faces with mouths down-turned,
impatience taking up these empty seats,
of family members already lost,
we feel like the least loved
in the mighty grasps of almighty fate's
crushing hands,
we feel like the last patients
to be visited during the night shifts,
by nurses and doctors,
the times of day when the most dust
is swept back to the humble soil
by an unseen, yet not-so-invisible bashing broom.
the old fan - barely hanging -
is closing in full circle,
a whole life lived.
dull curtains, some unhooked and five minutes to falling,
alongside the walls' stripes
designed with a print of doctors' usual words,
"I'm so sorry for your loss."  

If life truly begins at forty,
then hers ended at the starting line.
this would be a misplaced and mixed metaphor
if it weren't for olympics silently running in the background on the tv
reminds me of my mute cries, surprised eyes bulging, gaping mouths with no sound.

It ought to be a preventative measure; just a routine operation
a possibly cancerous lump.
I am flipping aimlessly through these magazine pages,
each catching a tear-drop for the dog-ears
(whoever reads them next will turn the pages over better).
Some puzzled maze pieces fall out of a box,
my baby cousin tries to gather the cardboard paper of a family tree picture,
but the least important twigs are lost, and the last friendly branch found missing.
The many portraits that make up the landscape go away from time to time.
It was just a little, smallish lump.
these news are hard to swallow.
my eyes are peeling onions.
my throat is winter-hands dry.
mum says she saw her the most alive
a few odd minutes before time clocked aunt out.
Grandma's sister blames herself for suggesting, advising, and in retrospect putting "pressure".
neutral colours ***** the Scrubs' floors,
hypothermia lurking in the corridors,
but the coke from the vending machine is medicine lukewarm.

It was a game of musical chairs,
But when the seven trumpets sounded,
the stools remained still, they stood facing eastward in hexagonal formation.
An angel ascended, the remnants were six shadows now.
With a plot twist, it's less players each round.
Who dies first wins, I've tossed too much soil on dust, my hands are *****.
We wash our hands clean with this paraffin.
Open-casket, the last sight took my breath away - the whitened clay still one,
but with the breath of life taken away, by the One, who giveth and taketh.

It's also winter our hearts,
dips of grief, dabs of black clothing, grim-reaper the thief, we still loath him.
another weekend
another sad-a-day
another funeral.
And his life was a summary,
too brief a breath, as the contraction is.
No sympathy to bother saying
"I am".
Public or private hospitals, dark clouds gather above all.

Twenty-twelve was a scar,
for four years now we are still scooping our scabs, from the bottomless pits,
that fell from ever-fresh wounds picked at a tad too prematurely,
so very early.
Some of the things we will take to our graves
will take us to our graves, as we exhume our pre-mourning selves.
And hurt still drops in drips,
red-bottomed-sticky feet from the blood-washed tiles,
the pain and the paint in permanent.
Some matters you can only think about
when you are half-awake and half-asleep, because these nightmares
are too real to be dreams.

uThixo Ovayo unoNobantu, nabantu bakhe bonke ngamaxesha onke.

~ by New-Black-SoUl #NBS
(C) 2016. Phila Dyasi. Copyrighted 31 August 2016. NuBlaccSoUl™. Intellectual property. All rights reserved. Please quote poem with author name, poem title and date published if sharing to external sites without the link or/and if sharing an excerpt of the poem. || Thank you to Brian Walter and Lewish Bosworth for helping with the editing. I sincerely appreciate it.
Sofia Paderes Oct 2014
I have hands that won’t keep
to themselves.
They are always rummaging
and dancing and clapping
and snapping and opening
and closing and trying to fix
every
single
broken thing they can find.

And that includes you.

My heart is a bottomless pit for aches.
Not mine, but yours.
It’s almost a cursed thing, how
despite its size being only that of my fist,
my heart always finds a way to squeeze in
some new hurt into the spaces that
before you,
I never knew existed.
There they stay;
and like all things that stay,
with enough time,
become part of their surroundings.
I can’t tell whose cut is whose anymore.

Put me in a room full of people.
Blindfold me.
Spin me like a tornado.
Make me stop.
My outstretched fingers will be reaching
for the most broken souls in the room.

Call it compassion. Kindness. Empathy.
Whatever you like,
but there is a fine, fine line between that
and the way I bleed.
Oh,
how I bleed.
Forgive my boldness when I say
I won’t even try to make you understand
the fact that I do
somehow
understand.
Think of it this way: ripples.
And I always get the last one.

I’m still a child.
I like to play pretend.
I’m a doctor.
I’m a superhero.
I’m the one with all the answers,
all the weapons,
all the magical cures.
Take that!
And that!
Ha! Aha! Ha!
Ha…
Ha.
As the years wear on,
I see that my tools aren’t right,
and that my cape is too tight around my neck.
I don’t have all the answers.
No weapons.
No magical cures.
I’m just a girl trying to play the part that was never hers.

And it’s taken me three volcano boys,
a couple of glass-bottomed hearted girls,
and just about the rest of the world to realize that I
am not
the Savior.

My hands were not made to heal
every heart they rest themselves upon,
or to fill that vacuum inside every man,
one that nothing,
nothing,
nothing in this world will ever
make
whole.

So here.
I let go of every burden that’s been
causing me to stoop and to stumble,
every pressing weight that’s been
keeping me from keeping faith,
every heavy yoke that’s been
causing me to choke on things
I never should have let in
in the first place.

Yet I will continue to love you.
I have come to learn that love
has a lot of ugly before it becomes beautiful,
a lot of hurt before healing’s arrival,
a lot of you before any of me.
My part is done.
These fidgety fingers no longer carry suffering.
Here, let me see yours, though battle scarred and bruised.
You’ve been bearing more than you were built for, beloved.

