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"dell" poems
‘To bed! To bed!’ Said Sleepy-head; ‘Tarry awhile,’ said Slow; ‘Put on the pan,’ Said Greedy Nan; ‘We'll sup before we go.’ (from Mother Goose) They sat at the kitchen table as The candle flickered low, And Greedy Nan put on the pan To indulge her sister, Slow, While Sleepy Weepy Annabelle Blotted her book with tears, And thought of her Beau from long ago Who she hadn’t seen for years. ‘Why doesn’t Roger notice me, Why doesn’t Alan Dell? I’m wearing the dress cut low for me And I’ve hitched my skirt as well. I’ve a pretty turn to my ankle, so You’d think it would drive them wild.’ ‘But men are a mystery,’ said Slow, ‘And Alan Dell’s a child.’ While over the pan stood Greedy Nan, Was cracking a turkey’s egg, A lump of yeast and a slice of beast And a single spider’s leg. With a wing of bat and an ounce of fat And a toe of frog for the spell, She needed to turn her sister off From her crush on Alan Dell. For Greedy Nan was the eldest girl And would have to marry first, The other two would wait in the queue Or their fortunes be reversed, The omelette sizzled, and in the pan She added before they saw, A piece of some Devil’s Trumpet plant For the mating game meant war. She sliced the omelette into half And she served them up a piece, ‘Didn’t you want?’ said Annabelle But Slow enjoyed the feast. ‘I’m not that terribly hungry now I’ve cooked it up in the pan, I think I’ll just have a slice of bread,’ Said the scheming Greedy Nan. They finished up and they sat awhile, And they mused about their fate, ‘If Greedy Nan isn’t married soon, For us it will be too late.’ ‘I’ve set my sights on a country squire,’ Said Nan, without a blink, Lured them away from her secret fire To confuse what they might think. ‘The room is woozy, spinning around, I’d better get me to bed,’ Said Annabelle, while Slow with a frown Saw Dwarves dancing in her head. But Greedy Nan was cleaning the pan To clear all signs of the spell, Her back was turned to her sisters, spurned For the sake of Alan Dell. And when he came in the morning Greedy Nan was sat by the door, While Annabelle and her sister Slow Were lying dead on the floor, ‘I didn’t mean it to **** them, Al, It was only a simple spell,’ But as he cuffed and led her away He frowned, did Alan Dell. David Lewis Paget
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Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 8:01 PM UTC
To Bed! To Bed!
‘To bed! To bed!’ Said Sleepy-head; ‘Tarry awhile,’ said Slow; ‘Put on the pan,’ Said Greedy Nan; ‘We'll sup before we go.’ (from Mother Goose) They sat at the kitchen table as The candle flickered low, And Greedy Nan put on the pan To indulge her sister, Slow, While Sleepy Weepy Annabelle Blotted her book with tears, And thought of her Beau from long ago Who she hadn’t seen for years. ‘Why doesn’t Roger notice me, Why doesn’t Alan Dell? I’m wearing the dress cut low for me And I’ve hitched my skirt as well. I’ve a pretty turn to my ankle, so You’d think it would drive them wild.’ ‘But men are a mystery,’ said Slow, ‘And Alan Dell’s a child.’ While over the pan stood Greedy Nan, Was cracking a turkey’s egg, A lump of yeast and a slice of beast And a single spider’s leg. With a wing of bat and an ounce of fat And a toe of frog for the spell, She needed to turn her sister off From her crush on Alan Dell. For Greedy Nan was the eldest girl And would have to marry first, The other two would wait in the queue Or their fortunes be reversed, The omelette sizzled, and in the pan She added before they saw, A piece of some Devil’s Trumpet plant For the mating game meant war. She sliced the omelette into half And she served them up a piece, ‘Didn’t you want?’ said Annabelle But Slow enjoyed the feast. ‘I’m not that terribly hungry now I’ve cooked it up in the pan, I think I’ll just have a slice of bread,’ Said the scheming Greedy Nan. They finished up and they sat awhile, And they mused about their fate, ‘If Greedy Nan isn’t married soon, For us it will be too late.’ ‘I’ve set my sights on a country squire,’ Said Nan, without a blink, Lured them away from her secret fire To confuse what they might think. ‘The room is woozy, spinning around, I’d better get me to bed,’ Said Annabelle, while Slow with a frown Saw Dwarves dancing in her head. But Greedy Nan was cleaning the pan To clear all signs of the spell, Her back was turned to her sisters, spurned For the sake of Alan Dell. And when he came in the morning Greedy Nan was sat by the door, While Annabelle and her sister Slow Were lying dead on the floor, ‘I didn’t mean it to **** them, Al, It was only a simple spell,’ But as he cuffed and led her away He frowned, did Alan Dell. David Lewis Paget
