"burling" poems - Hello Poetry

Drain The ***** Water First By Risa Ruse I celebrated my victory over persecution. I did this by sharing my story of resolution. I retorted my discovery. It was related to work done to my gutters in recovery. When on the latter burling a hole in the gutter the water kept pouring out. I could not finish my goal of making a spout. I realized that I needed to stop drilling the hole. The matter needed time to drain the ***** water to complete my goal. Like the gutters needing to drain-- So did my brain. I had to get rid of all the old hurts. Otherwise my heart was sure to burst! Now the ***** water was all let out. I give thanks for the new spout. Not only that, but my life has taken a turn-about. I throw up my hands in praise and give a shout!

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Jun 27, 2011

Jun 27, 2011 at 12:06 PM UTC

risa-ruse

Drain The ***** Water First

Drain The ***** Water First By Risa Ruse I celebrated my victory over persecution. I did this by sharing my story of resolution. I retorted my discovery. It was related to work done to my gutters in recovery. When on the latter burling a hole in the gutter the water kept pouring out. I could not finish my goal of making a spout. I realized that I needed to stop drilling the hole. The matter needed time to drain the ***** water to complete my goal. Like the gutters needing to drain-- So did my brain. I had to get rid of all the old hurts. Otherwise my heart was sure to burst! Now the ***** water was all let out. I give thanks for the new spout. Not only that, but my life has taken a turn-about. I throw up my hands in praise and give a shout!

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the hallway painted green sizzles in midsummer heat i look down the descending stairs to the sounds of her fighting with boyfriend vinnie her loose shirt clings to her lean body her hair a warm brown tangled in a ponytail pieces of it cling to her sweat soaked skin i reach down and gently run my hand along her cheek she looks at me then at my girlfriends closed door and she kisses me i lean into her kiss with a lustful passion we cling to one another in a moment of stolen loves late that night she comes down the street standing beneath my window calls my name it sounds like beauty it sounds like a gift

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Apr 14, 2014

Apr 14, 2014 at 5:33 AM UTC

mark-john-junor-1

eleven burling lane

the hallway painted green sizzles in midsummer heat i look down the descending stairs to the sounds of her fighting with boyfriend vinnie her loose shirt clings to her lean body her hair a warm brown tangled in a ponytail pieces of it cling to her sweat soaked skin i reach down and gently run my hand along her cheek she looks at me then at my girlfriends closed door and she kisses me i lean into her kiss with a lustful passion we cling to one another in a moment of stolen loves late that night she comes down the street standing beneath my window calls my name it sounds like beauty it sounds like a gift

16

Sleep circles with wide wings. Pages vanish down the eye's well: Napoleon burns Moscow, French detectives fry onions, Lorca dies in the greenest green. Rain spits into the room crooked, dark. I'm alone. The gyre closes, soft as a net. Dreams hunch on the furniture. The mirrors broadcast the Venetian blinds croaking and rattling against the screen like creamy swords in enamel scabbards. Book-addled eyelids are rusting into blinks of burling dusk. Each dying thought is a sleek Deco Bugatti lead by a shining path from teardrop headlamps whose fingers pry the night moments before tires sing rubber to blue. The rain gathers into serpents in the channels of the floor. Above you hangs the fat black branch of sleep's truest face.

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Mar 25, 2019

Mar 25, 2019 at 10:29 PM UTC

EvanS

"Bookish"

Sleep circles with wide wings. Pages vanish down the eye's well: Napoleon burns Moscow, French detectives fry onions, Lorca dies in the greenest green. Rain spits into the room crooked, dark. I'm alone. The gyre closes, soft as a net. Dreams hunch on the furniture. The mirrors broadcast the Venetian blinds croaking and rattling against the screen like creamy swords in enamel scabbards. Book-addled eyelids are rusting into blinks of burling dusk. Each dying thought is a sleek Deco Bugatti lead by a shining path from teardrop headlamps whose fingers pry the night moments before tires sing rubber to blue. The rain gathers into serpents in the channels of the floor. Above you hangs the fat black branch of sleep's truest face.

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