"cursory" poems
Miscommunication
serendipity, anticipation,
blurred reality -
lost in the dialect
of a dream,
in pursuit
of Love
find callous irony;
subversion of desire
what's it all about?
to know and be known.
Mere seconds
of scrutiny
inferior,
I am shown.
Her appraisal
eviscerating
my warm flesh,
her tilted criteria
supplanting the interior,
voluble with
saccharine neologisms
and preferences
for the exterior.
(not mine)
Ironic was my
attraction to
her brain.
Lines, features
and symmetry,
image - the commodity,
aesthetics, the
currency
in this transaction,
cursory liaison,
incendiary,
collapse of the
insurgent ego -
there was no
us in the
the affair of
nothingness.
Bruised in
abasement,
I'm not the one -
I thought I was.
Hyperbole -
the center
of delusion,
a curious
diversion -
avoid my life.
The allure of
the illusion,
transference,
the ordinary to
the romantic,
the perfect other.
Searching, the
absorbing project -
aquiring wholeness,
did she reject me?
I rejected me.
The escape into
fraudulent
sadness,
to mourn,
is to displace,
the disowned heart
by self is tragic.
Should
I not mourn for
the one I'm
deferring?
Inside of me
It's safe,
to lament
the loss of
identity -
tension is agony
without resolve
sequestered,
in my pain,
self-imposed
familiar terrain,
upon retrieval,
awaking in
renewal,
mystery and destiny
providentially,
I am free.
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 8:08 PM UTC
The local mall now has a Spenser’s Gifts;
I remember that place fondly as Al and I
make our way.
It’s where I sneaked a peek at Samantha Fox’s ****
for the first time,
saw my first **** ring,
wondering why anyone would want one.
I bought my first Metallica shirt at a Spencer’s;
spending twenty of my dad’s dollars.
Spencer’s and Record Wear House
were sanctuaries;
my escape from what my classmates
took for normal.
I took my son into that store
so that he could see the X-Men hats
and Deadpool shirts, the banana and pickle
pens caught his eye,
but I had to point out one more.
“What’s that one?” I asked.
Alex made a face, but in the end
he did what any 14 year old boy should,
he chuckled.
I took him in that store so that we both
could escape.
Earlier he walked the mall
a good fifteen feet ahead of us.
We stopped for ice cream.
He chose a soda and wouldn’t sit with us.
It took a second, but
I figured him out.
He was trying his teenaged self out;
testing his wings.
As we walked, he’d wave at classmates
and be either sturdily ignored or given a cursory nod.
It was obvious that he wanted so much more.
It pained us, my wife and I.
So, I took him into Spencer’s gifts
in an effort to remove some of his innocence and awkwardness.
It may not have been the wisest move,
but at least, for a moment,
both of us felt peace.
-JB CLaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2014
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
i smoke cigarettees too **** much.
this is how you know nothing original will be said in this poem.
i use cigarettes as a social crutch.
i don't know about you
but when i'm in the mood to be honest
i'll tell you
i smoke cigarettes because
i want to be 'cool'.
because let's be honest:
i can't think of
a poet
a musician
an actor
an olympic swimmer
a hockey player
a president
a priest
a ****
a serial killer
or a psychiatrist
that's worth mentioning
that did not smoke
yes, i know you can
and go ahead,
but let me first
make a point instead
let me be honest,
if i can smoke a cigarette
and maybe be alone for
5.75 minutes
then maybe
a thought will occur to me
something outside this ******** world
and it will be good enough to write down,
just maybe.
let me be honest
i don't need you
with your judgemental eyes
and your cursory glances
walk away from me
at a party
i don't miss you
i am with her.
i garauntee if you asked
Whitman
Hemmingway
Freud
Phelps
Obama
about their actual relationship with smoking tobacco
they would have similiar descriptions.
but go ahead, tell me
about the hazardous effects of cigarettes
let's talk about the cancer
and the tar
and the disgusting phlem
that i will constantly have to eject
from my throat-hole
when i'm fifty.
go ahead, tell me about
******* people over
and ripping their minds out
and the sickness
and the disease
and how it's all so wrong.
it's as amusing to me as it is to you.
Mcdonald's will **** you.
Pall Mall will **** me.
Nov 5, 2011
Nov 5, 2011 at 12:34 AM UTC
With a cursory press of a key and arco of the strings,
They look at each other,
Determining when to start through what looks like telepathy,
But it is instead the subtle movement of arms and chest.