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72
Lo spiraglio dell'alba respira con la tua bocca in fondo alle vie vuote. Luce grigia i tuoi occhi, dolci gocce dell'alba sulle colline scure. Il tuo passo e il tuo fiato come il vento dell'alba sommergono le case. La città abbrividisce, odorano le pietre sei la vita, il risveglio. Stella sperduta nella luce dell'alba, cigolio della brezza, tepore, respiro è finita la notte. Sei la luce e il mattino.
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In the Morning you Always come Back
I'm so tired of scammers! There are so many around! For every situation, A scammer is to be found. There's the email message From a "friend" stuck overseas Whose money has been stolen-- Who needs your help, please. Have you received the phone call Saying that you're in big trouble With the I.R.S. and insisting That you must pay on the double? Computer hackers will take Your PC hostage and say That you'll lose ALL your computer Data unless you pay. What about being a winner Of a contest? All you must do Is forward them some money And they'll send the "winnings" to you. If you by chance get a call From "Microsoft" or "Dell" Saying your account's in danger, Tell them to go to hell. Scamming probably reaches Far back into history. The demise of the Neanderthals Might not have been a mystery. Did early **** sapiens With carefully planned persistence Scam neanderthalensis Out of its earthly existence? If scammers had put their know-how In a positive direction, We could say, "Three cheers For natural selection!" But, no, we're stuck with scammers-- A problem that clearly shows That if we want to survive, We've got to be on our toes! - by Bob B
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Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 8:16 AM UTC
Scammers
392 Through the Dark Sod—as Education— The Lily passes sure— Feels her white foot—no trepidation— Her faith—no fear— Afterward—in the Meadow— Swinging her Beryl Bell— The Mold-life—all forgotten—now— In Ecstasy—and Dell—
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Through the Dark Sod—as Education
Deep within a leafy dell There lived a hairy fairy Who very often cast a spell That was frightening and scary. The only friend the fairy had Was an old green warty toad, He never thought the fairy bad, Just lonely and old. So he’d sit with her and croak And watch her practice magic. She very rarely often spoke, This to him was tragic. The fairy dress; the fairy wore Had seen better days. It was ***** tattered, creased and tore The hem hung loose in frays. Her head seemed always in a cloud, He never saw her smile, Her wand no longer taut and proud But still she was not vile. Somewhere inside he saw her love; He longed to be her mate, So he prayed to God above And asked her for a date. She thought he saw her as a joke. He was playing with her heart. Up she went, in a puff of smoke, That gave the toad a start. Never having seen this done before He had a mixed-up feeling. His warts and looks she must abhor And she found him unappealing. For days he waited there for her Because he was alarmed; A toad and fairy love was rare He thought she might be charmed. If she would only hear him out, That he may just explain. Then she, he felt, could have no doubt His love just would not wane. But if his looks she hated so, Then this he’d have to take. He’d just hop-off; away he’d go, Take bravely his mistake. He realised, ‘how sad it is, I never asked her name.’ With one loud bang and mighty **** Back to his side she came. “It occurred to me, you might be kind, My name is Nuff,” the fairy cried, “And I can read your mind.” “Fairy Nuff,” the toad replied. Then she kissed him on his cheek A shock that made him wince. Before he had a chance to speak He was a fairy Prince. She was beautiful and young, Like his clothes, hers were new. A love that’s ‘Magic’ is not wrong Especially for these two.
