"dines" poems
Drowning in the sea of red
cartridges stuck inside her head
singing to the pigeon man
about all the stars again
how they crunch under her toes
there she goes
She dines by the candlelight
golden beetles lined with blight
in her velvet dressing room
withered flowers in full bloom
Drowning in the sea of red
cartridges stuck inside her head
singing to the pigeon man
about the dawn once again
how the curtain rises low
on last show
Cigarettes in the first row
burning slow
Rustling of the stolen feathers
burning slow
City shining through the smoke
burning slow
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 1:30 PM UTC
I.
I'm writing to tell you that I've spoken with your sister.
She tells me everything these days, though recently I've marked the way her voice conceals a quiet shame; rage in casual tones, and fear in quiet whispers.
I haven't kissed her in quite some time.
She's thinking of you.
II.
I'm sorry that I haven't written sooner. This fasting saps volition from my fingers, and the hot smell of ozone still lingers in the air.
But everywhere I see you on the news.
Has Ramadan been hard for you this year? I'm looking forward to hearing from you. I want to know that you are near once more. Please write.
III.
I saw an action flick today, and something of you in the way the heroine roared and flipped her hair just before letting a rocket fly.
I thought that I would die of suspense until the moment when the hero rose from the rubble to stand above his foes.
Crows circled. Credits rolled.
IV.
Thunder tolls. The atmosphere crackles and bursts. It's early yet, and not even my worst. My warring hands will never give you peace. An endless war-song issues from my lips.
You are not brave enough, dear girl, to resist destruction by my hand. The bomb blessed by my lips is indifferent, darling boy.
I will consume the gardens planted with your seeds.
V.
Bismillah, arrahman, arraheem.
VI.
Blessed is he who cries out for peace.
The Lord sees him and sees that he is good.
Blessed is she who dines before the sunrise and loses her life at noon, still clad in vestments of her childhood.
VII.
Eid Mubarak, and peace be with you every year. I've yet to hear from you.
I saw your sister again today. Whatever tinged her voice still holds her.
She said she hasn't written.
It matters who writes, so write a love-letter, I told her.
She's thinking of you.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 11:55 PM UTC
A is the Alphabet, A at its head;
A is an Antelope, agile to run.
B is the Baker Boy bringing the bread,
Or black Bear and brown Bear, both begging for bun.
C is a Cornflower come with the corn;
C is a Cat with a comical look.
D is a Dinner which Dahlias adorn;
D is a Duchess who dines with a Duke.
E is an elegant eloquent Earl;
E is an Egg whence an Eaglet emerges.
F is a Falcon, with feathers to furl;
F is a Fountain of full foaming surges.
G is the Gander, the Gosling, the Goose;
G is a Garnet in girdle of gold.
H is a Heartsease, harmonious of hues;
H is a huge Hammer, heavy to hold.
I is an Idler who idles on ice;
I am I--who will say I am not I?
J is a Jacinth, a jewel of price;
J is a Jay, full of joy in July.
K is a King, or a Kaiser still higher;
K is a Kitten, or quaint Kangaroo.
L is a Lute or a lovely-toned Lyre;
L is a Lily all laden with dew.
M is a Meadow where Meadowsweet blows;
M is a Mountain made dim by a mist.
N is a Nut--in a nutshell it grows--
Or a Nest full of Nightingales singing--oh list!
O is an Opal, with only one spark;
O is an Olive, with oil on its skin.
P is a Pony, a pet in a park;
P is the Point of a Pen or a Pin.
Q is a Quail, quick-chirping at morn;
Q is a Quince quite ripe and near dropping.
R is a Rose, rosy red on a thorn;
R is a red-breasted Robin come hopping.
S is a Snow-storm that sweeps o'er the Sea;
S is the Song that the swift Swallows sing.
T is the Tea-table set out for tea;
T is a Tiger with terrible spring.
U, the Umbrella, went up in a shower;
Or Unit is useful with ten to unite.
V is a Violet veined in the flower;
V is a Viper of venomous bite.
W stands for the water-bred Whale;
Stands for the wonderful Wax-work so gay.
X, or ** or *** is ale,
Or Policeman X, exercised day after day.
Y is a yellow Yacht, yellow its boat;
Y is the Yucca, the Yam, or the Yew.
Z is a Zebra, zigzagged his coat,
Or Zebu, or Zoophyte, seen at the Zoo.