They begin.
With the movement of bows bouncing on metal,
And the dancing digits upon black and white,
Sound reverberates between the audience,
With eyes and ears in tandem absorbing the scene.
They continue.
As they pass over bridges,
And draw out waves with their hands,
I listen,
Swaying and breathing and performing as though I am beside them,
Despite being above them,
Yet feeling so below.
Becoming one with their instrument,
And bringing me along,
I smile,
As just like they pull beauty out of their tools with their soul,
They guide joy out of me,
For all of us.
They end.
Then again, they start.
With new sounds from a new person,
With new intent,
And new methods.
They change.
From haphazard joy and dance,
To somber death and confusion,
They become one with the music,
And follow in its suit.
They continue, anew.
As the sound changes,
So do I.
Listening with sharper ears,
Hoping to catch a different magic in my ears.
They continue, still.
As the cello draws honey,
The violin; its dew,
And the piano waterfalls arpeggios,
I am content.
They end.
Full of the food of life,
They stand,
To let us feast with them with our hungry hands,
Giving our own vibrations to fill our drooling souls.
They leave.
And so do I.
Both of us fed and quenched,
From the performance.
Sep 12, 2022
Sep 12, 2022 at 3:33 AM UTC
CECI N'EST PAS UNE ORANGE
A Parisian orange
lay bang in the middle of the street.
I couldn't have avoided it
this orange of all oranges
lost & stranded
but still as
big & bold & bright
as a new found sun
in an unknown solar system.
It invisible to all
bicycles cars and feet.
A cat gave it
a cursory glance.
The soundtrack of Paris
happening just off stage.
Now everyone had vanished
except me & this orange.
Somehow it found
its way to my head
& unraveled itself
in a concentric spiral
a swirl of orange peel
& white pith
like a Can-Can
dancer's skirt.
I ate it.
Oblivious
to everything else
my first
French
orange.
A Parisian orange
lay bang in the middle of the street.
I couldn't have avoided it
this orange of all oranges
lost & stranded
but still as
big & bold & bright
as a new found sun
in an unknown solar system.
It invisible to all
bicycles cars and feet.
A cat gave it
a cursory glance.
The soundtrack of Paris
happening just off stage.
Now everyone had vanished
except me & this orange.
Somehow it found
its way to my head
& unraveled itself
in a concentric spiral
a swirl of orange peel
& white pith
like a Can-Can
dancer's skirt.
I ate it.
Oblivious
to everything else
my first
French
orange.
Sep 7, 2019
Sep 7, 2019 at 5:04 PM UTC
(20 minute poetry)
Crying air
flying where
the ocean's spray
and the summer days
last a lifetime and that's
measured by
some heavenly hand
on my lifeline.
I breathe in only to drown.
There's a sanctuary somewhere
crying air's not allowed
there.
At thirty seven thousand feet
I looked for and forward to meet
my maker.
More than this the absolute when they shoot you down in flames,
more than names on a cenotaph or cursory lines on a graph,
more in a laugh than a tear
we are all and more.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 12:20 PM UTC
<> for the love of friends<>
How does one write
of one he knew not?
the ancillary evidence
mounts relentlessly,
the double toil and trouble moments
edged now, slow vanquished by
steady accumulation
of the evidentiary
a man who lived his life well,
will be inevitably,
nay, justifiably, deservedly
be well remembered...
one examines the evidence with
eyepiece lenses calibrated
to one's own soul,
for this is the natural condition
of humanity
yet wonder,
what manner, what scale,
does one rightly employ
to judge another's
plantings in the soil?
rightly judge another?
then you hear
a woman say,
she knew not knew
this man Eryc,
revealing an honest tertiary,
even cursory knowledge
of an anecdotal life well lived
our shared quandary,
yet she solves
this judicial issue
by asking of herself
a question
so stunningly elementary,
which both
asks and answers
the double risk
you have imposed,
to write of one you can never behold,
and in doing so,
judge thyself...
What Would Eryc Do?
this crystal rapid current question
erodes doubt, the fear to tread
where one knows not
when a stranger says to another,
indeed to many others:
heard tell of this young man,
and know now to ask myself
when I too am junctured, in doubt,
What Would Eryc Do?
there is no doubt, no juncture,
just a provident question
a makers's mark
of and upon a man,
whose future shortened,
will live far, far longer than most,
if one simple applies
a standard to one's own life of
What Would Eryc Do?