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Dec 7, 2009
Dec 7, 2009 at 11:13 AM UTC
FAIRY NUFF
Deep within a leafy dell There lived a hairy fairy Who very often cast a spell That was frightening and scary. The only friend the fairy had Was an old green warty toad, He never thought the fairy bad, Just lonely and old. So he’d sit with her and croak And watch her practice magic. She very rarely often spoke, This to him was tragic. The fairy dress; the fairy wore Had seen better days. It was ***** tattered, creased and tore The hem hung loose in frays. Her head seemed always in a cloud, He never saw her smile, Her wand no longer taut and proud But still she was not vile. Somewhere inside he saw her love; He longed to be her mate, So he prayed to God above And asked her for a date. She thought he saw her as a joke. He was playing with her heart. Up she went, in a puff of smoke, That gave the toad a start. Never having seen this done before He had a mixed-up feeling. His warts and looks she must abhor And she found him unappealing. For days he waited there for her Because he was alarmed; A toad and fairy love was rare He thought she might be charmed. If she would only hear him out, That he may just explain. Then she, he felt, could have no doubt His love just would not wane. But if his looks she hated so, Then this he’d have to take. He’d just hop-off; away he’d go, Take bravely his mistake. He realised, ‘how sad it is, I never asked her name.’ With one loud bang and mighty **** Back to his side she came. “It occurred to me, you might be kind, My name is Nuff,” the fairy cried, “And I can read your mind.” “Fairy Nuff,” the toad replied. Then she kissed him on his cheek A shock that made him wince. Before he had a chance to speak He was a fairy Prince. She was beautiful and young, Like his clothes, hers were new. A love that’s ‘Magic’ is not wrong Especially for these two.
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They are flocking from the East And the West, They are flocking from the North And the South, Every moment setting forth From realm of snake or lion, Swamp or sand, Ice or burning; Greatest and least, Palm in hand And praise in mouth, They are flocking up the path To their rest, Up the path that hath No returning. Up the steeps of Zion They are mounting, Coming, coming, Throngs beyond man's counting; With a sound Like innumerable bees Swarming, humming Where flowering trees Many-tinted, Many-scented, All alike abound With honey,-- With a swell Like a blast upswaying unrestrainable From a shadowed dell To the hill-tops sunny,-- With a thunder Like the ocean when in strength Breadth and length It sets to shore; More and more Waves on waves redoubled pour Leaping flashing to the shore (Unlike the under Drain of ebb that loseth ground For all its roar.) They are thronging From the East and West, From the North and South, Saints are thronging, loving, longing, To their land Of rest, Palm in hand And praise in mouth.
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All Saints
Dorme la corriera dorme la farfalla dormono le mucche nella stalla il cane nel canile il ***** nel bimbile il fuco nel fucile e nella notte nera dorme la pula dentro la pantera dormono i rappresentanti nei motel dell'Esso dormono negli Hilton i cantanti di successo dorme il barbone dorme il vagone dorme il contino nel baldacchino dorme a Betlemme Gesù bambino un po' di paglia come cuscino dorme Pilato tutto agitato dorme il bufalo nella savana e dorme il verme nella banana dorme il rondone nel campanile russa la seppia sul'arenile dorme il maiale all'Hotel Nazionale e sull'amaca sta la lumaca addormentata dorme la mamma dorme il figlio dorme la lepre dorme il coniglio e sotto i camion nelle autostazioni dormono stretti i copertoni dormono i monti dormono i mari dorme quel porco di Scandellari che m'ha rubato la mia Liù per cui io solo porcamadonna non dormo più.