7.1k
There is a vicar from Chelsea
Who alas is not very wealthy
Often he dines on communion wine
And curried bat from the belfry
He lights a lot of incense
To hide his flatulence
He gets a bit high
Perhaps that is why
His sermons never make sense
--The vicar gets his knickers in a twist--
The old church roof had seen better days
The pressing need was a serious fund-raise
So the vicar abseiled down the tower
As the village watched by the graves and flowers
With a flurry his cassock flew up in the air
Shocking pink he wore under there
Flapping around it covered his face
As he dangled there in embarrassed disgrace
Someone called the fire brigade
A turntable ladder came to his aid
When at last they got him down
Humbled and grateful he kissed the ground
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 3:18 AM UTC
When stretch'd on one's bed
With a fierce-throbbing head,
Which preculdes alike thought or repose,
How little one cares
For the grandest affairs
That may busy the world as it goes!
How little one feels
For the waltzes and reels
Of our Dance-loving friends at a Ball!
How slight one's concern
To conjecture or learn
What their flounces or hearts may befall.
How little one minds
If a company dines
On the best that the Season affords!
How short is one's muse
O'er the Sauces and Stews,
Or the Guests, be they Beggars or Lords.
How little the Bells,
Ring they Peels, toll they Knells,
Can attract our attention or Ears!
The Bride may be married,
The Corse may be carried
And touch nor our hopes nor our fears.
Our own ****** pains
Ev'ry faculty chains;
We can feel on no subject besides.
Tis in health and in ease
We the power must seize
For our friends and our souls to provide.
3.6k
Cold and dark the solstice night
But shadows dance inside by candle-light
Pampered spruce holds centre stage
Calendar counts down the days
Festive holly berries red, mistletoe with white
Cards suspended on a string, flashing fairy lights
All is quiet in the house
Nothing stirs except...a mouse
He has no fear
Of cat or trap or carving knife
On his mind is something nice
Perhaps a chocolate-covered nutty treat
Beneath the Christmas tree to eat
Tonight no usual pickings poor
Of meagre breadcrumbs on the floor
For tonight he dines like a king
On fruit and nuts, dates and cake
A little bit of everything
All the Drambuie chocolates he ****** dry
He could not stop, he knew not why
Then he passed out on the floor
One hung-over little mouse, his head so very sore
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 4:17 PM UTC
Who, or why, or which, or what, Is the Akond of SWAT?
Is he tall or short, or dark or fair?
Does he sit on a stool or a sofa or a chair,
or SQUAT,
The Akond of Swat?
Is he wise or foolish, young or old?
Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold,
or HOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk,
And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk
or TROT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he wear a turban, a fez, or a hat?
Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed, or a mat,
or COT,
The Akond of Swat?
When he writes a copy in round-hand size,
Does he cross his T's and finish his I's
with a DOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Can he write a letter concisely clear
Without a speck or a smudge or smear
or BLOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Do his people like him extremely well?
Or do they, whenever they can, rebel,
or PLOT,
At the Akond of Swat?
If he catches them then, either old or young,
Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung,
or SHOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Do his people **** in the lanes or park?
Or even at times, when days are dark,
GAROTTE,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he study the wants of his own dominion?
Or doesn't he care for public opinion
a JOT,
The Akond of Swat?
To amuse his mind do his people show him
Pictures, or any one's last new poem,
or WHAT,
For the Akond of Swat?
At night if he suddenly screams and wakes,
Do they bring him only a few small cakes,
or a LOT,
For the Akond of Swat?
Does he live on turnips, tea, or tripe?
Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripe,
or a DOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he like to lie on his back in a boat
Like the lady who lived in that isle remote,
SHALLOTT,
The Akond of Swat?
Is he quiet, or always making a fuss?
Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or Russ,
or a SCOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does like to sit by the calm blue wave?
Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave,
or a GROTT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he drink small beer from a silver jug?
Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug?
or a ***
The Akond of Swat?
Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe,
When she let the gooseberries grow too ripe,
or ROT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he wear a white tie when he dines with friends,
And tie it neat in a bow with ends,
or a KNOT.
The Akond of Swat?
Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies?
When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes,
or NOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake?
Does he sail about on an inland lake
in a YACHT,
The Akond of Swat?
Some one, or nobody, knows I wot
Who or which or why or what
Is the Akond of Swat?
