"doris" poems
mr moonlight
mr nowhere
maxwell edison
mr jones
dr robert
sgt pepper
mr kite, bb king
edgar allen poe
walter raleigh
mat busby
the hendersons
and maggie mae
mr mustard
captain marvel
rita lucy jojo
vera chuck and dave
mother nature
polethene pam
mr heath doris day
and buffalo bill
loretta martin
**** sadie
hey jude eggman
my michelle
rigby and pilchard
or elenor and semolina
took father mckenzie
too see a dancing horse
henry his name was
rocky raccoon was there
prudence rode elephant
to the i me mine waltz
---
There gonna crucify me
the way things go
christ it aint easy
the next day dont know
you know the walrus was paul man
johns bird can sing
george was a genie
ringo wore a ring
but paul is dead now
george stole his soul
john is alive though
ringos in a hole
her royal highness the tax man
commit the perfect crime
she asked for more
with a belly full of wine
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 12:13 PM UTC
There's a big deal made these days
About ****** harassment at work
And quite rightly so
Who needs a heavy breathing half-wit
Slobbering over them at work?
Or anywhere else
If it comes to that
But I remember a time
Oh what a time
When I started work in the sixties
As a bobbin boy in the mills
And when mill girls
Were wild wild women
And we were their targets
We became swift of wit and feet
Very quickly
And I remember clearly when
Dear old "Make 'em 'ave it Phil" Doris
Grabbed Dougie Hibbert on his own
Hiding in the bobbin racks
She put his **** in a milk bottle
Then horned him up so he couldn't
Get the **** thing off
Then shouted everyone
To come and see
By Phil Roberts
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 5:35 AM UTC
And the trees about me,
Let them be dry and leafless; let the rocks
Groan with continual surges; and behind me
Make all a desolation. Look, look, wenches!
Paint me a cavernous waste shore
Cast in the unstilled Cyclades,
Paint me the bold anfractuous rocks
Faced by the snarled and yelping seas.
Display me ****** above
Reviewing the insurgent gales
Which tangle Ariadne’s hair
And swell with haste the perjured sails.
Morning stirs the feet and hands
(Nausicaa and Polypheme).
Gesture of orang-outang
Rises from the sheets in steam.
This withered root of knots of hair
Slitted below and gashed with eyes,
This oval O cropped out with teeth:
The sickle motion from the thighs
Jackknifes upward at the knees
Then straightens out from heel to hip
Pushing the framework of the bed
And clawing at the pillow slip.
Sweeney addressed full length to shave
Broadbottomed, pink from nape to base,
Knows the female temperament
And wipes the suds around his face.
(The lengthened shadow of a man
Is history, said Emerson
Who had not seen the silhouette
Of Sweeney straddled in the sun.)
Tests the razor on his leg
Waiting until the shriek subsides.
The epileptic on the bed
Curves backward, clutching at her sides.
The ladies of the corridor
Find themselves involved, disgraced,
Call witness to their principles
And deprecate the lack of taste
Observing that hysteria
Might easily be misunderstood;
Mrs. Turner intimates
It does the house no sort of good.
But Doris, towelled from the bath,
Enters padding on broad feet,
Bringing sal volatile
And a glass of brandy neat.
3.3k
Struggling for a gift again,
Every year a new idea needed.
What can I get an agnostic who has everything?
Another Tiffany charm
Won't do any harm.
A clay pigeon shooting experience couldn't possibly miss
How about Afternoon Tea...
With me?
Wait, an idea that's viable,
A personalised Bible
Where, rather than 'God',
Her name instead:
"In the beginning Doris-Ann created the Heavens and the Earth"
Right through to:
"I am the Alpha and the Omega, says the Lord Doris-Ann"
What a revelation,
A new gift to sweep the nation!
A personalised Bible
Whose sales will rival
The good book itself.
Such a gift might be great,
Until, at St Peter's gate,
Doris-Ann might have to explain
That she was once God on Earth
And that should be good enough
For an agnostic not to be rebuffed.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 8:11 PM UTC
My mother is a poem
A haiku for sure I say
A gift from heaven.
She nurtured my life
like flower she’ll always be
blossoming with light
Mother Doris rocks
Sharing wisdom at every age
Teaching how to be
Mom inspired me.
though sometimes we fought in life
I love her so much
She carried my soul
helping me grow and survive
helping me love self.