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Dormi, Liù
~for Maya, the Persian Canadian farmer in the dell~ your poetic riddling questions without hesitation re my claim conceptual refuting with factoids actuarial experiential derived, that cows need milkshake making daily by sunrise nonsense so you wake me up groggy on a Miami Saturday 6:00am with a reciprocal poetic to a dashed off to contra my code of conduct poem-mine; and all that stumbles through my almost reset rested, main stem cortex is an a ancient hebrew homily: on Sabbath Saturday, even the cows sleep late ok; just tween us rare passes the day that a glancing phrase doesn’t register a stabbing whine “of me, of mine do sing” and your point counterpoint incision demands inspiration instant re-mission around 10am when the amiable barn aminals sipping cuppa #3, and the chicken children want a weekend brunch xtra feeding are done, in the yard, put out to pack n' peck n’ play so that’s an intro to this work that jumps the line of a hundreds of other’s poems promised and overdue: insight inside your crafted wake up slam slap was pretty **** near the makers mark bourbon of this distillers bourbon barrels bulbous poem’s bibliothèque that has an  impatient waiting list of poems waiting anointing each a personage~poem of that day it was birthed inscribed this particular one for you, ~ my complexity non-Napoleonic just humanoid each, here are my leaders from and into a veining so lovely colored each poem a waving wheat stalk before these old tired eyes close to closing hear once more “of me, of mine do sing” so I follow all of you by dimming yellow light, for this is the soil of nutriment rich from where my words grow taller and the yellow infusion feeds my wheats, the amber, the red hard and soft, the whites, the durums, and mon préféré, prairie spring white, which is my secret nickname for a duality woman, poet and farmer, posing riddles that deserve answers* maybe —- https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2503650/little-ole-me-a-riddle-of-sorts/
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May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 11:17 AM UTC
on Saturday, even the cows sleep late
~for Maya, the Persian Canadian farmer in the dell~ your poetic riddling questions without hesitation re my claim conceptual refuting with factoids actuarial experiential derived, that cows need milkshake making daily by sunrise nonsense so you wake me up groggy on a Miami Saturday 6:00am with a reciprocal poetic to a dashed off to contra my code of conduct poem-mine; and all that stumbles through my almost reset rested, main stem cortex is an a ancient hebrew homily: on Sabbath Saturday, even the cows sleep late ok; just tween us rare passes the day that a glancing phrase doesn’t register a stabbing whine “of me, of mine do sing” and your point counterpoint incision demands inspiration instant re-mission around 10am when the amiable barn aminals sipping cuppa #3, and the chicken children want a weekend brunch xtra feeding are done, in the yard, put out to pack n' peck n’ play so that’s an intro to this work that jumps the line of a hundreds of other’s poems promised and overdue: insight inside your crafted wake up slam slap was pretty **** near the makers mark bourbon of this distillers bourbon barrels bulbous poem’s bibliothèque that has an  impatient waiting list of poems waiting anointing each a personage~poem of that day it was birthed inscribed this particular one for you, ~ my complexity non-Napoleonic just humanoid each, here are my leaders from and into a veining so lovely colored each poem a waving wheat stalk before these old tired eyes close to closing hear once more “of me, of mine do sing” so I follow all of you by dimming yellow light, for this is the soil of nutriment rich from where my words grow taller and the yellow infusion feeds my wheats, the amber, the red hard and soft, the whites, the durums, and mon préféré, prairie spring white, which is my secret nickname for a duality woman, poet and farmer, posing riddles that deserve answers* maybe —- https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2503650/little-ole-me-a-riddle-of-sorts/
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You are ember with less orange You are tree bark true and brook trout at play You are earthy as the hollow dell in the Catskills still Turning as the waterways You are ever moving, always slight Looking back over those delicate shoulders of yours To the footprints of me And in the time spent therein not a day’s older I don’t know her name But I know what I see
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Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 6:55 PM UTC
She Is Ember
The moonlight fades from flower and rose And the stars dim one by one; The tale is told, the song is sung, And the Fairy feast is done. The night-wind rocks the sleeping flowers, And sings to them, soft and low. The early birds erelong will wake: 'T is time for the Elves to go. O'er the sleeping earth we silently pass, Unseen by mortal eye, And send sweet dreams, as we lightly float Through the quiet moonlit sky;-- For the stars' soft eyes alone may see, And the flowers alone may know, The feasts we hold, the tales we tell; So't is time for the Elves to go. From bird, and blossom, and bee, We learn the lessons they teach; And seek, by kindly deeds, to win A loving friend in each. And though unseen on earth we dwell, Sweet voices whisper low, And gentle hearts most joyously greet The Elves where'er they go. When next we meet in the Fairy dell, May the silver moon's soft light Shine then on faces gay as now, And Elfin hearts as light. Now spread each wing, for the eastern sky With sunlight soon shall glow. The morning star shall light us home: Farewell! for the Elves must go.