3k
God is in the shadows
deep in the pocket of that rose
an impossible color, beyond crimson, the epitome
of crimson, so crimson tears spring forth
This is where God, silent, drunk,
on vacation, slumbers
God is nowhere to be found
not in dead fathers
not in demented mothers
not in fading ex-lovers
not where spiders lurk
not in the boom & beat of adolescent children
It is the sorrow lodged somewhere between
breast bone and lung, sorrow the size and shape
of an island, a mountain,
the texture of wet sand
the weight of wet sand
It is this that snatches away my breath upon inhaling
A life-long sorrow, sealed to skin
as surely as metallic paint to a pan -
It hangs on with a cage fighter’s tenacity
locked in fierce embrace
sorrow coppery tasting
sorrow flaked in my hair and
Draped over the sofa, cat-like.
It just hangs around -
changing to heat, radiating at a dangerous level
nuclear, capricious, then, as time passes
just a presence one becomes accustomed to,
like an aging dog or webs above the bed
Its cousin, malevolence, its twin, melancholia
family to my family, blood to my blood –
dropping down from the shower head as I bathe
sorrow becoming holy, beyond flesh
It holds hands with the musician I’ve known all my life
and dines regularly with that other writer
We speak of transformation, you and I
of becoming other than ourselves,
as though we can unzip our flesh and find a whole
new identity underneath, throbbing, pink, blood-pumped
and with this, go forth into the same old world
that remembers transgression and forgives nothing
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 4:04 PM UTC
Do you see the way she looks at me
As she asks what I'd like to eat
I'm not sure of what to say to her
But was that just a wink?
I'm not the only one standing here
That m'lady wines and dines
Yet another school year
In the Cafeteria line
You know she had me with the hair net
Matching the color of her eyes
The **** way she slops spaghetti
On the plate next to my fries
There's really not a lot
A young school boy can do
As I dream about her from breakfast to lunch
In one continuous drool
She's the Cafeteria lady
Not to keen on her collard greens
But she does serve up a mess of mean
Nachos and young school boy dreams
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 7:06 AM UTC
I have often turned within my grave to ponder of the reason why
Upon the date of my birth, you took me to your secret hide
Underneath an aspen tree within the deadest of nights
You took to me like a moth to a ball of flickering light
With the devils own smile plastered upon your face and the slightest of hand
You produced a sanguineous jar of hearts and an ominous jar of black sand
You grasped my hands in your work enured and fairly calloused paws
Looked me in the eyes, and told me to forever leave my pale hands raw
"Never soil your untouched hands, your hands and eyes you shall avert'
"Never bruise, nor ever hurt, nor shall they be ever touched by dirt,
"Never touch a rose, nor touch a bee, as danger is an all you see,
"Close your eyes my little darling, and all of life shall be but a dream."
With the trust of a mothers child, I kept my eyes tightly squeezed
Wished upon the star within the midnight sky, wavering in the breeze
Held my hands up to my chest, hoping the fluttering and staggered slips
Not to be seen by your face within the light of moon as from the sun it dines and sips
Of a heart that had only once been given to me and should have forever stayed mine
But the greed inside all mens' hearts want, and reaches out to grasp a young new 'hind'
With another slight of those calloused hands, you took my life for your own pleasure
And stole what was rightfully derived as mine; a beating heart, you took your leisure
A working mind, once a clock, now fully had come to a skidding stop
You took my bones and my teeth and used them as a fertilizing crop
The very worst thing that you did, you took my pride when you took my skin
Shaved off clean with a diamond edged razor and worn as if you were mockeries twin
Burried underneath that beautiful aspen tree, I've been given the time to remold
But my life had been stolen, the soul forced out before the bells had tolled
In the time it had taken for my pieces to remold, I had realised something then and there;
There were always things that were meant to go untold, but the truth is ringing upon the open air
You wanted more than what was offered and had bitten off all you could chew
But if I'd known back then what I know now, I'd know real good men only come in few
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 10:50 PM UTC
1374
A Saucer holds a Cup
In sordid human Life
But in a Squirrel’s estimate
A Saucer hold a Loaf.
A Table of a Tree
Demands the little King
And every Breeze that run along
His Dining Room do swing.
His Cutlery—he keeps
Within his Russer Lips—
To see it flashing when he dines
Do Birmingham eclipse—
Convicted—could we be
Of our Minutiae
The smallest Citizen that flies
Is heartier than we—
2.4k
Though frost and snow lock’d from mine eyes
That beauty which without door lies,
Thy gardens, orchards, walks, that so
I might not all thy pleasures know,
Yet, thou within thy gate
Art of thyself so delicate,
So full of native sweets, that bless
Thy roof with inward happiness,
As neither from nor to thy store
Winter takes aught, or spring adds more.