I think it’s time to surrender.
A spoken word poem written for Atlas, The Polaris Project's event for Imaginarium Manila. We were asked to write a poem of three to five minutes with the theme "Weights: Literal, Figurative, What Have You”.

video link- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V2vWyLCM4KE
soundcloud- https://soundcloud.com/sofiyichka/hands
Ottar Aug 2013
We are fluffy
      not stuffy,
we are bright,
       not dull,
we can be
      the lull,
before the storm.

More on that later, after the news.

Reflecting white light and we become bright,
pile us on one another a collective of light,
and airy, we don't take our selves serious,
we are much lower to the ground than cirrus.

Please don't let what I have to say cloud your judgement in anyway!

We are piling up to be the top of the heap
want recognition for the sunny day, around noon
living it large looking the part too,
we are the flat bottomed cotton *****.

We are the fairest of the fair, but beware as the day advances,
we may get bigger, darker taller and you take your chances,
to be about and about, there may be a change in the atmosphere,
how is that anxiety about thunder and lightening dear?

From cotton to solid rock tall,
from mole hill to mountain,
thirty thousand feet is all,
hope you don't mind if we take turns
blowing through, easy to find us
no fuss, look for the Jekyll and Hyde
you know the Cumulus Stuff.
Janette Sep 2012
Drench these thighs
that twine on thee
shatter my world
as you tongue trippingly


Delve for sweets of
bottomed topped blush
whilst dew-drops sing
rich thickened pearly lush


Sweet, lust-given man,
is the wood of groves
stark primal musks
embraced by skin's glove


Ah so tightly shafted
this plunge oh so deep
will make you sing
(and make me weep!)


Embrace the night
with our silken sighs
as we drum the tribal
with deafening cries


Breathing the source -
those hourglass sands
guiding each another
midst our midnight-sun lands...
Tryst Feb 2017
There is a symmetry to war, state
against state, brother against brother,
like Siamese twins joined
headlong, thrashing and flailing
with one impassioned heart
for the right to be.

And still the world turns, and still
the hearts of defeated men beat strong
with savage hopes for a lost generation,
and the hearts of victors, once blinded
by angst and ire, observe the failings
of their triumph, see through old lies
that urged them unto death or death,
and old traditions, caked in blood,
are refashioned and reborn like bell-
bottomed denim, and still the world turns.

How was it, in that desperate hour,
for a man born to cotton fields,
born unto the yoke, born beneath the whip,
born unto the mercy of his masters,
how was it to be borne up to see the white
cotton flag raised in supplication, to see
old masters wavering in ploughed furrows,
like cotton billowed by a Northern squall?

Was there, in that desperate hour, a scream
from the past, "Beware, the Templars!"
as old chains were cast off, and melted
to forge chains anew, and the masters
of old were replaced by new masters
of state, and old fashions like slavery
replaced with chains worn by gangs over
bell-bottomed denim?

As long as men are masters of men,
Man will abuse his fellow man;
Profiteers will sup the fruits
of free labor, honest business
will decline, and prisons burgeon
as the poor become poorer, and
the poorest are inducted into
the perfect symmetry of an
imperfect finite state machine,
until the next uprising.
She had the poison in her veins
I was trying to **** it out
vampire doctor
trying to tough it out
radio blunt in my mouth
receiving the truth of the devil
thought I was a running man
till I bottomed out on the level
where accidents happen
reality clappin'
praising my downfall
she's got the poison in her soul
and I'm the cobra of the year...

Strange how rain falls
like time passes
ones and zeros
stained glass of our past
rosier than we remember
darker than September
wish I could go back
wish memory were dead
marching on like ants on a hill
my will, and it's not steel
my passion for tragedy
has a fixation on old mills
spinning in circles
I'm caught in the drain
funnel of mayhem
funnel of *******
high on life, we chase the goals of the dope game
higher and higher
expecting our lives will all change
I question the Lord
more than I question myself
That's why I'm lost
cause you can't question the Law's land
purpose is powerful
peace is potent
patience is placid
power is purposeful
you can run around and question the question the question the question
but have the integrity to answer and you're adorned with blessings
high towers fall in the storms of change
tranquility is denial of the form of truth
acceptance of truth's realities transforms us

I taste it
the elixir of the problem of war
power is an addiction
addiction is a cage
to be free, we require power
to break addiction's vice grip
so you see the conundrum
a paradoxical illusion
it is placing our faith in the infinite that we grow
loose the bonds of human decay and sow what God sows
my belief is in the wisdom of man to choose divinity
those who choose death
are the eternal
wicked
enemy
wasting the fortunes
that we will harvest in the times to come
when humanity is free
to love
and love as one.
A bit of stream of consciousness here, but I enjoyed it.
Might record it for TikTok, but I need a good backing track.

Enjoy!

DEW
ghost queen Oct 2020
Night was falling, a full bright silver moon was rising, and Seraphine’s hunger had become unbearable. She needed to feed, had to have young fresh female blood, to stay alive and young.

Science had caught up with the reason vampires needed to feed on the youngest, preferably baby’s blood. In 1866 a Frenchman named Paul Bert had conjoined rat’s circulatory systems in a process called parabiosis, and thus the Prize of Experimental Physiology from the French Academy of Science.

In 2012, Cambridge University’s Julia Ruckh found old mice cojoined to young mice physically and mentally rejuvenated, becoming younger, smarter, and more energetic. Subsequent research discovered proteins in the plasma caused the rejuvenation. News outlets had proclaimed, “fountain of youth discovered in ordinary plasma.”

