"canter" poems
Ah.. shes here...I shuffle around the stalls... watching..out of the corners of my eyes.... she knows ....Intimacy...a hand on flank..careful..
.you'll break me....with your gentle hands..
..My hard mouth....your soft lips..
..unruly, unruled....old horse...a kiss.
.. Confused, ...stallion in name only.
... You whisper... My ears *****
... forward..the hunt! ....your scent on..
..My bridle...I smell u still...
.. Calm...Comfort...Welcome...
.Gentled, not too gently....a strong hand.
. It grows trust …..truth...a Stallion! Once more.
Panting...pawing...'Be easy'..nervous eyes roll.
.a hand on the neck...a caress..'Gently '...you whisper,
.... hot breath against ear
… I snuffle and toss my head
…. still a bit frightened…..her power!
..Will you ride.? ! ..firm thighs and buttocks..
..Toes point... Heels dig...all Give and Take….
. Instruction to...from...the muscled beast.
..straddled. Awkward… too long without….
..A Rider … the matching... Gait with hip...
Walk-on.. Trot, pounding...Heels clip.
..faster, just a bit..Then smoothly they fit her to him.
...a canter.....this long stretch....rocking like one creature
….each a part of the other...breathing evenly…
...caught ….. Breath comes quick...bodies warm.
. Exertion...strength..trust.. Leaning forward..
knees grip..pulling...toes curl..in..
..hot breath..whisper in an ear… Now!
...hands grip mane... As they clench
… bit between the teeth...She..
...gives him his head... Finding his rhythm
…. home in sight...a last burst……
Rider/Stallion sweat soaked … blood pounding..There... againthe scent of her...Sweet Hay rising.
..she whispers… yes oh yes… I knew…
you had it in you.. In me...oh gods….YES! ! .
. No! not the pasture yet for you.. She chuckles..
.bodies tangled in sheets ….. Her mane of dark hair..
Scent of her fills him …
glad to be..Alive? Yes..head…. Heat…
heart...bursting…Not now… But soon.
. A gift.. This youth.. Who see's value in an old war horse.
..ridden.. but no more to war and blood..
.gentled, both he and she… sleep…bridled passion.
..her...a scent of sweet hay…
.him...an old spice..and gunpowder? ..mmm.
by Alexander K Hamilton
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 12:01 AM UTC
To smile at the carnation,
So gallantly growing,
At peace with this world.
In silence...
I tune in a short conversation
Between minds and bodies -
Incredibly cold.
My heart has surrendered
To nightingale's song.
I dream of Rhode Island...
I'm leaving! So long!
The winds of Sonora,
My nannies and friends.
My love for Evora -
My tears know no end.
The shadows of Mordor,
With sunrise they fade.
Grace, Kindness and Splendour:
Three Buddhas in jade.
I feed roastede pidgeone
To poor ryebread crumbs.
Avoiding curmudgeons,
I'm playing professional dumb.
Caressing the grass-blades,
I live in a drop.
Arcadian arcade:
There, God has no job.
In hurting the Nature
We drain our souls.
Let’s all at once cease
Being ignorant ghouls.
...To stroke the carnation,
To gently kiss buds.
To eat simple meals
Like lentils and spuds.
To carry some water,
To chop down some trees.
To stop feeling rotten.
My soul is at peace.
The time is forever,
The purpose is now.
No “when” and no “where”,
No “why” and no “how”.
The light effervescent,
The sound circumaural,
The hearts ever-pleasant,
The dreams polynomial.
...Collapsing eternity,
Upheaving humanity,
Rock-bottom fraternity,
Defying the gravity.
Creative destruction
Is staunchly forbidding.
The wisdom of ancients
Is widely-misleading.
Depleting our anger
Is key to survival.
Harnessing the hunger,
Improptu revival.
Combustion of senses,
Precarious laughter.
Incurable sepsis,
Delirious canter.
Regrets are forgotten,
Bright days are all-cherished.
Let’s live unbegotten
Until we all perish.
