"espied" poems
She took my niece,
Made her, her-daughter.
Two of them sippin' coffee
In yoga clothes,
Watching sun-rising over the bay @
7:00am, on a Sabbath-Saturday.
She took my niece,
Made her, her-daughter.
Life, a puzzle, a jig saw dance,
Just found, right now, the right spot,
As I espied them, this poem,
Product of a momentary glance.
Another poem, another piece,
When,
She took my niece,
Made her into Her-Daughter.
7:02am
August 24th 2013
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 7:04 AM UTC
Human Observations (the woman pees)
if you walk the world with pen and paper
or eclectic electronic devices,
sure as the sunrise espied,
the pen will quick leak
when wearing white
and so will too the
righteous words
righteously,
thereafter
when you can't sleep and you must
slam your sweaty fist into pillow
know that the pillow is
silent thinking, dude,
you really ain't
got a hope, a
prayer
fallen asleep in the soaking tub
a thousand and one times,
ain't never drowned like
the warning ones say I
will do but only when
restless in my rustling
no-safety night sleep
in my lumpy bed,
where I’ve already
dream-drowned
a million
times
the woman pees, safe and secure,
comforted by the knowledge
that we have bathrooms
separate, her toilet,
man *** free, tho
we just finished
making sweaty,
fluid swapping
***
she does not, won't put on makeup
in her pj's to take out the garbage,
that is why she keeps loverman,
so handy, nearby, shamelessly
firm, unwavering, good god,
great for one "disposable"
use per night
when you tell your child that you love them,
and they do not reply at all, it isn't that they
don't love ya back, 'tis only that they haven't
learned to love themselves
something well that just
cannot be
taught.
the more trinkets I buy her,
more she screams stop,
but never not once
has she said, here,
take it
back
if you don't believe in Faeries and Elusives,
try, for then you have a middling chance
of getting the missing, disappearing
whole sock hiding
in her ******
back, intact
If must look up the time where your
love is currently hiding/residing,
then the probability is more than
1.000, that you no longer love
her enough, or
she, you,
not at
all
you know it is time to shut down,
hang up the pen and close the
iPad cover, surrender,
give up the poetry gig
4 real when you start
to prefer an
autocorrect
suggestion
~
More to follow.
someday.
Feb 2, 2018
Feb 2, 2018 at 7:19 PM UTC
**squinting up the leaves of the bountiful tree
i espied a mango ripe and soft with goodness
as the sun came gently filtering through
aloft the wings of a little fellow with a long beak
and a brisk song to celebrate dinner found
my feathered visitor hovered above the vintage prize
and as his thirsty proboscis drilled the succulent mango
the warm enticing juice, natural and healthy as ever,
drip-settled in the base of my hungry open eye
i thought i heard a flourish in the triumphant bird-song
such as one at the fall of a big wicket; and
in that slow-motion moment, i knew: the mango was his,
and it'd now be eat and let eat, till the last delectable mango**
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 10:19 AM UTC
Many have seen it within holy brains.
I've also found Terror on political lanes.
Most have spotted in religious garbs.
I've even seen Terror in Leader's barbs.
In hammer and sickle and in flag red.
Saw Terror when it left believers dead.
It came from skies on land of rising sun.
Horrifying, ugly Terror spared none.
Most have seen Terror in rebellious fire;
But I've even seen it in democratic attire.
In bullet cruel Terror can always be seen;
But I have even espied it in ballot mean.
Each has seen Terror in AK47's shine;
But I have even figured it in M4 carbine.
Things left unsaid may I dare to inform?
At times I have seen Terror in uniform.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 9:48 PM UTC
Two fairies it was
On a still summer day
Came forth in the woods
With the flowers to play.
The flowers they plucked
They cast on the ground
For others, and those
For still others they found.
Flower-guided it was
That they came as they ran
On something that lay
In the shape of a man.
The snow must have made
The feathery bed
When this one fell
On the sleep of the dead.