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 10:12 AM UTC
this old poet, one of the first, to see your wave,
when he was playing knick-knack paddy whack on his shoe,
the old poet then played two, and said,
yes, I will follow you
Please
imaging-imaging that old poet with a glanceable cursory,
a small smile whispered, with entourage of a nod and a wink,
stands, knowing he is in the delivery room, a witness,
to first steps of a babe starting a new life
marvelous miracle by touching a button, a new line written,
not crossed but connecting by pressing "Follow"
with a finger from a hand, a human fringe,
attached to a breathing mind and a thinking heart,
the first to follow you, a ceremonial gesture of
innovation magic incantation, a new moon blessing,
a living person believing, remembering, the longest ago,
his first own graceful acknowledgement and eyes speak,
yes, I will follow you
the new poet, astonished at this induction to the smallest
Hall of Fame that they alone own the only key, study that
number, that number 1, the first to follow, kinda looking over
their shoulder to make sure the old poet still there on the morrow,
sure enough there are now two, safe in the back pocket,
a tabulation of humans who speak volumes of trust, saying,
yes, I will follow you
the old poet, imaging-imaging the babe, dancing round
the room, invigorated, challenged and the faucets pouring,
can't write it down as fast as the trains arriving disgorging,
words unique in new combinations and the rush of blood
from heart to head to those newly literary fingers bleeding
happy creatures of creation as if they are Noah
setting sail to save us with verbs and adjectives
two by two all for now species unheard of
the old poet wants to send cautionary notes, the path strewn
with frustrations of no inspiration ditches and inescapable cliches
that sound fresh but just aren't, the disappearing satisfaction,
the inability to get it just perfect, and so many obstacles
to be prophesied,
but he does not, these things must be self taught,
today let it suffice the initiation, the first crowning of
**yes, I will follow you
for this the way of the poet
10/16/17 5:09pm**
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 5:22 PM UTC
The coffee *** just signalled, Ready,
So I pour the cream before the java:
A cup of divergent thinking.
There are roads running
In opposite directions,
Sharing points of similarity:
A tree, a sign, me.
Inside or outside the box of thinking,
Using the lower and upper ladder rungs
To paint the same wall,
Prologues and epilogues to the same story,
Lawyers in clown suits,
Children using,
Kittens chewing slippers,
Dogs in litter boxes,
Earth cooling,
Healing and feeding the masses,
Elected monarchies... NO monarchies,
Sleeping in or getting up,
Cursory letter to family and friends
(Though this is coming to an end),
Making love while wearing gloves,
The moon moves east to west
In the blink of sleep,
Churches giving alms and unlocking doors,
Schools excelling,
Parents attending.
To juxtapose is divergent,
Like sobering up with detergent
(You may be clean, but are you dry?).
If insurgents were divergent,
We'd have more convergence.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
rather than check
the forecast
for some reason
i think it enough
to merely
look to the sky
for a cursory
ten or so seconds
to observe the drifting
of weighty clouds
the overwhelming of
any strokes of blue
that might remain
being diminished
by the shifting greys
of approaching rain
before surmising
whether or not
a coat or umbrella
might be needed
at some point
in the coming hours
Mar 25, 2023
Mar 25, 2023 at 6:46 PM UTC
it was a dry mojave afternoon,
with crows cursing shrilly
the streetlamps bearing broken bulbs
and the striped cat sleeping in the sun.
the wind drew frantic breaths,
exhaling dead leaves over the hill
and sending the blackbirds
spiraling into the sky.
a lizard stirred, somniferous almond eyes
gazing lethargically over his rock
and at the old man on the porch
leaning back- impossibly uncomfortable in his rickety wooden chair.
his name was Jackson.
gnarled gray hair mixed with gnarled gray beard
appropriately framing a pinched, ornery visage
and tattered clothes adorned his whisper of a body.
it was his sixty-fourth year here in the desert-
on the fifty-second he'd lost his wife
on the fifty-eighth he'd gained a kitten
named him Waldrop and let him **** the mice and lizards.
'sixty four years is a long time,'
a thought murmured in the back of his head
eyelids peeling back to give a cursory glance to Waldrop
who was stalking the reptile watching him.
he remembered his twentieth birthday
when Edna had first said she loved him
and he remembered that glorious July morning
where she said she was his forever.
he remembered the pain of labor
down in the factory,
and the camaderie with his fellows
chewing tobacco and cursing the bosses.
he remembered the time spent weeping,
but remembered more the time spent laughing
in places miles and miles away
that now seemed imaginary.
exhaustion echoed through tired bones
and he wondered who would feed the cat,
drooping eyes closing one last time
to await the warmth of sunset.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 5:15 PM UTC
Touch
You cannot lift or load it,
over your shoulder, throw it,
to best assay its weight -
is it ponderous, full of big *** gravitas
or a snack, a parfait desert,
a haiku delight?
