"canary" poems - Hello Poetry

"canary" poems

Vulnerability is scary I guess that's why I'm always wary In the palm of another's hand I solemnly stand Vulnerability is scary Someone I know barely They could bury me In debris I'm flesh and bones Their words could be stones The way you shake when you're crying Or when you blink when you're lying Because inside you know you're dying When I tell you how I feel I may begin to heal This is so unreal- Yet I still fear that you will squeal What I tried so hard to conceal Vulnerability is scary I would like to say contrary, I feel like a freed canary How very wrong I've made another prison With bars made of vulnerability My secrets have become a liability For I foolishly trust You will not run When we are done Vulnerability is so scary

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Jun 1, 2014

Jun 1, 2014 at 5:14 PM UTC

Vulnerability is scary

Vulnerability is scary I guess that's why I'm always wary In the palm of another's hand I solemnly stand Vulnerability is scary Someone I know barely They could bury me In debris I'm flesh and bones Their words could be stones The way you shake when you're crying Or when you blink when you're lying Because inside you know you're dying When I tell you how I feel I may begin to heal This is so unreal- Yet I still fear that you will squeal What I tried so hard to conceal Vulnerability is scary I would like to say contrary, I feel like a freed canary How very wrong I've made another prison With bars made of vulnerability My secrets have become a liability For I foolishly trust You will not run When we are done Vulnerability is so scary

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spring omnipotent goddess thou dost inveigle into crossing sidewalks the unwary june-bug and the frivolous angleworm thou dost persuade to serenade his lady the musical tom-cat,thou stuffest the parks with overgrown pimply cavaliers and gumchewing giggly girls and not content Spring, with this thou hangest canary-birds in parlor windows spring slattern of seasons you have ***** legs and a muddy petticoat,drowsy is your mouth your eyes are sticky with dreams and you have a sloppy body from being brought to bed of crocuses When you sing in your whiskey voice the grass rises on the head of the earth and all the trees are put on edge spring, of the jostle of thy ******* and the slobber of your thighs i am so very glad that the soul inside me Hollers for thou comest and your hands are the snow and thy fingers are the rain, and i hear the screech of dissonant flowers,and most of all i hear your stepping freakish feet feet incorrigible ragging the world,

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10.8k

Spring Omnipotent Goddess Thou Dost

spring omnipotent goddess thou dost inveigle into crossing sidewalks the unwary june-bug and the frivolous angleworm thou dost persuade to serenade his lady the musical tom-cat,thou stuffest the parks with overgrown pimply cavaliers and gumchewing giggly girls and not content Spring, with this thou hangest canary-birds in parlor windows spring slattern of seasons you have ***** legs and a muddy petticoat,drowsy is your mouth your eyes are sticky with dreams and you have a sloppy body from being brought to bed of crocuses When you sing in your whiskey voice the grass rises on the head of the earth and all the trees are put on edge spring, of the jostle of thy ******* and the slobber of your thighs i am so very glad that the soul inside me Hollers for thou comest and your hands are the snow and thy fingers are the rain, and i hear the screech of dissonant flowers,and most of all i hear your stepping freakish feet feet incorrigible ragging the world,

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The finest singer in the sea I heard upon this morn And in that strange sonorous tone A universe was born The low melodic wailing touched And roused me from my sleep As the humpback lithe and languid Made a turn and sounded deep And as my mind awakes it turns To whales large and small To the snowy white beluga The canary of them all The clicking bursts of ***** whales And the California grey The fin whale speaks across the sea To those a world away The short and longfinned pilot whales With whistles quite complex The striking graceful orcas Speak in different dialects But it is the great blue whale That makes the loudest cry Though it is far too rare today With such an awful why But on this wondrous morning I Am filled with joyous glee That God has given life to whales And gave to them the sea Cori MacNaughton 24Oct2000

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Jun 11, 2015

Jun 11, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC

cori-macnaughton

Upon the Songs of Whales

The finest singer in the sea I heard upon this morn And in that strange sonorous tone A universe was born The low melodic wailing touched And roused me from my sleep As the humpback lithe and languid Made a turn and sounded deep And as my mind awakes it turns To whales large and small To the snowy white beluga The canary of them all The clicking bursts of ***** whales And the California grey The fin whale speaks across the sea To those a world away The short and longfinned pilot whales With whistles quite complex The striking graceful orcas Speak in different dialects But it is the great blue whale That makes the loudest cry Though it is far too rare today With such an awful why But on this wondrous morning I Am filled with joyous glee That God has given life to whales And gave to them the sea Cori MacNaughton 24Oct2000

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I knocked the black door knocker on Janice's nan's door and her nan answered and said o hello Benedict Janice can't come out she let the canary out and we had a hell of a job getting it back in the cage again so I'm keeping her in I was going to tan her backside but I thought keeping her in was more of a punishment on a day like this o right I said looking at Nan's eyes and her greying hair and unsmiling face but you can come in and see her for a few minutes shame that you have to be without her though so she walked back up the passage and into the sitting room where Janice was sitting on a settee looking disgruntled it's Benedict come to see you he is only staying for a few minutes so don't think you can go out because you can't Janice nodded and looked tearful and her nan walked off into the kitchen I didn't mean to let the bird out I just opened the cage door to get it to stand on my finger but it flew out and it to ages to catch it again and Nan was so angry that she was on the border of giving a smacking but then she thought keeping me in was more of a punishment so here I am on a lovely warm day sorry about that I said where are you going? she asked I was going to Jail Park on the swings and slide I said I see she said looking at me sadly what have you got in the bag? I opened the bag it's that Robin Hood book I bought it in that junk shop on the New Kent Road she held it and opened it up and looked at the words and pictures maybe next time I can be your Maid Marian to your Robin Hood she said yes I said looking at the canary in its cage that'd be good.

