"browses" poems
The snowman slicks his hair
and sits on the piano bench.
He never comes to press the keys
for fear of the warmth
in a major chord.
The snowman lets his whiskey stand
in ice upon his windowsill.
He never comes to press his lips
for fear these poisons
will reduce him to elements.
The snowman browses works of art,
photographs of beautiful women.
He never comes to try his luck
for fear that rejection
will leave him cold,
and preserve his distance.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 8:06 AM UTC
read my body like a bible,
let your tongue be the bookmark
that browses my pages,
and embeds between my spine
right where it shouldn't;
say my name like a prayer,
and i'll worship the shrine
under your stomach
like a god— my god!
let me lick the statuette
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 8:41 AM UTC
Every day the people do it
We can always see straight through it
Every day they ‘ooh’ and ‘ah’
‘Where are we going’ and ‘how far?’
Walking right through our arcade
Playing out the same charade
Are they coming in to buy?
Or look at every price and sigh?
‘Candlestick sir, antique broach?’
‘Sorry must get to the coach’
Occasionally while one man browses
They will look at the price of houses
But we know that they’ll never buy
Because the prices are too high
‘Salami, cheeses, tongue in jelly?’
But they just walk past the deli
From their course they never budge
Unless of course they want some fudge
‘Perhaps a painting or knick knack
A china tea *** letter rack?’
The gallery’s packed full of art
But from their cash they still won’t part
The café almost tempts them in
The smell of bacon tends to win
But then they look upon the clock
And wallets full still, off they flock
In short this daily stream of life
That travels through our little fief
Just amounts to so much teasing
Rather than shop keeper pleasing
There is a reason none the less
For their single-mindedness
Despite how varied our approach
We cannot hope to beat the coach
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 11:05 AM UTC
The Satan residing in the cornea,
Tries too hard to insist
And the continuously contaminated
Clockwork fails to resist.
The ***** of the aces – Corrupt
In a while it will erupt,
And puke out disrupt
****** emotions outburst
Of unbearable lust.
The pubescent plaque
Haemorrhages seeds of deeds
Culminates all over – the wicked weeds.
Seductive seas
The mind browses
****** ***** the louses.
Engulfed in the trap of crap
Cornea turns Pornea.
Mar 4, 2010
Mar 4, 2010 at 12:11 PM UTC
God gave them over to degrading passions; for their women
exchanged for the natural function for that which is unnatural, and
in the same way also the men abandoned the natural function
of the woman and burned in their desire toward one another
men with men committing indecent acts and receiving in their own
persons the due penalty of their error. (Roman 1:26
Our summer evening settle down
many of us logged on to the internet
Critiquers or terrifying ticking time bombs
They surf and browses around.
Clicking sounds; fingers moving slowly
Anything is possible in today's world
Overly educated fools smudges the earth
Men with men; women with women
it's sad world for most of us
so we chat with total strangers
Controlled by gentle touch
Alone in the comfort of our homes
So many old and lonely cantankerous poets
Or mental deranged strangers connects
such old souls stretches across the globe
to be disrespectful toward each other
is this the new circle of social creatures?
could it be they emotion, compassion
or simply a humanity deal?
They are living secret lifes, with make believe wives
The miraculous things we say to each other
Gutless lonely souls, nervous in plain view
can never function in the real world
A Fish Tank without water
Do we really know them?
I know them but only on the internet(:)
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 7:55 AM UTC
Likes the new girl in office
Adds her on Facebook,
she accepts.
Browses all her photos,
never comments.
Types in the chat box,
deletes.
Sees her with another guy,
disbelieves.
Another girl joins, the process repeats
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
Going up the road,
A front of sorrows space,
Where sweet kisses of coldness,
Touch the self in side,
One inside another,
Kisses blown on lightnings spark,
While breaking free,
From storms,
Once so very dark,
Brewing hot as coffee ***
Rich filled with quality,
Quenches all desires,
Love peruses as she browses,
The carousel of love,
Powered up by fairy dust,
In sparkled sprinkles,
Remarkable indeed,
Magic powder,
Power felt,
Chucked from impish fairy globe,
In an orb of inspiration
Blessed!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 10:00 AM UTC
- Do you hear it?
The sounds of footsteps are coming from afar.
- But where are the people?
I can't see them so far.
I hear only footsteps coming from afar.
-Yes, you won't see them,
Don't make a lame effort.
