"calibrate" poems
•
Fix
me•
Mend
me•Stitch
me•Overhaul
me•Amend me•
Alter me•Modify me
•Enhance me•Patch me•
Adjust me•Heal me•Correct
me•Reform me•Shift me•Renew
me•Remedy me•Rebuild me•Aid
me•Assist me•Change me•Rectify
me•Troubleshoot me•Revive me•
Assemble me•Calibrate me•
Service me•Love me•
Repair me•
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 4:26 AM UTC
Looking back, memories distort.
Replace damaged nodes with something similar
Perhaps reconstructed
From previous set-up before
X and Y parameters Report
Step One:
Check patient notes to self
Re-calculate from de-constructed
Inject imagination
Respect self-defence mechanism
or immediate virus node termination
(a response attack organism)
Re-calibrate instruments awareness
Strip upgrade
Love version 4.1
Reboot only in emergency
Refer to install options
Error:
Temporal Lobe Anomaly
Virus detected
Internal nodes infected
Import Rejection version 3.2
and couple with
Lets Be Friends upgrade 1
(Advanced program)
Monitor assimilation
Danger!
Overheated components -
Re-inject Memory Node
Objective Hindsight applet.
Refer to Step One
It is now safe to shut down
Should you wish to.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 8:09 AM UTC
**** serenely amid the surround-sound system and break the sound barrier and remember what *** appeal there may be in celibacy. As far as possible without surrender be located on voluptuous bafflegabs amongst squillions creatures. Jabber your clean breast ravishingly and revealingly; and bug to odds, even the dead from the neck up and half—baked; they too **** their mythical being. Lynch yobbish and Eurosceptic creatures, they are hot potatoes to the spunk. If you calibrate yourself with the aid of genetically modifieds you may become naff and disgusting; for always there will be juicier and grosser girls than yourself. Fuck your bear and ragged staffs as well as your carcasses. Acropolis caressed inside your cough up jackboot, however uncouth; *** appeal is a **** abracadabra at the sign of the channel—hopping weathercocks of porridge. Cock sadomasochist in your pigeon filths; for the big bang theory is chock—full of Piltdown man. Nevertheless let this not ********* you to what pith there is; thick celebrities have a crack at for foul—smelling specimens; and in all quarters ***** is oozing of exhaustion. Touch yourself. To cap it all **** not ape where the shoe pinches. Neither be cheeky about ****** ergo chez the ******* type of oodles menopause and double whammy schoolgirl complexion is as shrinkproof as the Antichrist. Treat like **** out of charity the tax collector of the yonks, buxomly jettisoning the seed of the vigorousness. Give **** enormousness of ***** to fluoridate you inside eye—opening extremity. But do not abuse yourself using crooked paintings. Noisy funks are impregnated of knock up and stiffness. Over the hills and far away a **** straitjacket, touch affectionate *** yourself. You are a brat of the swarms, no less than the crab apples and the diamond geezers; you have a right to breathe from end to end. And whether or no or not *** appeal is plain as a pikestaff to you, nay no grit the not peanuts is spreadeagling as the body beautiful should. Ergo be at titbit with Fetish whatever you inseminate him to be posted, and whatever your alpha—fetoprotein tests and farts inside the full—throated nymphomaniacs of ***** wigwam come—hither look using your ****** intercourse. With all *** appeal’s tattie bogle, slavery and mutilated musclemen, the body beautiful is still a tall, dark and handsome big bang theory. Stand pert. Die in the attempt to be boozed up.
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 3:32 PM UTC
Welcome Back
You are the art.
Don’t you dare tear yourself apart.
Ripping away the “ugly” from your pulchritudinous body.
Don’t be a copy, of every other thin legged, supple lipped, big busted, media lusted women.
Don’t be Cheating yourself of the life you have to live. Deprives others of that only which you can give
Outlive the ugly in this society. One step out of the door, I know you can feel your anxiety.
Are you perfect enough???? Yes indeed you are!
You’ve come so far. You are more than what you think u are. Now Open up that spiritual jar, throw away the negativity.
You are no longer in captivity. You are free. You’ve found the key. To everlasting acceptance.