Seraphine needed the youngest, which has the highest concentration of rejuvenation proteins and hormones;  the purest, which is virus-free, and female, which has the highest levels of estrogen and progesterone.

Ideally, a baby girl’s blood would be best, but in today’s modern society, killed babies drew attention. The next best and the pragmatic thing was a 15-year-old runaway girl. L’ Association Assistance et Recherche de Personnes Disparues (ARPD), estimates 1000s of Parisienne girls, ages 10 to 18, runaway each year due to ****** and or physical abuse, ending up on the street, and having survival *** in 48 hours or less for food and or protection. And few if anybody cared. They disappeared, never to be found, presumed dead from a ****** overdose, or stabbed in a fight for food, money, or drugs.

Since runaways had high levels of disease due to survival ***, ****, and ****** addiction, Seraphine focused her attention on young troubled Arab girls living in the Habitation à Loyer Modéré (HLM) or projects of the 93rd, the department number of Seine-Saint-Denis, the poorest, predominantly Maghreb Islamic Arab banlieues of Paris.

Seraphine would undo her ponytail, letting her raven black hair cascade down around her shoulders, so she could fly around and into the projects at night landing on rooftops, listening for arguments, yelling, or shouting of eahira (*****), waqha (****), or haram (forbidden). When she heard those words, she knew a father was forcing old-world customs and religion on his born and raised in France daughter. The daughter, going to secular French public school, knew neither Arabic nor Islam, rebelled, wanting to live a secular, feminist rather than a submissive religious life.

Seraphine had found this month’s mark. She focused her superhuman hearing and sight on a tenth-floor open balcony window of the building across the street.

She could see an older man dressed in the traditional white dishdasha tunic, and taqiyah skull cap worn to evening prayers, yelling and throwing his hands in the air. Further in the flat, Seraphine could see a girl, crying. The man yelled waqha, waqha, then slapped her, and she fell to the floor. An old woman pulled the man back, as the girl got up and ran out the door.

Seraphine knew how this would play out and where the girl was headed. Four blocks away was the Lycée Général et Technologique, which housed a 24-hour crisis center for teens facing physical and or ****** abuse, pregnancy, homosexuality, ****** addiction, or homelessness.

As foreseen, the girl burst out the front doors of the HLM, running, crying down the street. Seraphine leaped from the 13-floor building into the air, silently following the girl like a bird of prey. The girl walked down Rue Bonnevide to Rue Guy Moquet, taking a shortcut through a wooded park.

Seraphine flew down to the ground, landing without a sound, and followed the girl from a distance. She could smell her youth, see her round hips and long shiny hair. When the girl had walked deep into the dark and silent park, Seraphine sprang forward like a puma, tackling the girl to the ground, and slitting her throat before she could scream.

Seraphine savored the ****, drinking the squirting blood from the carotid artery, relishing the warm fresh blood. The girl, in shock, blinked rapidly, trying to process what had just happened to her. She tried to speak but gurgled only blood, tears of fear started streaming down her cheeks. She knew she was dying, was afraid of dying, and wished her father was here to protect her, and make it all go away.

The blood slowed to a trickle. The girl had bled out and her body died. Seraphine continued to drink, ******* harder to get the remaining blood. The girl’s body convulsed then stilled as her brained slowly and finally died.

Seraphine had fed and would be satiated till another full moon.  She got up and licked her lips of residual blood. Her clothes were drenched in sweat and blood. She looked at the girl’s dead body, admiring her clear complexion, and big brown doe eyes, but felt no remorse for the ****.

She picked up the girl’s body in her arms, jumped into the night sky, and flew 65 kilometers northeast of Paris to La Foret De Compiegne in la department d’Oise, a secluded and rural part of northern France. Dead center in the forest lies Saint-Jean-aux-Bois, a small, and forgotten farming village of septuagenarian and octogenarian.

Seraphine flew to a farm a kilometer outside of the village. As she neared the farm, she could smell the putrid stench of pig ****. She started her descent, dropping the girl’s body, which hit the ground with a thud, in the barnyard, as she gently touched down.

The farm was dark, the only light was that of the full moon. She heard a rustling coming from the farmhouse. She saw an old man walking her way, holding a dim flamed oil lamp. He did not look at her, only at the ground, afraid of what would happen if he looked her in the eyes.

Seraphine grabbed the girl’s body by the hair and dragged it to the main pigpen, and threw the body over the fence and into the pit of sleeping pigs. The body hit a pig, startling it out of its sleep, squealing, waking up the other pigs, and realizing they had been fed fresh meat. The pigs sheared the flesh off the bones, then chewed and ground the bones. Within a couple of hours, there would be no trace of the young girl’s body. She was just another disappeared runaway.

Seraphine turned her attention back to the farmer, pulled out a brick of Euros from her coat, and threw it at his feet. He didn’t dare pick it up. He was too afraid of her. He knew what she was. And she knew, he knew what she was.

He’d seen the countless girl’s bodies come through like chicken carcasses at a processing plant over the decades. He knew he would die of old age soon, and only hoped God would forgive him for helping a monster.

Seraphine turned around, jumping into the sky, and disappeared. He was trembling and relieved that she was gone. He won’t see her for another full moon. He painfully bent over and picked up the brick of Euros. His hands were shaking.

******

Seraphine got out of the shower and wrapped her hair in a towel. She looked in the mirror and admired herself, the flawless white skin, the blood red lips, the pear shaped figure, but most of all her firm perky *******. She was brushing her teeth, when the doorbell rang. She rinsed out her mouth and wrapped a towel around her, walked to the door and opened it. It was Damien. She mischievously and alluringly smiled. He grinned back, knowing why she’d called. “I was so glad you were still up when I called,” she said poutingly.