But the snow was gone
A long time ago,
And the body he wore
Nigh gone with the snow.
The fairies drew near
And keenly espied
A ring on his hand
And a chain at his side.
They knelt in the leaves
And eerily played
With the glittering things,
And were not afraid.
And when they went home
To hide in their burrow,
They took them along
To play with to-morrow.
When you came on death,
Did you not come flower-guided
Like the elves in the wood?
I remember that I did.
But I recognised death
With sorrow and dread,
And I hated and hate
The spoils of the dead.
5.7k
A View from a Valley Well
As I drew from your valley well .......waters sweet last night
My eyes were transfixed on your ******* ***** and tight
Your fingers like the harpist lost in song
Were dancing upon these pink peaks so long
Beyond these matching minarets
My eyes espied your round ruby lips
These labials lisped that eternal sacred love song of the bed
Captivating is the view from your valley to your head
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 9:41 PM UTC
Th poems were walking down the street
A young teenage girl,
A Professional Loser, but life lessoned and in possession of
Eagled-claws and tongue razored sharpened
From gettin/givin acidic high school barbed kisses
(She maintained up to date put down lists),
Swooped them up, hers to imprison,
Framed them to be soully hers,
Purposed for skin restoration during the wee hours of the
Crying Nights
A middle aged man, tired from failure,
Trapped tween lost rock n' roll dreams and
Unsuccessful retirement planning,
Suffocated by the hands of twixt and tween,
Grabbed the three, like a rock climbing hand-hold to
Take him home when and where his family looks at him
Pathetically.
This grandfather espied the other two,
Looked liked old familiars, friends maybe,
But eyes/words, dimmed, disparu,
Memories unsorted, disordered, jumble-merged,
Perhaps the words to a song he once knew complete,
But did he write that phrase, or was he just a poet
Thief?
The three poems went about their business,
Bringing heaven to earth,
*FYI, even Angels can't be everywhere, so,
God invented poems to do his ***** work,
Cleansing souls.*
They rode in~out of town on a prankster wave,
A cheering throng was not around,
But a singular poet saw, recorded the vision,
And thus, this nameless poet,
Below unmasked, unsealed,
Cleansed one more soul,
And that soul, this soul, as required,
Paid it forward.
Paid as in the past tense
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 10:38 AM UTC
Plant a Woman
"When a woman plants a tree, she plants herself."
John Muir
See the photo, on a stone walkway in a park on an island, somewhere in New York State
*Years after first encountered,
Returned this day, purposely,
To trod this bricked-path
Where a solitary brick, these special words carved.
This brick, a patient lady-poem in waiting,
Required a search-and-locate mission,
To verify my memorized eyesight,
Freed to release these words,
Years in the forming, from whence first espied.*
**When a woman plants a tree, she plants herself.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**
Much less than obvious,
Import of said statement,
Complex, notes, scents, questions...
Perhaps this is the thus, the why,
Why this po-effort, somnolent, yet disquieted,
In recesses, drew lines on the wall, with one line
Slashed across, for every month,
It gestated, unborn, but not offering to die,
It did not come effortlessly.
I am seed of man,
Planted within woman.
I am a tree of iLife ,
My seed planted within
You, iReader.
I am as much woman as man,
Perhaps more so...
Wrote you, told you,
I Speak Woman^
Perhaps more so...
Even better than man.
No shame, I rise with the dawn,
To bake the bread,
Alongside her, her secrets, she has, need learning,
Her bread, raisins, cinnamon and secreted inside,
Wisdom of loving kindness.
She scatters seeds with recklessness,
Who can know where wheat will be needed,
Someday, her children exiled?
Forest investor, tree planter,
Futures she sees, where others see but wood,
I follow her lead, for I cannot but fail to
Prosper, when on paths tread,
Formed, excavated by her footfalls.
I give her rubies,
I give her gold,
When I ask where it be,
She laughs and says adorning the tongues
Of the hungry and in need.
So I give her more.