You cannot touch it,
but it can touch you,
It can grasp both your shoulders,
shake you from complacency,
put its hands upon thy throat,
gasp emit, a scream demanded,
paint whimsy lines on thy face,
from ear to ear.
See
With yours eyes, by a mere glance,
true reveal its length,
stanzas multiple or an itty bitty ditty,
but this gives no value clue,
Ogden Nash vs. Tennyson,
in two minutes make you laugh,
in twenty, make you beg, mercy!
Smell
Some Poe poems do stink,
befouled mushrooms in
a dank place, some require nerve to read,
but your olfactory be ill suited for
poetic deconstruction and criticism.
Hear
Wake you with kisses upon thy face,
inject love poems into thy ears,
straight to the brain verbal crack *******
yet even the hearing the whisper
of words from my lips,
is an insufficient,
sensorily speaking methodology,
of how a poem, to best comprehend
How then?
If touch, vision, smell and cursory hearing alone
can't essence capture, what then, weary reader,
is the supposed Laureate's approved analytical tool?
Taste
Each letter, a morsel in your mouth,
Each phrase, a fork full of pleasure,
Each stanza, a full fledged member
in a tasting menu,
Perfect only in conjunction
with the preceding flavor,
and the one that follows, and the one that follows.
Taste each poem upon thy tongue and then pass it on,
you know how....
Each word, whether chewed thoroughly,
or lightly placed upon a bud for flavor,
needs the careful consideration of your mouth.
Feel the light pressure of the tongues tip
upon the roof of your mouth
and the exalted exhalations of
air rushing past thy cheeks
as you messenger breath from
your chest to be shared with the world,
over the poem's interpreter, your tasting lips.
*As I lay each word down,
a brick by brick edifice construct
of mine own design, I am sated, fulfilled only,
when with I see your lips move
as you savor my words,
my taste you share,
and we are closer for it.*
***Deaf, dumb and blind,
all such travails can be conquered, assailed,
but when I cannot, no longer anymore taste
my poems upon thy lips, then I breathe no more.***
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
I was sitting on a train with my pad and a pen, trying to write a poem. I had no title, but I had written down the first line
...I was sitting on a train with my pad...
A man sat opposite me.
After a minute or so of scanning his paper and throwing cursory looks in my direction
he enquiried "What are you writing?"
"I'm trying to write a poem about a man trying to write a poem on a train
who gets asked by a stranger 'what are you writing'.
"Can I be in it?", asked the stranger opposite.
"You already are", I replied.
The train pulled out of the station.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 7:18 AM UTC
Would you like your house cleaned Madame?
I promise to do a thorough job
My manhood securely locked in my chastity cage
Oh dear
I do hope I pass the inspection this time!
Last month, my mistress determined
That I had done a cursory job mopping the kitchen floor
And I wasn't allowed an ******** release for a month
My manhood strains inside the cage
I must take great care to make sure
The floors look stunning
I live to please my mistress
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 12:53 PM UTC
i am
considering
buying tickets
to a lecture
on the cosmos
though my thoughts
have often
dwelt
amongst the celestials
in one form
or another
i know little
beyond
what was learnt
at school;
cursory details
when the vastness
of the universe
is considered
there is a desire
to understand
from where we came
of what made us
how we came to be
and
our chances
for a future
there is
a radiance
and pageantry
to the stars;
an expanse
that should incite
inspiration
and wonder
instead
this infinity
is a subject
dominated by
doomsdayers
and
doomsayers
without much
pity left
for
the rest of us
if i do
choose
to attend
i know that
i’ll be lost
to the magnificence
of the dwarfs
and nebulas
understanding
at best
half
of all that
is proffered
to be honest
i’m not sure
its worth
the £50
plus postage
when i think
i can predict
how it will end;
warnings
will be given
and advice
imparted
unfortunately
there is
no guarantee
i will still
be listening
May 5, 2022
May 5, 2022 at 6:04 AM UTC
When did feminism become a taboo?
When did equality become uncool
Men not superior to females
Us not superior to them too.
When did I become the taboo?
When did this become uncool.