With memory gone
doesn't matter love is strong
love weaves love in smiles.
Jan 18, 2018
Jan 18, 2018 at 11:03 PM UTC
Doris bought herself a bike when she were 93.
Thought a trip to John 'O'Groats, would keep her flying free.
Started off at Lands End, from there on she did wobble.
Rode past the tanker.
****** driver,what a ******
He nearly knocked her off.
She noted down his registration number.
Took it to the cop shop.
Wasn't feeling very happy, poor old darling needs a *****
Got back on her bike, to resume her hike.
The raindrops poured and granny snored.
Had a kip while on her bike, maybe Granny needed a trike.
Got as far as the corner shop.
She fancied a little nibble.
Noticed it was getting dark.
She checked out the sky.
Decided cycling was too hard work.
So off she went.
Decided to fly.
Grabbed her broomstick from the hallway.
Off she flew, up, up and away.
Wahey Doris.
Witch granny on an away-day.
(C)LIVVI 2014
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 8:51 AM UTC
Hail in peace wherever you abode now, dear Nadine Gordimer
You white daughter of Africa, the pen-mistress of July’s people,
You are the lover of July, your holy months of literature
That similarly gave a ****** grave marriage to Maziz Kunene
The African saint of orature; And Okot P’ Bitek, the lion of Gulu,
July have wedded you to the sombre grave in the Jo’burg,
As its apparatchik, the menacing jaws of death feel humdinger!
O! Dear little daughter, cursed are the jaws of death
They have kept on wooing and wooing you relentlessly
They have yearned for your betrothal with mad jealous,
For your iconic position in white African literature,
In which you stand with soldierly embrace a Nobelite,
They have now taken you to their inner chamber nuptials in death,
Before anything; let them now pay dowry to your bothers;
J M Coetzee, Alex La Guma and Dennis Brutus,
For there’s is a competent herds boy, a black shepherd;
Ezekia Mphalele, his living soul will keep the cows
Off down Corner B of the troubled African Image.
Say hello for those you are with in the current realm,
Say hello to foremen and fore daughters of Africa
Those that chose to visit the realm of ancestor precociously;
Say hello to them; Angelo Maya and Doris Lessing,
Let their caged birds and blooming grass sing uproariously,
Marriama Ba and Margaret Ogola, African girls,
They had a long letter and the source of the river from black dialectics,
O! Dear old baby Nadine Gordimer, stand firm in face to face with nothing
Other than the present time you’re in; the Africa’s realm of living dead
To sing the ballads of anti-apartheid both in heaven and on earth,
The only true testament of your footprints on the global sands of times
That Nadine Gordimer, July’s white-African daughter is deadly alive!
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 9:18 AM UTC
Whatever will be will be
Or so says Doris day
I heard that song
So long ago
Sorry if I butchered it
But it still rings in my head
What will be will be
Is it true
Is it false
Should it be
Comforting
Or is it an excuse
You aren't in control
And what will be
Will dam well be.
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 12:36 AM UTC
The village pump is where she was stationed
Her purpose in life, to glean information
Every morsel of 'news' she'd greedily savour
Though reluctant to empty her head, to fill up her neighbour's
That mucky young hussy's expecting you'll find
I'm certain I know who did it this time
He bought a bike, the crafty young fella
And no good came on it Doris I tell ya
He put one in Fram in the family way
And thas a good fifteen mile away
And if you ask me, he's too fond of his sister
If there's a young'un who's willing round here he'd not miss her
So lock up your daughter do she'll be the next
He'll be snouting round here before long I expect
And look at poor Bob, they say he's frustrated
They reckon his hip bone is half discolated
Same as old **** see him hick with his stick
All wore up and not sixty as yit
You don't look wholey clever yourself
Doris you really should keep an eye on your health
And Grandma Green has took to her bed
I'll drop by there today, 'cos same as I say
You're a long time dead
Well I should be going, I've said too much already
Cheerio now, and do you goo steady
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 3:43 PM UTC
It was all a reality Doris had come to accept (and Bernard too, to an extent). They had moved as if they were one entity for the majority of their life. Every thought would come in pairs; each footstep was echoed by the other, and every wine bottle was shared. They'd been wed for 50 years now, and with each anniversary, they found themselves becoming all the more soluble; mixed together like some kind of brilliant concoction: a solution to all of life’s problems.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC
Preparations are gearing up for the iD Dunedin Fashion Show, which this year opens with a tribute to Australasian style on Anzac weekend.