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Mar 10, 2015

Mar 10, 2015 at 3:16 AM UTC

NOT TO GO OUT 1956

I knocked the black door knocker on Janice's nan's door and her nan answered and said o hello Benedict Janice can't come out she let the canary out and we had a hell of a job getting it back in the cage again so I'm keeping her in I was going to tan her backside but I thought keeping her in was more of a punishment on a day like this o right I said looking at Nan's eyes and her greying hair and unsmiling face but you can come in and see her for a few minutes shame that you have to be without her though so she walked back up the passage and into the sitting room where Janice was sitting on a settee looking disgruntled it's Benedict come to see you he is only staying for a few minutes so don't think you can go out because you can't Janice nodded and looked tearful and her nan walked off into the kitchen I didn't mean to let the bird out I just opened the cage door to get it to stand on my finger but it flew out and it to ages to catch it again and Nan was so angry that she was on the border of giving a smacking but then she thought keeping me in was more of a punishment so here I am on a lovely warm day sorry about that I said where are you going? she asked I was going to Jail Park on the swings and slide I said I see she said looking at me sadly what have you got in the bag? I opened the bag it's that Robin Hood book I bought it in that junk shop on the New Kent Road she held it and opened it up and looked at the words and pictures maybe next time I can be your Maid Marian to your Robin Hood she said yes I said looking at the canary in its cage that'd be good.

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Delightful march breathes in on the sound of the swallows chirp, and in the pungent scent of lemonade. Daffodils brave the curtain call and splash in yellow fountains which powder the grass canary and rich caramel. Boughs of cherry trees burst once more with indulgent, fatuous blossoms of sugared coral, Their marbled paper florets billow in the gusts rising and falling like the flocks of starlings. The future is close, wide and happy.

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Apr 16, 2014

Apr 16, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC

Delightful march breathes in on the sound of the swallows chirp, and in the pungent scent of lemonade. Daffodils brave the curtain call and splash in yellow fountains which powder the grass canary and rich caramel. Boughs of cherry trees burst once more with indulgent, fatuous blossoms of sugared coral, Their marbled paper florets billow in the gusts rising and falling like the flocks of starlings. The future is close, wide and happy.

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When I was a child, the hallways stretched for miles Mahogany and ceramic floors, polished bookcases A mansion for fictional paperbacks All neatly tucked under fluorescent lighting The librarian would wait behind her desk She reigned silent besides the tapping of her fingertip to her glasses I can’t remember her ever looking happy Until the day I noticed the chirping Sang somewhere between the realistic & historical fiction, a bird cage sat next to the woman’s desk It was an unexpected visit I should have brought a better dressed book to check out Mine was bound by yellowing pages But I met the canary and heard her song As I watched the librarian smile

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Nov 8, 2017

Nov 8, 2017 at 8:32 PM UTC

When I was a child, the hallways stretched for miles Mahogany and ceramic floors, polished bookcases A mansion for fictional paperbacks All neatly tucked under fluorescent lighting The librarian would wait behind her desk She reigned silent besides the tapping of her fingertip to her glasses I can’t remember her ever looking happy Until the day I noticed the chirping Sang somewhere between the realistic & historical fiction, a bird cage sat next to the woman’s desk It was an unexpected visit I should have brought a better dressed book to check out Mine was bound by yellowing pages But I met the canary and heard her song As I watched the librarian smile

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In the amber sunroom the regal canary perches, Surveying his sun soaked kingdom from a golden throne, Positioned just below the thick wooden rafters... They might as well have been treetops. The weathered oak armoire below, their immovable trunk; The oversized tank, teeming with exotic fish, his ocean. Through the translucent shades, the engorged sun turns orange, And settles on the domes of the distant dragon trees. Soon the silver haired woman, with "dust in the creases of her face," Will open the arched doorway, and into the sultry Moroccan air he will spring Majestic yellow wings propelling him above the treetops, Diving towards his vast ocean, circling between the dusty antiques, Reveling in his glorious freedom, yet always returning, For that is only the penultimate pleasure of every evening; She will always call him home with the suculent scent Of a luxurious dinner: mango, pomegranate, and papaya. A sharp, tumbling trill disrupts his peaceful musing, A flashing crimson streak leaves a momentary swatch, Emanating from the open window, invading his territory and ending atop the amoire. He refuses to look at her, intent on maintaining appearances. She comes and goes so freely, innocent of any thoughts for me. Feathers ruffling with discontent; jumping, leaping without direction. Seeking the highest perch, closest to being free; only to be confined By the bronze rods of social correctness, locked with the brass clasp of my own fear. His little lion's heart becomes a battering ram, Smashing against the inside of his toothpick ribcage. Rapid fire thoughts soon dissolve in an attempt to compose A song that is worthy of her. And so he waits, and watches her turn, Red wings outspread, escaping back into the evening sky. That blazing orange ball, finally sinking beneath its own weight, And the failing strength of the mighty dragon trees, Now merely blackened silhouettes of their former glory.