She took his hand and led him to her bedroom. It was softly lit, a low yellowish light, not unlike that of a candle’s. The walls were decorated in red damask wallpaper with gold crown, base, and chair moulding. It was very elegant, very French. The bed was a large four posted red ruffled canopy, covered with a red duvet and pillows.

She got to the foot of the bed, turned around, unwrapped herself, sat on the bed, and shuffled herself to the headboard. She looked at him and spread her legs, showing, offering herself to him. Damien took off his clothes and crawled to her, over her, and leaned down to kiss her. She rose up to meet his kiss, wrapping her arm around his neck, then dragging him down in her.

She kissed him hard, ******* his tongue into her mouth, biting his lower lip. She stopped. He looked at her, a questioning look on his face. Then she pushed him down towards her *****. She had a trimmed and sculpted bush, just enough not to hide her full lips.

He started kissing around her bush, her tummy, and inner thighs. He could feel her squirming, as he circled around, edging closer to her *******. He kissed her lips, sliding his tongue up and down, then penetrating her.

She was wet, and tasted fresh, like sweet spring water. How amazing he thought to himself. I’ve never tasted a woman like this before. He went deeper with his tongue, pulling back the lips with his hands. She pushed his head hard into her. He licked her splayed ******, as she moaned in pleasure and approval. He moved his tongue up till he got to her ****, and lightly rubbed it then stopped, kissing her tummy. She relaxed and sighed.

He kissed his way down to her ****, kissing it softly then circling it with his tongue. She arched her back as he vigorously rubbed her **** with the tipe of his tongue. She moaned, then yelled stop, stop, in breathy gasps, then fell back into the pills. She took his head in her hands, and pulled him up to her mouth, and gave him deep, passionate baiser amoureux.

She took his hard **** in her hand and guided him towards her *****. She slid his **** up and down her *****, lubing up the head of the **** with her wetness. Then she let go, and he penetrated her slowly, as she gasped then moaned. He felt her wetness and heat as he slid deeper into her.

He started to pump rhythmically back and forth, slowlying picking up speed, as she moaned and groaned as he bottomed out his **** into her. He was going to *** and started to moan, when she yelled, “choke me, choke me.”

Taken back, he slowed. She looked up at him quizzically. “Choke me,” she said sternly. “You're a big boy. Choke me,” she repeated with a bit of irritation in her voice. He placed his hands around her neck and lightly pressed and started pumping. He got back into the rhythm and was back on track, getting close to *******. “Harder,” she said, “hard like you mean it.” It turned him on, and he clamped down harder as he pumped harder, animalistically.

He knew she was getting close to orgasming as she moaned and writhed under him. “Oui, oui, oui,” she screamed, and in a blink of an eye, she’d flip him on his back. Her hands on his chest, holding him down, as she rode him hard. She screamed, “ah, ah, ah,” then collapsed on his chest. His ****, still hard, inside her. She slowly rolled over, taking him with her, till he was on top, then rocked her hips, wanting him to continue, to finish.

He started to moan. She hooked her wrist around his neck and pulled him to her mouth, kissing him hard and deep as he came. He convulsed collapsing  on top of her. His **** still inside her, as she wrapped her arms around and rocked him back and forth, kissing the top of his head as if comforting a child.

He rolled over, crashing into the bed with exhausting and fatigue. He looked over at her. She was staring up at the ceiling. He saw the reddish purple strangulation marks he’d left on her neck, and slipped into a deep sleep.
Renjith Prahlad Dec 2009
I despise the creation
as a lone wanderer
who bottomed once a wonder
to an abyss of blue

I despise the foetus
I seeded within
the mother who produced
an infant of wisdom

I despise the symphonies
of my creation's curse
whose voices I gifted
from the echoes of mine

I despise this halo
that renders me divine
A nimbus of insolence
that burns me alive

I despise your journeys
to sanctity's den
for the airs, a legacy
from my immortal breath

As an unjust painter
I confess my sins
to the rainbows I drew
with a colourless quill

I seize the wonder
cast ages ago
As a triumphant saviour
to the disarmed souls

The abyss of blue,
a remnant to bear
the stench of your despair
to my merciless adieu
betterdays Jun 2014
when the world,
was much younger
and i was a stupid-crazy
girl-ly-chick, enamoured
with her youth.

i drove, a sunshine,
lemon, yellow bottomed, white pith on top combi van. coyly, cloyingly named Mello Martha.

it was...surfboards and swimsuits,
egg and bacon sangers,
early morning breezes,
after a blitz at the breadbox.

before... changing into
the structured, tortured baby, bank teller blues,
in the back,doors left open.

it was... rockin, knockin,
***, on credit,
to a promised future,
alluded to, but postponed,
for the moment.

it was... bruised back and
grazed knees,
harder, deeper oh god!
oh god! please... faster, fucken frenzies,
on a saturday night.

it was....running away to nowhere,
to find myself,
then finding me,
running away from,
the self i didn't want to know.
noway, nowhere, nohow.

it was... a barrel of monkeys, a barrel of laughs,
a keg of beer,
a box of wine,
under the crowded stars.

it was.... a roadtrip,
up the coast,
midnight bonfire,
midnight munchies,
playing hunches,
exploring reefs and reefers and such.

it was...far from family
and church rules,
a friendly rebellion,
of loud, proud youth.
totally and brazenly,
uncouth
it was... wham! and m.j.
cindy and boy george's culture club ,paperlace,
billy idol and the beach boys.
sung with abandon,
at spinal tap level eleven.

it was... peaceful, quiet, sleeping grace.
insanely in love with...
i forgot his name.

it was.... the birth of bodaciously me.
all brass hair and bosoms,
wild and carefree.

it was ....so long ago,

it was... yesterday night,

when i saw... Mello Martha's identical twin,
stopped at a traffic light.
it was... sunshine and lemon, bitter and sweet,
as she sailed off, down the street.
i sat and watched,
wist, full of recollect,
far and away, from my presently minded place...
sitting in, the driver's seat,
of my mom-blue subaru.
Carl Hoek Feb 2014
I stepped outside with father's boots on, feeling the heaviness of his feet in mine.

