Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Mary Gay Kearns Jun 2018
I took the left path where hydrangeas grew and sleepy primroses under woods, edged shady trees.
The empty stream ran quietly dry
With grass cuttings piling high.
If one peeped, one would find tiny creatures
To cast a sparkle here and there, a delight.
So on tip-toe, with sandels bent
Up high I reached to take
The plastic fairy as she twirled a pirouette
In a theatre made by chance.
Reflected in a silver mirror intwinned with ivy branch
A mottled foal tends his dreams and Chrismas robin chirps.

My brother took the right hand path where the trees grew fruit
Ripe berries from the gooseberry bush bulged their prickles.
Dangling from hawthorn now a cowboy with a hat
Looking for his fellow Indian with the yellow back sack.
Sheep gather in a hollow, dark, protected from the sun
And Mr toad, now lost of paint, has turned a bit glum.

And so we leave our woodland friends and travel up the *****
Winding round the rose bed and goldfish where they float.
Then up we climb, the middle route, to jump the pruned clipped
Hedge.
The lawn divided in two halves, a contemporary taste.

Now we're nearly at that place where if one was to turn
Could see down across the land
To the sea and sand.
Of all the beauties that I've known
Nothing beats this Island home.

Love Mary x




My grandfather’s retirement bungalow was in Totland Isle of Wight.
It was named Innisfail meaning ‘Isle of Ireland’.
Behind, the garden led down to magical and delightful to children who came as visitors. My grandfather would prepare this woodland with some suitable surprises.
The garden and woodland deserved its own name and in retrospect
Is now named ‘Innislandia’ to suggest a separate, mysterious land.
Beyond the real world.
In the poem A Country Lane on page 8 the latched gate is the back gate to my grandparent’s garden and bungalow in Totland as above.
John Garbutt wrote the following piece on the meaning of the name 'Innisfail'.

My belief that the place-name came from Scotland was abandoned
on finding the gaelic origins of the name.
‘Inis’ or ‘Innis' mean ‘island’, while ‘fail’ is the word for
Ireland itself. ‘Innisfail’ means Ireland. But not just
geographically: the Ireland of tradition, customs, legends
and folk music, the Ireland of belonging.
So the explanation why the Irish ‘Innisfail’ was adopted as the name
of a town in Alberta, Canada, and a town in Australia,
can only be that migrants took the name, well  over a century ago
to their new homelands, though present-day Canadians
and Australians won’t have that same feeling about it.

------------------------------------------------------------­---------
The bungalow was designed by John Westbrook, who was an architect, as a wedding present for his father and Gwen Westbrook.
I do believe he also designed the very large and beautiful gardens.
It is there still on the Alan Bay Road. Love Mary xxxx
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; aopicho@yahoo.com)


I guess most of you will be born when
Taban Makitiyong Reneket lo Liyong is dead
When he will be already another ****** dead
Myself I am luck I have met relative of zinjathropus
I have shared a table and a roof
With Liyong the poetical witch of port Africa
Let me tell you how he is and what puzzles him;
He is black and short stumpy and weak
In his shadow of seventy years, a sagacious septuagenarian
He has **** eyes and his protruding nose is keen
On solving problems of an African girl child
He has read all the books in the world
Apart from the book of Amos in the evil Bible
He is ugly in the face and breathes cacophonously
In the left north with heavy sound
He is an aggressive eater with sharp appetites
Towards African herbs and turkana beef; goat meet
He is a sympathetic listener who gets
Inspiration by listening to the young
He loves all students with passion, but who knows
He loves poems and incantations
From the akuku culture in southern Sudan
Where he was born before becoming a temporary Ugandan
He is fond of taking knowledge upwards
The palm wine tree along the shores and coastlines
This is where he found the fellow son of zinjathropus
A palm wine Drinkard in the name of Amos Tutuola,