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Jun 29, 2012

Jun 29, 2012 at 3:39 PM UTC

Wings of Courage

In the amber sunroom the regal canary perches, Surveying his sun soaked kingdom from a golden throne, Positioned just below the thick wooden rafters... They might as well have been treetops. The weathered oak armoire below, their immovable trunk; The oversized tank, teeming with exotic fish, his ocean. Through the translucent shades, the engorged sun turns orange, And settles on the domes of the distant dragon trees. Soon the silver haired woman, with "dust in the creases of her face," Will open the arched doorway, and into the sultry Moroccan air he will spring Majestic yellow wings propelling him above the treetops, Diving towards his vast ocean, circling between the dusty antiques, Reveling in his glorious freedom, yet always returning, For that is only the penultimate pleasure of every evening; She will always call him home with the suculent scent Of a luxurious dinner: mango, pomegranate, and papaya. A sharp, tumbling trill disrupts his peaceful musing, A flashing crimson streak leaves a momentary swatch, Emanating from the open window, invading his territory and ending atop the amoire. He refuses to look at her, intent on maintaining appearances. She comes and goes so freely, innocent of any thoughts for me. Feathers ruffling with discontent; jumping, leaping without direction. Seeking the highest perch, closest to being free; only to be confined By the bronze rods of social correctness, locked with the brass clasp of my own fear. His little lion's heart becomes a battering ram, Smashing against the inside of his toothpick ribcage. Rapid fire thoughts soon dissolve in an attempt to compose A song that is worthy of her. And so he waits, and watches her turn, Red wings outspread, escaping back into the evening sky. That blazing orange ball, finally sinking beneath its own weight, And the failing strength of the mighty dragon trees, Now merely blackened silhouettes of their former glory.

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Souls of Poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host's Canary wine? Or are fruits of Paradise Sweeter than those dainty pies Of venison? O generous food! Drest as though bold Robin Hood Would, with his maid Marian, Sup and bowse from horn and can. I have heard that on a day Mine host's sign-board flew away, Nobody knew whither, till An astrologer's old quill To a sheepskin gave the story, Said he saw you in your glory, Underneath a new old sign Sipping beverage divine, And pledging with contented smack The Mermaid in the Zodiac. Souls of Poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?

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4.4k

Lines On The Mermaid Tavern

Souls of Poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host's Canary wine? Or are fruits of Paradise Sweeter than those dainty pies Of venison? O generous food! Drest as though bold Robin Hood Would, with his maid Marian, Sup and bowse from horn and can. I have heard that on a day Mine host's sign-board flew away, Nobody knew whither, till An astrologer's old quill To a sheepskin gave the story, Said he saw you in your glory, Underneath a new old sign Sipping beverage divine, And pledging with contented smack The Mermaid in the Zodiac. Souls of Poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?

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I could see right thru the fortress' walls, I knew what they enclaved Beaten by an ocean full of canary-yellow waves They glistened like the stars reflected from a moon-lit sky Scattered like a million diamonds, it's beauty; mesmerized Tho seaweed dark as forest green did fill the ocean floor Both translucent, & befuddling I could only wish to explore For I have never seen a castle rest in a sea of grime & with its image now engraved Forever in my mind! & tho it's walls we're callous; thick I thought it could still work If only I had persisted (Instead, I went berserk...) But is love not an incendiary? For those who've gone insane? & so it's best to resist the urge-- Your heart you must contain!

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Jun 5, 2014

Jun 5, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC

I could see right thru the fortress' walls, I knew what they enclaved Beaten by an ocean full of canary-yellow waves They glistened like the stars reflected from a moon-lit sky Scattered like a million diamonds, it's beauty; mesmerized Tho seaweed dark as forest green did fill the ocean floor Both translucent, & befuddling I could only wish to explore For I have never seen a castle rest in a sea of grime & with its image now engraved Forever in my mind! & tho it's walls we're callous; thick I thought it could still work If only I had persisted (Instead, I went berserk...) But is love not an incendiary? For those who've gone insane? & so it's best to resist the urge-- Your heart you must contain!

