"demurely" poems
and what were roses. Perfume?for i do
forget…or mere Music mounting unsurely
twilight
but here were something more maturely
childish,more beautiful almost than you.
Yet if not flower,tell me softly who
be these haunters of dreams always demurely
halfsmiling from cool faces,moving purely
with muted steps,yet somewhat proudly too—
are they not ladies,ladies of my dreams
justly touching roses their fingers whitely
live by?
or better,
queens,queens laughing lightly
crowned with far colors,
thinking very much
of nothing and whom dawn loves most to touch
wishing by willows,bending upon streams?
9.7k
...a diary of the falling dominoes chapter
invisibly dying from the inside out
no one is looking into unseen eyes
no one can hear a muted voice fading
no one is close enough to be near
the deafening thrums echo
anxieties’ racing heartbeat
within morphing flesh shell ,
gasping for new breath
in a hovering stale silence
from a distance
the broken mirror ricochets a subdued light ;
much closer the reflection reveals
someone I once knew by heart
now an unrecognizable mask
enshrouds a terminal emptiness
inconspicuous at a fleeting glance ,
impossible to discern what storms rage
from the inside out ,... unnoticed
an uncontained wildfire
smoldering within, lies in wait
for the imminent winds of change
to fan the flames into the final
eternal silent ashes
a poet reaches out demurely
offering a candid look
into the window
of the imperfect human soul
there is no poetry
met by indifference
just gathered unread words scribbled,
squandered time
dripped slowly on an empty page ;
moments turn into days
days turned into years
invisibly dying from the inside out
an unfinished life trickles out
like seeping blood evanescing
from a bottomless puncture
wounding ... penetrating the heart,
leaching out the slow death of a poet
for poetry is only words unless they touch someone ...
befallen to indifference is poetic death
by salted paper cuts ...
a muting suffocation
that hiddenly erodes away,
silencing the passion
of a musing soul
one unread word at a time ...
© harlon rivers ... all rights reserved
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 12:16 PM UTC
Cockcrow harbour:
the gulls whining like tethered dogs
about rooftops
paliophobic cars and
grounded vessels..
Look:
on the hoary horizon
a glaucous strip
beguils
with backwater.
Not putting on a show
the frigid sea benumbed..
Easily,
with a tail of emerald jelly
skim a vanishing lane off that
lustrous sheet
and watch
the trailblazing mainland
scuttle.
Now,
Only scattered dreaming is possible.
In it's bachelor pad,
cradling over crinkles,
away from the meretriciosness
of validating the real by sharing it,
THE WIND
blusters off any veneer.
Here,
stale but spry,
fare your way around the inoffensive isle
to it's most shyest of harbours:
a mouth full of silver
saving it's breath.
The windows facing the sea
seem
black & white,
their wooden frames hooked to the wind,
the splattered gulls meow
your name
in a way
that's
personal.
Of course comes to mind.
The pines
are demanding a visit,
They're whispering
so you can hear them,
each as different as every snore,
these pines know
how to grow in the sand
and still reach for
the Nimbostratus with heads in unison.
The spaces
between their trunks illuminating
the blazing needles
raining down
painting the ground
familiar
to your lover's
skin texture:
Feel her closeness
from jilted borderwatchtowers
as she speads her mire
like no one's watching:
weedy and sugared
with bellflowers,
the waves in her shallow armpit
billeting a pair of white swans:
demurely they float
sometimes as pillows and sometimes
as question marks..
Go ask the seasoned locals,
they say the bones she parked
when she let her ice sheet melt
are portals
to her noble underbelly.
Hidden in the woods
reminiscent of your heart,
the red
tank-sized stone
is sealed,
but what the lighting reach cannot
the rain shall sluice apart
dumbly.
And though her hair has
come to be
the moss
black and hoarse
as sailor's beard,
there is still time.
The void says
her noisy neighbour is nothing
to die for.
The theadbear car with absent doors
incites
to drive her
in reverse gear
to the first few
days of holidays:
her golden locks a-blaze,
her arm around your
hind-sighted doppelganger.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 2:20 AM UTC
Not prison, nor killed,
But his memoir's fulfilled
He named me Ann Williams
Amidst hints he instilled.
His fact is our fiction - demurely disguised.
Bad move, Tomas Gregory
You're tied to your lies
Unwise, catalyzed
Your pathetic demise.