The 120m-long platform of Dunedin's railway station is again the venue for shows on April 24 and 25, which are preceded by the iD International Emerging Designer Awards on Thursday night at the Town Hall.
Saturday night is sold out and about 100 tickets are still available to Friday's show, organisers say.
Labels Carlson, Mild-Red and NOM*d, brands synonymous with Dunedin fashion, were in the original show in a local bar in 2000 and they're still show stalwarts.
Company of Strangers, Charmaine Reveley, DADA Vintage, Storm, Perriam, Deval, GG (from Shanghai), Liann Bellis, BEATS clothing, Jason Lingard and Jane Sutherland are also strutting their stuff this year.
The shows open with a section titled Together Alone, Revisited, put together by Doris De Pont, featuring garments by four New Zealand and three Australian designers shown at an exhibition at the National Gallery of Victoria in 2009.
International guest judge Doris Raymond, the star of documentary series LA Frockstars, is also bringing some garments with her for the show.
The owner of vintage emporium The Way We Wore has a fabulous collection of outfits and she will talk about them at an event in the city on Friday.
Six fashion graduate designers from the Otago Polytechnic School of Design will also show their collections in the shows on Friday and Saturday night.
Garments made by the winner of the emerging designer awards are also in the show.
The finalists were selected from nearly 100 entries from seven countries and 14 fashion schools.
There's a strong showing from Australian schools, especially from Sydney, says judge Tanya Carlson.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
Hazel wants to put off going home, she
Loves Paris, and being with her maid Dunne
Has somehow made it seem to her that much
More enjoyable, much more than she thought
When she started out from London, but each
Day now, each moment, seems to bring her to
A closeness she has never had with a
Maid before. She watches now as Dunne sits
Beside her outside the restaurant on
The Champs Elysees, the way she holds the
Cup, the head to one side, the eyes focused,
So aware. The clothes she had bought her for
The trip to Paris fit her well, and she
Looks after them as if she were afraid
They might spoil in the noonday sun, folds them
At night so precisely, so carefully.
Hazel sips her coffee, the noon sunshine
Warms her. Dunne examines the menu, tries
To understand the French written there, her
Finger running down the list. Hazel wants
To place her hand over Dunne’s, feel it, sense
The life there in the pulse. When Dunne helped her
Bath the night before, her hands were so soft,
So gentle, her attention to detail,
Her touch. Hazel sighs. Less of a maid now,
At least she sees her less so, seems more a
Companion, yes, that’s it, she says to
Herself, companion. The word seems odd
In her mouth, like saying Doris instead
Of Dunne. A class thing, she assumes, that seems
To separate, putting people into
Different boxes. Dunne sips her coffee
And looks at Hazel. The eyes seem to drink
Her in. Hazel shyly smiles. If her friend
Margaret had not let her down at the
Last moment she would not have brought Dunne; she’d
Have made love to her Margaret in the bed
At night rather than lie there watching Dunne
And listening to her breathing. Yet she’s
Glad now that Margaret hadn’t come, the
Relationship had grown stale. Now there is
Dunne. Fresh, alive, sitting there beside her,
Just a few inches away, bringing a
New dimension to her life, and pushing
To the back of her mind, the desire
Awaking there, a want, and muttering
Silently to herself, looking into
Dunne’s eyes, help me to resist, gazing at
The lips, wanting to touch and to be kissed.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 5:09 PM UTC
The second poem in the series by my alter ego, Count Orlok the wicked Vampyr
O how the moon peeps out gaily from behind a pink cloud,
Its light shining wanly on the grave of my fat neighbour,
That ugly old **** Bert Higgenbottom, follower of silly old Jesus,
As my vampyr fangs glisten in the ***** moonlight.
Ding! **** The midnight bell tolls like the clappers
And I rise fully ***** to begin the horrid task
Which I have been putting off for months:
The ritual defilement of his mouldy corpse.