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Sleep is timed to the minute, my breaths let out lazy smoke icicles make goose bumps into paragraphs books written on my arms through yellow mist bare feet in the morning on my rooftops counting international planes in the sky. My migrant bones take to the sky, each moderate minute that passes by on my rooftops, increases the rawness of smoke like lung-fulls of lemon mist spewing a nebula of paragraphs. In the murk of paragraphs red papery ashes explode into the sky leaving a cloud of syllable mist. The last fragile minute reduces my shivers to smoke, a winter shell of shoulders on rooftops. Double exposed film across rooftops turn silhouettes into paragraphs, a congregation of vapours and smoke speaking soliloquies into the sky. I am minute, dissipating into canary mist. Billows of ocean mist make my fingers melancholy on rooftops where a tidal minute freezes salty foam paragraphs a vacation from the sky, my mossy perch and violet smoke. Heliotropic smoke spirals against dense mist; fine rain blinding the sky soaking lemonade rooftops. My bed of paragraphs curls into an illegible minute. The lilac smoke in my eyes is almost minute. A mustard mist wrinkles the paragraphs, like the purple sky dropping over the rooftops.

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Feb 16, 2014

Feb 16, 2014 at 11:46 PM UTC

Sestina 2 - Mouths

Sleep is timed to the minute, my breaths let out lazy smoke icicles make goose bumps into paragraphs books written on my arms through yellow mist bare feet in the morning on my rooftops counting international planes in the sky. My migrant bones take to the sky, each moderate minute that passes by on my rooftops, increases the rawness of smoke like lung-fulls of lemon mist spewing a nebula of paragraphs. In the murk of paragraphs red papery ashes explode into the sky leaving a cloud of syllable mist. The last fragile minute reduces my shivers to smoke, a winter shell of shoulders on rooftops. Double exposed film across rooftops turn silhouettes into paragraphs, a congregation of vapours and smoke speaking soliloquies into the sky. I am minute, dissipating into canary mist. Billows of ocean mist make my fingers melancholy on rooftops where a tidal minute freezes salty foam paragraphs a vacation from the sky, my mossy perch and violet smoke. Heliotropic smoke spirals against dense mist; fine rain blinding the sky soaking lemonade rooftops. My bed of paragraphs curls into an illegible minute. The lilac smoke in my eyes is almost minute. A mustard mist wrinkles the paragraphs, like the purple sky dropping over the rooftops.

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lavender, lilac, and strawberry I taste energy like yours rarely make my cheeks redder than cherry you have an essence, it is a blessing you taught me lessons, such a blessing I thought I was unlovable you showed me the contrary make me sing like the giddy canary was too used to solitary read my feelings like a library

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Apr 10, 2022

Apr 10, 2022 at 10:52 AM UTC

lavender, lilac, and strawberry I taste energy like yours rarely make my cheeks redder than cherry you have an essence, it is a blessing you taught me lessons, such a blessing I thought I was unlovable you showed me the contrary make me sing like the giddy canary was too used to solitary read my feelings like a library

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I miss the drunks. The y3lling. The inhalation of beer and cigarettes Chased down by ego and godlessness. How many times hqve I written to this song, and never heard beauty once? Like the sweet pinch of a grapefruit, before the sunset of sweat, the same sunset that hailed warfare for boys. I loved you so much once, I still do, but you are like mist, and I am blind. I miss backstabbers, creeps, catfish, vampires, crows, an angel. When I was young I would screech down the hill in my toy truck, plastic chassis a powerhouse, canary and howling, I'd crash into the same cherry tree a million times. Call me Avalanche. Call me Indisputable. Call me the Powerhouse. Call me, I missed you.

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Sep 10, 2013

Sep 10, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC

I miss the drunks. The y3lling. The inhalation of beer and cigarettes Chased down by ego and godlessness. How many times hqve I written to this song, and never heard beauty once? Like the sweet pinch of a grapefruit, before the sunset of sweat, the same sunset that hailed warfare for boys. I loved you so much once, I still do, but you are like mist, and I am blind. I miss backstabbers, creeps, catfish, vampires, crows, an angel. When I was young I would screech down the hill in my toy truck, plastic chassis a powerhouse, canary and howling, I'd crash into the same cherry tree a million times. Call me Avalanche. Call me Indisputable. Call me the Powerhouse. Call me, I missed you.

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she served me iced tea from her porch the smell of heavenly magnolia lingered, like her locked up emotions she was delicately bruised but I would not rush her no canary could I let her be recuperation would come in ones unguarded moments.

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Apr 23, 2014

Apr 23, 2014 at 1:46 PM UTC

Perceptible Magnolia

she served me iced tea from her porch the smell of heavenly magnolia lingered, like her locked up emotions she was delicately bruised but I would not rush her no canary could I let her be recuperation would come in ones unguarded moments.

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A canary flew in my window and sat at my desk with me. It said, who are you? I replied, I'm a base poet that's been dropped on his head by life a few times. Eyes like a kicked dog, and a beard that doesn't grow straight. It chirped like a Bach concerto, and said, ah yes, we are all just dead birds at the bottom of a cage, tiny lice crawling through our eyes. No song. No light. I said, you're a strange little fellow. And we sat there, like that, waiting for 6:00 am so, I could make a beer run.

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Oct 25, 2023

Oct 25, 2023 at 8:05 PM UTC

The Madness of the Magic Time

A canary flew in my window and sat at my desk with me. It said, who are you? I replied, I'm a base poet that's been dropped on his head by life a few times. Eyes like a kicked dog, and a beard that doesn't grow straight. It chirped like a Bach concerto, and said, ah yes, we are all just dead birds at the bottom of a cage, tiny lice crawling through our eyes. No song. No light. I said, you're a strange little fellow. And we sat there, like that, waiting for 6:00 am so, I could make a beer run.