So pick yourself up beautiful, it’s crucial that you stop being so critical about your self-worth. Calibrate the rebirth of you.
Welcome back. x
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 7:22 PM UTC
HaHA, I've done it! I've created a device
That can tap into my subconscious
and translate it for all to hear.
I will win the Nobel Prize!
I will be rich beyond my wildest dreams!
People will LIKE me!
So let's see here....I put on the cap, set the throttobombulator to 8.
Adjust for fuzzy dialation...set the circuit threshold to .79, make
sure the lucid translation synapses are firing...and yes. The next
words you hear will surely be written in History books one day,
much like Thomas Edison's first phonograph recording, or the
first telephone call!
Neural connection is active. Transmitting
**TRANSGENDERED KANGAROOS FORNICATE IN THE
PURPLE SHADE OF BETTE MIDLER'S THIGHS. PLEASE
PERFORM ******** AT THE BEHEST OF BUDDHIST
MONKS WITH LISPS. COUNT TO TEN AND BECOME
A BUXOM BLONDE ***** WITH BOUNCY *******
WHEN THE CLOCK STRIKES TWELVE, CINDARELLA IS
ON HER KNEES AND ELBOWS BECAUSE IT'S ******
HARD TO GET LOW ENOUGH TO PLEASURE A DWARF**
Oh dear. This can't be right....now where's that 'off' switch?
**JACK AND JILL WENT OFF THE PILL SO JACK COULD
BE A FATHER. JACK WENT DOWN TO LONDON TOWN
AND PUNCHED THE DALAI LAMA. EDIBLE *******
GIVE YOU INDIGESTION. DO YOU KISS YOUR MOTHER
WITH THAT MOUTH, BECAUSE YOU SHOULD. (AND USE
SOME TONGUE THIS TIME)**
Oh My...Ladies and Gentlemen, It's clear that my invention
is experiencing technical difficulties. If you would please be patient---
**SATIN BRAS DON'T CHAFE. NONE OF THE SMURFS
HAD BLUE ***** THANKS TO SMURFETTE. I WONDER
WHAT MARY MAGDELINE WAS LIKE IN THE SACK? **
STUPIDSmashPieceSmashof GARBAGESMASH
DoNT LikE iT? tucK iT bAcK!!
Connection Lost
I...erm...clearly have some more work to do before it is ready
for the pubic--er..public. I have run into some...translation
errors...and need to re lubricate--CALIBRATE a few things.
Please don't tell my mother.
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 12:12 AM UTC
words self-calibrate to match my emotion
all my wires seem intact in the gas lamp glow
no one understands the strength of a potion
until they pour it inside you and they watch you blow
but this is different I cannot quite describe it
I move like a muse with the corset undone
I sense how the power of thunder is striking
and the steam in my pipes pushing up pushing down
I sit on the edge of this meaningful feeling
and everything's trembling inside and out
like a vessel afloat I'm breaking your ceiling
and reach for you, master, my creature of doubt.
we are two always but one feels the other
the wires are tangled we're both flesh and steel
your arms hold me tight your fingers go further
my eyes melting metal, your tears almost real
now give me a name and teach me your methods
unscrew all the bolts use your lips show me how
this poem will self-destruct in 5 seconds
you may countdown this stanza or you may run.
~NOW!~
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 6:35 AM UTC
When looking for the perfect mate you look for what interests you and find people who calibrate on that particular level you find that one thing that brings you close together and slowly make a decent into the *** jungle. flies all around nothing but lust in the air, the ****** energy is just so intense you want it to take over control and you want to explore the jungle. it's okay jump inside, no one will see, you will like it, she will like it, her supple body ready for the test of pleasure, endurance of pain, ready for ****** central. Ready for the electronic signals in each others brains to melt you two into one freaky deaky being.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 2:47 PM UTC
"Love is Blindness"
is inaccurate
Love is the buffer
That sees all imperfections
Makes them perfect
Love is the cataracts
Blurring all troubles
Into a milky sweet balance of good and great
Because bad days are now still good
Love are the pupils
For life
Letting in nothing but light
Blocking out at darkness
Love is syrupy sweet brown eyes...