Indeed, I plant my seed inside her daily,
Let her plant trees as she desires,
Her forest, the refuge of my old age,
So she plants trees, as I
Plant a Woman.
Thanks be, that her trees,
Come from her *****
Now I understand Mr.Muir.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 3:02 PM UTC
All wise and knowing seer of Delphi, Oracle I beg thee tell me,
What enchanting malady afflicts my mortal soul?
It churns my stomach like as butter, pangs my heart and makes it flutter,
Spins my thoughts so rapidly, I lose all self-control;
A wildly spinning vortex and I lose all self-control.
Striking deeply, sharp blades whirring, thrusting madly, twisting, turning,
Searing pain that scorches, burning, brings me to despair;
Silently it tracks and trails me, pouncing when my courage fails me,
Oracle, what sickness ails me? Save me from its snare;
Oh wise and noble Oracle, what has me in its snare?
Mortal fool, be still and listen, I espied you in a vision,
Ancient magic has arisen from the depths of hell;
Crafted in the Devil's furnace, cunningly it seeks to burn its
Way into your soul, I've seen this, none can break its spell;
It knows your every weakness and you cannot break its spell.
You must succumb and do it swift, or e'er your soul will be adrift,
Held captive in the Devil's rift, your mind will split asunder;
Your struggle will be fought in vain, eternal doom in endless pain,
Relent or e'er you'll feel its bane, your soul it comes to plunder;
You must relent and let it in, or feel its wrathful thunder.
Oh Oracle, all wise and knowing, fear inside me keeps on growing,
I can sense a chill wind blowing, filling me with dread;
Although your words seem strange and hollow, I submit and gladly follow,
For I know the God Apollo guides the path you tread;
Wise Apollo takes your hand and guides the path you tread.
--
What sweet exquisite joy I'm feeling, giddily my head is reeling,
Days have passed and find me kneeling at my sweethearts feet;
Oh Oracle, I will not tarry, asking her if she will marry,
Saving me from malady, she makes my soul complete;
She drives away the malady and makes my soul complete.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 4:45 AM UTC
A Long time ago,
I was far from home,
Far from good food,
company
and familiar sights.
I was washing my bike,
Hoping for my neighbor's
sweet daughter
to come out
on her Balcony
Light up my day
with her sweet smile
My neighbor
My landlady,
Had a family of six
Beautiful daughters,
Who had no father
This churned my heart
I went soft for this family
But had no Intention
to ruin
Disrupt their peace
Nor interfere
In their daily lives
I kept my feelings
bottled in steel
but smiled
Good naturedly
at them all
and stood guard
against
any male that threatened
their gentle citadel
They treated me
with snacks
and their gentle
smiles like I was
the Orphan
and I was well fed
with my sacred
relationship
But their smiles
created pangs
in my young heart
which good breeding
stifled with iron hand
Until one day
I espied
my contractor
make eyes
at the oldest
This enraged me
Lit a fire
(I thrashed the man
Ah, the strength of youth
Knows no bounds)
into an inch of his life
till he begged
for mercy.
This fell on the ears
of my superiors
who in their enthusiasm
to please
their clients
had me transferred
2000 kms
from home
I waved goodbye
with tears in my eyes
my six angels
and their guardian
who had grown
to like me as well,
That day I swore
that no girl child
would come to harm
under my watch
without her will
and some times even
with her will when
her delicate youth
made her stray
into harms path
I would slay the dragon
of temptation
at the cost of
my reputation
among friends of
being a Casanova
I wear my disguise well
To Please God and Man.
Dec 26, 2011
Dec 26, 2011 at 2:32 AM UTC
I espied the wisps,
whisper with their lips,
quivering their golden hips,
orbiting blooming tulips,
to provoke me, with their quips.
Taking out an old crock,
stalking behind a rock,
I trailed those glowing beetles,
whiffing the fragrance of myrtles,
skipped across the backyard,
to catch the fireflies, flitting haphazard,
Humming and buzzing, I could hear,
with luminous insects tickling my ear.