13.06.2012
Jun 17, 2012
Jun 17, 2012 at 8:13 AM UTC
Wild stallion live free
Galloping unbound
Always you flee
Never chained to your ground
Wild stallion how swiftly you fly
Over distances and plains
How courageous you try
Hide your aches and pains
Wild stallion your hooves beat the earth
With fierce determination
Let loose and be rid of your girth
Be free from trepidation
Wild stallion covet your solitude
Embrace the run in silence
Your formidable strides of fortitude
Bound forth with repentance
Wild stallion I see you there
Mane billowing as you thundered across
Grounds fly beneath you without a care
Running without remorse, gliding without loss
Wild stallion I was once like you
Soaring to the ends on unrestrained wings
A life that is now but an echo; a faint pathetic hue
A life that is now filled with broken things
Wild stallion keep on running free
Keep galloping and know no bounds
You're free, no need to flee
Outrun the chains, leave them as faint indiscernible sounds
Wild stallion how I envy you
As you canter, your coat gleam in the light
See me as you always do
Just a reflection who has ceased to fight
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 11:31 PM UTC
Who knew what all a horse could do
Most think horses work
Walk, trot, canter
Being ridden for pleasure
Driven for work
Who knew they could do so much more
Opening doors for the disabled
Allowing the autistic, cerebal palsy, mentally challenged, parapalegic
to move around, to feel the wind on their faces, to laugh
To feel in control of their surroundings for the first time
Yet who knew that horses do more than all of this
Helping kids and adults with low self esteem
Pulling them up to feel good about themselves
Giving confidence when it has been taken away
Allowing them to feel successful
A horse can be a confidant, an enforcer, a best friend
Legs to move, muscles for strength, a body to hold,
Who knew a horse could do so much more than show, jump and plow
They can help a troubled child let go of anger
A disabled child feel in control of such an uncontrollable world
A mentally challenged person feel accomplishment and free of that which traps them
Horses can help so many different people
Overcome all types of obstacles
Bullies, fear, anger, sorrow, disbelief, self pity, frustration and hurt
Giving them strength to take up for themselves
The power to conquer being afraid
Allowing them to feel happy and sure of themselves
Control of something allowing them to feel alive again
Horses become hard working friends
They love unconditionally
Don't judge or cause inferiority
They don't care if you can talk correctly or at all
Horses could care less about disability
All they care about is you
Even when they are not loved they love
When abused they still work
So it is so wonderful to put an unloved horse
with a special needs person
Both win by giving and receiving the love and tenderness
they all deserve
Horses Helping People
A wonderful blessing
People needing Horses
A miraculous discovery
All rights reserved
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 12:52 PM UTC
Must we rub elbows, Post-Dated Brother
Because of my Drama to her commit
I know my Roles; Her tongue was the other
For my Radar to pick the Better of it
Perhaps our Wine seeps better with Age
On my Canter I drink less of Question
Why? For her, Heart's Duty for joy her page
Quill my Weak Signature's uncondition
Your Cross-Founder states we all must Forgive
And His Baptist turns those Elders from stone
Meaning, my Tarnished History did live
Of which I murdered to leave me alone.
Easy to say, as long as I draw breath
And that is my Purpose to Act in Health.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 5:10 AM UTC
There might have been a time
When I wasn’t full of fear so topped off
Like a gassy sombrero
like a burrito left in the
Sun to bake and there might have
Been a
Time
When I hadn’t yet eaten a burrito
landlocked
In New England, locked in a small state of
Fear and knowing that knowing
just isn’t
Enough.
There might have
Been
A time when luxury was a nickel
apiece paperback
Book at the Unitarian Church fall sale
to raise funds for
Their roof.
To raise their
Roof.
And there
Might
Have been a joy in my spark
Plugs,
A joy
In my canter
A Joy in
My legs that preceded my
Fears.
There might
Have
Been a time:
When I would pick one of the seven records we owned
And delicately put it on the turntable, thinking I will
Have my own money and
buy my own music.
When I idly lift the leaded paint
from the 200 year old wood
And scratch it to smell its sweet aroma.
And put my hand on the glass pane
Think hard enough and open your eyes and it will be
1838 again.
Oh where are the people?
Oh where
when there might have been a time
Did I not see who they are?
Or they did not register.
I must have watched them everyday
Observant
so keen to be seen
Is it possible to feel so much
for feeling so little?
Or did I feel gulfs of embrace
that were not there?
I wanted and I desired and I dug.
I craved and thought and speculated
and clung.
And there might have
Been
A time when I roared on my Schwinn down the long empty
Roads of my town.
Invoking our gods.
Invoking my claims.