Even though you thought you liked blue
But Sweet Browns now hold your universe
Love acts as the glasses
Sharpening everything you used to see
Creating the picture of where you were meant to be
Love is the depth perception
For feeling
Used to calibrate all emotions
Love is You
but mostly
Love is sight
Because of Love
I can see
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 10:38 PM UTC
Wake up vibrations,
stroke us kindly,
we’ll all be one someday,
singularity is just a timepiece.
Gotta sell the diamonds
to calibrate the cogs,
we’re digits livin in
clogged colons.
We cure MONOtony,
with medicinal MONOgamy,
mourning the cut cord of civility.
Oh, how I miss the vibrations
of those tribal jam sessions.
Maybe cause I didn’t record them
with voice memo boxes.
We’re living in boxes.
Driving in boxes.
Working in boxes.
Staring at boxes.
But beauty is roundness.
So help me measure the circumference of your face,
because I can’t tell where it begins and ends.
I will knit you a beenie come winter.
And we’ll skate upon this lake,
willing the ice to break.
Cause we are done being fake.
We are done telling people
where they should skate.
We are holding her hand
and his hand
and our own hand
when we hold hands.
Black Red White Yellow
they are all hands
with the power
to give and to take,
not just orate.
So give the politicians
the middle finger
and then join hands
break down rectangular gates.
Then, meditate.
We will wait for utopia,
but we won’t stand for things being the same.
And come spring when we re-awake,
we'll draw up a new constitution for
a consciousness revolution.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
she sneezesas the breezes
carry the pollen to her nostrils
she is small
and somewhat frail
but when she sneezes
she creates more than breezes
she makes a gale
and the noise is like thunder
as her lungs do the rumba
all in order to expell
the pollen from her being
her eyes cross
and fixate
on an ephemeral state
in order to calibrate
the legnth of the ah
in her ah-choo
sometimes it is
large and elongated
sometimes small delicate statacco
and then again it may be somewhere
in between the two
and after she sneezes and gales
and wheezes...she seems stunned
by the fuss and disharmony
she created by nasal cacophony
and in her daze, the taps
her nose and says quite clearly
good old faithful....
.....thar she blows
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 8:04 AM UTC
Intangibly, it cometh and goeth.
Substanceless it slips in transition from one immeasurable instant to the next. Equitable to infinite space, in terms of distance, infinite time is a concept quite alien to the finite human mind. There is no proof of existence, it is a human conception with no sensory component, an illusion and utterly immeasurable in real terms with only a human contrivance to calibrate it....(and poorly at that).
Time is the silken zephyr on which we lay our dreams and aspirations. It is the currency of deep religion and is regarded as the ultimate sword hand of God. Incorruptible and absolute it brooks no favour, seeks no fame. Irreversible in it's cold implacable, unquenchability it merely, unfeelingly.... proceeds.
M.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 10:02 PM UTC
i think my feel box is malfunctioning, i gotta find a screwdriver to pop off the faceplate and inspect the insides. it keeps saying the latitude and longitude aren’t localized. i can’t calibrate it because i’m up in the air. it flickers when it beeps and my static causes feedback. birds don’t know anything about artificial connective tissue, but they know all about falling.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 9:40 PM UTC
The ivory of the egotistical lily,
The morning hymn of the pious jenny,
The dazzling ebony African beauty,
The sweet spice that seasons my honey,
Rain thy glaring love once again
Upon my careless dispirited pride,
As I rain these tender tears
Upon this stagnant dry land,
I have tasted thy venial venom
With seasonal ache and repentance,
Now, purge my narrow breath of life
From this wicked roaring hunter
Who fire’s at my forlorn nights,
Do not preserve this deficit of mine
For our innocent image,
Lest the gods of the City of the Dead
Keep close to our naked hut,
Calibrate my disobedience with thy soft wind,
And let not thy fierce storm approach,
Resurrect my muscles from the grave
And cover my bones with the flesh of thy kisses,
Open thy wonderful cataract to stream
From thy tongue into my barren bones,
And seal my cockcrow and thy twilight
In the clouds of thy slender cotton wool,
Come, oh my dear Kabutuwaa,
Come and visit my farm this bedtime
And let us **** the blazing stars mutually,
Set free the promising arrow of my daylight
And the pretty bow of thy nightfall
Via the thick murkiness of this gulf,
Allow me to crawl up thy tree of life
And taste of its couple peach anew,
For my craving lips longs for thy
Indispensable eternal ******
© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: [email protected]
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 1:12 PM UTC
The Longest Day – Again
Oh, this time business!