**|
|
|
|
\/
'**
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 2:17 PM UTC
Ikkyu as a very young child
Displayed signs of being clever.
That he would one day be a great master,
There was no doubt whatsoever.
His teacher had one small treasure--
A precious teacup, a rare antique.
Its beauty was beyond compare,
Its style and craftsmanship unique.
One day Ikkyu happened to break
His teacher's cup. Horror-struck,
He heard his teacher's approaching footsteps,
And there he was: a sitting duck.
Ikkyu quickly picked up the pieces
And held them behind his back. "Why,"
He asked his sagacious teacher,
"Is it that people have to die?"
"Dying is a natural thing,"
The teacher replied, trying to give
A meaningful explanation.
"Everything has just so long to live."
Ikkyu slowly held out his hands,
Showing his teacher the broken cup.
Then he demurely said, "It appears
As though your teacup's time was up."
(2-3-17) By Bob B
°An old anecdote retold here in verse
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 10:50 AM UTC
Another year furls its petals, bedecking the world in orange and red and yellow.
The fresh apples picked and pressed,
the cider scent wafts up,
spectral cinnamon scents this season.
It is futile to delay summers parting,
Even now the kisses at dawn are cooler
The rays less direct the days growing shorter.
But it is a time of sustenance,
Gathered in labors, sustaining stores.
This season of togetherness,
Distinct flavors of allspice and nutmeg,
Pumpkin and sweet potato.
Feast and celebration.
As the living world recedes into the long sleep
I try to forget the hardships endured,
And dwell in the replay of your masterpiece day.
I compared you to various poets,
You laughed demurely,
I did not know how amazing, and precious
You were back then,
Green shoots still grew in my garden.
As autumn approaches absolute dominance
I think of the spring I fell deeply in love with you,
Your charms rained down on everything you touched
And then the sky cracked, and we fled together,
But the diligent one,
The one who knows treachery as the interior of her eyelid
Is tattooed with every manner of trickery,
She is magnificent in her cruelty,
A beautiful creature in her own right,
But a miserable wretch compared to you.
She wanted me, and she ripped me from your hands,
Like when she will rip you from my hands,
And so on until she has what she really wants.
You do not deserve such things.
You deserve more than this universe can provide,
Yet you ask, oh so much less.
Knowing that you will leave me
Is the falling of bright colored leaves.
Five shades of red, three shades of orange,
Mixed and blended yellows,
Exquisite multicolored rain.
My autumn has arrived.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 8:18 PM UTC
You mean if I don't go extinct,
I guess I'm free,
as free as anyone is in this world,
with Destiny glaring at me from her Window,
Her eyelids fluttering in anticipatory teases,
and yet to flirt with her is to invite Doom into your pocket,
Even if she does gaze the glance of her blessing on you,
your date with her is, ultimately, set
the supper is bitter, and her wine that which lulls in the sleep of the ages,
until thence, she changes tables, and woos another suitor.
we all must have that sour meal with her sitting quaintly across, smiling demurely, yet knowingly,
So, until the time comes to sit at her table, wrest free from her shackles the very smallest bits of will
tho it make her jealous, her envy 'tis thus of you still.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 1:29 PM UTC
Demagogues of our society; daftly delivering
disarming delusions of decrepit delights.
Dealing in powder, rock and liquid death,
demurely doled out in droves to the
willing unconscious, dysfunctional deviants
of the land.
Blindly offering devotions, flaccid devotions
to plastic, white collar deities; giving new
definition to internal deformity, through
decelerated dejection.
Desperate and emotionally dismembered,
defrauded by quick, cheap decadence,
debauchery, and mental decay in many
deliriously delicious forms...pick a flavor,
name your poison!
Delegate your defect, as those with
doctoral degrees in defunct traditions
do deviously delineate their demented
designs...for our future.
DejaVu?
Perhaps, but in fact, it is we
who sniff, inject and drink up their drivel,
decidedly and dutifully depleted of
intellect by way of dubious data.
Duplicitous dullards...sanitize and
deodorize their fiendish lies...as we,
WE do nothing!
Not enough of us dumbfounded or
dumbstruck by their deceitful smiles.
Full of dread and deep dismay, by
the statutes of the day...I, for one,
will dream of better days, when we
shall defeat these diabolical demons.
But for now, down beaten, downtrodden;
we will continue to be denigrated for
the duration.
Clever dissection; dumb as they want you
to be,
disparity of all creativity...individuality...
and all of your rights...controversially.
