"bronwen" poems
I don't feel it, You say. And, pray tell her
name, my sir, that i may find she thee and prithee
Bear me off to southern sounds, fallow fields,
an altar ground, a garland rope of singing springtime snows.
this may be more than i can--;;
YOU
ARE
NOT
WOR
THW
HILE
and i had such an awful dream last night--
you said, Bronwen, my love;
and i could not sweep her hair from the floorboards
beneath which you hid your ***** mags from mice.
because you tell me about it.
WHOAM?
you speak of gOd like dOgs & i am worthless coinage
in the sewers. the sewers find my dress still hanging from your bones.
your bones your bones your piano finger bones
kiss me again
until my lips swell my throat bleeds i do not want you to know how much i crawl spiderlike through the trails of hair in the drain as the autumn leaves the summer leaves the spring buds freeze over hell i am not i am not listening pan-drum please let me say this one last thing:;
he is your accordion player the ***** player man who speaks fluent french and inflected english he is your accordion player on the pipes-----
and you say i do not feel and i reply,
this is too bad too late, chuckle replay as your fantasy walks through the door my team my team she is porcelain lovely see the perfume in your synesthesia colorblind goat footed grandiose Cesar with epilepsy she is your dream she is she is she is!
&meanwhile; the trumpet in soul still plays solfeggio---
1 2 le 3 4 1 2 le 3---1 2 le 3 4 1 3--le 1 le 3 le 1
she is the discord of the seventh in the tenor line
she is membranes she is rain she is towels
LEIGH **** IT
if only if only you weren't so lonely i might call you mine and bring you back homely.
IF ONLY-----Charles weren't so busy while you
stare at silver spoons and cherub smiles
and cupid calls you home again.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 1:37 AM UTC
He loved you,
Bronwen; he
Said you came
Into his
Life like a
Brass band down
A parade
With your bold
Buxom fine
Figure, your
Big bright eyes
Shining at
Him like large
Lamps breaking
Into the
Darkness of
His dreary
Life. He loved
You, Bronwen,
When you kissed
His bearded
Cheek and you
Giggled like
Some silly
Schoolgirl who’d
Been tickled
Until a
Torrent of
Tears flooded
Your blue blouse,
And he loved
The way you
Took his hand
In yours and
Held it to
Your lovely
Big *****
And blessed it
With the touch
Of your lips
And sent a
Wow making
Wave of touch
Tingling
Electric
Along his
Arm right to
His broken
Heart and head.
He misses
You, Bronwen;
He misses
Your kisses
And love, now
That you are
Lost and dead.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 3:05 PM UTC
The simplest act might be someone’s cure-
I remembered when it was
a knowing look from a real friend,
heals more then medicine does.
Although alone often we are
and it’s quite the sad affair-
back to that look I do retreat and
life is blessed to bare.
When I’ve gone a little hard
and sobriety’s days away
a real friend’s presence, brief or not
reminds me I’m okay.
So grateful am I, its appreciation like guilt-
I can’t deserve a love so true.
a feeling so many don’t even know
I’m overcome I actually do.
Thank You:
With all my heart, my friends,
the real ones may be few-
but to remind me that I’m loved;
well, I need no more than you.
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 11:06 PM UTC