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My French Gem The Rose tickler finely handwritten The movie part gave her the sign life crossed over gem French kiss the morning The burst of Kaleidoscope Sun Double touched but forbidden On the Cheetah necklace chase The French Lieutenant her body and lips moonstruck On her chaise To get over it another work of art that got more attention To revive her from drowning in the gem scattered like a benevolent blue splat philanthropic Looking more into his unknown diving suit mixed with envy green how she got mixed into the stranger of Poison Ivy Her love didn't show all her attributes God spiritually well She went to the pastry heart how it flaked all over like crystals He was patiently sitting but got persuaded That little gem of the lounge Her firey gem was the canary that got his tongue Her gem stands taller The crafted lines of quality in the Pillars "Le Bonheur De Vivre Gem-Art" French kiss went inside the darker side of the painting He's transformed. Shape heart delicate uniform. "Parisians on a mission A kiss is a serious manner LOVE" Gem birth opens her He modifies her rainbow Artwork of brush yellow twinset platter hello fellow the essence beloved to follow So worth her wait being watched By the crystal rock, he loved her going up in spirit or she falls for him The gem to be it Magical modernly gem -fit clock. See through hands meditation harp. Lebonheur De Vivre fine art sharp. Lips movement beyond hearts. Le-bonheur De Vivre gem arts. Artesian heels tapping boots. Fall for Autumn love cahoots. Beloved, divinely he's the healer. The picture spoke she's the winner. Wilderness he glides kisses prints. Pushing her waves hints. Everlasting one thought he's guessing? Art never part beautify stem. Eyes so genuine he's her gem.

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Jul 9, 2018

Jul 9, 2018 at 9:26 AM UTC

Lebonheur DE Revive Gem

My French Gem The Rose tickler finely handwritten The movie part gave her the sign life crossed over gem French kiss the morning The burst of Kaleidoscope Sun Double touched but forbidden On the Cheetah necklace chase The French Lieutenant her body and lips moonstruck On her chaise To get over it another work of art that got more attention To revive her from drowning in the gem scattered like a benevolent blue splat philanthropic Looking more into his unknown diving suit mixed with envy green how she got mixed into the stranger of Poison Ivy Her love didn't show all her attributes God spiritually well She went to the pastry heart how it flaked all over like crystals He was patiently sitting but got persuaded That little gem of the lounge Her firey gem was the canary that got his tongue Her gem stands taller The crafted lines of quality in the Pillars "Le Bonheur De Vivre Gem-Art" French kiss went inside the darker side of the painting He's transformed. Shape heart delicate uniform. "Parisians on a mission A kiss is a serious manner LOVE" Gem birth opens her He modifies her rainbow Artwork of brush yellow twinset platter hello fellow the essence beloved to follow So worth her wait being watched By the crystal rock, he loved her going up in spirit or she falls for him The gem to be it Magical modernly gem -fit clock. See through hands meditation harp. Lebonheur De Vivre fine art sharp. Lips movement beyond hearts. Le-bonheur De Vivre gem arts. Artesian heels tapping boots. Fall for Autumn love cahoots. Beloved, divinely he's the healer. The picture spoke she's the winner. Wilderness he glides kisses prints. Pushing her waves hints. Everlasting one thought he's guessing? Art never part beautify stem. Eyes so genuine he's her gem.

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.*oh forget Disney H'america... technicolor H'america was the bomb... gentlemen prefer blondes... oh **** no... the seven year itch... the Rachmaninoff scene... bell, book & candle scene... whoever the genius was behind the technicolor project, outmatched the Disney in 1950s H'america... little town America... big little ******** worth of Europe... eddi reader...more like: keep the cats, a woman may desire luxury, but a man a freedom... keep the town, the summit, the fireplace... keep your luxury... just give me the shadow, the sun, the moon, and the road: perpetually greeting me.* oh forget looking for scapegoats these days... full blown schizophrenia, happening, all over the anglophone world... me? i'm just looking at the lampoons... sorry... lemmings... and the English? top the table in western world... they thought they'd be bailed out by the H'americans... good luck rolling that pin-ball... not gonna happen... they have their own **** to deal with... it could have... but now it will never work out, no anglophone alliance bail-out plan... it's a ******* farce... it's a bogus in the bogie in the ******* coalmine... forget the canary... **** i'm seriously flipping the coin on phrases... FDR contra DJT? magic! no... the politicians were always going to place the card... the joker... free-fall dance-loose feet... my bet is... it'll fall flat on its face... the eastern European Achilles heel of the europhiles... that's a supposition, not a proposition... or thereby, pre-.... but i do love being a spectator of rare sport... en masse schizophrenia... a nation, divided... what a load of ******** the English thought that their anglophone alliances would last, would encrust them in a new globalization mechanism... even the ******* Icelandic people think they're European... what did the English think? just east of Las Vegas?! an island surrounded by a massive prehistorical lake "facility"?! no one is looking for scapegoats these days, there's no one to blame... mea culpa, mea culpa... these days?! everyone is looking for the lampoon brigade! - and let me tell you... mea culpa mea culpa... no one is looking for a scapegoat worth kristallnacht; people are looking for a lampoon... or... karmesinrotherznacht, the night of... broken hearts; broken, crimson hearts.

