"bundle" poems
They ask me if I still love you.
I blush, grin and say;
of course.
Why?
Because your eyes are of the most utter ocean blue,
but other days they're the currents of the stormy grey sea.
I see a current of salty water, deep, once blue, but now a faded grey.
I see a bundle of darkened grey clouds in the distance,
and the thunder rumbles from your irises,
and I hear it pound in the back of my mind.
I wonder if you knew.
I see a spark of lightening flash, only once in a while,
while you look at her.
My throat corrodes with bile.
She says she sees green demons lurking in the depth of my own ocean currents,
and I shrug.
What am I supposed to say?
I know you think about her.
Night and day.
The hardest part,
is a generic, old saying.
If you love them,
you let them go.
If they love you enough to stay,
or to come back,
you never let go.
But you haven't come back.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 12:15 AM UTC
Too lazy to be ambitious,
I let the world take care of itself.
Ten days' worth of rice in my bag;
a bundle of twigs by the fireplace.
Why chatter about delusion and enlightenment?
Listening to the night rain on my roof,
I sit comfortably, with both legs stretched out.
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Papers, Papers, Papers
Whiter than aching teeth,
Whiter than whites of tilted eyes,
Whiter than funeral wreaths.
My hands shake as I write this,
Filed away myths; Stolen lined sheets
My index finger chained by red tapes,
words mix and ground breaks,
I'm the one the world forsakes
Yellow maize, littered leaves,
all twisted into
black ink and clean sharp white paper blades.
-------"I am in a bit of daze," I tell myself, "look at those flaccid bits;
there lay the logs who use to be the jungle of my childhood dreams."
------"Don't be amazed," I replied, "these leafless branches and twigs are for
your Papier-Mâché degrees."
So I listen to my second self once,
the more logical cynical satirical one,
Treading on the plot of their paper works,
playing crosswords as anxiety uncork
my thoughts turn to the bankable orcs,
just as my career forks
Maybe I should be like my mother,
Marking numbers on a deck of cards-- waltzing with Chance.
Maybe I should be like my father,
Toiling for some rich men's grandson-- seething in Trance.
Maybe I should be like the Other,
Going along with the system-- thanking myself
beneath a cap, a diploma, a piece of paper.
I wore these books like bank notes tuxedoes,
I was promised the world by the credits I borrowed.
Must I go along with the mechanism of their game,
or should I rise up against all odds
Opposing, debating, rebelling against
this bundle, this trouble, funneling me into no-tomorrows
Or must I write it all down,
in my prayers against their lawyers, who need no reminds
Or must I shred, smear, and tear the papers with my own bare hands
But what will I ever be to them, friends?
A papercut, perhaps.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 9:33 PM UTC
*Once there stood a Sailor,
Tall and Bold he was,
Upon the waves was his home,
Eye of the storm he was.
Some called him Charming,
Cindrella was in love,
Sindbad wanted a friend
SnowWhite could'nt succumb.
Jasmine searched the seven seas
To bring him back to ground,
And Alladin pushed him underneath
Hoping he'll fall.
But there stood a Mermaid,
Upon a stubborn rock,
Her eyes were like wet sand
Her nose a pebble soft,
She lured the hearty sailor,
Into the sea so dark,
Hoping he would see a world
Where he never had to stop,
Hoping he would call it home,
His home upon the rocks.
He wore his mighty hat aboard,
Underneath he was at flight,
Fought the world of challenges,
With his awe-some sight,
To all he was a Sailor,
A person in disguise,
Wid arms like boulders
And chest fierce
But light..*
*You would ask
What's their story,
Well here goes,
It might be right,
But Sailor met the Mermaid,
Mermaid fell in love,
Love is what sailed along,
Under the waves of lust,
In a world so arid
It turned hearts dry,
He searched for a place to swim
Where he could also fly,
He swam with the mermaid
Into the glassy ****
Glossy waters
And coral reefs,
After years of gliding by
He decided to stop,
Not to make him stop,
the Mermaid cried a lot..