Losing my faith, I turned back home
followed by an unknown kith, adventuresome;
He sat on my finger, glimmering with radiance
wish he did linger, while I stood
hypnotised, under nature’s brilliance.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 4:44 AM UTC
Harbour lights beckoning
Like saintly haloed will-o-wisps
Annointing ocean mists
Jaded haunting memories
Come surging down with tidal force
And flood all other thoughts:
*"Weep not for me o' mistress,
Ever my first love was the sea
And I love her more than thee"*
How oft' those words have plagued me,
How many moons have traced the sky
To fall from high
Reborn to die
And all in vain to answer why
The sea could never save me?
Weary sea-legs greet the dock,
Where once they brought in stoic stance
An end to fair romance
Your eyes were filled with sadness,
Beacons born of hope and kindness
Blinded by my blindness:
*"Weep not for me o' mistress,
Ever my first love was the sea
And I love her more than thee"*
Stumbling blind from shore to lea,
From tavern, inn and hotel bar,
I search afar
Of ev'ry tar
To ask of all oh where you are
But nowhere can I find thee?
A young man needs adventure,
Yet all I learned from years at sea
Was all I missed of thee
Has time unwound the wounding
Of hasty words once said with zest
With pride and puffed-out chest:
*"Weep not for me o' mistress,
Ever my first love was the sea
And I love her more than thee"*
With all hope driven from me,
I watched a sailor paint a tale
To taint me pale
As he regailed
Of maiden fair and love that failed
And torment that befell thee
Panic wove itself a wreath
Around my heart and pulling tight
It dragged me through the night
From town to shore I stumbled
And there upon the jagged rocks
Espied your ebon locks:
*"Weep not for me o' mistress,
Ever my first love was the sea
And I love her more than thee"*
The beauty wrought within thee,
Noble grace and elegant flair
My maiden fair
Beyond compare
With ***** and seaweed in your hair,
What tragedy befell thee?
Translucent as the water,
You turn with sightless eyes to see
And see but thought of me
The sadness and betrayal
Takes harbour in your haunting face
Now anchored in this place:
*"Weep not for me o' mistress,
Ever my first love was the sea
And I love her more than thee"*
Through years that passed unkindly,
For all my sins of jealous pride
The truth I hide
From thee inside,
My heart and soul with thee reside
And I have always loved thee
The sea I loved has taken
The destined time we had to share
And thee in thy despair
Oh love my love forgive me,
Upon the sea I held so dear
To you alone I swear:
*Weep not for me o' mistress,
Ever my first love was the sea
But my heart belonged to thee*
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 4:08 AM UTC
78
A poor—torn heart—a tattered heart—
That sat it down to rest—
Nor noticed that the Ebbing Day
Flowed silver to the West—
Nor noticed Night did soft descend—
Nor Constellation burn—
Intent upon the vision
Of latitudes unknown.
The angels—happening that way
This dusty heart espied—
Tenderly took it up from toil
And carried it to God—
There—sandals for the Barefoot—
There—gathered from the gales—
Do the blue havens by the hand
Lead the wandering Sails.
1.7k
FROM off a hill whose concave womb reworded
A plaintful story from a sistering vale,
My spirits to attend this double voice accorded,
And down I laid to list the sad-tuned tale;
Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale,
Tearing of papers, breaking rings a-twain,
Storming her world with sorrow's wind and rain.
Upon her head a platted hive of straw,
Which fortified her visage from the sun,
Whereon the thought might think sometime it saw
The carcass of beauty spent and done:
Time had not scythed all that youth begun,
Nor youth all quit; but, spite of heaven's fell rage,
Some beauty peep'd through lattice of sear'd age.
Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne,
Which on it had conceited characters,
Laundering the silken figures in the brine
That season'd woe had pelleted in tears,
And often reading what contents it bears;
As often shrieking undistinguish'd woe,
In clamours of all size, both high and low.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC
The snow lay crisply on the sill
And gripped the windowpane.
A coach and horses scurried by
Slowly, slithering down the lane.