The cold and frozen air had starv’d
Much poor, if not by thee preserv’d,
Whose prayers have made thy table blest
With plenty, far above the rest.
The season hardly did afford
Coarse cates unto thy neighbors’ board,
Yet thou hadst dainties, as the sky
Had only been thy volary;
Or else the birds, fearing the snow
Might to another Deluge grow,
The pheasant, partridge, and the lark
Flew to thy house, as to the Ark.
The willing ox of himself came
Home to the slaughter, with the lamb,
And every beast did thither bring
Himself, to be an offering.
The scaly herd more pleasure took,
Bath’d in thy dish, than in the brook;
Water, earth, air, did all conspire
To pay their tributes to thy fire,
Whose cherishing flames themselves divide
Through every room, where they deride
The night, and cold aboard; whilst they,
Like suns within, keep endless day.
Those cheerful beams send forth their light
To all that wander in the night,
And seem to beckon from aloof
The weary pilgrim to thy roof,
Where if, refresh’d, he will away,
He’s faily welcome; or if stay,
Far more; which he shall hearty find
Both from the master and the hind.
The stranger’s welcome each man there
Stamp’d on his cheerful brow doth wear,
Nor doth this welcome or his cheer
Grow less ‘cause he stays longer here;
There’s none observes, much less repines,
How often this man sups or dines.
Thou hast no porter at the door
T’examine or keep back the poor;
Nor locks nor bolts: thy gates have been
Made only to let strangers in;
Untaught to shut, they do not fear
To stand wide open all the year,
Careless who enters, for they know
Thou never didst deserve a foe;
And as for thieves, thy bounty’s such,
They cannot steal, thou giv’st so much.
2.4k
Burn Your Bridges, Cut Your Anchors By Abraham Montalvo
Treading through the pain and sorrows, this life I'm living almost as feelin no reason to be living, emotions running, apathy a comin, deliver me from this hell that's has me forsaken,
My mind is troubled,
Heart is shuttled,
Spirit in turmoil,
Darkness has taken over almost all judgment
Like a veil that's been placed before me, blinds me in my ways and treads my paths, burning my bridges and cutting my anchors. Like a curse been laid upon me, a light that shines through me rips through what darkness that dines before my very eyes, in a midst of chaos like a war fought without the arms and weapons of soldiers to operate with the blunt force of destruction, burn your bridges cut your anchors... All this is temporary, it's all just and emotional trip into a world of agony that will cease to exist, for time is an understatement of what I can comprehend, lift my soul up high, bring me out of the distressful times ive been going through, help me, free me, save me...
misconstrued self emotions and deprived nights of sleep, body feeling weak and weary... Help me cut these anchors of emotions and burn these bridges of oppression...™
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 12:54 AM UTC
The old house groans
The old house moans
It moves, it creaks
What new leaks will we expect this week?
The lady in white says…
“This house is alive.”
The attic breathes
The basement feeds
The kitchen dines
The old staircase whines.
The lady in white says…
“This house lives.”
The windows are crying
The doors are scrying
The floors walk
And the ceilings talk.
The lady in white says…
“This house is your soul.”
May 24, 2010
May 24, 2010 at 5:39 PM UTC
Letters are old school, but I guess so am I.
In a way, I guess that is true,
I sometimes feel like I am an old fool,
Stuck in the Motown groove,
The 21st Century is not for me,
Waiting a minute before I can hear the next song,
And when it eventually comes on it's one filled with hate,
And let’s not even talk about trying to date,
They said to leave a message after a beep,
For my old soul that means a beat,
That brought with it dance and heat,
Words and rhymes and a drumbeat,
See back in my day, a letter meant waiting on the mail man,
And not looking for blue ticks from an app I got from an online store,
It meant post stamps and asking friends to proofread,
It meant punctuating every line so that you knew without you I could not breathe,
Being in love was not just words and play,
It meant dancing in the street; we called it grooving,
Not sweet talking and lying,
The old fool in me is tired of trying,
Am not saying that you are lying,
But you are in no way trying,
To meet me in the street,
Or groove to a Motown beat,
I wish you were sending me flowers,
While you were out there spending time,
With worlds that were not even meant to be real,
My old soul needs more than one-off dines or drinking box wine!
See back in Motown, when a man loved a woman,
He could not keep his mind on anything else,
He did not put a little loving on her, or shelve her
It meant the whole street knew her, and even knew her favorite beat!