So I wish we are all square and blue
true, it'd make dating difficult
but what'd you do,
you'd talk to people
true
*** would be awkward
too angles
too many rights
won't create create the sweetest wrong
but at least we'd break the taboo
No colour
No gender
No looks
apart from the individuals descriptions
Believe: I am female
I am male
without doing a cursory glance up
and down
believe: I am intelligent
I am creative
without checking my pigment or
my ****
because I am done with it
I am tired non-acceptance
Snap decisions
Stubborn judgements
it's nothing personal
No, you made it personal
You stole a personality
Smeared it
Said it was wrong
Said I didn't belong.
So I wish we were square and blue
No stereotypes
No stigmas
No ***
cos maybe we don't deserve it yet.
If all we see are
pigment
genitals
and stereotypes.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 3:20 PM UTC
Though I wear no crown of decadent jewels pressed down around my brow,
It can be said that I am beautiful.
Needing no assistance from a mask of make-up and every hair doing as it pleases,
I am told that I am beautiful.
Without the burden of corsets, push-ups and garters; no cocktail dress draping my shoulders,
I look in the mirror and am satisfied.
I wear blue jeans, t-shirts and tank tops; tennis shoes, flip-flops and high-tops,
And still my legs are long and lean; my shape curvy and full.
And while I walk by, a southern sway in my step, you know you take more than a cursory glance.
I have attitude, and bluntness inherited from my line of honest folk.
I am country. I am bold. I am ruthless.
I am simple in the way that diamonds are simply compressed carbon.
I am beautiful in the way that only a southern girl can be.
I am a huntress with my 243 across my lap in a camo blind.
I am an actress as I smile and say “Bless your heart.”
I am a lover if there ever was one.
I am a fighter when the chips are down.
I am my father’s nightmare and my mother’s dream.
See me with my mut from the pound that’s better trained than your frou-frou, AKC registered pom-poo.
Join me as I sing the hymns my granny sang with the same tone and inflection.
I am educated with my poor country grammar I use only to spite those who think I’m ignorant.
I know more about tracking a blood trail than I do about propriety,
But I’m studied in the art of being couth.
My southern charm is mixed with brazen straight forwardness.
I am proud. I am American. I am beautiful.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 12:50 PM UTC
Your cruel words are cursory
Mean less than null to me
Don’t need a PhD
Learnt more in nursery
Sweet song of ‘helping me’
No more than sophistry
Pick out the forgery
Lies with no artistry
Flowing in, eyeless grin
Sugary medicine
Gaslighting, infighting
Snarl under strobe-lighting
Saccharine blathering
Indolent flattering
Backhanded compliments
Heard without inner sense
I reject totally
Self-slighting sorcery
Callous affrontery
Bankrupting bursary
I have observed more
Preserved more
Have learned more
Deserve more
Have value
Don't argue
Can trust me
I must be
Enough being
just, me
So hear me,
my dear me,
coz now we agree
I am worthy
Nov 3, 2024
Nov 3, 2024 at 5:01 AM UTC
Where go thee traveler, trailing in broken shadows?
Just another poet wandering down a mischievous path of deceit and beguiles.
Who be thee? Another shattered soul sauntering in denial?
Carry a name I do not, but you may call me whatever comes to your thoughts.
Cassandra. Deliverer of delight and heavenly sight, but caustic to those who try to consume her with the allure of night.
Cursory charm, a daring attempt to overtake the apex of my harnessed heart.
My penchant roars with a persistence that never rests!
Audacious lips of mine will eclipse your eyes as deep as an ocean and dark as wine.
Let our shadows combine, our fate intertwine to capture a moment of the divine.
Arrhythmic and blind your love needs redesign!
Otherwise I'll become another infatuation lost in time.
Here I stand austere without effrontery to burden our affair. What is it you'll have me declare?
First follow me into the infinite abyss.
What after I plunge into the nebulous mist?
Our hands we'll share in the company of crescent stares
Sep 22, 2010
Sep 22, 2010 at 12:21 PM UTC
I found comfort with this ring,
Peace as I hear my soul sing;
An eternity of song for you and I,
Every time I feel you nearby.
Nothing compares to how much,
I get electrified by a single touch;
Even when you are not around,
You are in this ring to I am bound.
This ring is my profession of our love,
This ring is my protection from above,
I commit to you again as a year’s past;
Vow to you and God, assured to last.
… with this ring.
There is pleasure when we trust,
Being together in prayer saved us;
So overblessed for you to be mine,
A rib only God set out for me to find.