The sailor found a new place,
A place called a 'Road',
She thought their adventure was over,
And the Sailor was lost,
She tried to tell him,
Asked him to stop,
For she was no longer she,
Plural now she was,
She cudnt tell him
For he was in a hurry,
And about everything
He forgot..
But alas!
Was she happy
She saw the Sailor pray,
The prayer wasnt an ordinary one
He wanted for her to stay,
He'd seen Her world
For years together,
He now wanted her to see,
His own world of wonders
Above the choppy sea..
He prayed that She could
Join him
With no other blocks,
The only thing he wanted..*
"If only she could walk",
*She cried and cried
In the sea of course
She knew that wasn't possible,
She knew He was lost..
One morning she woke up
Washed up on the shore,
The sea no longer wanted her
She was thrown.
She'd seen the seas too much,
Now it was time for her to go,
To Walk with the Sailor
With new legs, aboard.
Happiness got the best of her,Tears would'nt stop,
He caught her arms,
Pulled her up,
And showed her how to walk.*
*She told him he had to love her,
And two other people too,
The Sailor was astonished
He dint know what to do!
A few days later
He did understand,
They were now four,
A bundle of all,
Joy had at last rejoiced!
He gave her a pearl,
From the very sea she came from,
To remind her of That world,
She accepted and
Now they were one mind,
A family,
One of a kind..*
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 12:17 PM UTC
This little man that I know with money in his sockets and routine in his pockets has self proclaimed that he is a tight *** When I envision a *** such as this, I imagine a bundle -- of securely aggregated, perfectly sharpened number two pencils. The businessman just shy of adulthood and too tired to remember –even the beginning of his of disclosure, denied his struggle to acclimate a multifarious lifestyle, appropriately suggested in the form of a triangle, and a circle, both of which embody polar opposing adaptations of humanistic routine.
The two shapes: The circle, denies the break in motion by imposing a constant cycle of diligent compression, there is no room for pause only steady flow and relentless drive. This influence of life impression slows down the heart, body, and soul while speeding up time. This particular commitment accommodates the dry colorless beings that embrace and accept boxed imprisonment.
Traditionally, the triangle denotes rhythmic patterns that elevate and drop to a point in which imposes a healthy reflective pause: progression, reflection, balance. As stated, as a provincial approach, a regular triangle flat on its base, peaking at the top represents a healthy, solid life routine. In contrast, the triangle can be flipped upside-down introducing an entirely new dynamic, composed of flat-lined monotony, tapered off to a regressed realm of destruction, regret and disorder. Despite the uniqueness of the standard triangle model to the man in question, it is important to compare the negative reflection, for it applies to the entirety of this investigation.
We used to be lovers, he and I. We shared my giant pillow-top that I bought on the black market for a meager two-hundred fifty. -- A mere steal at that rate.
We occasionally exchanged ideas, mainly about ethical concerns related to globalization and the environment.
I attempted to give him a cooking lesson once, but that failed, indefinitely. The bust was not my doing, but simply, a great disinterest on his part; or better yet an inability of not being better than me at something.
Everything has gotten so crowded.