Taban wonders why Frantz Omar Fanon has
The un-even ribs on the sides
Taban wonders why there are no aged Chinese in the world
Why turkana women are the most beautiful in Africa
But they play like playing bush love where
But every time before you go off her top
The deadly desert scorpion bites you on the leg
Why The Babukusu of east Africa stopped their revolution
Why the books of Ali A Mazrui form a succinct tribe
Why the Masai chiefs eat as peasants beggingly look
Why there is oil in turkana area and no turkana man knows where oil is
Why Obama has not read his fixions and meditations, his youthful oeuvre
Why Wole Soyinka used to be jailed by foolish people in Nigeria
Why Achebe and Okigbo condemned Captain Elechi Amadi to detention
During the tribally secessionist Igbo war of Biafra
Why publishers in Kenya take bribes in kind
Especially whisky, pilsner, viceroy, smirnoff and freezing tusker
Why Pablo Neruda was not born in Congo
Why Jews are all over the world but none is seen
Why thirteen offenses against his enemies
Never shook the world like Das kapitel of Karl Marx
Why man cannot eat socialism but only bread and wine
Why Ramogi Acheing Oneko was not in Lodwar prison
Why Paul Ngei broke the leg of Jomo Kenyatta
When they were in detention at Lodwar
Why he missed by a whisker to betroth Grace Ogot
A Luo babie who leaves in the land without
Neither thunder nor promise of thunder
In the bossomy bossom of Bethwel Ogot
Whose foot prints on the sands of times
Hat to Sent Daniel arap Moi Home shout a lame poem;
Jogoo! Jogoo! Jogoo! Jogoo!
Why a short fat big headed man the poet in this poem
Asked him why he launched Christmas in Lodwar during December 2013
But not the intellectually logical So what and Show What
Why turkana men don’t put on *******
But still their ***** cannot make three percent in size
Of the size of the ***** of a Luhyia man Mr. Wanyama
Who hosted Taban during chrismas in Lodwar
Why his tribesmen will remove six front teeth
From his lower jawbone when he is dead.
dennis gunsteen Dec 2010
silver bells
and  mistletoe ,
at  christmas.
she my  honey bunny
she sugar sugar plum,
my sweetie pie
the angel of my heart.
she my silver silver bells
of  christmas.
silver bell
and mistletoe
at christmas
she my honey bunny
she my sugar sugar plum,
my swetie pie
the apple of my eyes.
the angel of my heart.
of christmas
silver bells
at christmas
hear the angel sing
for honey bunny
at chrismas time
the angel of my heart
she the song of magic in
my  heart.
she angel from the heaven above
she my sweetie pie
she sugar sugar gum drop
of my heart .on this christmas day.
my honey bunny christmas.

repeat verse 4 time that song
Nigel Morgan Sep 2012
She was very warm in bed except for her nose, which was more than cold, though not quite frozen. Her bear, who she had folded into her arms but as a prelude to pulling back the covers - no duvees here just scratchy blankets- she placed on her on the pillow. Jellikins was pink and not a proper bear for a nine year old. She'd been her bear since infancy, small and a bit grubby, and pink.
 
It was still quite dark, silent. She could see her dressing gown hanging on the door - just. There was a movement downstairs; her father making tea perhaps. This was his time of day, the early morning. For as long as she could remember he was up and often out when she woke. Even at Christmas, particularly at Christmas when she sought her mother's bed he was 'out', working or walking in the park . But here at the farm he was here, downstairs, and if she went down now he'd wrap her in a blanket or two and read to her until the light changed through the kitchen window on to the yard, a gradual blueness, then, if it was a clear day she'd watch the sun draw itself from the sea in a golden ball.
 
She loved it when he read, because he loved to read, and because he loved to read to her, holding her gently in his arms, she would drift off into her own thoughts. Being out with dogs on the cliff paths, the smell of the Christmas tree at home that her mother would decorate tonight, being on the train for six hours with picnicy food, game after game of Go and those strange  word puzzles her father would invent , then the cycle ride with the big downhill rush to Morfyn and the long long push up Rhiw hill in the twilight . . .
 
Later, after their first breakfast they'd go out into the frozen yard and let the dogs out. Into the old sheds with their simple wooden latches hand-smoothed requiring the barest touch to open; then **** and his mum bounding out, and the little dogs yapping and yapping. Next, to barn and with the knife she'd been trusted with, she waited for the bales to land at her feet, flying out of the darkness up high near the roof. Cutting the baler twine and stuffing it in her coat pocket she opened out the compressed straw ready for Blossom and her friends to munch and scrunch, **** and **** their way through their breakfast.
 
On a farm the opening and closing of gates was like a little ceremony. Always the same careful ordering of movement; you could only open this gate if you'd closed that . . . you always checked the tail of the chain was the whole way through the loop and secure.
 
Meanwhile proper morning had arrived: it had been dark, now it was light, properly morning time. She could move all ten beasts on her own, from the Plas field across the yard to the Stack and back again - four gates each way and never a slip.
 
She had read at school that the beasts spoke to each other on Chrismas Eve, at the moment of the birth, when this baby was born in the stable. Although she doubted this just a little – Who had actually heard them? Was there  a recording perhaps? She wondered what they would say to each other tonight. Surely they spoke to each other all the time. Well, the beasts she knew mooed and grunted constantly. Was it just that we could understand them when suddenly it became Christmas? And how long could they talk for? Just a few minutes, or the rest of the night until the sun rose? She imagined herself opening her bedroom window at midnight to listen to them in the stack yard. She would look up at the sparkly sky, a sky that was so awesome that she and her father would, on a clear night, go up the mountain before bed and stand at the very top to look at the immense upturned bowl of the heavens rising out of the sea on three sides. At home the sky was just a red glow, occasionally the moon rose through the trees in the park, but the stars seemed hardly indistinguishable from passing aeroplanes, only they twinkled and moved. You couldn’t see those fields of stars her father wondered at it here on the mountain, those distant constellations, stars beyond number and time, light years away. Beside which the thought of animals talking to each other for a few minutes at Christmas seemed entirely possible.
I'm thankful for
the cool breeze
blowing in air
through my dry
hair as I
walk back home.

I'm thankful for
those dead leaves
falling to the
ground covering my
feet when I
step under trees.

I'm thankful for
these fleeting days
that cover me
in the darkness
of night as
I lay asleep.

I'm thankful for
sweater weather that
allows me to
bundle up in
my favorite pieces
of warm clothing.

I'm thankful for
Thanksgiving leftovers which
stay in the
fridge till Chrismas
time once again;
still so delicious.

I'm thankful for
the ending of
the old year
and the start
of another one
filled with potential.
Lana Del Rey - Born To Die
CC Capie Dec 2015
a pounding howl on the bedspread
hell is sober but i am the opposite
facebook.com/this-what-i-want-people-to-think-of-me

my heart is red writhing pink slime
sun mother trust
black god figure head pulsing
for many years sinking into pink slime blood flood writhing
look today my eyes look livid lucid green
three headed dragon of envy beckons

i live in a guilt home built by my grandfather 457 years ago
37 years ago
born deaf and dumb writhing
old children howling at the sun mother trusting

takes too long to say goodbye
my pink soul pining
feeling for a door ****
listening for the turn of a door ****
i love you forever i think
look at my words gloat
listen to my words gloat

float to the sky past the trusting
sun mother gods head gushing
pink slime lusting
red leaves rustling
serpent tongue spitting
me eyes
my ears
and my arms

a ways to go right?
the dead light from a million dead stars?
feels that way at least
feel like i am icarus
feels like i want red white and black
heart pink
soul gone
things long
say sleep
please say sleep

place the sky in a box and hope for an easy end
sun mother truth trust lost
sun mother trust truth lost

because you snooped around my drawers
ive snooped in yours
im not color blind but ive never seen blue
i saw red once didnt care for it
remember the time you said you though you saw a ghost
a great pull
you wanted to die

burning boys who lived in water
wind and heat licked me raw
we sit big beneath little hands with loose skin
you lose people when you cant lie good
can you hear my thoughts?
No that's alright i believe you

pink slime river rising
when i die smoke my bones
color me the color of silence and smoke my dry bones
metal face does not rust

one is used to dance
one is used to run
to push very very far away
2 whole years pining
pushing people very very far away

leave hair in my sink please
surrounded by tall walls
chrismas is purple
so im told
i wouldnt know

color blind pink slime writhing
she's there
shes there right now
a ghost isn't a window
a ghost is a door
dust in my eye
my ears
my arms
bring me some fast feet

how many times did you open that door?
how many times did you leave it open?
open stars
brain hard
a boy wonders
peace died

you didnt expect men to give you respect so you stole it
throw yourself at them
i wish we could escape
inside voices ladies and gentleman
inside thoughts

tonight is really hot
better off hiding forever
learn to hide better
slowly past the hand of a broken clock
wait for it
wait for it

voice can you just try to speak?
the weight finally burned a hole in my head
rain tree look tired
big man looks afraid
pink slime shines
shines like a diamond in the fog
a fog of beer

shadows of the subway cars
while you were out two hours came by and sat in that very chair you are sitting in now
they tried to wait for you
but the room started turning into a dream of pink slime

stand back i got a question to ask
it needs to be answered
how heavy was that weight?
the one that put the hole in your head
the light from a million burned out stars
how bright?

dank breath after you smoke my bones
high fruit flame and vegan ice cream
near simple
near divine

theyre called reasons and you have none
know chaos
know a tall latte
father save me
in the name of the father i am not worthy
these woods are easy to cross by foot
in the name of the father the son and the holy slime ghost writhing

what is normal?
what is constant?
more answers are needed
thoughts speak up
spring is constant
saints lead away snakes from my path
i took an oath to this forest
an easy path
a velvet nest
a shot of tequila
bring gifts to a suffering woman
i am yellow
i am a lonesome fly stuck
do a bump
i am an animal
i am glowing flowing pink slime rising
arms reaching
do another bump
legs carry me far
eyes please see color
mother in the sky truth wondering
Blundering
Fumbling for something
Black eyes gazing
into the hazing fog
built up by the pink slime rising
amen
showyoulove Oct 2013
Another year almost come and gone and

Christmas day is upon us once again.

Today’s Christmases full

Of gifts, hour long lines, last minute shopping

And Stress!

Life moving at a breakneck pace; never slowing,

People not sparing a small coin to put in the Salvation Army bucket.

I wonder if we would all make better presents

Than the ones we receive on Christmas-

With how wrapped up we are.

There are those (not to be forgotten) who do something kind

For someone else; Sometimes anonymously.

Though I feel that, through the years,

We have forgotten what Christmas really is.

Christmas isn’t about bows, ribbons, or tags

Nor is Christmas about packages, boxes, or bags.

What is it then? Go back about 2000 years or so to the very first Chrismas

A very cold, dark, winter night in a Bethlehem barn a young woman gave birth

To a son Jesus “Emmanuel” meaning (‘God With Us’)

On that night the witnesses to Jesus’ birth were

A few shepherds from nearby fields,

The animals in the barn, 3 kings (wisemen they be), and a poor drummer boy.

The kings brought gifts to pay homage and honor to the babe

The drummer boy had no gift to bring, but played a song for the child

All was bright, calm, peaceful that night

The warmth of love and light

Overpowering the cold, dark, winter of that Bethlehem night
O'Reily Jul 2015
Drastic words taken from a manic world,
Have you heard that what they print is labelled on you.
Its over now,
As the sun begins to rise,
Tomorrows world,
Always forgets the man that dies.

Reality later,
Reality later,
Fiction from the truth printed there.
Reality later,
Reality later,
Editorial journalists they don't care cause the paper sells...

Tabloid Mess!

Celebrity taker,
Paparazzi will follow you everywhere,
So you want to be in the paper?
Fame and fortune has its price that will tear.
Sold out now,
This world exclusive news,
Read all about it now,
Aliens land on chrismas eve!

Reality later,
Reality later,
Fiction from the truth printed there,
Reality later,
Reality later,
Editorial journalists they dont care cause the paper sells...

Tabloid Mess!

They deserve it now,
All of those printed lies,
War of words,
From the media moguls!

Reality later,
Reality later,
Fiction from the truth printed there.
Reality later,
Reality later,
Editorial journalists they dont care cause the paper sells...

Tabloid Mess!

Reality later,
Reality later,
Fiction from the truth printed there.
Reality later,
Reality later,
Its all a bit of a joke laugh the press so swindled in you.

Tabloid Mess!

O'Reily@08072015
Lauren Fehr May 2013
love is strolling through a city at night
love is reading by candlelight
love is paris in the summer
love is the leaves changing color
love is snow falling during the day
love is hearing a ukelele play
love is new york city at chrismas time
love is hearing the sound of a wind chime
love is surfing in the sea
love is iced chai tea
love is being in a room full of laughter
love is a story of happily ever after
love is the smell of petrichor
love is not knowing what's in store
love is hugging someone
love is the rising sun
love is listening to a great song
love is talking all night long
love is counting every star
love is traveling somewhere far
my ideas of love
oluwajimi Dec 2020
At sunset
It is a summer in winter
Christmas is where I find love
S L Poetry May 2020
Tell me what it is
About the trees
Dusty grey and gloomy in October
That resonates so dearly with a heart
Melancholy and somber
This rain is soothing
Like the soft white I line my walls with
A golden haze playing through my veins
And flames to match the essence
But not the calefaction

You can watch me drift into a paralysis effortlessly
A debilitation cold and lingering
Like lifeless trees awaiting the worst
Some sun
Does not change the course of nature
And I wonder what flavor of future
Nature holds for me
I feel like the trees
In the middle of a foggy autumn afternoon
Comfortable

And content
Living in the shadows of a world
Too engulfed in regurgitated highs
To contemplate or appreciate struggle
A world utterly ignorant to individuals soft spoken and inherently
Harmonious in the ways of authenticity
And naturalism and realism
We have the endurance to undergo lifelong tempests
But lack the energy to speed through
Trivial phases of Insatiable beauty 
Our growth is goddess enough

Tell me what it is about the moon
Majestic and nostalgically haunting
A calming through night's terrors
And unforgiving traumas
Silver whisps of validation shine into a heart
With love looking a little too much like silhouettes
An ebony void seeping into the cracks of joy
And pain becoming an obvious pattern
And the moon is there always
Watching the molding in a resentful awe

What happened to the life of the young
Happiness looking like summer nights
And chrismas lights and vintage pop bottles
Fading into an uninviting outline
Through that type of half reality
Half fantasy version of time
Months feeling like hours
But unrewarding years all the same
Childhoods disappearing into insomnia
And I'm not very hungry
And I don't want anything for my birthday
Kind of aloof answers
We get it
We're all just tired

Tell me what it is
About the stillness of autumn
That induces a numbness in our hearts
Watching our desires blow away with the wind
One by one
They sing their remorse through aeolian howls
Uncanny and ghost like
Or the early nightfalls
That strangely feel more intimate
Than our last touch did
A type of familiarity rather profound
And lacking in any form of resentment
Maybe it's the significance in vulnerability
The stripping away of irrelevant priorities
To see the real
To see the roots

Tell me what is is
About the trees
Dusty grey and gloomy in October
That soothes a tired soul
A vagabond in search for more
And a heart a little too in love with loss
Bra-Tee Jul 2014
Lazy candles, on a Chrismas-Eve cake. 50cents thoughts, for my pocket money. I am a well suited Poet. But my hand on your hips, and my lips on yours is all that I'm missing. I just saw you a couple of never's ago, and I would love to hold you for a couple of forevers more...

#And the day I'm allowed to kiss you in front of your parents; is the day I won't get shy to kiss you in front of those who are not your parents...
Jude kyrie May 2016
Winters icy patterns
Adorn the window pane
The moon a glitterball
  of snowflake
it's Christmas tide again

Boots are crushing snowflakes
All about the tiny town
Carrollers singing in the distance
A joyful Christmas sound.

My boyhood heart is bursting
Theres no other time like this
As under the hanging mistletoe
My parents share a kiss

now older my chrismas times
Are busy filled with modern toys
But in my heart I feel a longing
For a time of simpler joys
Sometimes I want a holiday like in the old days. Jude
The meaning of Christmas
In our multi-religious world and lack of Christian faith
I no longer call Christmas by its name but prefer
to call the festive season “The festivities.”
The meaning of “Christmas” was to celebrate the birth of Jesus
but commerce has highjacked the season
we are pressured into buying presents for family and friends.
The JUL is a good word that was celebrated long before Jesus was born
it is on the day the sun turns; spring will soon arrive.
The Jews have their day, so has the Muslims we
are not suggesting they should change this.
We in the west should not be ashamed of our cultural heritage
where our Christian faith places a big part.
lets have a country christmas put baubles on the tree
sing some country songs at the christmas jamboree
banjos and guitars let the fiddles play
dancing all night long till early chrismas day

lets really have a ball to the country beat
chrismas  time is here puts dancing in your feet
everybody happy as they dancing long
celebrating christmas with a country song

a special time of year that makes us all unite
that time of the year when the world feels right
toe tapping hand clapping dance the night away
dancing all night long till early christmas day
Jim Kirk Dec 2019
A CHRISMAS STORY – Part 1

In a time, past was Christmas eve,
A tense quietness spread throughout the house,
No one wanted attention not to dare even a mouse,
Dad snoring on the couch didn’t see our mother leave,

Dad came home two hours late,
Said, “He was drinking at the club with Casey and his son,
He left early, a little before eight,
What the hell he bellowed, I work hard just a little fun,”

Mother said the boys wanted to open just one present,
Dad starred, “every year the same, “NO”,
“We open them Christmas morning, all Santa had sent,”
Mother also was drinking, and said, “Why the hell no, and NO.”

Dad walked to the tree looking at the presents in disgust,
Mother said why are you always like this,
“Open all of them” he shrieked, “IF YOU MUST!”
Then he kicked and broke every toy, not even one did he miss,

The night before Christmas it was very quiet in our house,
Nothing was stirring, not even a mouse.



A CHRISTMAS STORY – PART 2

The two boys’ clothes were tattered,
Yes, their hair was long, had Nana brought a toy?
Grandma would fuss, but it hadn’t mattered,
Their smiling ***** faces shinned Christmas joy,

Early the boy walked the cold wood floor,
To the living room, lighting the old ceramic heater,
From the one-bedroom, the others poured out the door,
Warming hand and feet at their only heater,

Money was short dad said,
Gas went off at night,
The boys saw only the gifts instead,
And the shining Christmas light,

They played with the few new toys,
Having fun, the two boys,
Dad ask one for some water to drink,
The boy ran quickly to the kitchen sink,

His head swooned, what had this meant,
He gasped at what he eyed,
Back to his brother he went,
Pulling his shirt to show what he spied,

Two beautiful red bikes sat on the floor,
They turned around and dad leaned against the door,
Merry Christmas he said,
I sold my car but will ride the truck instead.

By Jim Kirk-Wiggins (c) 2019, All Rights Reserved
LiberiPress.com
EPILOG:
These two stories have much to teach us beyond the obvious. You see the two boys in both stories were the same boys, just older as was the father. It reveals to us the enormous change possible in who we are and how others, including our families, may perceive us. Often family and friends still view us as our past, a sad indictment on love and evolving life.  This story reflects the resilience in children. Love does cover a multitude of sins, in us all.
Lamar Cole Dec 2019
Johnny was coming of age.
He had finally reached that stage.
He had grown out of toys and Christmas trees.
All that he wanted for Chrismas was a kiss from Sally.
He surprised her under the mistltoe.
And told her that he loved her so.
Mary Gay Kearns Apr 2018
I took the left path where hydrangeas grew and sleepy primroses under woods edged shady trees.
The empty stream ran quietly dry
With grass cuttings piling high.
If one peeped, would find tiny creatures of delight.
To cast a sparkle here and there, a delight.
So on tip-toe, with sandels bent
Up high I reached to take
The plastic fairy as she twirled a pirouette
In a theatre made by chance.
Reflected in a silver mirror intwinned with ivy branch
A mottled foal tends his dreams and Chrismas robin chirps.

My brother took the right hand path where thetrees grew fruit
Ripe berries from the gooseberry bush bulged their prickles
Dangling from hawthorn now a cowboy with a hat
Looking for his fellow Indian with the yellow back sack.
Sheep gather in a hollow, dark, protected from the sun
And Mr toad, now lost of paint, has turned a bit glum.

And so we leave our woodland friends and travel up the *****
Winding round the rose bed and goldfish where they float.
Then up we climb, the middle route, to jump the pruned clipped
Hedge.
The lawn divided in two halves, a contemporary taste.

Now we're nearly at that place where if one was to turn
Could see down across the land
To the sea and sand.
Of all the beauties that I've known
Nothing beats this Island home.

Love Mary x
Miscarriage or spontaneous abortion is the natural or spontaneous end of a pregnancy at a stage where the prenate is incapable of surviving, generally defined in humans at prior to 20 weeks of gestation. Miscarriage is the most common complication of early pregnancy.1 The medical term "spontaneous abortion" is used in reference to miscarriages because the medical term "abortion" refers to any terminated pregnancy, deliberately induced or spontaneous, although in common parlance it refers specifically to active termination of pregnancy.



"miscarriage "
im so happy chrismas came in july.
KG Dec 2020
My brains mushy turkey leggings in the freezer out the box and waiting 3 months rotting in the summer suns running lean from the gnawing marks that carve the brittle bones into witches hex crowns
Now we create the sated space for cattle-brain pacers following infinite prompts paved pavements ending in a death that's somehow sooner than intended
Wretched runes of wretched wretches'
Held higher than I've flown remember
Glow down softer touch the ground
In slender light it feeds the being the beacon is centered on seeing receives relieving reloquaries of recollections recieved frequently tieing up the process of feeding.
What now do I need
Asked heathen skull seething from hulk to steeple creep peekin' I scream at these demons with treats and some healing I'm dressed in vermillion not sequence barely a squeel to my zealous request now a feeling.
I'm not that excitable.
I usually dress in work clothes
And wear the next days pair to bed
I just got excused, from life for two weeks in quarantine. Even my probation officer won't
See me now. So this drunken poetry fumble tumble quickly to it's end in 10 minutes since we've met my bedroom surroundings -Atchoo-  nice this time of year I treat the -Atchoo- season with a-h-h-h sense of -Atchoo- respect, mainly because of the perfect -Atchoo- weather. I Hines. .. Honeszszs....
A-Atchkooo. .
Honestly can say that I love this cold weather with my warm heart. I don't get paid leave either. Yay chrismas.
Send me chritmas present money to make it through the season.
Qualyxian Quest Aug 2020
Despite the Transition to Sameness
Jonas can See Beyond

The mystery is nameness
And memory almost gone

Chrismas morning in snow
The agony of war

Terror and letting go
1, 2, 3 ... evermore
The mourning
It was an early morning
The day before Christmas
The phone rang
I reluctantly answered
Your mother is dead.
I couldn’t get a flight
Took the dog for a walk
In the woods,
But this day she walked close to me
And didn’t hunt rabbits.
Coming home
I sat by the bed and cried.
At Chrismas Eve
I gave my dog a cream cake
When thinking of my mother
when she was at her best.
BTW Dec 2021
04 January 2019
Workshop

Sip of wine, sparkling eyes, gentle smile.

Chrismas decorations, miles and wiles.

Neighbours shoveling snow, laughing, kicking the edges.

Some have already gone south.

Lights blinking like fading stars, some didn’t.

Another snowflake on my glasses melting, like the years.

— The End —