There was a time when I stuttered with
Compassion and could
feel a touch observed
There was a time:
Across the street in a
lit house at dusk.
Their curtains are open, their lights are on.
Oh, the sun has settled down
There is that time, golden, when I
Look into your kitchen, and the wallpaper is
Blue and harvest gold with small pictures of oil lamps on
Them and your walls are mustard gold.
Your plates are unbreakable
I see them lustre in the
Overhead light, fashioned like a wagon wheel.
Guns ablazin’.
Trails awash.
There might be a time when I can slip back
Into your kitchen
lick the plates and then
Run my fingers over
the wall paper.
Tracing the outline of the oil
lamps imprinted.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 7:19 AM UTC
The winding drive along the sea
I took so many times
to steal away from anarchy
to pacify my mind
The city sirens come undone
before the ocean spray
then down the hill to U.S. 1
and thus begins the day
The Pier receding to the South
Will Rogers to the North
Topanga is the turn we seek
as we are going forth
The starkness of the hills and pines
the rivulet below
as Westward the Pacific shines
beneath the morning glow
The twists and turns I still recall
though roads are better now
no unpaved sections left at all
nor farmland for a cow
No Austin Mini Union Jack
the landmarks too have changed
and I so lost since coming back
I almost feel deranged
The Health Food Store with hitching post
the horses canter past
the countryside I love the most
and visit now at last
But on Mulholland Highway there
surprises lie in wait
there’s razor wire on the fence
and horses at the gate
As giant dishes aiming deep
into a mountain wall
so Orwell’s promise do we keep
applying it to all
But I remember still the day
the hillside turned to fire
the way to turn had burned away
the sky was black with ire
And in a wide spot in the road
in reverence did we stand
a fox, a hare, my dog and I
all watched the burning land
Can nothing make us feel as small
as fire pure and cruel?
to know it as a cunning foe -
to know we’re naught but fuel
But through the smoke a fire truck
led us down on Kanan Dume
toward the cleaner seaward air
away from certain doom
And all at once the trial was o'er
for we had reached the sea
as once Carrillo had before
and now my dog and me
We pass the house of river stone
Moonshadow’s Restaurant
and even Tidepool Gallery
for years my favorite haunt
And back to Santa Monica
on PCH we drive
admiring still the beauty
yet more thankful we’re alive
The winding drive along the sea
I took so many times
to steal away from anarchy
to pacify my mind
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 10:12 PM UTC
I am here
Yet most times I'm not
Likened to a fleeting zephyr
Perchance may be caught
Beyond the bend, it's hard to see
Uncertain, unpredictable, unsure
There are chances however unlikely
To chart life's trot and canter
Awaiting the moment I would voraciously savour
The fullness of my being that's rare and transitory
Because almost always,
I'm drowning in doubt and clamour
With fevered breaths drawn more quickly
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 10:31 AM UTC
.
*One day at a time
swings the pendulum;
only love awakens senses
too ephemeral to be restrained,
like the magic of a phonograph stylus
in a vintage vinyl groove
and the sensual touch
of skin so new
It's not easy to watch
a flock flying away
in the distance,
seeing the expanse beyond
reach of a wandering mind;
heed distracted
by the slow sway
of the treetops hypnotic careen
Doves dive on feathered canter,
silent as the winged wind,
broke free from the gravity
befallen the weight
of the world
Looking up wondering
beyond the sky,
the passing clouds
crawl across
palliating the dusk hazed horizon
Synchronicity transcends across
an immeasurably deep river chasm,
into a wordless abyss
ensconced unthought
between
here and there
Silent silhouettes
glide across
the valley void below,
wings to the sky
and, if you listen to a moment breathe,
you can hear
the silent peace .............
you can feel the prevailing wind's direction
blowing through your soul*
Jesse Stillwater
December 2017
Jun 21, 2018
Jun 21, 2018 at 2:40 PM UTC
Crescendo the silent beat of hearts in chests
at all things nigh and beauty,
or lovers' eyes locked in stargaze wrest,
on cue as sunrise scarlet symphony.
Fortissimo in birdsong chirp and banter
while car horns blare with careless fervour ;
on pavements listless feet in patter
as suits and ties commute in canter.
At noon the music peaks, forzando.
Soccer mums braced in cafe convo
of lunchtime gossip in staccato
while babes in prams asleep in piano.