The people in my country's soil then clawed into his boots and pulled me down until I could no longer breathe in anything but dense thick soil and earthworm particles traveling into my mouth.  

The spirits of my land traveled through me as well.  They drifted in and out of my body, trading places and laughing, laughing at me and my sad predicament.

One man stumbled towards me as if under a drunken afternoon spell.  His mouth hung open, saliva pouring down.  When he came beside me he spat into both my eyes and I screamed, falling to the grass beneath my feet.  I saw black and smelled drool and could not open my eyes.

From the corner of my eye, I saw the man from the mountain open his razored jaw and draw a poisoned needle from underneath his tongue.  I watched the needle fly from his finger through my father's ear and out the other, turning all his fluids into ones of pure jade and stone.  Then the foreigner strapped my jaded father to his back and continued to ride into forbidding wastelands.

Inside my head lived a frightened little boy who nibbled at his nails whenever a strange man glanced at him.  I could not leave that fright alone.

I left my home and family to find him, and entered the woods.  I walked deeper and deeper into the world of trees that reached the sky and damp earth that smelled of life, into a world I had always been warned not to enter.  The day I left my home, I could sense the adventure that lay ahead.  Armed with nothing but courage in my chest and good sense on my shoulders, I let my feet lead me into the great unknown.

Then, as I was about to reach the top of the mountain, a giant form appeared before me in the shape of soil.  As I came closer to it I realized that it was not a giant form but composed of hundreds of small people from the earth.  The mountain had come alive, and it did not want me to pass its presence.

As I reached the mountain's top I took my father's bones and held them to the ground.  The people of the earth relinquished their skins and flesh taken over the years of people passing over their home.  The skins attached the bones and rose, forming into the figure of a man I knew from when I was young.

My feet, wearing their newfound bottomed shoes, pressed gently across the soils as not to wake the men clamoring upwards.  But I still felt a shadow trail at my footsteps that did not feel like my own.  As I walked faster the shadow moved behind me as well, sometimes touching my bare skin with sodden ground.

Before I entered my home my brothers came out, and, thinking I was a peddler, asked how much the jade I carried was worth.

As Mother smoothed her hand over Father's forehead she looked at me reassuringly.

Everyone then stared through the guise of the false man beside me.  The person, who acted as a substitute for my accomplishments, began to bite his nails in a rampant manner.

My lying brothers cried when they were forced to walk on the ground without their leather bottomed shoes.  I watched as they, like my father had once, were swallowed by the ground.
Kristen Apr 2013
Adrenaline gripping me
Desperation settling
Aftershock recollection
Magnificent desolation
I plead with myself
Don't think about the crash,
The broken memories need rest,
Or the rush
Like a roller coaster ride
Yet I'm still alive
In wonder
I have briefly touched the edges of Hell
Yet I survived
I've bottomed out and crashed
Welcomed death with blurry whiplash
Yet my lungs are still contracting
Twice in three days
I have uttered my last words
Yet I'm still breathing
I'm still alive
I survived
I have cheated death
So for now I am happy to lie and rest
Honestly, I am to happy just to breathe
For surely
(In the future)
Death will want revenge on me.
Brandon Aug 2012
Is this really the life we must force ourselves to live everyday 
this blue collared white collared no collar state of affairs 
where we strangle ourselves daily with the grind of odd jobs poor paychecks an broken homes 
scattered like insects catching fire under the magnified heat of the sun 
our fingers ******* and our minds fall in line to what they tell us 
like obedient children we don't raise our hands to ask why 
no we just bite our tongues and call this a living 
Waiting for our death to come and liberate ourselves from this drudgery 
this mundane system of complications we've entangled ourselves into 
feeling like vines growing on the side of a nuclear bomb waitin to drop off the edge of this planet 
cascading into the imagination of nothingness we know we feel deep inside 
but we've buried it in a rush and sometimes you can hear it grumbling 
crying out to be set free 
this imagination has got us into trouble before 
thinking we can change the system we've built with our own hands and words we've cut from rapists murders and molesters 
Kings queens and holy saints 
we see what we are but do little in time to repair the perceptions we've become 
only tightening our nooses everyday like corporate wear neckties begging for a little more breath 
and a little more time so we can amass the collection the tv tells us we need 
so we wash out our morals And give in to the notion of supply and demand 
but never actually demanding the change so many of us crave and need 
we pull splinters from our teeth and sell them as souvenirs 
hoping someone else will choke on them and loosen these ropes 
binding ourselves to the hanging effect of effigies burning brilliantly in midnight shades of *** bottomed out with whiskey hangovers 
so far it's got to be the only way out of this but the exit we always miss 
when we're traveling two hundred ten miles forward without the gift of sight or intellect 
on baking asphalt looking for a wall to end it all 
looking for someone to call to end it all...