Our disgruntled displeasure doomed...to
fall on dormant hearts...and we,
debilitated and daunted, lives dismantled,
are now forever haunted, by our freedoms
demise...by days we could question
their smiling lies.
Demagogues; Big Brother...such delinquents
dosing up the masses with a deluge of powder,
rock sedation and liquid elation...pick your flavor,
name your poison.
At the end of the day WE are ONE...duped,
defaced, defeated...and to continue on this
road, our final denouement will come
disturbingly disguised...as DEATH!
-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 3:40 PM UTC
Every evening
she beams into my living room
bringing me the news of the world
Juanita ***
looking at me with her large eyes, gently tossing her coiffured blond hair
demurely enunciating ugly words through her beautifully shaped mouth
another insane event has occurred in some far off country
and Juanita *** has nice red lip gloss on tonight
a boat load of desperate people has reached our shores
only Juanita *** can make the word "asylum" sound ******
more bikie gang trouble in the city
if I had tats and a Harley Juanita, would you ride off with me?
a ********** released on bail
you shouldn't have to read such filth Juanita
the Government’s economic policies are working
who did you share your stimulus package with Juanita?
another loutish sportsman has disgraced himself in public
Juanita, let the sports reporter read that stuff in future
Parliamentarians hurl foul language at each other in Canberra
I love it when you talk ***** Juanita
debate continues about the best way to tackle climate change
if there was an ETS Juanita, would you trade emissions with me?
she is telling me that tomorrow it will be warm and moist
and Jesus Christ, Juanita *** has two buttons undone on her blouse
There will be another news update in an hour
but not from Juanita ***
and without Juanita ***
no news is good news
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 4:39 AM UTC
My father, he always has so much to say,
you know.
He loves weddings.
My daughter,
yes,
she’s always been so smart,
and we’re so proud of her.
He says it like he knows anything about me.
I nod and smile,
and shrink myself in front of the men.
What is there to do but pretend?
No one needs to know about
the ways that you made me unlovable,
the way I spread my legs,
the way I strike a match.
We don’t talk about it.
It’s cultural values,
or something like that.
Look at the happy couple,
interchangeably
pharmacists, physicists, or physicians.
The groom smiles,
the bride does too,
they’re both so
good.
I sit there
and dream
of it.
A mandap, a
great big white horse.
I would be forcing it,
I knew,
but I wanted them to see me in red.
I wanted to walk
down that aisle alone,
and smile, demurely, smugly –
look what I did.
I got him,
I
wore him down.
I dream like it makes it redeemable,
the things that I’ve done.
How bad is the punishment
if I deviated with best intentions?
We hold onto these tiny ambitions,
the boy
the buffet line
and the bragging rights,
like it undoes the damage.
Oct 28, 2017
Oct 28, 2017 at 10:35 PM UTC
A goddess the tantalizing moon
Sat demurely
Beneath her father the universe's skies
Gaia did grace the living orb
Revolving green
When sunset sought dark hours
With pale milky beams
This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 1:38 AM UTC
Her two golden lamps made me pause,
As she spread her liquid gaze upon my flesh,
And slowly blinked
When she discovered that I stared back.
The dry valleys of age ran crazily over her face,
Deepening as she squinted in the sun,
A sun whose weakening hold on life
Put forth its meager attempt at warming her.
Her tattered, faded scarf was wrapped demurely
About her head; I am sure they had lived together long
And seen and watched many like me pass
On the graying pavement.
When she approached, she was like an old cart
With as many creaks, the difference being that
There was no one to pull her, help her along;
Certainly not I, who was mesmerized by her limping stride.
She cast her golden lamps into mine, lifting the shade;
I could see where her pride had been interred,
Left for dead, yet a shred of dignity still tried to dance,
As she plaintively asked,
“Could I, perhaps, have but a cent?”
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 12:06 AM UTC
Here on the pale beach, in the darkness;
With the full moon just to rise;
They sit alone, and look over the sea,
Or into each other's eyes. . .
She pokes her parasol into the sleepy sand,
Or sifts the lazy whiteness through her hand.
'A lovely night,' he says, 'the moon,
Comes up for you and me.
Just like a blind old spotlight there,
Fizzing across the sea!'
She pays no heed, nor even turns her head:
He slides his arm around her waist instead.
'Why don't we do a sketch together--
Those songs you sing are swell.