Beneath the gas light in the gloom
A group of choirboys sang.
‘Ding **** merrily on high’,
And all the church bells rang.
Whilst in his bedroom, up above,
A little schoolboy lay.
He’d hung his stockings on the posts
And he dreamed of Christmas day.
And on his bed an old greatcoat
Around his neck held tight,
And on his feet a rag knot rug
To warm him through the night.
His water bottle at his chest
Had now become quite cold.
But in his mind the warm thoughts raced
Of many stories told.
His Mom and Dad below him sat
Less warmly by a candle,
And worried how to pay the rent
Thus to avoid a scandal.
‘But one things sure’, his old mom said.
‘This year may be our last,
So we’ll do all that we can do
To make it better than the last.
‘Remember to be quiet’, she said.
‘Don’t wake my baby boy’.
Here’s an orange, apple and monkey nuts
And a little wooden toy’.
His Father crept into his room
And by his stockings knelt.
He slowly placed inside the gifts
Then in his waistcoat felt.
A tiny farthing in his hand
And in his eye a tear.
He gently pushed it with the rest,
Then to his boy drew near.
‘If only I could give you more,
Then Son I surely would.
For if it were the only thing to give
Then I would give my blood.
His Son lay there without a care,
A smile upon his face.
He kissed him gently on the cheek
And left without a trace.
Then slowly creeping across the hills
And softly clipping trees.
An orange globe of Christmas cheer
Began the frost to tease.
Wiping sleep out of his bleary eyes
And awakening to the cold.
Quickly rummaging into the socks
Clutched a farthing as if gold.
A little boy whose Christmas dreams
So simply had been blessed.
Sang a little Christmas song
And rapidly got dressed.
Each breath he breathed froze in the air.
His tiny hands and feet were frozen.
His mind already at the shop
Espied the sweets he chosen.
Liquorice wood and kali dabs
Pink sugar candied mice.
The little journey down the lane
And sliding on the ice.
His mom and Dad they saw his glee,
Forgot their sorry states.
At least upon this Holy day
They’d have food upon their plates
Dec 6, 2009
Dec 6, 2009 at 7:49 AM UTC
Take your pills, go to therapy,
Take your pills. go to therapy
“get better”
Take your pills, go to therapy,
Tell yourself you’re getting better
“You’re getting sick again ariana, we will raise your dose”
Take your pills, go to therapy
“Am i getting any better, am i healthier? do i look sick?”
Take your pills, go to therapy
Take your pills, go to therapy
“Why are you doing this to yourself Ariana?”
Take your pills, go to therapy
Take your pills, go to therapy
help
“how do i get the maggot thoughts that crawl into my head and tell me i’m inadequate, trifling?”
“It’s all circumstantial, and that is what we need to mend and patch”
Give me your mental diagnosis-diagnonsense
Go ahead, tell me what you’ve espied when you sat oneself down and perched your virtuoso intellect in my head
“oh yes, you comprehend
you understand
Everything.
You know me deeper than i know my self”
“We are getting somewhere, we are moving forward you are progressing!”
Take your pills, go to therapy
Take your pills, go to therapy
You must be pleased as punch you’re finally fixing me
dismally i disinform you, i lied
Why you may inquire? Not one can understand ones speculations or thoughts unless they are legitimately situated in my chamber of a lugubrious trench filled with distasteful maggots which leave dolorous contusions-bruises and thoughts that leave me questioning reality, questioning my essence, questioning myself
Take your pills, go to therapy
Take your pills, go to therapy
If i were in deed reviving from the sorrow i would no longer have these god awful scars and bruises
You can’t tell me i am not out of ones tree
when
you
scarcely
know
me
At times I’m not sure if i even know me___________________________________________________________________________
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
*She was a picture of monotonous monochrome.
She was deathly quite in one jaunty home.
She lied in wait of eyes that could see through her bleakness.
One who could see the beauty in her , beyond her illusory mess.
People gazed at her and noticed the lack of chroma.