Jan 18, 2010
Jan 18, 2010 at 1:17 AM UTC
I use to write of pain and tribulation
mmm I've always just been looking to feel the greatest sensation
senses at peaks, they peak when they peek at the sight of elation
I've always taken to sealing all my stories away
in notebooks with binding finally looking to fray
because the pressure they hold brings such a dismay
Binded in between faded blue lines
I swear im fine
I swear im fine
in these lines of what could have been mine
and I'll lose it all in this glass of wine
where red bleeds to black
and I've done away with that
The great purge of endless words
heard by no one other than the mad man
running through my head screaming that I can
do anything I thought my mind and limbs had banned
from the realm of possibilities
Because pain ought not be sealed to live an endless life
So I now write of hope and dreams
and the endless possibilites
that stretch from the cities and into the trees
finally dancing down into these seas
but I'm also writing
of wishes and laughs and smiles too
because what else can you do
there are only a few
who know everything is new
everything we knew
can be lost in the great blue
that paints our skies and seas
carrying away the bundle of keys
that locks pandora's box
and leaves us with happiness and cheer
Because happiness can be carried in anything as simple as a tear
racing down the lines of your cranial
that houses your greatest fears
From the lines of light blue to the minds of the hopeful and the true
And words of optimism should live
And breathe and smile and laugh
In the hearts of the world for a lifetime and I digress
In a habitat so vast
With horizons reaching from sky to sky
Drowned in blues and red
I'm glad to of found you at last
We're left to defy all that society presents as lies
I wanna speak at an intimate decibel
Acknowledge your flaws, don't be bound by them
Open your mouth to nothing coming own
Settle down in your head and make a home
I just want to compliment your soul
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 6:28 PM UTC
You'll never know...
When you'll be head over heels
The most enchanting feeling in the world
Your unknown desires, it reveals
A current in you will endlessly twirl
You'll never know...
When happiness fills your heart
Having a precious bundle of joy in your arms
You'll realize in your life, he's the most important part
Not forgetting, he'll make the best morning alarms
You'll never know...
When your heart will be scrunched
Like a ball from a piece of paper
Feels like your chest is being ruthlessly punched
Your skin peeled off with a serrated scraper
You'll never know...
When a friend will turn his back
Whose hand you held, all these years
Intentionally causing an emotional attack
In disbelief, you gather invisible tears
You'll never know...
When you'll be caught in an unexpected plight
Daily reflections occur, due to lack of wisdom
To ease your dark path, you yearn for a ray of light
Nothing much you can do except to crave for freedom
You'll never know...
When the time comes, you might bleed to death
Tears will flow drowning your skin
As you breathe your last breath
You wish you had more time to atone for your sins
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 6:14 PM UTC
A newborn to a novice Mom, such a burden all at once, so much to do, the day is gone too soon – a crying bundle makes the night so long
But it is such a joy!
The changes in life are so unreal, schedules can never be the same, but soon a balance will appear, life will be normal once again, Almost!
As years fly by, the bundle grows, the diapers gone now, outgrown clothes, tonsils out, braces in, “why can’t I go” a familiar sound!
And all too soon that little bundle of joy is ready to face the world.
We hope that we have done a good job, and we try not to hold them too tight to us, we must let go!
The time has come to let them fly, that tiny hand that clung to you has grown and holds another now.
Don’t cry Mom, don’t be sad, it’s all been worth it, and maybe soon, another small bundle will enter your life, and ah, who is the novice now??
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 10:27 PM UTC
Yet another day of pain was put behind,
She lets out a sigh of relief as if the beast
That stalks her is duped for now, once more.
The last Metro train that night, slows down,stops.
To return to her regular prison she gets in hurriedly.
Emptiness bares it's fangs, that looked sweet in fact,
In comparison with the experiences of the day gone.
A suspicious bundle on the floor stirred at her touch,
A frail women almost frozen,living dead, eyes sunken
in sockets." How did you end up here?" she quarries.
"I fainted, didn't eat anything, for the past few days"
"Mother, you need to drink something hot quick.
Come with me I'll take care" her eyes get moist.
Then she smiles thinking how fortunate she is.
"My share of sweet misery is here to teach me
practice humility, even in an empty compartment"
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 9:26 AM UTC
In winter I bundle up tight in layers of warmth
Like a love I've never felt
Draping scarf over hoody over sweater over skivvy
The wind bites my button nose and reminds me of a love
A love I know too well
Bitter cold brief sickening and harsh
I catch my eye in an ice smitten mirror and I'm torn
My eyes look like hell
How could anyone love me like warmth and fall
For this fat face of shame, tears and freckles
Even if they do
They'll never tell.