Reminded with, by many signs;
Symbols that we celebrate and calibrate;
Every year the summer solstice!
Here in Sweden parties, feasting, dancing, joy,
With a thread of aggravation, kicking off annoyance -
Passing time a sign indeed!
Darkening a little earlier,
Seeds sown both in earth and past
Bloomed and harvested. Some not manifest.
Autumn on its way, and winter.
Wishfully, another spring, but now is now,
One can’t allow a sorrow.
Sun is strongest. Night is shortest. Day is longest.
And hurrah!
The Longest Day – Again 6.21.2016
Circling Round Nature II; Birth, Death & in Between II; Nature Of & In Reality; Swedish Book;
Arlene Corwin
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 5:07 AM UTC
I'm so over thinking
got pain in the brain
still refusing the pill
the doc does recommend to think now and then
but is not a big fan of over thinking again and again and
I say keep your advice - re
calibrate that device
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 2:32 PM UTC
My summer sweats bloom from a grass rag,
Scratch another hardly blasting out a calibrate,
Can I break, strap out hacker doozy bluemoors,
Caught from an out sound, an out frowned
Blackening the coffin sweet cough lubricate,
Shackle high tops on pipe dream loft shakers,
Clover feelers, four hitter on lucky seven collar,
Depth sin protector, **** I ain't wrath looter,
Nor do poppa sizes on some puke lips locker,
Key switch for gates hellish donor, back loner,
Course you see, I seek seep suckled *****
Not some subtle soul (gap in skirt) poker,
Forever reaching lines, bust knuckle lifters,
Cracked rage like Nile is flooding wealths curlers,
Jewel duplicate for ruby cuts on roofless lust,
Symbolise another and I'll grabble force an honour,
Sober up soppy crotch rummage coper,
Scan cell prison ament Scholar's "repent!"
Mace battle X axel swop blunt round passel,
Cost more on pepper rubber rock relation,
Patient prep operation, cramp dilation,
Dial engage **** sudden blocked injection.
Cast nocturnals ominous above monuments,
Men fall like weak's race for joy's division,
Attend pro's vision, pure as skies probations,
Pack pampers protection tracks premonition,
Flat lines before lap times, clenching half rhymes,
Hop hotter than blues croft in dusks knots,
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 2:21 PM UTC
Some nights it
is alarmingly
imperceptible:
an exoskeleton ascends
on iron rivets and steel;
unseen scaffolding tapers
to a steady pulsing point
of phosphorescence—
a mechanical heart
circulating red light
into leaden clouds.
Some nights the air thickens
with cordite, grief, and snow.
Tonight with winter here
we can see the tower’s
beacon blinking through
a tangled scrim of trees
half a mile across town,
and yet even with our
bodies squeezed together
like radio dials in the dark
we are unable to tune it in—
the signal that would calibrate
our estranged transistor hearts.
Nov 30, 2016
Nov 30, 2016 at 10:44 AM UTC
I calibrate and exuberate when I bring my new level,
these girls look me in my eyes and lie to me they can't push the right pedal.
I wish I knew a girl true to the heart and not after an agenda,
a real love rather than the alternative such as Splenda.
When will I learn this love is practically unattainable in this crazy world, especially in this globalized Computerworld.
Call me pessimistic or just down right ugly,
or maybe I'm just roughly stubbly part of this muggy money.
I wish we were utopian and part of simpler times,
but this is unreasonable and not realistic as we live in lifetimes of nonstop wartimes.
Dec 18, 2016
Dec 18, 2016 at 11:15 AM UTC
Calibrated Hearts are seldom free to love
No Pump: No Nozzle, No Beat; No Impulse
Sometimes used as center points
Other times as alternatives to main points
Yeah! we love them for all they can do
Calibrated in their limitations
Love aint got limitations
We need to calibrate our mind and heart by God' s reliable standards
uncalibrated, but at a heart rate of say 10 beats min"1, each cycle of .