Where did you get them, anyway?
They suit you awfully well.'
She will not turn to him--will not resist.
Impassive, she submits to being kissed.
'My husband wrote all four of them.
You know,--my husband drowned.
He was always sickly, soon depressed. . .'
But still she hears the sound
Of a stateroom door shut hard, and footsteps going
Swiftly and steadily, and the dark sea flowing.
She hears the dark sea flowing, and sees his eyes
Hollow with disenchantment, sick surprise,--
And hate of her whom he had loved too well. . .
She lowers her eyes, demurely prods a shell.
'Yes. We might do an act together.
That would be very nice.'
He kisses her passionately, and thinks
She's carnal, but cold as ice.
1.4k
Your life’s but a shadow
he’s a king of the earth
he’s secure in his place
he knows his own worth.
He‘s lacking all burdens
his smile merits bliss
by the King be commanded
you’re deemed worthy young miss.
The lady‘s so lucky,
as a rose meant for plucking,
this brawling, rough rogue,
- this heir to earths throne,
deems her worth the f—king.
I chuckle demurely,
“Be away drunken sir
- leave me to my studies
- go chase other skirts
with your fraternity buddies.”
Sep 23, 2021
Sep 23, 2021 at 12:23 PM UTC
Christmas
makes you realize
how lonely
and pointless
you are.
Everyone's at Jared's,
laughing with the overly made up
thirty-ish
forty-five year old
behind the counter.
Making jokes about
how
the bride-to-be
"lets him get away
with certain things,
but he knows who's boss."
While the groom-to-be stands beside her demurely
as she flexes that nice glinting rock.
"So when's the wedding?"
Or seeing people
going to Micheal's
for some string and
beads, and wood-carved letters,
to make a homemade
necklace
for her,
because commercialism
ruins love.
Real love comes from the heart
and necklaces made out of heartfelt twine
glistening with green and red beads
that enclose her name
in wood-carved letters
that have probably been chewed on
by a progressive four year old.
I think it's the whole idea
of togetherness.
This feeling of closeness brought on by the cold.
The need to be warm and vitalized,
while realizing
that you are rubbing your own shoulders.
you are shuddering against your own pillow.
you are curled up inside your own covers.
you simply are
and there is no one else around
to affirm
with love
and ***
and ingenuity
that
you are.
Dec 22, 2011
Dec 22, 2011 at 12:04 AM UTC
Here on the pale beach, in the darkness;
With the full moon just to rise;
They sit alone, and look over the sea,
Or into each other's eyes. . .
She pokes her parasol into the sleepy sand,
Or sifts the lazy whiteness through her hand.
'A lovely night,' he says, 'the moon,
Comes up for you and me.
Just like a blind old spotlight there,
Fizzing across the sea!'
She pays no heed, nor even turns her head:
He slides his arm around her waist instead.
'Why don't we do a sketch together-
Those songs you sing are swell.
Where did you get them, anyway?
They suit you awfully well.'
She will not turn to him-will not resist.
Impassive, she submits to being kissed.
'My husband wrote all four of them.
You know,-my husband drowned.
He was always sickly, soon depressed. . .'
But still she hears the sound
Of a stateroom door shut hard, and footsteps going
Swiftly and steadily, and the dark sea flowing.
She hears the dark sea flowing, and sees his eyes
Hollow with disenchantment, sick surprise,-
And hate of her whom he had loved too well. . .
She lowers her eyes, demurely prods a shell.
'Yes. We might do an act together.
That would be very nice.'
He kisses her passionately, and thinks
She's carnal, but cold as ice.
1.1k
The language of Los Angeles
gets lost in translation.
Even the rain clouds
drop their contents
with an unfamiliar accent.
The peculiar way
she tilts her head,
the distinct way
she crosses her legs,
are every bit incorrect.
The uninvolved way
she sits, steps, speaks,
alludes to her lack
of the irrepressible nature
surrounding her day.
"The rest is rust
and stardust."
She is quite
American.
There is no turning of the shadow
under a European sun.
The silence of her heart,
the stillness in her limbs,
is barren, muted,
her leaves brittle.
In the breezy part
of the afternoon,
her core lay hollow
and unfelt,
regardless of...
He wakes her,
demurely she makes
an effort at soixante-neuf,
arbitrarily she bends for him.
"Her dream-gray gaze
never flinches."
She is quite
American.