On cue at sundown scarlet symphony
the baton slows in rallentando.
Call to slumber twilight melody-
the daily music diminuendo.
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 7:33 AM UTC
Why do I feel compelled
To describe you as imprinted
On the bone face of my skull?
Am I in there, rattling
Around with each curt nod
When you offer me your time?
Hurled against the stretches of the mind
The head's own incubator
Some Palaeolithic cave
Where the only inexperienced scrawlings
Are your portrait
In this cave I have invented film
Starting with a rickety old Zoetrope
Of the first smile; lips bracketing
The teeth, enabling
The tongue, to churn out
The voice, your nuclear voice
Hanging my Nagaskian heart by a hair
I haven't needed irradiation
Like the hand-canter of a harp player
I have been plucking my scalp
Hardly Lilith but perhaps
Deforesting Eden
Will tempt you from Eve.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 5:18 PM UTC
weathered fingertips in sensual crescendo
arouse blitzing keystrokes to commove
wild Js and Zeds, Ks and Is too.
harmony of the king's three-thousand acre jungle
swallowing the stormy orange cyclical stew
and tantamount to its feral cavities
thrushes whet jagged spinal bones to split
news of the no-rhythm, sambas of new religious canter
infiltrates the **** cavernous walls
This inner ear and greater sound
knew to find sanctuary here.
Lends its awesome craft to the next
And next, and next, and next;
beautiful unboxed melodies
new unused sweet single-reeds
threading that 20s centrifuge.
Saxophone. Incantations unfolding
Aloof in its ***** it unwraps
The veil of green, a costume of black coffees
Cigarette stained curtains exhumed to greet
Thick plumes of albicant sinewy smoke
At the heap of its glorious song
Uniting the funnel of eardom to consecrate
Bliss. Intrinsic and purple
An irrational knot of Portuguese drum
Met over by African toms and rattles
A glue imbued into those unmistakable
Chakras of this spell of mourning and reversed
Names of starlight girls and their other'd selves
These are the weapons of our new key strokes.
And upon the cortex it reveals this lift anew
Where death greeted me to intervene a place
Where sound and silence meet, and new strikes
Put my hands in halves. Pear-shaped birds pecking
At the joints, and where bowl-shaped tones bring
Their impeccable limbs to atone with auburn and cerise soils
Beneath the high ridges of doom- the empowering backspace
Does not exist, only new nothingnesses and their hooves
Splashing into each step into the next, and the next, and the next,
And the next.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 7:10 AM UTC
Would that my life
carried the pomp and confidence
of a bombastic poem
an overwrought daytime drama
that bad action movie with the guy
who’s too cool for this world
Would that my rhymed greetings
always trumpet a joyful salute
blasting awake the tired and sad
rendering all introversion moot
Would that an invitation
for a beer a my place
be a more coveted prize
than a free trip to space
Would that every whipped up snack
be a culinary masterpiece
gasping in ecstasy my houseguests
cling to their seats
Would that the very tone of my voice
render women to squirm and swoon
render babies to giggle
and songbirds to croon
Would that any awkward silences
be scrupulously sifted out
cold cut conversations segued from hours
to clipped and cleverly crafted banter
Would that I’d compose the songs
that bring young lovers close
that wrench tears from the eyes
of those more cynical than most
Would that the clip of my canter
be the cadence of the soundtrack
of enlightenment
Would that my goodbyes be
an epic flood of emotion
my friends and colleagues
all so grieved to see me going
Would that in life
I be bigger than death
and in death I be
bigger than life.
...
But what would all that be
would that even be me?
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC
Her Horse didn’t canter in Canterbury
Her braided hair was long and Brown.
She galloped uncovered in Coventry
so that taxes would drop like her gown.
Hot to trot without makeup or Jewelry
Hair undone, long tresses hang down.
A ****** named Tom was observing her
riding through town sans a gown.
A woman of substance and Charity-
Not given to horsing around.-
Her legend comes down from antiquity
That’s how seldom those taxes go down.
Dec 30, 2011
Dec 30, 2011 at 9:45 PM UTC
Some say
That unicorn free fountains
May be the product
Of an ancient code
Hidden in the runes
Of our ribs.
Sometimes after
Being bitten
Letters appear
On the gnarled
Wood bark of tree,
Or the plump
Roundness of fruit.