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Oct 22, 2018

Oct 22, 2018 at 6:54 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

FDR contra DJT times

.*oh forget Disney H'america... technicolor H'america was the bomb... gentlemen prefer blondes... oh **** no... the seven year itch... the Rachmaninoff scene... bell, book & candle scene... whoever the genius was behind the technicolor project, outmatched the Disney in 1950s H'america... little town America... big little ******** worth of Europe... eddi reader...more like: keep the cats, a woman may desire luxury, but a man a freedom... keep the town, the summit, the fireplace... keep your luxury... just give me the shadow, the sun, the moon, and the road: perpetually greeting me.* oh forget looking for scapegoats these days... full blown schizophrenia, happening, all over the anglophone world... me? i'm just looking at the lampoons... sorry... lemmings... and the English? top the table in western world... they thought they'd be bailed out by the H'americans... good luck rolling that pin-ball... not gonna happen... they have their own **** to deal with... it could have... but now it will never work out, no anglophone alliance bail-out plan... it's a ******* farce... it's a bogus in the bogie in the ******* coalmine... forget the canary... **** i'm seriously flipping the coin on phrases... FDR contra DJT? magic! no... the politicians were always going to place the card... the joker... free-fall dance-loose feet... my bet is... it'll fall flat on its face... the eastern European Achilles heel of the europhiles... that's a supposition, not a proposition... or thereby, pre-.... but i do love being a spectator of rare sport... en masse schizophrenia... a nation, divided... what a load of ******** the English thought that their anglophone alliances would last, would encrust them in a new globalization mechanism... even the ******* Icelandic people think they're European... what did the English think? just east of Las Vegas?! an island surrounded by a massive prehistorical lake "facility"?! no one is looking for scapegoats these days, there's no one to blame... mea culpa, mea culpa... these days?! everyone is looking for the lampoon brigade! - and let me tell you... mea culpa mea culpa... no one is looking for a scapegoat worth kristallnacht; people are looking for a lampoon... or... karmesinrotherznacht, the night of... broken hearts; broken, crimson hearts.

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Tuesday's got a broken hot rod It drives too slow, or doesn't go Tuesday's got a lazy day ahead, has creativity at best has no productivity but many things to arrest And she's not only a loner driving on a road, she just doesn't want an answer wants to keep her glow Where is it? Not where she thinks it is Not in the trunk not in the birdcage with the canary not in the pistol in her kiss Where is Tuesday going? Not to Wednesday, that's for sure Thursday's daydream makes her unable to settle down anymore She smiles, the sun is setting If only Tuesday could learn to fix that broken hot rod already

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Jun 23, 2015

Jun 23, 2015 at 8:15 PM UTC

sarah-sad-matcha

Tuesday's got a broken hot rod It drives too slow, or doesn't go Tuesday's got a lazy day ahead, has creativity at best has no productivity but many things to arrest And she's not only a loner driving on a road, she just doesn't want an answer wants to keep her glow Where is it? Not where she thinks it is Not in the trunk not in the birdcage with the canary not in the pistol in her kiss Where is Tuesday going? Not to Wednesday, that's for sure Thursday's daydream makes her unable to settle down anymore She smiles, the sun is setting If only Tuesday could learn to fix that broken hot rod already

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"Still water runs deep." - Yiddish Proverb To sail within a boat never rocked or tucked within a sea. Long grass kissing the bow. Mosquito hum, siren stand-in. Brother big, brother strong. I, the groove of big brother's elbow. Clothes on the line. Canary yellow, A-line dress. The spring girls swelling, rippling from the bashful shore. Big brother hold me over edge. My arms, my oars. Splashing pasture, blades receding. Adults at birthday parties. Brother big, brother mast. Climb. Not only sail, but zephyr, I. Snake through Rusty Bike River, the tributary. Spill. Into the wide, into the Harding Family Ocean. Where dolls, hair frayed and faces smooshed, lounge half-submerged and mostly forgotten. Where sea dogs test chain, test spike. Eye the confident chickens strolling dock. And then Mother turns on porch lamp, soft words, ebbing to lighthouse. Brother big, big brother. My arms, my arms.

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Mar 17, 2013

Mar 17, 2013 at 4:56 AM UTC

Seafaring, Harvest Break 1971

"Still water runs deep." - Yiddish Proverb To sail within a boat never rocked or tucked within a sea. Long grass kissing the bow. Mosquito hum, siren stand-in. Brother big, brother strong. I, the groove of big brother's elbow. Clothes on the line. Canary yellow, A-line dress. The spring girls swelling, rippling from the bashful shore. Big brother hold me over edge. My arms, my oars. Splashing pasture, blades receding. Adults at birthday parties. Brother big, brother mast. Climb. Not only sail, but zephyr, I. Snake through Rusty Bike River, the tributary. Spill. Into the wide, into the Harding Family Ocean. Where dolls, hair frayed and faces smooshed, lounge half-submerged and mostly forgotten. Where sea dogs test chain, test spike. Eye the confident chickens strolling dock. And then Mother turns on porch lamp, soft words, ebbing to lighthouse. Brother big, big brother. My arms, my arms.