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 4:56 PM UTC
You're just a tiny bit minimalist in your own unique way
a white star I have to squint to see in daytime sky
not a Mercedes five point but a Nissan Micra car
you park neatly in a three point turn by my netsuke
and put a circular dent on my platonic furniture
Your two humble rooms devoid of any bold sculpture
except a fold-out table and a miniature bubble chair
and a futon for a bed which is troublesome to share
you draw the line at adornments but allow a wallflower
A bulb in a bowl is your ornamental garden feature
mealtimes a nibble on grated carrot celery cucumber
you run so long on empty you're an eco friendly teacher
stretching out the energy is a passion of my lover
engaging in lessons on sustaining a resourceful nature
Your shoes two pointe ballet slip ons easy to care
barely there g-string thin cotton underwear
nothing loud to upset your understated figure
slight as a pin drop your bottom's semi-derrière
sits so light on feet I'd swear you float on air
I rarely get to hear you come before you're in my hair
with a voice pitch high as a smitten kitten's purr
your upper reaches get a score sized single 'A'
nice when it fits into our schemes of feng shui
I carry your bundle home on the roadway rivers of light
yet you only burn one ray of candle power at night
born of scintillating atoms which flow along each vein
containing so much love without clutter in your frame
a brave star small as wings formed of minuscule wire
flutters in your eyes with minimal flare
but deep desire
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 12:54 PM UTC
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...
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 10:58 PM UTC
"And in a funny way, the shaving of my, uh, head has been a liberation from, uh, a lot of, uh, stupid vanities really. Uh, it has simplified everything for me, it has opened a lot of doors maybe." - Stephen Malkmus, Jo Jo's Jacket
the first layer of skin i shed
was the bra
rid of the foreign metal sculptor producing a deep rift between skin
my third eye, swallowing gazes
rid of my **** , my ***** , my rack
replaced with sacks of fat and nerve and milk ducts
hanging, existing, for no one else
not even myself
the second layer of skin was the painting of the face
the concealing and erasing of imperfections, the lines of laughter of sorrow of life
redirecting attention and importance to the bow and symmetry of the lip
no longer did i have to put myself on in the morning
i woke up as i was, as i needed to be,
bare and uninhibited
my skin now breathed, and for no one else
not even myself
and then i grew another layer of skin,
made of dank tangles to protect my age,
i stopped shaving the years i'd walked this earth, shedding my womanhood
the skin grew to my armpits, little tufts of sweaty, odorous mother nature dozing in a fleshy convex nest
and to my legs, were the tangles wrapped around my ankles
preventing the spreading of the legs for every life
for not every life wanted what was not tame
and what was not tame no longer wanted to be.
my body did not conform,
for it was not brought into this world to be consumed for the pleasure of others
it exists for no one else,
not even myself
and as i was engulfed in this hairy wonder of my own body
i shed the last layer,
the shaving of the head
my brain, my being breathed
porous and exposed
vulnerable to weather and whispers
but i was all at once naked and calm,
having finally peeled away the layers of ***** over-sexualization and constrained femininity that had molded this meat sack that serves me,
a bundle of circuitry and solution balancing and bobbing on the neck
for i exist for no one else,
only myself
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 10:48 AM UTC
Sometimes I wonder if it's even worth fixing,
The clock on my desk has been broken for too long now.
The hands have not move, have not touch.
But time hasn't stop,
And every now and then a second laughs at my clock,
A minute brushes its side,
An hour smiles at the stillness.
Years have passed and my clock has remained unchanged, unrepaired.
It is frozen in a moment of time,
Still in a bundle of memories,
Trapped in the infinity of the universe.
I wonder if it's even worth fixing a brokenness that makes you feel infinite.
I wonder if a life that could end is worth more than a death that persists.
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
PARNELL'S FUNERAL
UNDER the Great Comedian's tomb the crowd.