Mar 23, 2020
Mar 23, 2020 at 4:35 PM UTC
I stood pretty as a picture
In the full-length mirror.
Eyelines painted black
And traced like a cat
‘Round the pools and pigments
Of my icy blues.
My hair smoulders with gloss of youth.
A fire left untamed
With scorched red wine lips
Oh! Such rare delight,
To embrace my image
And not decorate
It with scorn.
I imagine pupils pouring
Over me. Men turned
Boys upon my wake.
Skirt hitched demurely,
Landing with subtlety
Above my opaqued knees.
I comb the heaving, damp dancefloor.
Search out for Beta-sex.
The kind to pin me
With softened kisses.
To love for the night and
Then like fireworks
Perish by day.
The music though, it takes me with
Skill. Oh! It knows the sweat
That clings upon me.
The rhythm takes me
Beyond the tooth and nail,
The attempt and fail
Of every boy to come before.
Sweet *** How it lifts me
And the mere presence
Of youth is enough.
I go home alone in
Absent knowledge of
The plight of women.
You stop me in the streets. You say
“Where have you been tonight,
Where are you going.”
But - not a question.
For, you dictate answers,
Scurry my body
With your eyes, soon hands.
You tower me, masculine height.
Oh! Such dizzying peaks
For my giddy mind.
I say “I must leave”
You say “Where” once more. I
Wonder, do questions
Ever line your lips? Catcalls and
Footfalls now so long gone.
We are alone and
We both know the case.
Your vast darkened hands clutch
At my belt buckle,
Draw me in.
Reeled, I kick up in death throes,
Mouth open but soundless,
Lungs devoid of air.
Laid out on the block,
I’m your catch of the day,
Your squalor by night.
Regardless how much give out,
How little I fight, we’re
Both in the knowledge
I am your’s tonight.
Your lips, they steal my neck.
Paralyse me, not
With softness
But with fright.
I stand pretty as a picture,
No look in the mirror.
A reflection of
Shame and submission.
Pools and pigments devoid
Of life. Emptied lungs
And icy blues.
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 10:19 PM UTC
I’d like to think I am dead,
like an old Maine farm left to decay.
I crumble demurely into the river and grass.
Chickens gone by breakfast, you by crepuscule;
Rockwell never painted defeat or loss of limb
but never has he seen your lips,
cracked with solitude, fortitude, secrets, and
the faint music of a funeral pyre.
I always remembered you,
rising with the sun and whispers,
sweeping the porch, scattering leaves and harvest:
scalding coffee and soft hands on this October Day—
I cannot recall for the life of me—
what color were your eyes.
Now I am wrinkled, small, and tired,
left amongst gentle picket fences,
whitewashed walls, creased linen,
and every single day that I wasted those
silent early oatmeal mornings.
Just so you know and don’t worry, in case you’re worrying,
I still get chilly at night, and yes I kept your flannel shirt; and oh I forgot to say:
I cheated at Monopoly.
--my hands crack in the pastoral stillness.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 11:24 AM UTC
In the silence of my heart I feel this flowering;
budding with every whisper against my soul,
calling; enwrapping me within his ambrosia
as each silken petal brushes against softness,
I bow demurely into his maleness.
Looking out upon the horizon; I glimpse our
silhouettes entwined in the midst of golden
rays, haloed as his lips partake in loves
sweetest nectar and his tongue articulates
in heated breaths, I linger in its aftertaste.
Adoring the twinkle in his eyes as they take
in the beauty of my flowering chasm, awaiting
its calyx approach; slowly impinging in its
fragrance, savoring; hovering and dipping as a
honeybee suckles nectar.
I tremble like a softly blown breeze in his wake;
as his hands glide upon my countenance,
teasing each contoured petal; placing me gently
upon our flowered bed of strewn petals;
languishing in his arms as each whisper hums,
delighting in passion's rose.
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 2:14 AM UTC
How can simple nonoffensive words hurt so much?
How can the plain question: "who am I?" make my stomach clutch?
Why does the disability to answer make me feel like a bird in a hutch?
I try to look for answers, but I end up too weak straying from my goal looking for a crutch.
Speaking of going astray, here goes my mind once again.
Even I don't know the depths of my thoughts, not the tenth of my brain.
After all, I am just a demo, a soul in a chain.
What if: "What am I?" is saner?
That I can say. I am a human that yet did not drain.
A believer of the old saying "no pain no gain."