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Fairy Song
*The Love Birds He Oh where do you nest in what branch above Whisper to me my angel, tell me my love. Oh tell where you build your nest To lay in sweet and gentle rest She In the meadow a lonely pine Is where I mourn until you are mine Mornings see my lonesome tears Nighttime breezes my sobbing hears He My lonely heart soars in skies of blue So long I searched and cried for you Each day I looked in Lee and dell Each night to the moon my sorrows tell She I know you really long for me And all my love you can see Loneliness ends as our love starts We fly as lovers with one heart He Together on wings of love we fly Until we touch the heavens in the sky Come make your tender home with me Forever as one we will always be*
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Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
The Lovebirds
Oh, I have never looked so good running in armor thru the woods Adept with blade or mace And I know a little magic which for foes is rather tragic (it’s a perk for my race) Be it mountain peak or ocean swell thru rocky hill and grassy dell nothing slows my pace Many Quests I need to finish there’s Evil I must diminish (And weapons to replace) Every belonging I have owned I have bartered, won or stole Hording gold just in case I’m constantly slashed, bashed and burned by dragons, wildlife and Curs with no fear on my face Though I have skills that get me by There are occasions that I’ve died Thank god for the last “save” I will keep right on playing leveling buy quests and slaying in my CGI escape January 2012
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Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 3:18 AM UTC
Inspired by MMORPG - In particular "Skyrim"
Once it smiled a silent dell Where the people did not dwell; They had gone unto the wars, Trusting to the mild-eyed stars, Nightly, from their azure towers, To keep watch above the flowers, In the midst of which all day The red sun-light lazily lay, Now each visitor shall confess The sad valley’s restlessness. Nothing there is motionless— Nothing save the airs that brood Over the magic solitude. Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees That palpitate like the chill seas Around the misty Hebrides! Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven That rustle through the unquiet Heaven Unceasingly, from morn till even, Over the violets there that lie In myriad types of the human eye— Over the lilies that wave And weep above a nameless grave! They wave:—from out their fragrant tops Eternal dews come down in drops. They weep:—from off their delicate stems Perennial tears descend in gems.
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The Valley Of Unrest
O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap Of murky buildings: climb with me the steep,— Nature's observatory—whence the dell, In flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell, May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep 'Mongst boughs pavilioned, where the deer's swift leap Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell. But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee, Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind, Whose words are images of thoughts refined, Is my soul's pleasure; and it sure must be Almost the highest bliss of human-kind, When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.
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O Solitude! If I Must With Thee Dwell
Every valley drinks, Every dell and hollow: Where the kind rain sinks and sinks, Green of Spring will follow. Yet a lapse of weeks Buds will burst their edges, Strip their wool-coats, glue-coats, streaks, In the woods and hedges; Weave a bower of love For birds to meet each other, Weave a canopy above Nest and egg and mother. But for fattening rain We should have no flowers, Never a bud or leaf again But for soaking showers; Never a mated bird In the rocking tree-tops, Never indeed a flock or herd To graze upon the lea-crops. Lambs so woolly white, Sheep the sun-bright leas on, They could have no grass to bite But for rain in season. We should find no moss In the shadiest places, Find no waving meadow-grass Pied with broad-eyed daisies; But miles of barren sand, With never a son or daughter, Not a lily on the land, Or lily on the water.