Speak on
The corners
Of your skin
As your fingers
Blink dark ink.
Often
At midnight
Have you felt
The horn
Grow
In the moonlight
As you caper?
Whinny and canter
At the quarter
Past midnight,
And find the trails
of your alphabets.
A map to a place
Where your unconscious fountains
May run deep
Prance in **** truth
Much like stars
Skinny dipping
In dark
Familiar ponds.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
Dante’s dance of death arrives
Sparrows take to air
And massive nimbo-cumulous
Soar to lightnings vivid flare.
The final page is almost read
Incredulous am I
That Lady Luck has touched my soul
Allowing me to cry.
To watch a scarlet sunset sink
Into a sea of green
And feel the chill of evening stroke
My mortal fascade’s sheen.
Cavorting fillies canter
In blue nightfall’s velvet pall
Whilst the crystal tones of crispness
Peal from distant blackbird's call.
The magnificence of feeling
Permeates my very soul
And the factored life impermanence
Magnifies the spirit’s hold.
A sensate wave of gladness
Washes over all I see
And the brilliant joy of being
Lifts the fear of death from me.
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
21 August 2010
Aug 20, 2010
Aug 20, 2010 at 8:13 PM UTC
Come to me great entangler of speech, until the mouth
is a thicket of word mash, you
who rakes strain out of the day to day visions.
Four nights last week you came in the dream-sweeps
flying at forty-one thousand feet. Encrusting this crimson suitcase of blood production with aurulent Trojan footstep rumbles in the hundreds of thousands.
Are you the new blues guitar, the trill bliss in satirical Dutch painting;
you who wrestles the languages of sleep. To get to keep you we'd **** all mystical beasts, sew treason, and wait naked for the dead things to come.
Remoteness in the time of the lonely.
Where you shed shivers of sharks
In wild dance and wicked tantrum, lilting
Beside the androgyny of days and Time.
You the dashboard Jesus of sin and canter.
No scurrying footsteps to barge the heavy moods of ****** or abscess.
In half breaths you weaponize yourself,
A take of drink and then with the rest of the aves,
Swallowed by the colossus of entanglement,
Taken beneath the blue awning amidst the company of the sea.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 1:54 PM UTC
Now! the damson crush of swallow wing
to foal the brays of uwound April,
in chattered sleeks of broom gleam hail
that agitate these pagan grains.
Where bud-nip rusts of Bullfinch creak
the gates of prickled secrecy,
the platted creed of wren-song
yolks the whiting peeks of May.
Where an absinthe canter quills a yarn
of nether-world calligraphy
with missives of anemone to
prose the woke terrain,
so a gattling shack of magpies prat
along the miscreants of bine
that heckle servile atrophy in
lung sweet roots of anchored sage
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 12:06 PM UTC
don't try
be the acorn in the molasses. be the demon in your thimble of hope. be That Guy.
save your trophies in your spit. keep breathing, but don't quibble with ice long trinkets and dead sky.
trip on your theme and plant facedown, the rally of your kingdom !
you
Will Be
at some
Time,
the Unspeakable Lisp of your Acute Prayer
at half speed, the true grit of your paralyzed steam... the frozen lightning
of your effortless... The True Would, if You Could.
but you can't seem to Jimmy the Lock
as much as be locked; you canter
in the stable Chaos.
You dust off the Rotten Preamble
too a previous
Horror.
you come
equiped to slip into the trojan noise,
you come as often as a candle
in the pitch dark
without a voice;
in shambles.
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 6:11 AM UTC
Knees quake, stagnant faces caressed
smearing red, smearing salt across painted dress.
Some eyes barren, some eyes gone,
stomachs lurched and stomachs drawn.
Mountains with their moss play bed to fallen boys,
to their wasted lungs powder does still cloy.
Rivers play mother’s cool arms
washing way the mess of harm.
Within in the field are stepping stones of flesh,
made colored canvas with wounds still fresh.
These boys have died a thousand deaths
a thousand different ways
sometimes several thousand a day
losing each and every choke of air.
All morning rebirth is an unlucky fate,
for fellow friend’s faces freeze
mid-word
mid-breath
mid-life.
Their warm splatter upon your skin,
a hole in their head you were yours.