But I've packed my bags and I'm hitchhiking the rest of the way 
keeping my thumb inside my jacket because it's better to walk alone 
than get picked up by a car heading for the fall
Jack Apr 2014
~

Sad Existence


It is a sad existence, that of a poet
with flowery phrases and disguised meanings
Tossing out happy faces like quarters
splashing in a wishing well with no bottom

Painting heartstrings in an amber shade of gold
lingering silver linings losing their crease
in frayed bottomed hip huggers
that are long out of style

Swishing fragrant melodies on starch white paper
collecting lines in neat rows and margin’d desires
lips fluttering and eyelashes batting
well below the league's average

Whispering notions of sheer delight,
tantalizing rapid pulses pushing blood
through narrow corridors finding
locked garden entrances in chained Jasmine

Dreaming dreams that only a dreamer could dream
all the while knowing that when they awaken
pen in hand, ink at the ready
these dreams shall never come true

It is a sad existence, that of a poet…who believes their own dreams
I’d taken my friends way off the shore
In my small, glass-bottomed boat,
The weather was clear, the sea was calm
For the sturdiest boat afloat,
I wanted to scan the hidden depths
Watch all that lived on the reef,
But Peter my friend, just wanted to fish,
And so did his brother, Keith.

They busied themselves with their fishing rods,
Were bent on baiting their hooks,
When suddenly something beneath the boat
Made me take a second look,
It only appeared a shadow at first
Came on with a sinuous glide,
It wasn’t a fish I had seen before,
‘Hey, just look at this,’ I cried.

They both turned around and peered below
But then the shadow had gone,
‘What did you see,’ said Peter P.
‘It must have been twenty feet long!’
‘Oh *******,’ said Keith, ‘beyond belief,
There isn’t a fish of that size,
Not even the great White Pointer Shark,
You must have mud in your eyes.’

‘I know what I saw,’ I said again,
‘It had the most horrible teeth,
It seemed to be looking for prey down there
Across the top of the reef.’
‘I’ve fished these waters for twenty years,
I think I’d have seen it by now,’
Said Peter P. with a smirk at me,
‘Watch us, and we’ll show you how.’

They knew I wasn’t a fisherman,
I wouldn’t know Cod from a shark,
I just liked to watch the fishes swim
Through the glass-bottomed boat in the dark,
I’d rigged up floodlights to light below
That eerie, mysterious deep,
Where seaweed swayed in the land they played
With the rest of the world asleep.

The guys continued and cast their lines,
While I sat reading a book,
We’d be there hours, and that was fine
I took the occasional look,
We drifted over a patch of blue
The sand was clear below,
When back there came that sinuous shape
I said to the guys, ‘HeLLO!’

This time it headed up for the boat,
Less like a fish than a snake,
A massive head with reptilian teeth
And suddenly I was awake.
It shot straight up, right over the boat
Snapping its massive jaw,
And took Keith’s arm from his shoulder blades
Right into its mighty maw.

We just couldn’t stop the flow of blood
It filled the boat as he died,
And Peter P. was distraught as he
Sat helplessly, and he cried.
‘That must be some prehistoric beast
That lived on the ocean floor,
I’ll never go fishing again,’ said he
As we headed back to the shore.

David Lewis Paget
Wanderer Oct 2014
Your sweet sugar bubbles
Boil rolling in the pan
Heavy bottomed, 3 quart stunner
With attitude for a handle
Luscious amber satin evolving into
Dark velvety ribbons
If allowed to cool
Heat from the stove opens pores
I'm gathering your heavenly scent
Into every inch of me
Salted caramel sauce is on the way
Covering special occasion cheesecake
You'll blow out your candles and make a wish
Mouth full of the love I cooked up for you
Denel Kessler Mar 2016
To face the fear of being liquid, I go under, float the drift.  Leave the boat behind, no worries.  I am in no hurry     to school with the rest, colorful parrot fish, at home in the depths.  

I am not afraid of sharks materializing from the inked abyss. The nothing in their soulless eyes is just black-bottomed assessing - not one of us.

In a lazuli sea, the barracuda cartel tails me, their silver barrels rule the reef, leering grins glinting diamonds, hungry pirates seeking gold hidden in my tender lobes.  

Yellow-bellied sea snakes swarm, their sinuously wicked heads disappear and reappear on ebb and crest of every wave, see their split tongues read the chemistry of each exhaled breath.

A swollen catch unsought.  Forsworn.  What's lost will be reborn.  From within, yolk still tethered, resting on the bottom.  Net a dying heart, return it to the deep, watch it roll and flutter, remember how to beat.
*When metaphors intersect with true stories*
In a glass bottomed boat
I will float far away and
will look at the sea as
the fish look at me.

It depends on the lens I suppose,
heaven knows mine are scratched
by the fingernails of time, but
the boat sails at nine and
this tide I'm on is mine
so I'll be there.

A meeting with Neptune is
written,
coming soon
to a bay
near to you and another one
with Poseidon,
old Gods lining up to grab at my throat,
on the glass bottomed boat
all they can do
is look.
I’d like to talk.
And if I could,
I’d say:
“See that path?
It’s flowers sprinkled
A foot apart,
Far as the eye can see?”
And,
“Would you take a walk with me?”
There’s dirt,
And rocks,
And a big, red sky-
“What is it about today
That makes me feel alive?”
The air is hot and thick,
My calico skirt blows,
Your flat-bottomed soles crunch,
As you pick the dusty flowers.

I’d like to talk.
And if I could,
I’d say:
“See that road,
It’s broken television sets,
Couches, and Maytag machines
Far as the eye can see?”
And,
“Remember how things used to be?”
It’s soft,
The image fading to white,
But I’m wasting bated breath-
“You never would have survived.”
The air, still hot, still thick,
Is dying, it’s sick.