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Winter Rain
The bleating of the newborn lambs As they prance about the fields Yellow of the rapeseed Prepare for summers yield Birds twitter on every bough While making up their nests Tapping of the woodpecker Pointed beak and coloured crest Gone the snowdrops and daffodils Now bluebells carpet the floor Wild garlic with its pungent smell You may dislike or adore Seasons change so quickly As time passes on its way No beauty can compare To nature day by day
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Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 11:25 AM UTC
Dingley dell
L'anguilla, la sirena dei mari freddi che lascia il Baltico per giungere ai nostri mari, ai nostri estuari, ai fiumi che risale in profondo, sotto la piena avversa, di ramo in ramo e poi di capello in capello, assottigliati, sempre piú addentro, sempre piú nel cuore del macigno, filtrando tra gorielli di melma finché un giorno una luce scoccata dai castagni ne accende il guizzo in pozze d'acquamorta, nei fossi che declinano dai balzi d'Appennino alla Romagna; l'anguilla, torcia, frusta, freccia d'Amore in terra che solo i nostri botri o i disseccati ruscelli pirenaici riconducono a paradisi di fecondazione; l'anima verde che cerca vita là dove solo morde l'arsura e la desolazione, la scintilla che dice tutto comincia quando tutto pare incarbonirsi, bronco seppellito: l'iride breve, gemella di quella che incastonano i tuoi cigli e fai brillare intatta in mezzo ai figli dell'uomo, immersi nel tuo fango, puoi tu non crederla sorella?
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L'anguilla
ravens squawked on that half moon night the people in the village were filled with fright a scary portent lingered upon the forest dell the black sorcerer was mixing a horrid spell winds whirled in an agitated manifest evil twas the potion prophetic its guest horror sprung from the cauldron's brew atop the hills smokey fires did spew eerie groans emanated inside the sorcerer's chest the incarnate devil dwelt in his breast he opened his mouth to consume a gnarly toad as the fleeing villagers ran along the forest road
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Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC
Eerie
(Scene by the brook)                                 He came seeking solace to Heiligenstadt     and walked alone by its crystal stream         welcomed by songs the nightingale taught. Its cheerful waters made Vienna seem     a distant, cool and forbidding stage         where few would embrace a pastoral dream. He dotted his sketchbooks on every page     with earthen tones born of peasant heart -         (though fare rich enough for any age) .                 He poured from the stream the fiddle part,     and woodwinds sang with the birds in the dell -         all "choired" together by his masterful art. At Heiligenstadt Beethoven attended well     and bequeathed us his golden 'Pastorale.' July, 2006
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Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 10:53 PM UTC
Beethoven's Walk (Terza rima)
Thistledown in prison sings: Bright shines the summer sun, Soft is the summer air; Gayly the wood-birds sing, Flowers are blooming fair. But, deep in the dark, cold rock, Sadly I dwell, Longing for thee, dear friend, Lily-Bell! Lily-Bell! Lily-Bell replies: Through sunlight and summer air I have sought for thee long, Guided by birds and flowers, And now by thy song. Thistledown! Thistledown! O'er hill and dell Hither to comfort thee Comes Lily-Bell.