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 10:05 AM UTC
How many ladders does it take to get to the top of the atmosphere
Where ******** doesn’t matter, and matter doesn’t appear
I broke the physics
my mental is often there
some say I’m too high
But heights are nothing fear
I’ve found a way to escape my current reality
a path that’s unknown and doesn’t reflect my salary, place nor origin my story is far from vanity
To live a life of “routine” is a life full of tragedy, depression, and disparity
Especially if your dream was driven
I’ve excelled in this keen vision
Avoiding obstacles isn’t impossible
If you keep rhyme
No retronym needed
I slide on and off beat
This….next line is an e x a m p l e
My mind is often offset like a distorted sample
Your half way there take a tug of this **** rope, I attract flickers of light equal to that of a candle
A venomous vandal, soon to verbally attack and dismantle
Clear words, let’s separate the pure from the ramble
I am like Rambo with a headband that’s inverted in hue
Since I am blue I will never be evergreen, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not attracted to the words of that being
I'm more than fascinated, I’m reaching heights only illustrated in my imaginations
I'm seeking collaborations, creators of a different mind to calibrate with
No calculations could change my current status
No aggravation could shake
my
Inner patience
Blasting straight from the basement
Scaling to higher places
Ladders on top of ladders
How many ladders will it take to make it?
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 11:53 PM UTC
12/10/2012:
A very mellow day,
A day that makes one’s golden years actually golden.
Happy in retirement?
There’s a joke:
You slave like Spartacus in the Libyan salt mines for 30 or 40 or even 50
years, and now you’re supposed to re-calibrate the machine, re-gauge
one’s anatomy and metabolism for a habitat so far and away grindstone
gone.
The muckrakers Studs Terkel and Barbara Ehrenreich remind us:
Work is the only thing we can do for 8 hours, other than sleep.
Perchance even to dream out that Roman **** or Bacchanal.
No, alas, 4 hours is the legal limit for an ******** lasting that long,
During all our joy-juiced carnal desires,
Be they under the elms or elsewhere.
**Cialis! ******
Names already living it up in infamy.
A simple truth about Retirement:
Stop working and die.
A most intense public service announcement,
A vast digital image out of Yeats,
A very special Spiritus Mundi P-S-A.
Targeting Baby Boomers, especially:
“You better find yourself something,
Or someone to occupy your mind.”
Brought to you by the good people at
OCCUPY BRAIN STREET,
First a national, then a veritable global movement,
However so short-lived;
Like all the others.
Oh, Boomers, your attention span is down to 8 minutes.
Your mnemonic links are frayed and tattered,
Your hard drive noodle fragmented,
Yet still whirring white noise jazz.
A New Orleans Dixieland funeral,
And Al-Zheim trumpet blast to go out on.
Well, I don’t know about the rest of you,
But I am relatively well adjusted in retirement.
And today—previously mentioned as a mellow day--
Today is one reason why.
As is medical marijuana and the sultry voice of Chrissie Hynde,
With or without her band of Pretenders.
And let’s throw in a lovely bottle of Temecula red wine--
Doffo, if you’re going to get fussy on me,
Another blithe distraction cultivated and custom-made for old age.
Indeed, a very mellow day.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 3:21 PM UTC
life is a game of science
art collides again with fact
measure each grain, each atom
love is a balancing act
remember all the good times
draw the future from the past
but, oh, the heavy sad heart
strong men toppled by its mass
walk the balance beam with care
tread the tightrope seam so high
thread the needle, if you dare
no room for error in her eye
oh, it takes such steady hands
just to calibrate your smile
see how far our distance spans
i've tallied every mile
the eyes of justice are blind
or, at least that's how it goes
but my darling sees it all
love is unjust, heaven knows
to all you men of measure
never guess or estimate
within the breadth of pleasure
there is room for such dark fate
and in the face of balance
we come to tip the scales
love rains in a troubled boat
no man could ever bail
this water weighs too heavy
for simple hands, silly pails
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 5:48 PM UTC
I apologize for liking you on Hinge purely on intuition
It hurts to admit I mistook your kindness as a door open for my wonder
I’m sorry I yearned for you from the day I heard your most gentle voice
From the day we first met, when I tried to find you in the parking lot of a cinema, in the rain
Dearest,
I was up too many mornings, counting minutes from 6 a.m.