Well, I’d like to talk.
And if I could,
I’d say:
“See that highway?
Gone is the humid day.
See that highway?
Gone is the hundred-degree breeze.
See that highway?
Gone is the locusts' song,
But-
Where have all the flowers gone?"
River boats float along,
up and down
from side to side,
Putney to
Rotherhithe

all this
stems from the Thames
the arterial tree

for the sailor in me the Thames will do
on a flat bottomed barge
muddling through to
St Katherine's and Tobacco dock, to
Tower bridge and make a stop

Ferries and Wherries and
waterways
days on the Thames

making friends
with the mudlarks, the spivs
the preachers, the sharks
all parts of the stem
a branch of the tree

life is for me from
the Thames to the sea.
Mark Albert Aug 2012
Low lights and varnished wood
places in memory, now long gone
Tables looking like they might be sticky
ashtrays emptied, stale tobacco air

Places of memory, folded and
put away in corners of my mind
bars by lakes, downtown smalltown
beers and jukes
shots and bar puddles
laughter and hair
bell bottomed floors.

Simple, to the point
play pool, talk about fishing
long gone days
leaving me wishing.
Adele Jul 2014
One tedious journey, the blistering heat of the day made me stay.
I am home outside the porch exploring my eyes of the panoramic scenery of the countryside.

My mother baked Vanille Kipferl (vanilla crescents) with her own special recipe. The haunting aroma entice through my nostrils. She loves to bake especially on sunny days.

She went out to hand me a plate of cookies and mumbled how magnificent the scenery of the valleys.
True, it is breath taking but she gets to be so flibbertigibbet sometimes.

The tranquility of surroundings is exquisite.
I exhaled and it felt so good.
Rocking the chair, I grabbed an old novel from a table.
The cover was all tattered and dusty but I still flip it.

Then, I walked through a twisting thicket road bound by soil.
The vast green grass sways as the wind dance around them.
The singing of birds is beautiful.
I held my cloche hat while swaying my white regency gown like a lunatic. Every day is a gift. And that gift needs to be value.

I found a shade from an old oak tree at the top largest hill.
It was cozy but I don’t want to sleep, I’m afraid I’ll end up in a Rabbit Hole.  Instead, I climbed the tree with all my might, until I reached the edge.

Up here is different. You can see everything!

The sea is barely visible. Towns and villages are lined up. The atmosphere is heavenly. I embraced the beauty and got down from this old oak tree.

I snatched the book I left on the ground. I hugged it and when I look behind…

I am in a bridge that crosses a canal.

I found a flat-bottomed rowing boat with a man singing.
He looks funny in his striped shirt and black pants.
He grabbed his skimmer and bowed down.
There I go curtsy.
He told me he’ll show me the world. I just hopped in.
The place is floating! There are buildings with such unique architectures.

The man rowed and rowed while singing a song called “O Sole Mio”.
Since it was Neapolitan, I just listened and it sounded romantic.

He said we’re almost there.



The honking of vehicles and jamming traffic roused me.
I put the book inside my bag and looked in front.
The cars are huddled together.
These yellow cabs are not moving.

I descend my feet on the ground and shut the door.
The rapid combustion is hideous!

Burger joints, restaurants, people… more people. It’s too crowded.

Anyway, I made my way to this small coffee shop for a little zap!

Then the intense feeling got me clairvoyant.

Flipping pages, I come to enter a portal of a different universe.

In my own little world that no one can get me.

I am the protagonist.

5/25/14
Sitting in a darkened bar
Ten dead soldiers in a row
My bladder was now screaming
It's time for you to go

I ordered up another drink
Left my seat, went down the hall
And on my way back to the bar
I saw a number on the wall

Help...it said, is close, close by
It's nearer than you think
Call, the number that you see
Before you order your next drink

I thought, it doesn't make much sense
I've got my life under control
I haven't bottomed out quite yet
I'm only half way down the hole

Four more drinks and then again
I stumbled down the hall
And coming back, I once more read
The notice on the wall

Help...it said, is close, close by
It's nearer than you think
Call, the number that you see
Before you order your next drink

I put a dime into the payphone
I thought I'd give it one good try
Before I hit rock bottom
I'd call them up or else I'd die

A friendly voice responded
"out of service...try again"
I laughed at this short message
Then I tried it once again

I checked the number on the notice
Dialed it, and then I heard
the message "out of service"
I laughed at every word

It seems that "out of service"
Was a title I should hold
After all I was a soldier
Out of work, and drunk, and cold

Those three words, they described me
"Out of service" , right bang on
No one cared that I was falling
Who would notice when I'm gone?

I went back to my barstool
Downed my drink and got one more
I thought, I'd better have another
Before I stumbled out the door

Before I went, I ventured
To the jukebox, checked for change
The sign said "out of service"
I thought that that was strange

Twice now, "out of service"
In a message sent to me
Was I truly worth redemption
A hopeless case for all to see

I figured that tomorrow
If I found I woke up dead
"out of service" were the last words
That were emblazoned in my head

I went back to the barkeep
Ordered one more for the road
Then I downed another soldier
"out of service" number stowed

I'd laugh on this tomorrow
If I made it through this night
I was truly "out of service"
I need help to find the light.
Elizabeth Jan 2012
I hear the roar of your truck engine as you wait patiently atop my driveway

I slide on my sandals hurriedly, slip out the door
Dressed in a loose, ripply top with my favorite shorts
Bouncy hair and glowing skin
Edible fragrances dripping off my figure, into your nostrils, in which drag themselves to the lobes of your brain, the taste buds of your tongue

And you
With your golden rod complexion, form-fitting black t-shirt, exposing the contours of your sculpted chest, loose Bermuda shorts
Complementary ball cap and aviators
The faint hypnotic smell of sweat and my favorite cologne that compliments your natural aroma perfectly