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Lily-Bell and Thistledown Song II
I feel so tired I can barely breathe My chest is concave Like the narrow dell Soaking up the rain And pulling in the leaves And though I’m not hollow I am not whole And though I’m weary It is not my soul Which cries aloud Unto the the trees Except for your sound The sound that is Of when you sing And walk beneath This canvas of leaves Free as your feet But the soles of my shoes And the lids of my eyes Are now heavy As my head it lulls And wants to roll Back to the ground So my pillow now Is underneath The hooded wood And as the world Slowly closes round It’s you I see Within the leaves Beneath the trees
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Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 9:42 PM UTC
Within The Leaves, Beneath The Trees
A Tribute A king takes supper on a creaking deathbed. Featureless, winged creatures zoom by the dark condensed windows. Micro parasites build adobe headquarters in his soft tissue. Reaching for a plate, he groans the terabyting howl that’s prescribed with chemotherapy. Qwerty and light from the drugs, he stares at the apple on his tray. Lost in its curves, he finds himself trapped in a safari of memories. A dream devolves upon his downtrodden mind…. The canopy is populated with twittering, angry birds. Pools of social blood attract flies to the googolplex degree. He stumbles through the dell, suspicious forest while a tremulous, fiery fox stalks behind his echoing footfalls. Pixar apes swing from trees chased by grisly, disney men with guns and trucks. A large eye tunes the darkness and blinks red upon an aging mountain lion in shadow’s brush. The sony rays belight foliage in auspicious, plaid-orange hues. This amazon of experience plugs the wanderer into a hard drive of intelligence – a gateway to an encyclopedia of wikis and browsers, expanse enough for any backdrop rooftop audience to be faux-enthralled and eager. There are grumblings in the distance of another engine tromping the scope in search of something new and useless. A rumorous bat upsets the plagiarizing tide of the Atlantic Pea Sea. A snake slinks out of the blossoms clinging to the vines among a macintosh tree and bites the salty flier of the washboard night; cyber venom invades his veins. The average, homeless, bounding, warrior awakens to find a cold supper on his lap and another syringe in his arm. His remaining gums support his teeth as they bite into the apple. He swallows, sighs, and rests his balding, crescent, once-handsome head on the white pillow. The green fruit tumbles gently out of bed and mutely rolls to the floor. With that, Steve Jobs is dead.
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Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 12:03 AM UTC
A Tribute
A Tribute A king takes supper on a creaking deathbed. Featureless, winged creatures zoom by the dark condensed windows. Micro parasites build adobe headquarters in his soft tissue. Reaching for a plate, he groans the terabyting howl that’s prescribed with chemotherapy. Qwerty and light from the drugs, he stares at the apple on his tray. Lost in its curves, he finds himself trapped in a safari of memories. A dream devolves upon his downtrodden mind…. The canopy is populated with twittering, angry birds. Pools of social blood attract flies to the googolplex degree. He stumbles through the dell, suspicious forest while a tremulous, fiery fox stalks behind his echoing footfalls. Pixar apes swing from trees chased by grisly, disney men with guns and trucks. A large eye tunes the darkness and blinks red upon an aging mountain lion in shadow’s brush. The sony rays belight foliage in auspicious, plaid-orange hues. This amazon of experience plugs the wanderer into a hard drive of intelligence – a gateway to an encyclopedia of wikis and browsers, expanse enough for any backdrop rooftop audience to be faux-enthralled and eager. There are grumblings in the distance of another engine tromping the scope in search of something new and useless. A rumorous bat upsets the plagiarizing tide of the Atlantic Pea Sea. A snake slinks out of the blossoms clinging to the vines among a macintosh tree and bites the salty flier of the washboard night; cyber venom invades his veins. The average, homeless, bounding, warrior awakens to find a cold supper on his lap and another syringe in his arm. His remaining gums support his teeth as they bite into the apple. He swallows, sighs, and rests his balding, crescent, once-handsome head on the white pillow. The green fruit tumbles gently out of bed and mutely rolls to the floor. With that, Steve Jobs is dead.