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I love with a dangerous, reckless abandon Fire and no hint of shame Occasionally with a lover in tandem I’ll be laughing and crying the same I fall in and out, seeming at random And play at love like a game She, however— quite the contrary— Travels so slowly she’s almost inert She approaches my cavern, ever so wary Afraid that, again she’ll be hurt Time is her friend, the yellow canary If it falls silent; she’ll up and desert

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Oct 7, 2022

Oct 7, 2022 at 1:18 PM UTC

I love with a dangerous, reckless abandon Fire and no hint of shame Occasionally with a lover in tandem I’ll be laughing and crying the same I fall in and out, seeming at random And play at love like a game She, however— quite the contrary— Travels so slowly she’s almost inert She approaches my cavern, ever so wary Afraid that, again she’ll be hurt Time is her friend, the yellow canary If it falls silent; she’ll up and desert

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I am so very broke, I can’t afford to pay it thought. Fettered in a cage by poverty, left only to pray and rot. The feathers of my soul have been tarred and stained by life. So much so, I'm not sure if they'll ever again shine bright. This Bird in my heart used to sing for my hopes and dreams; Mourning every tragedy with requiems that gleamed. A little Canary to be all mine until the very end of time, Staving off this cold world and reminding me I'm fine. This poverty starved her slow and deep, down to the very core. Melodies that once remedied despair gone forevermore. Nowadays, all I can ever do is reminisce about that yellow bird; How she'd bring warmth to my life's cold hell of a blur. The way our voices would harmonize on little notes; Prophecies of a better future foretold from our nook. That's why I still cling to the distant sound of their words, Because they ramble on in me until nothing seems absurd. I like to think she still sings sometimes, though no sound is heard. That music of hope rings in my mind still, all thanks to Bird.

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Jun 12, 2019

Jun 12, 2019 at 4:31 PM UTC

I am so very broke, I can’t afford to pay it thought. Fettered in a cage by poverty, left only to pray and rot. The feathers of my soul have been tarred and stained by life. So much so, I'm not sure if they'll ever again shine bright. This Bird in my heart used to sing for my hopes and dreams; Mourning every tragedy with requiems that gleamed. A little Canary to be all mine until the very end of time, Staving off this cold world and reminding me I'm fine. This poverty starved her slow and deep, down to the very core. Melodies that once remedied despair gone forevermore. Nowadays, all I can ever do is reminisce about that yellow bird; How she'd bring warmth to my life's cold hell of a blur. The way our voices would harmonize on little notes; Prophecies of a better future foretold from our nook. That's why I still cling to the distant sound of their words, Because they ramble on in me until nothing seems absurd. I like to think she still sings sometimes, though no sound is heard. That music of hope rings in my mind still, all thanks to Bird.

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My pen weeps; *It weeps everyday, upon the rugged pages of my diary. A rainbow of tears.* The blue ink sets free *Dark shadows Looming in my soul. Deep; Amidst the hollow wasteland of my thoughts. They take me To the nooks and crevices Of my past. A yesterday, So beautiful, So far away, Yet* unreal. The red ink, *It paints; Swollen memories, That refuse to Let go of my grasp. Buried deep within Yet* alive. And Indigo; *That sketches, The abysmal dreams. That scar my mind, When the world Is snoring, In it's beauty sleep. As i slowly slip, Into a wilderness. A madness, Exhausting Yet* Infinite. My words; *Rain upon the blank pages, With a ink so melancholic, It seems like the tears, Would never dry off. Yet* they do. *Just like the colours In my life. Slipping away, into pages.* *How the cage of my body, Confines a heart;* Suffocated Starved *That sings like a canary, Woeful ballads Of freedom. That begs to stretch, It's wings. And taste the dew Of morning, Lying upon the half awake Bud. A charming melody, it weeps everyday.* Just like my p e n.

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May 6, 2017

May 6, 2017 at 6:11 PM UTC

My pen weeps; *It weeps everyday, upon the rugged pages of my diary. A rainbow of tears.* The blue ink sets free *Dark shadows Looming in my soul. Deep; Amidst the hollow wasteland of my thoughts. They take me To the nooks and crevices Of my past. A yesterday, So beautiful, So far away, Yet* unreal. The red ink, *It paints; Swollen memories, That refuse to Let go of my grasp. Buried deep within Yet* alive. And Indigo; *That sketches, The abysmal dreams. That scar my mind, When the world Is snoring, In it's beauty sleep. As i slowly slip, Into a wilderness. A madness, Exhausting Yet* Infinite. My words; *Rain upon the blank pages, With a ink so melancholic, It seems like the tears, Would never dry off. Yet* they do. *Just like the colours In my life. Slipping away, into pages.* *How the cage of my body, Confines a heart;* Suffocated Starved *That sings like a canary, Woeful ballads Of freedom. That begs to stretch, It's wings. And taste the dew Of morning, Lying upon the half awake Bud. A charming melody, it weeps everyday.* Just like my p e n.