A bundle of tempestuous cloud is blown
About the sky; where that is clear of cloud
Brightness remains; a brighter star shoots down;
What shudders run through all that animal blood?
What is this sacrifice? Can someone there
Recall the Cretan barb that pierced a star?
Rich foliage that the starlight glittered through,
A frenzied crowd, and where the branches sprang
A beautiful seated boy; a sacred bow;
A woman, and an arrow on a string;
A pierced boy, image of a star laid low.
That woman, the Great Mother imaging,
Cut out his heart. Some master of design
Stamped boy and tree upon Sicilian coin.
An age is the reversal of an age:
When strangers murdered Emmet, Fitzgerald, Tone,
We lived like men that watch a painted stage.
What matter for the scene, the scene once gone:
It had not touched our lives. But popular rage,
Hysterica passio dragged this quarry down.
None shared our guilt; nor did we play a part
Upon a painted stage when we devoured his heart.
Come, fix upon me that accusing eye.
I thirst for accusation. All that was sung.
All that was said in Ireland is a lie
Bred out of the c-ontagion of the throng,
Saving the rhyme rats hear before they die.
Leave nothing but the nothingS that belong
To this bare soul, let all men judge that can
Whether it be an animal or a man.
The rest I pass, one sentence I unsay.
Had de Valera eaten parnell's heart
No loose-lipped demagogue had won the day.
No civil rancour torn the land apart.
Had Cosgrave eaten parnell's heart, the land's
Imagination had been satisfied,
Or lacking that, government in such hands.
O'Higgins its sole statesman had not died.
Had even O'Duffy -- but I name no more --
Their school a crowd, his master solitude;
Through Jonathan Swift's clark grove he passed, and there
plucked bitter wisdom that enriched his blood.
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His fingers wrapped tightly
Around the little hand
Of the sleeping child in his arms.
His eyes traced the silhouette
Of pursed lips to fattened cheeks
And he thought to himself,
"How does something so wonderful exist?"
He listened to the gentle rasp of breath
And watched the slight rise and fall of chest.
His eye soaked up the sight
Of the bundle of unconditional love he held.
And soon dreams of future adventures
And tales and fables and stories
And daily life monotony
Played like a movie before him,
Drawing a single tear of hope from his eye.
All too soon the child stirred and woke
And jumped up and shouted with glee.
And he returned from sentiment to reality
And made breakfast with a cup of tea
Wishing for more moments like these
Because he finally understood his father's word:
Time passes too quickly when it comes to love.
And when his hand paused over the kettle
And his eyes glazed over with this vague thought,
A small hand touched his arm with "Papa?"
Little eyes took in the strength of character
That towered as a model for a future life;
Little eyes that never strayed too long from
Watching and learning all the things Papa did;
Little eyes that now began to see
There's always another side to every thing,
For with great abruptness
Papa looked into those little eyes
And said, "Go wash up, your hands are *****
But the glint in his eyes said,
"I love you, always."
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 7:06 PM UTC
I ate hot meals,
I brushed my teeth day and night,
I spent long hours on the mobile
with friends,
I wore well laundered clothings,
Not a single crease or a stain on them,
Before motherhood.
My home was ***** and span,
No stumbling on scattered toys,
No ***** window panes,
No tiny hands holding my skirts,
No one eagerly waiting for me on the doorsteps,
No spits,pukes, pees or poos to clean,
No teared eyes to wipe,
No tiny bundle to hold in my arms,
Getting love,warmth and satisfaction in return,
Before motherhood.
I was in control of myself,
Of my mind and thoughts,
Caretaker of my own body,
Spending hours to enhance my beauty,
To maintain grace and elegance,
Before motherhood.
Now I am a mum,
I don't mind if my hair is disheveled,
My house is a bit messy,
I am exhausted,
For the reward of a hug, a kiss
and those endearing words,"I
love you mum,you are the bestest." completes me.