And these bullets, these bayonets
are bombarded on you,
on your boys
by your brothers.
Who you have loved.
Who you have touched.
With whom you have sung your song.
These boys
Are not fighting for cause or crime
or love
or what heats the mind.
You fight.
You die.
Your bodies are reborn.
You bleed
for those seeming Caesars
for those napping Napoleons
who dust powdered sugar off their
plump lips and
canter over each cobblestone as if it were a country.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 1:25 PM UTC
up in the high country the wild horses run free
they've done so for nigh on a century
not a saddle upon their backs
enabling them to canter unchecked around its tract
in the National park there is a harass of them
trotting through it's blue hued wends
their days are numbered in the park
park authorities want end to their spirited lark
up in the high country the wild horses run free
they've done so for nigh on a century
not a saddle upon their backs
enabling them to canter unchecked around its tract
to sight the wild horses in full galloping step
is exhilarating and it fills one's heart with miles of pep
their hooves thundering and pelting along
to the wind's strong liberating song
up in the high country the wild horses run free
they've done so for nigh on a century
not a saddle upon their backs
enabling them to canter unchecked around its tract
down the steep ravines and o'er the hills they stride
without the reins of a man holding their ranging pride
the wild horses have need of open lands to caper and race
they are a breed which must be allowed to freely pace
up in the high country the wild horses run free
they've done so for nigh on a century
not a saddle upon their backs
enabling them to canter unchecked around its tract
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 8:36 AM UTC
hey, whatsup break me open and have a look inside
a suh dood check out these heady feels but like
whoa bruh they tell me
simmer down
you're harshin that mellow
yellow matter it's no matter tell me something new
find me something else to say I'm a
fried egg in a skull here's some banter
gallop trot and canter I'm just horsin' around
of course it's not finely ground buddy 'ol pal
you'll have to crush it up yourself
if ya wanna snort it
but hey let's abort that mission
I'm just tryin' to chill in the kitchen
all I want is a nice meal I don't want
anyone to steal these lasts wisps of my soul
let's smoke a bowl and forego the physical
maybe think about something quizzical
something that'll bring me elsewhere
anywhere but before
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 6:39 PM UTC
How far must our planets splay
before they collide once more?
The stars in their cruel malevolence
mock our decor.
The galaxy is of our love, pregnant with envy.
Why would you, universe, allow such tapestry?
The touch of the rain without reason to blame
turns to ice on the shores of my slumber.
Like an effigy ruminating disconsolately i lay,
Never mind all the tears in the rain of my thunder.
My heart does not race yet it beats at a canter
It states with impunity,
with neither remorse nor regret as it seeks out our unity.
Of sonorous design if only it was,
it would emancipate me...
The real me, of composure's repose,
I miss you, i love you...
They cannot compare,
To this mind they cannot express
and shan't even dare
Oh! those stars!
If i could i would make them stare,
I would go the distance and make them care,
for i'd make them witness a fusion so rare.
What they could not limit,
what they could not mimic.
For our love, t'would bring our worlds together
behold them cataclysmic.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 1:10 PM UTC
Spinning in circles
Breathing your scent
Warmed by your love.
You mean everything. Everything.
I will love you through anything. Anything.
My soul is yours and the canter of our union rises
We belong to each other
a thousands times over. Forever.
You please me, in everything.
I love you.
We are not the mistakes we’ve made.
We are the love we give each other.
We are not the problems that we face.
We are stronger together.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 5:01 AM UTC
**Smokey rooms and idle banter,
across the fields of my mind still canter
girls in short skirts, January to December,
the embers flicker and flame as days remembered -D'ya remember?**
*Teflon tough guys with hardened looks
fast friends by nights end-foundations shook
I hook fast to the Past-MAN WE HAD A BLAST!
bait my line and cast as the time streams pass*
*some cry alas as the nights grow dim,
me I'll always have my Total Recall to dip in,
conversations reach out to snag my arm,
No alarm as I'm mugged in memory lane, just charm*
*we were charming rascals with roguish eyes,
no fools as the street schooled on us no flies!,
So we thought til life taught us harder lessons,
as the Mask beneath the Mask reveals transgressions*
faithless lovers and fair weather friends,
left their mark on our lives as they came to the end,
of their briefer tenure amongst REAL mates,
at your back in the corner as you faced your fate....
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 11:13 PM UTC