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There once was a girl named mary  Who had a pet canary  Locked in a cage  The bird filled with rage  And planned to ****** dear mary. He picked the lock with his beak  One autumn eve so bleak  And made his escape  Mary’s door left agape  To her bedside he would sneak. His eyes held a sinister gleam  And mary let out a blood-curdling scream  As he pecked at her eyes  And scratched at her thighs  Mary prayed it was all a bad dream. After the vicious attack  Mary fell flat on her back  On the hardwood floor  Her pulse was no more  The canary flew away and never looked back.

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Mar 27, 2011

Mar 27, 2011 at 4:48 AM UTC

There once was a girl named mary  Who had a pet canary  Locked in a cage  The bird filled with rage  And planned to ****** dear mary. He picked the lock with his beak  One autumn eve so bleak  And made his escape  Mary’s door left agape  To her bedside he would sneak. His eyes held a sinister gleam  And mary let out a blood-curdling scream  As he pecked at her eyes  And scratched at her thighs  Mary prayed it was all a bad dream. After the vicious attack  Mary fell flat on her back  On the hardwood floor  Her pulse was no more  The canary flew away and never looked back.

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On the top of the Crumpetty Tree The Quangle Wangle sat, But his face you could not see, On account of his ****** Hat. For his Hat was a hundred and two feet wide, With ribbons and bibbons on every side And bells, and buttons, and loops, and lace, So that nobody every could see the face Of the Quangle Wangle Quee. The Quangle Wangle said To himself on the Crumpetty Tree, -- "Jam; and jelly; and bread; "Are the best of food for me! "But the longer I live on this Crumpetty Tree "The plainer than ever it seems to me "That very few people come this way "And that life on the whole is far from gay!" Said the Quangle Wangle Quee. But there came to the Crumpetty Tree, Mr. and Mrs. Canary; And they said, -- "Did every you see "Any spot so charmingly airy? "May we build a nest on your lovely Hat? "Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that! "O please let us come and build a nest "Of whatever material suits you best, "Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!" And besides, to the Crumpetty Tree Came the Stork, the Duck, and the Owl; The Snail, and the Bumble-Bee, The Frog, and the Fimble Fowl; (The Fimble Fowl, with a corkscrew leg;) And all of them said, -- "We humbly beg, "We may build out homes on your lovely Hat, -- "Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that! "Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!" And the Golden Grouse came there, And the Pobble who has no toes, -- And the small Olympian bear, -- And the **** with a luminous nose. And the Blue Baboon, who played the Flute, -- And the Orient Calf from the Land of Tute, -- And the Attery Squash, and the Bisky Bat, -- All came and built on the lovely Hat Of the Quangle Wangle Quee. And the Quangle Wangle said To himself on the Crumpetty Tree, -- "When all these creatures move "What a wonderful noise there'll be!" And at night by the light of the Mulberry moon They danced to the Flute of the Blue Baboon, On the broad green leaves of the Crumpetty Tree, And all were as happy as happy could be, With the Quangle Wangle Quee.

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The Quangle Wangle's Hat

On the top of the Crumpetty Tree The Quangle Wangle sat, But his face you could not see, On account of his ****** Hat. For his Hat was a hundred and two feet wide, With ribbons and bibbons on every side And bells, and buttons, and loops, and lace, So that nobody every could see the face Of the Quangle Wangle Quee. The Quangle Wangle said To himself on the Crumpetty Tree, -- "Jam; and jelly; and bread; "Are the best of food for me! "But the longer I live on this Crumpetty Tree "The plainer than ever it seems to me "That very few people come this way "And that life on the whole is far from gay!" Said the Quangle Wangle Quee. But there came to the Crumpetty Tree, Mr. and Mrs. Canary; And they said, -- "Did every you see "Any spot so charmingly airy? "May we build a nest on your lovely Hat? "Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that! "O please let us come and build a nest "Of whatever material suits you best, "Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!" And besides, to the Crumpetty Tree Came the Stork, the Duck, and the Owl; The Snail, and the Bumble-Bee, The Frog, and the Fimble Fowl; (The Fimble Fowl, with a corkscrew leg;) And all of them said, -- "We humbly beg, "We may build out homes on your lovely Hat, -- "Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that! "Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!" And the Golden Grouse came there, And the Pobble who has no toes, -- And the small Olympian bear, -- And the **** with a luminous nose. And the Blue Baboon, who played the Flute, -- And the Orient Calf from the Land of Tute, -- And the Attery Squash, and the Bisky Bat, -- All came and built on the lovely Hat Of the Quangle Wangle Quee. And the Quangle Wangle said To himself on the Crumpetty Tree, -- "When all these creatures move "What a wonderful noise there'll be!" And at night by the light of the Mulberry moon They danced to the Flute of the Blue Baboon, On the broad green leaves of the Crumpetty Tree, And all were as happy as happy could be, With the Quangle Wangle Quee.

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