When a human soul is exiled,
The body of a person, clear like a shadow,
Browses in the dark...invisible, silent.
And only from afar, with the sound of footsteps,
Rumbling as if moaning of the loss of their souls.
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 1:20 AM UTC
See her sleeping on a bench
her basket there beside
she's out in the cold
when she should be inside
she spends her life a'shopping
as she browses the streets
looking for some food
and shoes for her feet
I feel so much love for her
that I get on my knees
then I pray to God
"Lord, could you help her please?"
I take my shoes off my feet
and remove my sweater
then I walk to the bench
and offer them to her
she smiles at me kindly
as she accepts my gifts
and then for a moment
it seems her sadness lifts...
I remember as I walk
her on that bench of rust
knowing she is equal
with the rest of us
Nov 14, 2009
Nov 14, 2009 at 5:15 PM UTC
The blue freeze pop seemingly stains the boy’s lips as he exits the kitchen,
Quickly employed is the process of melting on this hot summers day. At five years old, he
takes the steps down towards the pool deck foot by foot, holding the railing as if he had never taken a step in his life.
The world is his, not existing past the edge of the yard, which is safely guarded by a picket fence. The sun shines down aggressively, reflecting the bright orange color of his water-wings on his face, his blue eyes still vibrant and innocent as he squints to maintain his focus.
As he browses the surface of the pool I can feel him contemplating his next move as he watches his younger sister. The three year old is naturally processing; questioning my ability to catch her if she decides to take what seems to be her fifth leap of faith since this morning, yet the smile on her face hasn’t changed.
He grasps a water gun, says “fight with me junior”
He, being the only one armed, I say, “Let’s find a game we can play together”
He shrugs as he once again realizes the existence of his sister, and ponders what could be next. I splash him once and he hurriedly discards the plastic freeze pop sleeve on a reclining chair, left behind like the activities of yesterday.
Fittingly, the sister has the knack to explore, like Dora, the character she admires and adores.
Without speaking they move together towards the emerald green raft, and together they drag it to the edge of the pool.
“Here” the boy said.
“Yeah. Here!” she exclaims with a childish grin.
“Good idea” I reply.
They look at each other as if they had won a prize, then silently exchanging looks before the boy takes charge.
He jumps on the raft wildly and she follows in tow, but with the same caution that she had had just moments ago.
They sit together, they laugh, they smile they play, innocently, before the stresses of life can attack and grab hold of the loving relationship that they currently share.
I find that the simple pleasures of life are as free for today,
As are the smiles that both of the children convey.
There is nothing in the world that I’d trade for this beautiful summer display,
and I cherish every single second that I spent on this day
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 10:27 AM UTC
Suffocating between houses so distant
Where oceans tempest in between
An opaque clutch on her throat consistent
Tears wetting her façade, blatantly unseen
The further the households grew apart
A greater despair pierced at her heart
Realisation non-emergent in her psyche
Convincing herself that just maybe
She can squeeze in amongst the houses
Within the distance vast yet she browses
To experience being cherished
On what it feels like to belong
Alas, that cannot be accomplished
Bonds hath severed for far long
Jun 15, 2018
Jun 15, 2018 at 12:51 PM UTC
By Ron Koertge
Give up sitting dutifully at your desk. Leave
your house or apartment. Go out into the world.
It's all right to carry a notebook but a cheap
one is best, with pages the color of weak tea
and on the front a kitten or a space ship.
Avoid any enclosed space where more than
three people are wearing turtlenecks. Beware
any snow-covered chalet with deer tracks
across the muffled tennis courts.
Not surprisingly, libraries are a good place to write.
And the perfect place in a library is near an aisle
where a child a year or two old is playing as his
mother browses the ranks of the dead.
Often he will pull books from the bottom shelf.
The title, the author's name, the brooding photo
on the flap mean nothing. Red book on black, gray
book on brown, he builds a tower. And the higher
it gets, the wider he grins.
You who asked for advice, listen: When the tower
falls, be like that child. Laugh so loud everybody
in the world frowns and says, "Shhhh."
Then start again.
from Fever, 2006
Red Hen Press
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 2:53 AM UTC
She wanders, all day,
she roams and walks and strays.
She browses, loses interest,
yet she does not give up.
Some would lose their temper,
others feel uneasy. How can she
stay so natural, breezy.
I swear I wasn't staring,
I tried to restrain.
Honestly, but you know
how I react to smiles,
as beautiful as yours.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC