"conveyance" poems
“T'was the night before Christmas ...”
and Santa was busy.
The reindeer were antsy
the elves in a tizzy.
The missus was tending
the ovens like mad
And turning out cookies
to make children glad.
The wood chips were flying
the sawdust was thick
The workshop was bulging
with toys from St. Nick.
Contractors from Sega,
Nintendo and Sony
Were working on games
(and a robotic pony).
Iphones and Ipads
(with virus removal)
Were packed in their boxes
and stamped "Elf Approval".
Last minute touches
were added with flair
While elf stylists tended
to Santa's white hair.
Elf tailors were making
some last alterations
To Santa's red coat
and his waist tribulations.
The weather was fair
as the weather-elf stated
The routes were approved
and departure was slated.
Bells had been polished
and harnesses buffed
While repairs were addressed
for the hoofs that were scuffed.
The antlers were festooned
with ribbons and bells
And the reindeer were covered
with elf flying spells.
The clock approached
midnight as Santa was seated.
The countdown began
as the flight crew was greeted.
H-hour neared
and the tension was growing.
Outside it grew cloudy
and then, began snowing.
But Santa just grinned
as the weather-elf winced.
"Don't worry, my friend.
Our time has commenced."
For the weather was nothing
to Santa's conveyance.
His reindeer and sleigh
were immune to"delay-ance".
With a whirl of his whiskers
and a flick of his wrist
The reindeer were launched
in a flash of white mist.
And I heard him exclaim
through his teleport ray:
"ALERT TSA. Tell 'em
I'm on my WAY!"
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 9:27 AM UTC
Wanderlust warlock blaspheme rapacity
Obsequious diligence pier pair appearance
Obstreperously vituperative vociferous tenacity
Consortium eclectic synectics concurrence
In extremis extremity cantilever capacity
Citadel clairvoyance pilaster conveyance
Inductive integration interpolative audacity
Derivative factor derivational appliance
Futurity fatidic’s laconic sagacity
Aseity veracity cacophony compliance
Accidence ambience aesthetics opacity
Acoustical articulation intonational occurrence
Apomixes anabolics histophysiological mendacity
Epistemological somatalogy syntactics refulgence
Refractive reflective semantics complicity
Hephestian dialectics Hegelian effulgence
Linguistic syntax synaptic intensity
totally tangential
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 9:10 AM UTC
Tripped out blackened falling past back through the CRACKs again
Blasted wasted all of it tasted so FRESH again
I am who I say I am, but what am eYe?
Perception, damnation, ascension, redemption
Falling, falling, rising, writhing in the light the serpent tWiZtS
Like a DNA double no triple quintuple helix outside the bounds
Imagine the sounds, can you expound on the downtime?
Know what I'm saying if it's not clear to you
I question the norm and fall back into you
Am I insane? What is sane? To feel pain? Or to ignore it all, fall, fall, only to rise, the skies have opened up and spilled their seed upon the ground
Sounds like Chaos. I'll make it.
Peace. Equanimity. Balance. Words have power, but we give it to them. A serpent could just as easily be a dove. Vibrate. Ommmmmmm. Sanskit. Hebrew. Who knew? Enochian keys and Christian disease. Why do they believe? Because they're scared and it's all they have to turn to. They are given no other options. Open your ******* MINDS. Question authority. Think for yourselves. Nobody else can tell you what is true. There are no authorities, we just let them boss us around. **** hierarchy. I'm a monkey, you're monkey. Just because we can string words together doesn't mean they make sense. Just because you write something on paper doesn't make it true. Change is good. Any change would be welcome in this stagnant society. Hey, look, that kid can spell deoxyribonucleic acid. He must be smart. Don't believe it. Cost effective ******** **** Newspeak. Why are you letting them take away your freedoms? Are you really that insecure? **** the police state mentality. You don't have to listen to those people. Don't listen to me either. Listen to yourselves, your inner voice. You know what is right. Man's law is not God's law, and the Bible, the Koran, the Torah, these are all MAN's words, twisting the eternal truth into chains to bind you to their ways. **** that. You will not find God in a book. Think. Question. Go off the deep end. Lose your ego. Don't be afraid to experiment. That cliff is waiting, jump, jump, JUMP, you won't fall, you'll fly, oh **** they fell for it, you're falling, you're falling, you're ******* FLYING, wings, and it's all all right now, ain't it, off across the Universe to better brighter things, ******* words limit the conveyance of the true message, but it's all right, you'll get there, just forget everything you know, and BAM! it's right there.
Free your mind. Be. Om. Words lie. Truth is.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 9:53 PM UTC
Naught the mages
Elm yellows plough
feigning eternities
dream of man;
the cradle of time
the realm of night,
Scathing Hekates
piacular restitution
heralded papally
upon Seven Hills
cradling Hades
tau cross-roads;
Eliciting with the iron
seminal sickle,
gifting the servants
of the servants of God
and slaves of slaves alike;
dismembering the boughs
of war- elsewhere,
Building broken bridges
Carving the lullabies
of humanity grafting
a sprig of Yggdrasil.
ELEETE J MUIR
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 7:26 AM UTC
body genre
at a carnal address
sensory and sensuous effects
materiality
digital images
anthropology of desire
she tied a knot around his ****
a wedding band made of licorice shoelaces
for the art of tongue and ****
driving it in her pink throat
back and forth
like a shift stick
flared for the retina
a puzzlement and fascination
haptic screen of fiction
adventure of being pinned down
an unpremeditated punctum
fucktum sucktum
the stadium of desire
a shop window
banality transcending banality
the literal transformed
into the ******
a ****** smiles red
girl in a suitcase
with a hole to ****
a treasure chest
the leaky boundaries of erotica
sing in
musical blood whistles
I packed her up
limbless and threw
her on the bed
and with tender kisses
of endless
wet permutations
banged
three oozing holes
into finger ponds of oblivion
she taunted
age play- ageless
***** class
a weird ethnicity
from Timbuktu
racially motivated lust for a
conveyance of
fleshy intensities
way past help
a big **** dips
a tender dimple
like a barnacled whale
in a deep dive
the violence of
a preemptive strike
for everything imaginable
across raw lips
in her cosmos
of swinging hips
and cross bone riddles
oh happy *****
suicide ******
at the computer screen
**** bullets birthday cake
in a River Styx of flames
Jun 21, 2020
Jun 21, 2020 at 4:40 PM UTC
Not your name
Not your nationality
Below all the fame
Below the unreality
Deep down
Who are you?
Forget your license
Forget your authorization
Forget your conveyance
Forget every legal documentation
Now tell me
Who are you?
Deep down in the dark room of your empty soul
Deep down below your average conscience
There are only the things you put there yourself
All your unused options
And the unanswered questions
like 'Who are you?'
Deep down below
There are only feelings
All your feelings
That you chose to confine
But it really doesn't matter who you are deep down
Because nobody carries around a shovel all the time.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
#
There is a responsibility, borne
within an online conveyance
of the heart
when it comes to publicly posted poetry..
For within the conveyance of words
released into the Universe..
*(words once residing within
the inner linings of heart and soul.. words..
now made seen and known to all)*
is the deeply embedded DNA
of the author,
wherein lies the accountability;
when those words, bearing
genetic imprint
enter into the heart of another.
I write specifically
over things touched within me
But try to convey it
in a sense.. Universally
so that it might be taken in
by any and all
.. That the benefits of Love's beautiful ways
may find access into the parts of the heart
that need it most..
sometimes, sneaken in and finding root
before the receiver is even aware..
bringing, inside the recipient's skin
healing
But also the potentiality
of becoming hurt.
I am sorry.
You
(and most everyone else in the world)
rarely, if ever.. talk to me.
But I watch you just the same
solely by what you write.
My existence causes pain.
That.. I know.
I love you more
than you will ever know.
I would stop writing, but I don't know how
There's not a 12-step group
for these things
I dream of one day being killed
for who it is that I am.
I dream.. and then I smile.
But I do not smile at all,
the times I see that you are hurt.
I have real arms,
*..within this poetic world
that is so very intangible--*
When you cry,
they could not truly show you
it's okay
They cannot show anyone
that it's okay
Everyone's afraid of me
like I'm some kind of perpetrator
So I will die alone.. judged
for things I have not done
So I am sorry, my Beautiful--
It really is all my fault
for ever truly wanting to see.
All I ever wanted to do
was become able to see
and overcome the hurt
that long ago so horribly hurt me
You've become hurt
by my ability to see.
I'm sorry.
#
Feb 12, 2023
Feb 12, 2023 at 11:28 AM UTC
abstinence and cruel practice
old dancers have no feet
living our beliefs
in this house of rabies
a house of lies
lies that tell the truth
taught through the agony of disillusionment
the planets move
we do their dance
fire points
angles in motion
when they square
we are constrained
when opposed
swords cross
when trine
we are graced
always the dance of the other
the world whorls
strikes like lightning
breaking the nose of every beautiful thing
forcing their delusions
twisting metaphors of history
they smear the world
you are its hands, heart, spine
darkness tears and sighs
whispering feet on dark floors
send you their dreams
and construct inner mythology
to bend your will
always on its own side
redundantly unanimous in that
a real villain
an odyssey through your heart
thats how it gets inside you
while your hands remain folded
and your genitals sleep on a plate
dance school arcade pinballs planets
twisting wraith flies flying in circles, circling
in black mother
like hands on a clock
conveyance of ardor
born in the
palace of tears
=
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 4:49 PM UTC
One must believe in something be he misanthrope or gambler
In tomorrows omnicience or the future proof of God
The penance in a drunk's decay sets self destruct's imposer
Wether speakerphone's on disconnect or cellphone's in the bog.
Conveyance of a threat to adherants of St Selfwise
Show athiest's are proof here, in belief of disbelief,
Haunted by the images painting painfull retribution
Picture sympathetic **** star's allocated hand relief.
A moments allocation of a syllogist abstraction
Shows perspective of the calibre we now reserve for Saints
A paradox regarded as autistic fascination
In a one act play of living disregarding all restraints.
Deliberately indicative of fraternal heat's expression
Notebook at the ready and deep frowning at the brow,
Question definition's collage of confusion's contribution
Do we sit it out pretending or just catch the late bus now?
Marshalg
13 February 2014
© 2014 Marshal Gebbie
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 8:53 PM UTC
My heart - delicate,
and malleable
undulates
within two poles,
seamlessly juxtaposed -
beauty and affliction
capricious container-
truth and fiction;
the sheer surfeit
of choice
reverberates with
imperious diversion,
settled invitation-
loud and shiny things.
Hard to breathe,
I'm in exile
slave to my emotions,
obsequious and servile
barren, cold and mute
existence - the brute;
tilted reminiscence,
scars of loss
contrive frames
around moments -
footprints,
interminable -
being and time.
Infinite deity,
triune polyphony
artist of sublimity
smearing shades
of loneliness,
vestiges of faith,
to retrieve
hues of meaning;
oddly convivial
prophets
of reprieve.
Orpheus lost Eurydice
palpable discordancy
suffused in time
could not resolve
without verse
decidedly sonorous,
canvas showered pain,
splashed
Jackson Pollack stain
Love - onerous,
deep beneath
the veneer,
it's mercy severe.
Fiction from the first
Eden‘s fatal gift,
lucidity cursed
altered cosmos murmur,
parlance of
disordered elegance;
effusive language,
phrasing art nouveau
tacit script;
ensconced within
the fabric;
create a Thirst
torment - visceral
and immediate.
Ardor and innocence
once quenched,
render
pathos in proportion
to the pleasure,
conveyance of beatitude
The past absorbed
into the treasure,
Inscrutable Heart -
devotion and turpitude
desire, loathing and paucity
affinity in abundance,
fear and doubt
inhabit certitude.
©2009 & 2011 W.S. Warner
Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 11:19 AM UTC
You think you're the better writer with
Your indentations,
Arrogant alliteration,
Games of Rhymation;
When You Capitalize For No Good Reason
OR TYPE IN ALL CAPS;
When you type in italic just because you can;
With thy ineffectual employment of Shakespearean formulation
Or elongated conveyance of your articulation,
When you type in
funny patterns to
better express the
thoughtfulness and
superiority behind the gemstone
artist,
And, all- your; meaningful, strategically placed' punctuation!
And perpisfuly mispled wurds bcuz yur so ironic,
And your cryptic title that's meant to come off as genius.
Dylan could crack a skull without a hammer.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 2:45 PM UTC
<In Memoriam: Joel M Frye>
we spoke perhaps twice by antiquated conveyance,
actually exchanging voices, real words, not ionized,
we knew so little, so much of other, in modern ways,
where you can feel without touch, see with eyes closed,
scenting tthrough a wire, hearing the voices whenever
inhaling each’s poems, tonguing, tasting the words aloud
nonetheless, ‘tis nonsensical, that his earthly disappearance
should defect my affectations, with the chested sensational
of loss, deprivation,, that I am missing a poet, his insights,
his way of saying the same thing yet so differently which is
exactly what we do here daily, reheating upon rehearing
each others verbal notions of rue, worry, love lost,
abandoned faith, momentarily reignited, wondering instantly
and perpetually do words matter, just before we, with excited sighs
we pick up the unique utensil fluidity that allows this communication
of spirit; now it strikes me hard, it is his spirited humorous man-n’ere,in everything, that became has attached to me, consciously and consciencely, humanizing me by his good graces that cannot
now be refreshed
until I
reread
him
one
time
more
Jul 5, 2023
Jul 5, 2023 at 7:22 AM UTC
~inspired by Lar Lubovitch,
gifted to Glenn Currier
who made my eyes water-dance this
morning ~
<>
raise the arms in preparation
for an articulated genteel waving
to keyboard,
an elegant slow descent,
fingers extending, splaying,
but in fine coordinated curvature
for they are 24 carat gold filled fingertips,
word & dance-art~infused
i king and expelling sounds of dancing words,
all over my body
some body part of me,
grasps that the cylinder of ink,
becomes a baton,
single instrument director,
an attaché,
an additive~lubricant,
for all my orifices,
firing rocket-in-the-air bomb bursts
while body in its entirety
motions,
shuckin’ and jivin’
in the prayer~poem first position,
a rock n’ roll motion,
back and forth,
to fro,
holy mesmerized
words run down my arms,
letters drop encased in salt drop capsules,
from the intuition in my eyes,
we see them forming words,
pooling,
without volition,
upon,
all my surfaces, but they
a mere conveyance,
bringing these expulsive explosive verbs
in an ordered fashion,
to your eyes,
intuitively,
asking you
to dance with me,
begging you
to envision me,
hearing the piano maintaining rhythm,
while a violin crys out in a overly long held notes,
concertinas bellowing,
all together quavering,
oscillating, emoting,
and you!
you are reading me perfectly
so we dance in unity
cheek to cheek,
to the song of
our poem,
our words, our tongues,
our entire entities,
rogue kissing
Dec 4, 2023
Dec 4, 2023 at 8:52 AM UTC
Tufted ethereality, angelism of stock and store
pedestrian...alas, circusy.
Helm of streets bob...our supplicant pulls out
a mile or two of scripture from an enormous
pocket.
Fingers ink-blotted with grime, bent forth striding--
a heedless Beethoven tuned in immaculately.
Array's arrival stunned with scurry...planets of
conveyance pull at their elliptical wiring.
Some rare gigantism to the tenth of powers has
touched everything...all he could do from
going where he's arrived is futile.
From time immemorial, he...at present, its full
possessor!
What convoluted theorem of probability will
forcibly eject him from eureka...from where he's
vaporized his wears...naught...naught!
Some precipice's nudge knew best the wind for
his thought to take to, a majestic soar pealing the
spheres to show them their shape.
Life has exemplified its frugal capacity to him--
simmering creation tucked away for one fine day.
He, to outlive the closing energy that dances him,
an immortal...to be handled with care...with
universal intelligence--be, has let him...loosed.
He's broken the code of things in and of themselves...
he's a thing in and of himself--the Unitative factor erupts.
As the credits of glory pull upward...so he as them.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 12:42 PM UTC
Welcome to the Land of Upside-Down
Where sad faces smile and happy ones frown.
Place your coat on the floor and shoes on the rack,
Enter my home and don’t ever come back.
Stand up on the chair and sit on the table,
Only four legs, but it’s still unstable.
Problems arise from nothing at all
With a chance of answers being very small.
Everything is good when in fact it’s all wrong
And you hide it, pretending to be strong.
Your face tells the truth while your words deceive
Causing more pain than you’d like to believe.
Sitting on that table, your silence tells me everything
Knowing the truth makes your conveyance forever sting.
While you make sense in your confused state-of-mind
Your issues feed on my clarity and become intertwined.
So remain on that shaky table as I leave the room
This lively lying home is now your lowly loathing tomb.
As you knowingly forget your atrocious crimes
Remember in this land I see them a thousand times.
And I will remain here, snared by your ********* traps,
Even when the world passes on, here t’will never collapse.
Welcome to the Land of Upside-Down
Where hope lives in despair as wishful dreams drown.
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 8:46 PM UTC
My little guy is the best little guy
And I’ll tell you why
He gets things beyond his years
You wonder if he has an extra set of ears
Because he hears things I don’t even catch
And he can relay them to you
Yet he’s far from even being two
How does he do this you may ask
Without really language, it’s quite a task
But does it he does in subtle ways
A light hand gesture, a simple gaze
He uses words, one or two
If you’re still lost he’ll try to
Help you along the best ways he knows how
He can utter thoughts without having to say them all aloud
A few times we have tried to attest whether we
Are reading too far in, and whether it’s just me
Trying to decipher what cannot be
Whether everything is happening coincidentally
What we have found is that it is not
His conveyance is one with purpose with thought
I’ll give you an example when he was one and a half
He watched a movie about a dinosaur and a boy you’ll have quite a laugh
As did he,
Until it got to the point where the dinosaur brought the boy back to his family
The dinosaur couldn’t go with
Yet he urged the boy to
Nudged him close and drew a circle around who was who
The boy understood it was time to say goodbye
As did my boy as there were tears in his eyes
Which streamed down his face as he watched and he felt
And his daddy and I were so floored we knelt
Beside him not wanting to deter
The young paltable feelings that stirred
Deep within his young body and mind
A soul that seemed too ripe with time
Time that had not even elapsed
Somehow from somefar away transcended past
Love him love him love him I do
How does he know all this while not even two
Jun 24, 2018
Jun 24, 2018 at 2:53 PM UTC
The book of works
Spare me the details?
Suffice, in a general task, irked
That said the comments of Israel...
Polite shoes, on the anniversary of reign
To share an eye full, the truth in a hidden
Taste, for ancientness in the silence, of when
A philosophy comes, is a paradise for the asking?
Oft a share's heed, silent until a kiss never's...?
The haste of poise, the turn of this into something greater...
Welcome home, avarice, the total of courage has a lover
That fated justice in a pale memory for you, the fates of tomorrow?
Wishes in cold conveyance, the times to remember the heat?
Torrid as we are, a taste for houses of promises
Are we the reality to beat, come hell or high water to eat?
A grape, the pretense of mercy - in an accord we due, to vices...
A house of which and worlds of worth
That has none, a squalor that completes the circle...
Of space for a yearning soul, semblance in a call heard
By any who would, a cause curious enough to hope, miracles...
Have a shadow of youth, to a gesture of time, to a coarse song
Winking and preaching a salty tune, that is to come...
A livid appearance of kind, if not kings of journey and wealth, long
To the tooth and made from frank controversary, we dumb...
Salt and honey, the truer passage of uniqueness
Honey and rice, the presence of love, with a cordial ordeal
Rice and vinegar, known to take the time at life's crossroads, to bless
Vinegar and myrrh, with a personal observation, the very winds of healing...
Add milk?
So do we, the irony of prayers that substitute a focusing heart
To wisdom and undue hate, the pyres and frustration's of ilk
To see you in a holiness's robe, the voice we keep, sincere Jerusalem's?
Stones of health, or the knife of war...
Poignant to a fall, the season we chose for a character to blow
The untoward, the cares of simplicity to kingdom come, for out
A rallying heat's rage, that has become a future we know...
With another's heart, the total of cherubs and heaven
Look fast and hard, the haste we further, is a nerve
That has chosen you, for a chance of life in the giving
Where no one, more special than a kite, is a tree to serve?
Jun 25, 2022
Jun 25, 2022 at 5:38 AM UTC
Out in the backyard where I discarded the old bard..
..I take a moment to think.
This is not the first time I've been on the brink of a change and maybe it won't be the last.
But I have put what is past into a polythene sack..
..let the archaeologist of the future rummage through that.
If this change is a bust..then so be it..I must..
..change the change that I'm making..
And change is there for the taking..it's free.
This is the way that I want it to be.
If it's not done today..the change will not go away..
..It will wait in abeyance.
A conveyance for me when I am finally ready.
I'm still out in the backyard with the remains of the old bard.
Finding it so hard to leave things behind.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 1:38 PM UTC
(revised 06-26-16)
There are many, very good poets- (on this site)
There are many, very good writers-(also on this site)
Different styles-
Different ideas-
Conveyance of thought
"A writer can describe a bowl of fresh fruit-
whereas, a poet can smell one!"
Then, There are those-
who can do both!
v
v
"Good Morning, Sally!"
"Good Morning, Vicki!"
copyright: richard riddle 10-16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 10:12 PM UTC
*The conveyance of the mind , carrying you to the previously unknown ..
To the seas of Europa , the mountains of Mars ..
Open your eyes to the wonders of creation , release the moorings of your imagination...Nature provides the vehicle to attain the light , freedom to escape the limits of our physical being , cross conventional parameters and expectations minus fear nor hesitation ..Disregard ancient rituals , seek the teachings of every religion ..
Take a powerful work of art , free your mind as if opening a well remembered door ...
Transform music into pulses of light , telegraph our universal neighbors throughout the night ..
Let your personal reflection relay the image of great peace and meditative bliss .. Retain , relay these gifts through song and poetry without end* ...
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 2:59 PM UTC
Here he goes again, making blanket statements
About chubby girls chasing pavements
It’s a simple conveyance
To avoid an acquaintance
...................................................................................................................................
You seem so crude?
Sorry, I'm trying to be rude.
Something I did?
Are you bearing a kid?
Go ***** yourself.
You're larger than your average Continental shelf.
...................................................................................................................................
Too rotund to bow...
...You're a Big Girl Now...
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 4:28 PM UTC
My very favorite window
I pass you every day
Sometimes the sun shines
Through the coruscant pane
Each time we meet in silence
But words would be pointless
For you are just glass; I can see right through you
You must see me too
My very favorite window
Inanimate but not lifeless our
Rapport resembles rain
That rolls like tears upon the hour
I pass you as we share reflection
If only I could pause time to sit and stare to wonder and cry
Against your cool surface
My very favorite window
I love you the most
Wind who whistles
Like the moaning of a ghost
I know you must get lonely
Although company passes, they ignore the beauty
Your sublime conveyance of nature's seasons is why
You're my favorite window
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC
She stood in the hallway
With a ghost of a smile
Buried deep in the alleys of Norway
Hoping she would stay awhile
He slid back against the wall
Shoulders arched, head down
The darkness hid his frown
He promised me forever
Far beyond the afterlife
He wishes to make me his wife
She's got morbid, crystal eyes
Where all my sanity dies
Like a flash flood and a thunderstorm
All taking place at once
Like a scientific conveyance
He had hands only a poet could love
Only a writer could make sense of
Softly curved around the edges
Lumpy and dented in all the wrong places
It was a love story between an evolutionist and a man who tasted of creation
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 8:51 PM UTC
An old friend left town today
The conveyance was his favorite handgun
After departing he placed the gun next to his body
On the other side of his body was an empty whiskey bottle
The coroners report said, “Cause of Death – Desire to visit other planes of existence”
The local paper said he was a strange genius tangled up in complicated metaphor
The underground papers all said he found a ticket and decided to use it
I figure he decided he had told everyone here about his sad loneliness and
Thought new ears might be needed to bring fruit to his suffering
Even if he didn’t know what the ears would look like
My friend left behind millions of words written over decades in an attempt
To explain his sudden departure
I found it odd that in the opening word of his first poem I saw the answer
That opening word was “She”…
What followed was a lifetime of goodbyes written and published with love
Jun 15, 2010
Jun 15, 2010 at 10:30 PM UTC
I posit the bliss of my form to your own
Rendering novelty without pretension
Pressed between tongue and mouth roof prone
I divulge eloquence to uncertainty of evoked tension
Urging understanding of the necessity of patience
As moments of bliss are built on anticipation
Unearthing potent pith and fragrance
Encouraging transcendent stimulation
As we become more than mere acquaintance
Effulging pollinate conveyance
Lingering in pools of succulent temptation
Seeking negation of complacence
I proffer thusly this bequest
To quell your soul and mind upon my chest
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 1:38 AM UTC