Dec 8, 2018
Dec 8, 2018 at 3:36 PM UTC
An open letter
To all the pieces of ****
Who use gay as an insult.
You really need to stop
Pretending that you are better
Than someone else
Because you prefer to
Put your **** in a different place.
You really need to stop
Pretending that being straight
Makes you more worthwhile.
You really need to stop
Pretending that "no ****
Is an acceptable thing to say
Ever.
You really need to stop
Pretending that you're not afraid
That a man will look at you
The same way you look at women
You really need to stop.
Gay means happy
A ****** is a bundle of sticks
And you are homophobic.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 7:10 PM UTC
I get the crust and the gristle of a thistle once a missile shooting out into the sky and I cry, wonder why. Never sure what I feel for the meal of a deal and then words more like air slip the breeze in my hair, butterflies in the skies killing what kept my alive. Oh too bad, well how sad, if the songs last lines din't matter it'd harm, it'd make the soul so very mad. Here I fall, there I stand like a robot dancing to the tunes. It's demand. Hear I laugh, hear I cry. I hear the screams and feel the burn, so why? Why unsure, of what's telling me my life is so impure. Threatened heart, from the strings that wrap it, tearing it apart. Feel the clench of a bundle of what you yourself have drench and so benched. And you threw to me the horror show, I never so have thought would reckon me to be. I, to be, it's master and it's longing family, here I cry. Hear "I" cry. For I exist in heart, but never, not in mind. There I stand once again as a memory of all that I pretend. If I tried, to be real, the pieces fall apart inside. So I hide, then I quiver and I shake as 'me' is inside. I can touch to the shelter covered in the unbelieving, underachieving to be who I know I am to be. Or at least what you see. I crush the old me and start anew, though I grew. I, immortal to myself have stomped the true. And I become something greater than simple little shrew. Do not lie! For I see with one eye, the look through me. What you see is a host, not the ghost, that lives on. "Awh, look at me. I'm so strong!" Laugh along. Child there. Where? Oops, forgot to care. Now I stare, towards the end that's never ending like this script. Never ending. Twist and bending. Don't kid me, I'm no kid. I'm the body of a youth, but I am dead. I've destroyed myself, if others didn't do a perfect job. Hold up stop! I'm letting go, a bubble that will pop. It will burst, destroying me, if it doesn't **** me first. Here I stand. Hear I cry. There I go. I have died.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 1:09 PM UTC
roll a cigarette
and check one more time that we got enough
change to get on the bus
share an orange drink
and thouse powder donuts
it began raining five minuets ago
but we didn't even notice
your hands buried inside my jacket
snuggled up to my neck
i'm looking over your head at the road
we come down
pulling a suitcase and chasing fallen leaves
and here it comes just as you fire that cigarette
im tellin ya its magic, light one and the bus will come
we bundle our butts into the very back seat
of your standard smelly old city bus
and you kiss the tip of my nose
i tickle you
they come and go
mister and misses public and all their friends
but your all i see baby
we get home and first thing you do
is go fix your makeup
LOL baby LOL
i think the cat might be the only other soul awake
within a thousand miles
and you got to look good for the cat
kiss the tip of my nose and ill tickle ya
still got a powder donut left
lets frame this puppy and call it my masterpiece
im gonna try baby
we are gonna be ok
i need hope
i need a future
lets make candles
lets make baby bottles
lets make dust bunnies
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 9:18 PM UTC
You-will-not-lie, -bed-chambers-long,
For I, -am-coming-to-get, YOU!
Clawed-through-the-dirt, -up-the-roots,
I am here, -come-to-get, YOU!
Followed-tree-roots, -that-sweet-smelling-Earth!
Here now! -It's time-to-forget-YOUTH.
*HALLOWEEN THIS! HALLOWEEN THAT!
HALLOWEEN THIS! HALLOWEEN THAT!