What a shock to discover his nightdress-clad body
Lying next to his collection of Doris Day LPs;
Thus I turn the putrid plump corpse over carefully
Before sodomising it with my mighty circumcised ****
Yucch! It's a grim job but someone's got to do it.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 7:31 AM UTC
My green fingered great uncle Maurice
ran away with a stripper called Doris
she takes off her clothes
wherever she goes
and she's got ***** hair like a forest.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 7:11 AM UTC
The speckled puffer fish was a greedy scavenger
a greedy thing with no agenda but to grab the hook
I used to hate to touch them.Big black eyes staring
Huge gopher teeth bare and sharp.
I was Huck Fin Carribean
Bare foot and rural as heck
Dirt ring around my neck
The dusty roads
humid.
The sweltering heat and the river would meet us
in the mangrove Forrest as we walked the
Picado road to river's edge.
A cranky dory sat tied of
for our convenience with a paddle or two.
We pushed of and fought the tide
to get us safe to the other side.
Aunt Doris would stand with'
arm akimbo a cigarette burning
between index and middle
a tiny smile stayed put.
The Muttruce , as we named it
Flourished because no one would eat it
so the river teemed with catfish and puffy.
we did not eat catfish either some cultural bias. Lucky cat
but that bias died when the market for him found Belize.
Scary little blacked eyed buck toothed *******
Dont know if they are on someones menu now.
They seemed a bit scarce last time i fished.
high priced export on the orient express I guess.
Price of popularity is no privacy
eaten to extinction.
Head up , eyes open
mouth closed.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 10:57 PM UTC
Wind blows. Snow falls. The great clock in its tower
Ticks with reverberant coil and tolls the hour:
At the deep sudden stroke the pigeons fly . . .
The fine snow flutes the cracks between the flagstones.
We close our coats, and hurry, and search the sky.
We are like music, each voice of it pursuing
A golden separate dream, remote, persistent,
Climbing to fire, receding to hoarse despair.
What do you whisper, brother? What do you tell me? . . .
We pass each other, are lost, and do not care.
One mounts up to beauty, serenely singing,
Forgetful of the steps that cry behind him;
One drifts slowly down from a waking dream.
One, foreseeing, lingers forever unmoving . . .
Upward and downward, past him there, we stream.
One has death in his eyes: and walks more slowly.
Death, among jonquils, told him a freezing secret.
A cloud blows over his eyes, he ponders earth.
He sees in the world a forest of sunlit jonquils:
A slow black poison huddles beneath that mirth.
Death, from street to alley, from door to window,
Cries out his news,--of unplumbed worlds approaching,
Of a cloud of darkness soon to destroy the tower.
But why comes death,--he asks,--in a world so perfect?
Or why the minute's grey in the golden hour?
Music, a sudden glissando, sinister, troubled,
A drift of wind-torn petals, before him passes
Down jangled streets, and dies.
The bodies of old and young, of maimed and lovely,
Are slowly borne to earth, with a dirge of cries.
Down cobbled streets they come; down huddled stairways;
Through silent halls; through carven golden doorways;
From freezing rooms as bare as rock.
The curtains are closed across deserted windows.
Earth streams out of the shovel; the pebbles knock.
Mary, whose hands rejoiced to move in sunlight;
Silent Elaine; grave Anne, who sang so clearly;
Fugitive Helen, who loved and walked alone;
Miriam too soon dead, darkly remembered;
Childless Ruth, who sorrowed, but could not atone;
Jean, whose laughter flashed over depths of terror,
And Eloise, who desired to love but dared not;
Doris, who turned alone to the dark and cried,--
They are blown away like windflung chords of music,
They drift away; the sudden music has died.
And one, with death in his eyes, comes walking slowly
And sees the shadow of death in many faces,
And thinks the world is strange.
He desires immortal music and spring forever,
And beauty that knows no change.