I have known only one other of your kind, the sweet-talking guy,
You have me down on my knees wondering when you are going to leave,
That is not love, I don’t know what it is,
Feels like it, but this is something else!
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 10:49 AM UTC
From a cold Shoulder,
Sharp honed Tongues speak barbed with a silent whisper,
Emptiness under fine silks and cosmetic canvas,
This chosen heard gambles in the dreamy bliss,
Illusion of choice saves the Shepherd staff from the dirt,
Living in this fishbowl where the fish act like sharks,
Lured by the shining bait of glitter,
Already we know,all that glitters............
Learn quick what fish act the same in a rising net,
Lose time for those eat the others.
Good evening ladies and gentle men!
Step right up....step right up and marvel at its reflected glory,
See how it glows when the sly dizziness covers the vista.
Who dare goes where the great unwashed go?
Gaze in amazement as the crock self exaltation simmers.
Try see like the blind.
Know that when she sings you wont be ready,
Hold reserve and smile as she fades back into the soft flowing tide.
Become accustomed to her song,
Like a well fed dog lying in the sun, problems are forced into small spaces
and nudged into open water
Shadows become old friends with familiar voices,
The odor of the Summer Sun wafts by,
Even if you hide in the Winter cold,
The Trees do the dance of spring,
She dines feasting on the edible Star Drops
He is happy melting at the thought of nothing
They all toast the Cosmos as it waves back.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 10:16 PM UTC
Burly bleak plumes roll out aloft corn
Where the dragon fell post spin and ditch
A wretched hulk of ruin splintered and worn
Amongst endless blanch green fields which
Arc with a gust and apart where he treads,
Dragging his silk cape afar from flame
Clueless and concussed to a near house he heads
With a tattered scarf that constricts yet ***** about his mane
Black fists of cloud had boomed around him as they soared
His beast spat metal fire whilst the pale sky turned dull
The zipping ballet of warfare smiled throughout as motors roared
Gnashing its teeth and making forgotten martyrs of them all
Shuddering not from demise rather conflict as a whole
He is as content with death as he is to survive
Just not burn the world and condemn his soul
A horror; men of rule seem keen to keep alive
An agrarian self-dines rancorous and crocked
Half sat, improperly perched from where he was shot
Monsters had come for him once before this day
They took his spouse and his daughter and then took them away
He can hear but does not hark to the battle aloft
It is now like the rain and the trees in a gust
But to the boom and the shake he stands with a cough
And as he cites the invader he sees he must do what he must
The grower limps out with a Chassepot in his arms
As the airman’s hands reach up and he falls to his knees
With beads on his brow the man pleads with met palms
The crofter sees naught but a Prussian blue monster disease
The pilot knows his death, ‘Ich bin nicht sicher, wo ich will gehen?”
The old Frenchman just sniggers as he thinks never again
With the rifle’s slug now spent and the horror sent back to his hell
The farmer mumbles to himself, ‘je dois me chercher une pelle,”
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
Like a spider’s web
And all it’s delicate
Intricacies
It catches its prey
from afar
It preys with
Patience
And dines with gratitude
As the web of life
And all it’s delicate
Intricacies
Pray from afar
Pray with patience
The meal will come to you
And we shall dine together
In the web of Love
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 12:05 AM UTC
Hand over hand, checklist and
A pen
Hull breach after hull
breach blown
Liquid leaking uncontrollably
Blank black space, vacuum
Eating up luminescence lost
Clarity, comfort me
Vacuum dines on comfort, too
EVA whistles somehow sad between
Waves of static and silence
Where is the sunrise headed?
Where is the new dawn?
Is this transference, or
Countertransference?
164 Eva cuts my cheek
leaves seeds embedded
in flesh that betrays the blood.
If Earth is the lonely world
I'm watching the worst sci-fi short
I'm a hero with no extent,
all patched pores defeated
By carbon in the end
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 8:58 PM UTC
He held himself with a somber sadness
His massive shoulders sagged to the floor
As if something at his center had just given up
Perhaps life dealt him a bad deck of cards
or perhaps he had just got some very bad news
That is when I noticed the picture at the table
Sitting at his right in his favorite corner booth
was an old picture of a very lovely woman
Come to find out later this was his beloved wife
They were married for 55 wonderful years
She passed away in 2009 but that did not stop him
He still dines with her every day
and kisses her picture every night
He talks to this picture like she is right there with him
Now that is true love my friends <3 <3
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 11:09 AM UTC
LOVE, is a four letter word
Often heard right before
I HATE you...