The favor of God covers us both,
Through journeys of marital growth;
We are rejoice today without cursory,
Because God gave us an anniversary.
This ring is my profession of our love,
This ring is my protection from above,
I commit to you again as a year’s past;
Vow to you and God, assured to last.
… with this ring.
Happy Anniversary,
Baby.
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 7:18 AM UTC
“Yes, master.”
A shrill groan slithers
Across the gray stones
Of the tower, spiraling upward
Until it is trapped in loftier cobwebs.
“The lever is down, master,”
And the darkness is whipped by electricity.
I beat out these lines with a bare
Foot, tapping to every syllable,
As the madman donning
Green-tinted goggles and
A tumbleweed of hair curls
Closer and closer to the cluttered lab table.
“Need more light, master?
I’ll hold the lantern,”
And the light begins to praise his smooth hands,
Sloping precisely to pink fingernails
As the needle dips into his
Experiment like an eel
Flowing beneath the sea’s wake.
“Are you close, master?”
Illuminated are the gashes that mar
The ridges in my knuckles,
The calluses etched into my fingertips,
The wiry hairs that strangle
My throbbing, grey veins.
A life of delicate accomplishment,
Filled with a strictly inward turmoil;
It has never been mine to choose.
“It isn’t fair, master...”
And his lips purse in the effort
Of affording me a cursory glance.
“...That your genius go
So unrecognized,
Sir.”
Grunting satisfactorily,
He grins only toward his beloved creation
While I continue pondering
How a pencil might feel against
The paper if I knew how
To make the words.
“I want to write, master.”
“Poetry?” he mumbles to the scalpel,
and I nod my head vigorously as
His rumbling laughter becomes
Smoke that snakes leisurely toward
The skylight.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 3:23 PM UTC
to say that i am fed up now
would be a gross distortion.
blithe ignorance, i can't allow
to grow in same proportion
as thoughts that now let peons hold
onto bold misconceptions
that they alone do know this world
through cliche-formed perceptions.
take heed, blind fool, raise up thy head
and know the truth unknowing.
in lieu of fables, you'll instead
give seed to thoughts through sowing.
saddle up, then. take this ride
into the fields of fortune
where wealth is found to be inside
one's own mind's doled self portion.
if you shall find that you've not found
conceptions worth protecting
the cursory heart to own you're bound
since base you keep rejecting.
i'd liken you to one that's blind
t'were that not false relating.
at least the sightless seem to find
true art through innovating.
this path you've wound has been well formed
by all who've passed before you
the world beyond appears malformed
try harder now, eschew
all prior trends that formed this square
high time you shall contend.
ambivalence should you beware
now know, and don't pretend.
Feb 24, 2011
Feb 24, 2011 at 7:18 AM UTC
Just, how cold?
Odd, the thought of passion
Should a sky have one to hold
Forever is now to fold, a prayer lasting...
Life in a walls shadow
Circumstance, with a youth's vow
Seek, and you shall find, all and know
A heart with happiness, only before how...
The sound of love...
Harried by a salt, a cursory share
Of decency, a proud covenant
With moments to quietly care...
Curious prayer's indeed
Means with a psyche, rounder eyes
Have the sense to see it, heed
A role in heaven, where one more life...
Is our's forever, fate in the first place
Sweet about, and a whole day to dream
Came as we went, from here to infinite praise
The truth of a world, taken to seem...
May 19, 2023
May 19, 2023 at 11:02 PM UTC
Wasp addendum
More than out of and
Quote the finality, well to avoid...
A sting that churched a brassy man
Wasp substantial
Adding the heed, of couth and comparison
Does a reach for time, understand arousal?
Quiet time searching for youth, that knows the question...
Wasp divine
Kiss and kindred, the tools of solemn tone?
Enchastened with a host, too cursory to be orders vision
We hear the spoil of the wind, become a new loan
Wasp merciful
Craving a thought, to tell a tale kept
By the unity we foresaw, a heard bliss still...
Was a chance meeting with a yearning fate, bereft?
Wasp earthen
Where souls intertwine, the taste of home
Is a careful wish, foreseen in the earning?
Or should might, take the time to intend guidance as done?
Wasp witnesses
The tow of commonness, in the voice of salutations
Memory served, the break of justice in a winds shade
Here to fore, timidity is a challenge, for a truer intuition...
May 9, 2023
May 9, 2023 at 9:29 PM UTC