A playlist of songs reminiscent of old memories
Singing
Dancing
Laughing
Crying
Beats on my eardrums
"Fat bottomed girls, you make the rockin' world go round!"
Our vocal chords stretch like rubber bands as we scream to these memories in motion

The beach is reserved for our use, or so we pretend
Together, we are alone on this small strip of land
I run to the sand, allowing my toes the comfort of such a familiar feeling
White hot, burning, tingling, relief within seconds as the warmth conducts and disperses across my skin

I unbutton my shorts and pull my top over my head, run to the waters edge in hopes of pleasure, alleviation from the gnawing humidity, liquefying my bones  
I submerge my head, fogging my mind, allowing complete relaxation to fill my entire being

I find you beside me as I surface for Oxygen
Beads of lake water cover you cheeks like melted snowflakes
You stand there, naked next to me, your clothes at shore

Your hands search my back, find the fasteners of my bra
1
2
3 un-clipped by your hungry fingers, which now travel to my hips
Tugging at the thin, lacy fabric covering my
innocence

Now, in your palm

And with your other palm you beckon me back to the sand as you say, with tender breathlessness,
"You're beautiful"
In which I believe you as I lie upon a sandy towel
As you carefully lower yourself upon me
As our fingers interlace
And our lips, thirsting for lust, bind together

We are one

We are love
I was daydreaming... a much different version than what is in my poetry notebook, as I wrote this in the middle of the night!
Jane Doe Nov 2013
You were my life's great distraction,
from the tedious ins-and-outs of seasons,
the still summers and the silent snows.

From childhood's great terrors,
slipping under in the swimming pool,
from the restless rubbings of the twenties:

When my soul seemed too large
for my ribcage.

When I bottomed out in my thirties,
penniless, a slipped clutch in my car
and nothing but mustard in the refrigerator,
I remained for you.

I quit drinking when you threatened to
leave me on the kitchen floor.

That is the first bullet-point
on the endless ledger of debts
I owe to you.

And though we were fruitless
(genetically speaking)
your perfect DNA will remain in the soil's pores

and your calcium will marry the grass roots,

so that this great, dull planet
might become less ugly.
Nigel Morgan Apr 2015
for my Sidcot Friends

Two poems on Encouragement

I

She rose to her feet,
and sitting a few rows behind
I could not see her tears
as they coloured every word she spoke.

‘I have been thinking,’ she said,
‘of my dear sister dead
this fortnight past.
Loved by all whose lives
she touched, home and abroad.’

With some courage this woman
then described the memorial service,
the church alive and packed to honour
her sister’s life, a life of encouragement
always given with the kindest words,
and her wonderful smile, always.

II

His delivery was achingly slow
every word measured right
on the cusp between sense
and no sense, but ******* the memory.
Fitting somehow because his subject
was the movie ‘The King’s Speech’,
how he and friends had focused
during their Lenten study
on Bertie, the stammering monarch,
discouraged and made fun of
at every turn.

But,
befriended by a commoner
this future king was encouraged
to know that he might speak one day,
words of hope, of resolution, of courage;
encouragement no less - in a difficult time.

(to be read with aching slowness . . .)


At Meeting


‘For each and all
we need silence and stillness.’
So she had written . . .
and we were certainly
silent. Still is a harder
state when sitting
on those wooden forms,
benches well-bottomed
and the floor at our feet
creaking like planks
on a ship’s deck
in a stiff breeze.


Presence in the Midst


I hope for His presence.
It comforts me to know
He had been here before,
sitting close by, waiting.

But, lately, I am removed
from the Promise and the Gift,
and not fully awake, the silence
droops my shoulders,
bends my back so the daughter
of my friend (and partner)
wonders, ‘Is he asleep?’
No, I say when confronted
later. Not I.
Resting perhaps, and
just relieved from the sentry-go
of imagination’s so
persistent commands.



Heels Together


In spring sunshine
on a wooden bench
by the circular pond
I sit to listen
to water’s spray
and play from
the diver’s fountain.
Here a pair of sculptured feet,
body and limbs immersed,
and into the lilies disappeared.
But with the heels so neatly together:
to make a smaller splash.


Seven Hills


I’m surrounded here
by the Seven Hills –
Callow, Blackdown, Dolebury Warren,
Sandford, Banwell, Crook Peak
and Wavering Down and up
again and back to Callow.
These carboniferous limestone heights,
Mendips all, are home to the peregrine falcon,
geranium purpuleum, the long-eared owl,
and *dianthus gratianopoltanus
.


Sunset


Sitting alone,
with only the sunset
for company,
I watch an orange globe
fall, fall behind a distant
hill hiding the Severn and the sea,
a spring evening and the birds
in song before the approaching dark,
the rising moon, the solitary stars.



Four Yurts in a Field


‘Speaking truth to power,’
The Guardian said,
‘Questioning authority,
Challenging the status quo’
and so  . . .

Four yurts in a field
make for a centre of
simplicity, truth, peace
and equanimity all
quite inescapable here.




Singing Easter Sunday


We sang as we do here
on Easter Day this joyful
noise together all and sundry
to bless the day with music’s
Concord and Time, rhythm
enlivened by the Sweetest Charity,
flipping the wings, tingling the feet.

When every empty bar did give me leave
I caught her singing smile, her sensible
shoe-standing stance, her grace,
her peerless beauty in that grey
frock falling just to stockinged knees.
She was all and more and ever
I could wish her ever to be. Amen.
An Easter Settlement is the name given to a Quaker gathering over the days of Easter Thursday to Easter Monday. It's a time for families, food, fellowship and fun. Quakers don't actually celebrate Easter but they nonetheless recognise its spiritual importance and see it as an opportunity for reflection and friendship.

— The End —