Oh no! I am more than that! I am a grain.
And I hold within me the power of a reign.
All I need is to grow, all I need is rain.
Rain... rain ladies and gentlemen is nature's beloved soundtrack.
It is the pitter-patter that makes my heart crack.
Sky, why are you so black?
What is it that you feel you lack?
I promise I won't stand back.
Dear horizon ease your anxiety attack,
for you are more loved than FLACK.
I am a 16RAM program of a telegram whose programmer programmed to deprogram all pogrom to the last gram by the use of an epigram.
In simpler terms, I am a poet.
I love the world when I'm high and when I'm at my lowest.
I believe that I am a poet because poetry is the highest expression of love.
I am a lover of this earth and the heavens above.
Love isn't just a myth,
it does exist.
I could go on like this, naming all that I love with a never-ending list.
I have learned to adore the darkest of times,
I have learned to be fascinated by all lives.
Earth why are you falling apart? Why are you so angry? Why are you committing all of these crimes?
Ease your typhoons your tornadoes pandemics tsunamis and volcanoes. Dear planet no need for more hives.
I can't promise you that we will behave,
for mankind is foolish,
him who once lived in a cave.
I understand your wish for the extinction of all humans.
But like any other love story, our love did not last.
While earth took us in her arms in the past,
whilst earth lovingly caressed humans otherwise.
In the present, it has harassed us as if we were Pennywise.
The touch of life used to give me butterflies.
But for now, all I hear is earth's cries.
The earth has loved us so purely,
although earth is 22 500 times older than man she has welcomed him so demurely.
And yet, man polluted destructed and poisoned. Oh isn't man such a disgrace?
How can he look earth in the face?
Apr 9, 2020
Apr 9, 2020 at 3:28 PM UTC
My girlfriend's girlfriends
Have a friend,
Whom
They demurely refer to as:
Bob.
He's ever-ready,
Like the bunny,
Current, never late;
And yet he'll never
Ever date.
He's no fireman,
Or a cop,
More Chippendale -
They say he's hot.
He's not needy,
He's out to please,
From what they say,
He likes to tease.
He's not a boy,
He's not a toy.
Later, when the deed is done,
He's not one to kiss and run.
He's the Alpha
And Omega,
He's the cause
Of their hysteria.
Bob surely has a way.
And should the girls
Play hard to get,
Bob's not one
To sit and fret:
And should the girls
Still want to play,
They replace
Two Double A's.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 11:47 AM UTC
I don't belong here.
This place is not my home.
The uniformity of suburbia makes me wearisome.
I am a pygmy among giants,
Something entirely
d i f f e r e n t
within a
society of similarity.
I don't belong here.
This place is not my home.
I close my eyes and dream
Of a half days drive north of where I stand.
Where Hemlocks tower and
Fir brush the sky
I close my eyes and I can feel
The warm sunshine beating down
enveloping my body made of stardust
The whisper of breeze cast off the lake
brushes my face and tangles my hair.
I belong here.
This place is my home.
The scent of earth and gasoline invites me in,
And I can feel the tug of cut-off shorts and eyelet lace
Tan skin smudged with oil and dirt,
Feelings of security wash over me
crisp and refreshing,
the zealous waters of the lake.
I belong here.
This place is my home.
Fireflies dance and twirl in the iridescent twilight
As millions of stars began to glow softly
I was one of them long ago.
The man on the moon demurely shows his face,
And I smile back.
I belong here.
This place is my home.
A car horn jolts me out of my reverie; smog fills my lungs yet again.
No longer standing among friends in mountain air,
But sitting along, surrounded by concrete.
I needed only a fleeting moment of nostalgia to remind me.
That I don't belong here.
This place is not home.
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 10:50 PM UTC
Praised by a drunkard,
Just when my craving for respect,
From Oprah, Obama or
The Queen,
Seems to be all the appreciation I need,
She,
Walks in,
Demanding demurely, hand
Held out, just
Two sticks.
Her praise almost makes me cry –
she is so dignified
tight dress not too
tight, just so –
Fabulous shades she says, glasses I reply.
Everybody needs words of encouragement sometime,
And she wrangles,
A full pack of cigarettes from me,
Between my shopping list, a burgundy coloured,
Brandy glass and,
An Orange Juice,
Placed just so,
Always good practise to keep a spare,
Packet of cigarettes in the car.
I am still laughing.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 10:49 AM UTC