1.6k
once a collage
hung on a wide white wall
with monochrome photos of
all creatures great and small
Dali juxtaposed with Doris Day,
LBJ atop JFK, and Joe DiMaggio,
grinning Frankenstein and frowning
Frank Sinatra, not far below
Hemingway, Groucho Marx, Marlon Brando
occupying three of four corners, the bottom right
a curious cat, in stretched repose
dead center, a cracked crucifix
and four Beatles all, Paul the biggest
with the cross crowning his frame
a Corvette,
and Stalin in his tomb
were also given ample room,
on this black and white piece of art
as were ****** Cleaver, with cap,
Jimi Hendrix with axe
another three score
and a couple more, completed
this cacophony of sight, but absent
were J. Bieber, Beyonce, any of the Simpsons
of Fox fame, revealing the artist of this gray masterpiece
was blissfully blind to cyber sacrilege,
Steve Job’s toys, and the lost soul
of Lindsey Lohan
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 5:21 PM UTC
Fools may pine, and sots may swill,
Cynics gibe, and prophets rail,
Moralists may scourge and drill,
Preachers prose, and fainthearts quail.
Let them whine, or threat, or wail!
Till the touch of Circumstance
Down to darkness sink the scale,
Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.
What if skies be wan and chill?
What if winds be harsh and stale?
Presently the east will thrill,
And the sad and shrunken sail,
Bellying with a kindly gale,
Bear you sunwards, while your chance
Sends you back the hopeful hail:--
'Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.'
Idle shot or coming bill,
Hapless love or broken bail,
Gulp it (never chew your pill!),
And, if Burgundy should fail,
Try the humbler *** of ale!
Over all is heaven's expanse.
Gold's to find among the shale.
Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.
Dull Sir Joskin sleeps his fill,
Good Sir Galahad seeks the Grail,
Proud Sir Pertinax flaunts his frill,
Hard Sir AEger dints his mail;
And the while by hill and dale
Tristram's braveries gleam and glance,
And his blithe horn tells its tale:--
'Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.'
Araminta's grand and shrill,
Delia's passionate and frail,
Doris drives an earnest quill,
Athanasia takes the veil:
Wiser Phyllis o'er her pail,
At the heart of all romance
Reading, sings to Strephon's flail:--
'Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.'
Every Jack must have his Jill
(Even Johnson had his Thrale!):
Forward, couples--with a will!
This, the world, is not a jail.
Hear the music, sprat and whale!
Hands across, retire, advance!
Though the doomsman's on your trail,
Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.
Envoy
Boys and girls, at slug and snail
And their kindred look askance.
Pay your footing on the nail:
Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.
1.6k
GRANDMA'S THANKSGIVING
"Over the river and thru' the woods to Grandmother's house we go."
No, we don't go to Grandma's house anymore.
As we did away back in days of yore.
But we still remember the good times we had.
The caring and love, tho' times were bad.
Grandpa saying Grace in his old German ways.
Grandma in her apron; those were the days.
It all started about nineteen-fifteen,
With it's tall White house and big red barn.
Come Thanksgiving, with no relatives near,
They gathered with neighbors to bring Holiday Cheer.
To the four-mile schoolhouse they came all together,
With families and food -- no matter the weather.
For each pioneer mother did her very best
To cook her special treats and out do the rest.
And give thanks for gardens and neighbors so near,
They brought and shared gladly their food and good cheer.
The children had practiced for weeks., come what may.
For each had a piece to be given that day.
A song to be sung, maybe a poem read from a card, ,
While the Wheezie old ***** was pumped very hard.
When all the program was over and done,
On to Grandma's and Grandpa's for more food and fun.
A few years later instead of the farm we'd go,
To the old Rock House -- home of Tena and Joe.
Eventually the group grew too large and so
To Potwin Community House we did go.
So today we give thanks for a legend in our time,
For Grandpa and Grandma and the memories they left behind.
And for friends and aunts, uncles and cousins,
We come altogether each year by the dozen.
to remember the past and visit a while here.
Then to say Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
- Doris G -- 1983
Nov 23, 2017
Nov 23, 2017 at 6:51 AM UTC
Eve and Steve
love drinking sherry
getting merry so dose Mary
really scary, she has eyes for all the guys.
Jane told Wayne that Jim´s a pain
and then ran off with his mate Shane.
Gary is the one for Carrie,
the one she really wants to marry
and Doris who´s a florist really fancies Boris
whose older brother Norris
drives a nineteen sixties Morris.