HATE, is a four letter word same letters as HEAT, the kind that burns out LOVE...
*** is a three letter word, an altered state of wanton desire when flesh entwines it's captors, at first it's like a chemical bond...
Clandestine and strong animal magnetic fields two charged heavy metals attract in the act of lust until just before dawn, it's gone!
Where is she now?
Fools rush in only to learn the rug burned concubine wines and dines with your best friend...
*** is a weapon as she wraps you in pink, If you think with the wrong head then soon you might wind up wishing you were dead...
D. Clare
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 5:58 PM UTC
Painted pictures come to life,
Twirling landscapes with subliminal words,
He gestures back and forth with life,
The white canvass transforms into a palette
You stood on the inside,
Wanting to go out,
You watched from the inside,
Wishing you were someone else
He’s driven around in a limousine,
With a stack of green bills to light his cigar,
He’s got it made and does not know you exist,
He dines with pomposity and drinks in gold
You stood on the outside,
Watching him dine and wine,
You watched from the outside,
Wishing you were sitting there.
She was a model, thin and tall,
Brawny and bright with a flair of the fair,
She smiled and danced, gyrating her hips
She partied until she could no more
You stood on the outside,
You wished you had her life,
You watched from the outside,
Wishing someone invited you
To life’s grand celebration
You did not know though,
The model died of drug abuse,
The tycoon was murdered,
And the artist…ahh the Artist!
That was you…that was you first and foremost
You forgot and you deviated!
You re-arranged your priorities
And now…and now
You stand on the outside,
You no longer can watch the world go by,
You no longer can wish,
You in a wooden coffin,
Being laid to rest.
You died yesterday,
Poisoned with affection
By someone who stood by
And watched you from the outside
Vijaya Balan (2009)
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 4:12 AM UTC
THE SWAN & LEDA
How, like a...God
he comes
taking the shape
& the form of a
swan
who having had
his wicked way
longs
to be
on his
merry way.
But, wait
...what’s this
he can’t....shake
...his fine...feathers...off
feather upon
downy feather
locks him
into the costume
he had put on
& now...can’t be put off.
What magic
can this human woman
weave
& now
having been taken
takes great pleasure
in having her servant
a giant of a man
among men
****** the swan
& be gone.
And once
the God
is well & truly
f*****
he’s plucked
of all
the finery
of his feathers.
Behold, the God
standing in the ****
shivering & ready
for the ***
the final twist
of this fatalistic plot
...his beautiful
neck.
That night
she dines upon
the subtle delicate
breast of swan
served in a creamy
pepper & garlic sauce.
She even has
an extra helping
thinking she can
always exercise it off.
Alas, poor Zeus
wishing he had chosen
to pose
in his usual tour-de-force
a shower
of gold
but thinks too late
(thinking even as he is eaten) .
And now, she burps
(“Oh, pardon..! ”)
sleeps
& dreams
of a God
fit for a dish.
Apr 2, 2019
Apr 2, 2019 at 9:24 AM UTC
**** stained drainpipe
raining pain
unexplained sameness
expressed
in veiny legs
egg salad crustacean
situationally challenged
prophetic procreator
bending spoons
and your will
shill trolls on and on
seeking weakness
tweeking while twerking
discolored molars twinkle
baboons ***
shiner dines on refined lime
mining dimes
unwound ground cover
lamenting
lack of green
queen like boy toy bounds across the turnpike
exhilarated and misinformed
dorm room ****
forlorn
sounding horn born of jazzy lips
quips to the mainstream
hipsterism is like a disease
complete with rashes and bumpy outbreaks
15 century rake awaits her date
and is placed on the stake
for a belief in an alternative
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 7:38 PM UTC
The beautiful songbird croaks
It's voice hoarse and rusty
Not from lack of use
But from lack of hearts to sway
The songbird croaks anyway
The beautiful songbird croaks
I tire of listening,
And reach for its throat...
It's pretty eyes twinkle up at me
The songbird croaks continually
The beautiful songbird croaks
It's kept in a cage,
hasn't tried to escape
I watch it without listening;
Only then does the songbird sing
Pressing cold beak
To fishes gills,
My heart beats through
The fins and frills,
The world askew,
The siren stills
The beautiful songbird dines
Carnivorous feathers
Peck at scales and skin
The beauty forever enjoying the taste
The songbirds song, misplaced
The beautiful songbird croaks
I won't hear again,
The soft wheezing cry
One last time embraced by him
The songbird croaks goodbye
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 2:14 PM UTC