HALLOWEEN THIS! HALLOWEEN THAT!
Aha Ha Ha Ha, -The Goblins Attack!!* *
*Grab-you-and-cover-those-murmuring-cries.
Drag-you-away, I have got, YOU!
Hungry-I, watering-mouth-glistening-eyes!
Bundle-of-joy, I have got, YOU!
Jump-down-tunnel-for-you-are-my-prize.
Look-at-you-now, my-sweet-tasty-meat-PIE!
*HALLOWEEN THIS! HALLOWEEN THAT!
HALLOWEEN THIS! HALLOWEEN THAT!
HALLOWEEN THIS! HALLOWEEN THAT!
Aha Ha Ha Ha, -The Goblins Attack!!*
Addendum: The name appears to be an amalgamation etymologically of roots from Greek, Sanskrit and Sumerian. If, of course, you choose to translate it that way. I assume Plato to be an authority on the Ancient Greek's tendency to combine the words of multiple mythologies sharing similar characters linguistically. The purpose of the hyphenation is to suggest the tempo and speed of the rhyme's cadence.
Kalikantzaroi
'The Demon's of Earth'
Jun 19, 2018
Jun 19, 2018 at 10:09 PM UTC
Amsterdam,
Oh Amsterdam.
The lingering bells of a multitude of bicycles.
Clinging to the misty air.
Carefree.
Careless.
Canal flows past.
Upon which dances sunlight.
A bundle of sparkles.
It's early morning in-situation.
The ladies of night, are still sat propped up sleepily.
Looking like they're wide awake.
The coffee shops seem to never quit,they never seem to sleep.
Wake up and smell the coffee.
Delft grinders shaped as windmills turn and grind.
Oh to awaken in fair Amsterdam.
(C) LIVVI
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 11:29 AM UTC
this dust-rolled
brown moth
is
patterned
with a band of white
to stand for winter,
when it was just a flimsy bundle
of gristle and sticks
and all the boys in the summertime are sticky and
unclean
like the mouths of dogs -
pink where the sun can't lick
the backs of their necks are baked red brick
girls wear bronzer
piled on thick.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 8:12 PM UTC
i love you,
fresh from
the shower.
glistening and wet,
smelling of aftershave.
"coolwater" by davidoff. often aslo sandlewood,
goat soap, from the local
farmers markets.
i love you,
dressed up smart.
in a brook's brother's way
dress pants and shirt,
blue linen vest.
johnny walker silk bow tie,
untied is best. then your twist,
(not as original as you think)
converse skaties, no socks
and bone bleached cuffs,
turned up.
i love you,
in your work gear.
just come home,
you smell of sweat.
clean and healthy,
always wood shavings
caught up, in your
unruly shaggy hair.
cargo shorts and
t-shirts,
that have seen,
many days of worksite wear.
size elevens in your hands,
those big feet and freaky toes
bare, ******* in the air.
i love you,
in board shorts and rashie.
rushing into the surf,
hand in hand.
with the energetic bundle
of love,
to which we gave birth.
it is not as though,
clothes made this man,
but boyohboy, you, frame them well.
it s the heart, the chuckle
the hands, the philosphy,
the clever, erudite, caveman,
the downright,
man-dumb bloke.
that endears, your heart to
mine.
it is, that you really listen
and take the time,
to make me feel and be,
phenomenal, wise, sensual
and beautiful beside.
i love you,
best, in my bed.
moving slow and sure,
undressed, silk and velvet.
as we express,
the reality of our love
and whisper words,
well known,
and cry to heaven above.
i love you,
then, here, now and eons
on.
even after the worlds
memory of us,
is nothing,
dust upon the breeze
our love,
will carry, forth
stardust on heaven's winds
and cries of our love and ecstasy
will birth worlds anew
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 5:38 PM UTC
*Your feelings are a bundle of sweet unspoken words.
And that silence,
Is better than a thousand words.*
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 8:16 AM UTC