Now, Pat who lives in her own flat
has eyes for Jim because he´s slim
she really has a thing for him,
and her friend Sandie´s sister Mandy
is going out with a bloke called Randy,
whose friend is Wayne....Sandie´s latest flame.
Scary Mary longs for John who´s cousin
Peter is dating Rita, she´s Steve´s youngest
sister, his older sister Pam is going to marry Sam
whose brother Terry loves drinking sherry............
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 5:52 PM UTC
Shaving a matchstick.(pointless)
The future is set at thirty seven degrees and this I have read in the lees left in the mug,
so jug me a hare Doris while Boris brings forth a new Frankenstein
let's eat,drink and ****** what's left our our time here,switch all the lights on and let us drink wine dear.
Tomorrow we'll **** Jack and Jill and wipe out those **** tales we were told,like new lamps for old and rainbows with gold at the end,
bend into the bar dear and fill me a jar dear,tonight I do not want to think,let me sink into the pit where the corners are lit with the lights from the eyes that I see,Each degree takes me one way to another day filled with death and each wish that I wished for lays here on the damp floor covered in sweat.
We get what we wish for and sometimes we get more and others don't wish at all, and all roads don't go to Rome some vanish in the distance between the here and the getting,roads like lost wishes lay sweating on the floor.
so jug me a hare Doris,I'll go and call Boris,Frankenstein's coming for tea
I want him to see that there's **** all here for me, just one
more degree on the scale.
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 2:09 AM UTC
I miss Buffalo Bill and Jersey Lil'
Jesse James among other names
Like Hopalong and Big John Wayne
Cooper,Cagney and,
What's that Indians name?
Oh yes
Cochise.
The man of war, the man of peace.
Jimmy Dean and Johnny Ray
Otis,Sammy and Doris day all yesterday
And yet
I bet there's no one quite like them
Not like Borgnine,Heston or Glen Ford.
Rememeber West and Ward
The caped crusaders
Or Roy Thinnes and the Martian Invaders?
I miss them all
The magic of the casting call and Lucille Ball.
Where did they go?
Moved on no doubt to another show and more greasepaint
Ain't life dull Without it full
Of these great stars.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 4:32 AM UTC
Where did you go to, Doris Stokes?
Do you still talk to ghosts?
Doris is now a ghost, folks,
Did she just want to get on the telly?
Did the ghosts ever get on her nelly?
Or was she telepathic,
Or only telepathetic?
So, who now talks to ghosts,
Or erstwhile Doris Stokes?
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 8:07 PM UTC
~
Layers upon layers,
flaking residue...
scraping at the inner walls of my heart,
priming the ruins of my disassembled dreams while
masking off all hope of bleeding out or bleeding on
“Dare I bleed in the color of missing you?”
Scratches filled in with crayon,
vacant hues...
only on or outside of the lines of love
Woeful stick figures dancing to a lonely song,
played by the empty roller lashed to my hand
“Would you dare touch my handprints....smear them?”
Minutes take hours to pass, but who cares,
Que Sera Sera...
the old Zenith finds Doris Day happy,
nice someone can be
stirring a smile within a gallon of semi-(g)loss
“Why is the sale brand in barren tones?”
I cringe at the thought of another moment in this position,
base boards...
bent over and touching up,
flat lining without an edge,
waiting for your touch, your tinted smile...waiting your approval
“Like watching paint dry...”
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 1:41 PM UTC
Out of a licked sealed envelope your face emerged
Handed to me I did then look at thee.
It was a glossy three by five,
Who would know latter I’d take you for a drive.
Studying you like a blueprint in this sacred place,
All I got to work with was just your face.
Found myself suddenly in the middle of a quick test
Smile ear to ear, my mind then tells me, this is the best.
Off I go I’m on the quest.
Family Lacking in any kind of trust,
Now I hold your photo
Comparing to the profile of your now bust.
Darting eyes go back and forth
No prominent scars, not even a mark from birth
Picture looked about ten years earlier
How much you all change while lying on your back.
Doris did prove that to me
After the fact I found out that she was thee.
Turning your face to look at me now
For you laid looking to the left
Your mouth hung open exposing your pearly white.
Top front two I found the clue,
Inward they curved, from teeth maybe to big
And having a jaw, which was too tight.
(CARSr.6-1-12)
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 1:19 PM UTC