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Dewey Dell Bundren Had her baby And ran off to college Worked single-mother hours To keep her ****** apartment And never missed a class She married the first theology professor she could find The kind With the horn rimmed glasses Drinking imported scotch Discussing literature around the fire at night She got a degree At Northeastern High honors in history She never knew all those books were about her And the people she came from The places Had their stories told In the pages Shaped everything she had ever known She was grateful For her history And once a year made the trip Back to Jefferson Mississippi Put flowers on her mother's grave Still tasting the bananas Hearing herself saying "Hadn't you ruther" Still hearing Jewel Cursing softly ******* you, ******* you" "You sweet sonofabitch" Still seeing the mules Swollen Floating Bellies up Past Cash and the coffin Leg broken In that biblical spring flood
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Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 1:00 PM UTC
Historical Fiction
"hello kate ," Jack delleto says and sits down. "my name isn't kate. it's Kathleen.'" hello Dell. "sue thinks Dell is such a **** name. " what should I call you?" "how about darling?' she looks up from the whiskey glass "hello, Jack, DARLIN." her soft deep voice whispers. Kathleen crosses her legs and the black dress rides up to the middle of her thigh. Jack glances at the milky white flesh. she is drunk and Dell does not care. he leans forward, ''do you wanna dance ? "but no one else is dancing." "Well, we could go to the beach and take a walk on the sand. "It's twenty degrees outside." she swallows the last of the whiskey. "we'll freeze." "i' ll keep you warm." "all right let's  dance." "jack stands up and takes her by the hand. she rises and jack holds her close to him. jack feels her heart thumbing. she rests her head on his shoulder. "what matters most to you?" "not giving up." "what's important to you?" he asks. Kate lifts her head off his shoulder and looks into his eyes. "I don't want to be on welfare, and I want to be able to send my son to college." she rests her cheek against his. "I lived in foster care homes all my life and I always knew one day I'd have to leave. do you know the difference between a house and a home?" Her voice is a roaring whisper in his ear. "love." the song comes to an end. kate takes a cigarette from the pack. jack strikes a match and the light flickers in her eyes. "maybe someday you'll have a home." "do you want me to?" she leans forward and puts the cigarette to the flame.      "Yes." Kate blows out the match.
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May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 2:25 PM UTC
circles of night and light
"hello kate ," Jack delleto says and sits down. "my name isn't kate. it's Kathleen.'" hello Dell. "sue thinks Dell is such a **** name. " what should I call you?" "how about darling?' she looks up from the whiskey glass "hello, Jack, DARLIN." her soft deep voice whispers. Kathleen crosses her legs and the black dress rides up to the middle of her thigh. Jack glances at the milky white flesh. she is drunk and Dell does not care. he leans forward, ''do you wanna dance ? "but no one else is dancing." "Well, we could go to the beach and take a walk on the sand. "It's twenty degrees outside." she swallows the last of the whiskey. "we'll freeze." "i' ll keep you warm." "all right let's  dance." "jack stands up and takes her by the hand. she rises and jack holds her close to him. jack feels her heart thumbing. she rests her head on his shoulder. "what matters most to you?" "not giving up." "what's important to you?" he asks. Kate lifts her head off his shoulder and looks into his eyes. "I don't want to be on welfare, and I want to be able to send my son to college." she rests her cheek against his. "I lived in foster care homes all my life and I always knew one day I'd have to leave. do you know the difference between a house and a home?" Her voice is a roaring whisper in his ear. "love." the song comes to an end. kate takes a cigarette from the pack. jack strikes a match and the light flickers in her eyes. "maybe someday you'll have a home." "do you want me to?" she leans forward and puts the cigarette to the flame.      "Yes." Kate blows out the match.
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'Bright shines the summer sun, Soft is the summer air; Gayly the wood-birds sing, Flowers are blooming fair. 'But, deep in the dark, cold rock, Sadly I dwell, Longing for thee, dear friend, Lily-Bell! Lily-Bell!' 'Through sunlight and summer air I have sought for thee long, Guided by birds and flowers, And now by thy song. 'Thistledown! Thistledown! O'er hill and dell Hither to comfort thee Comes Lily-Bell.'
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Lily-Bell