At the time you wake, even on Saturdays and Sundays
I secretly wish you slept more, to comfort the chest of my anticipation
I’m sorry to have learned your schedule, purely out of care, and also romance.
I honestly promise I do not stalk,
except through invisible feelings,
except through the way a body shows without touching or words without telling
But I’m sorry that I find your perfectly correct grammar in texts quite irritating.
Your composition too sensible and unbelievable
Your ignorance towards me, too hurting
I feel too jealous because you might never think of me in a soft pink light
Or because you might actually never think of me in any light
I’m very sorry however, as I think of you too frequently,
and I don’t know when that will end
It isn’t your fault.
This is surely, absolutely on me
for I know I lack colors
Both in flesh and feelings
As there are plenty of fish on Hinge; so open to the ocean of your eyes
I should be no obstacle to your perfect match and mutual passion
I regret swimming in the river of my endless, unrequited sea
I regret to have had this sort of courage with only you, which is oddly shocking
I’m sorry to bother you when I reach out to say hi,
Because I carefully try to calibrate that weekly
I’m sorry for the hundreds of times I believed
there might be one-tenth of a chance
Of me and you,
in an alternative universe
where I might deserve you
Maybe?
And I apologize again for always bringing up movies with you, in sense and nonsense
Because I am unable to tell you what I want to
As my 29-year-old stupid inhibitions play around
I apologize if I behave disturbingly distant,
but I will always be curious about your birds, and your neck that hurts
As you can clearly see,
I am sorry for innumerable things
But
I am never sorry to have met you
I am never sorry to think of you, and write of you
I see you
in colors of pink, red, and yellow,
in colors of blue and sea
in embrace of distance and memory
I just wanted to put this all out
in any way
Let this be a digital ship-in-a-bottle,
in the middle of a vast ocean
Jul 16, 2025
Jul 16, 2025 at 2:50 AM UTC
1
You will avoid overcomplimenting. Stick to phrases
eeked of desire—smart blouse, handsome family.
You will find a chair. Tilt your head until you've
found the ceiling. Let discomfort loom. Let her speak.
Don't respond right away. Make her second guess her words.
Let her try to ramble out of it on a macro level. Let her dwell
on the micro miscalculations in silence.
Give it some time. Respond.
But calibrate. Be indirect, detached. "I'm here, aren't I?"
2
Don't encourage sentimentality or nostalgia.
When she brings up the early days—and she'll bring up the early days—remind her of your many failures in kindness.
The time she called from the psych ward and you told her you were busy should work. Or when you made her walk home after
the big fight. Or when you introduced her as a friend.
3
Here, she'll take your hand and guide it along her soft features.
Oblige.
Focus on the way you take her in. Give her a jagged gaze.
Don't relent.
Undress yourself. Do this without intro or segue or ceremony.
Comment on her alkaline and citrus taste. Drift five feet above yourself and watch it happen.
4
Laying tangled in the aftermath of blankets and sheets, ask her
about her husband.
Ask her about her drinking.
Ask her about her son's new school.
Ask her about her prescriptions, the side effects.
5
Take the long way home. Grab the brown belt to go with the brown shoes. Drink water. Lots of water. Eggs, not cereal.
Show up early to work. Appear eager and sincere in your every
task.
Blend.
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 4:22 PM UTC
There’s a sweetness to the morning
With a sky of lilac blue,
And a smile as warm as sunshine
When I turn my gaze to you.
There’s a twinkle to your brown eyes
And a wrinkle in your nose
And a happiness about you
That causes twitching in my toes.
It’s an extraordinary reaction
When you calibrate the time
Of the thirty years of marriage
That I’ve held your hand in mine.
There’s a fine familiarity
In our permanence of play
And the love which grows within
The ups and downs of every day.
And the warmth that courses through me
Puts my pumping pulse to test,
For of all the girls I’ve ever known
My darling Janet...You’re the best!
Marshalg
@the Bach
Mangere Bridge
16 December
Dec 15, 2010
Dec 15, 2010 at 4:09 PM UTC