Then a man , destitute of vision , approached and followed her aroma.
He gazed at her with the touch of his finger.
And time stopped as he started to linger.
His gaze took him , in the depths of her beauty.
And she spilled colors and made him sooty.
With no vision he espied her coloration.
and world was hysterical
at their love in
such
excommunication*.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 10:48 AM UTC
(greek tongue)
i.
Ένδυσης της αγνή
ένα παραθυρόφυλλο του προτροπή;
Espied θεραπείες , Girt μέση του,
δεν είναι σε τάφο, δια του παρόντος
υπερβατική πηγή έμπνευσης.
ii.
Αμετάβλητος θέλεις να είμαστε
συναντιούνται για νεότητα , η δική μου κόσμιος βασίλισσα;
Κανένας πιο ζωντανό μέσα ourn ονείρου,
μόνο εσύ και εγώ , ορυχείο μετριάζεται γλυκό.
iii.
θελεις ανθύλλιο του αψηφούν earthbound μυαλό των ανδρών του, που τόνος , που τόνος , θαυμάστε τους ? του είδους του Θεού.
iv.
O ' σε ourn χρόνο , O' εκείνη την ημέρα,
sup μας μαραίνονται , στη ζεστή αγκαλιά;
Ο Θεός να είναι ο ήλιος , το φως για ourn πρόσωπο ,
Αρχοντικού για να μας οδηγήσει στο σπίτι , πέρα από τις πύλες μαργαριταρένια .
(English version)
i.
Apparel of the chaste
a casement of exhortation;
Espied cures, waist's girt,
not in a grave, herewith
transcendent inspiration.
ii.
Immutable shalt we be
meet for newness, mine comely queen;
None more living inside ourn dreams,
Just thou and me, mine tempered sweet.
iii.
Floweret's shalt defy men's earthly mind's,
They warble, their marvel's; of heaven's
Kind.
iv.
O' in ourn time, O' in that day,
Sup we wilt, in warm embrace;
God to be the sun, light's on ourn face,
Mansion's to lead us home, past the pearly gates.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl jane Nagley ( àgapi mou dedication)
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 9:30 PM UTC
Pardon please my pedantry,
But I espied sir that in your rhapsody
You sometimes overlook crossing all your “t’s.”
If a point should be taken, then please let it be
That these consequential “t’s” should not be jotted down so flippantly.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 3:46 PM UTC
A nest of intricate design
A piece of art unmatched in decor
Amid the dark verdure
Of needle like leaves
The gay habitat of a swallow and her brood.
How suddenly it erupts into a clatter of sounds,
As the mother bird comes diving in
With a wee bit of a wriggling worm
Discreetly borne in her tiny beak.
Thrusting it into the gaping mouths
She departs and comes again
And again comes with something
A whirring insect or a twisting thing.
Nothing can appease her ravenous horde
And on she goes ferreting about.
At night fall she alights abrupt
From what infinite heights, God alone knows
Darting into her nest as she hovers,
The din subsides............
First into a fizzle, then into sharp silence
Bundled in her warmth, the little ones
Sleep till the first flutter of dawn
From my window, I enjoy this diurnal scene
Repeating itself in methodical precision
Until someday, into heaven’s insurmountable heights
The young ones take off on tiny wings!
A sight so accustomed, cheery and gleeful
My eyes would soon be deprived of
And the thought makes me ill at ease
A wonder it is, the young ones
Inexperienced though, thrives so well
On catapulted suddenly into an eerie world!
What husbandry in nature!
What Godly solicitude!
The next morn, my heart missed a beat
At what I espied through my open window.
On the ground lay the swallow’s nest
Ripped, broken and blown to pieces
Like a heap of rubble after a tremor.
By its side lay a few downy feathers
The sad reminder of a stark felony!
In an instant flashed past
The grim image of the black Tom cat
That prowls my courtyard in the dark
With glowing eyes and bristly whiskers
Damning that accursed thing
I picked up that wreckage
My mind violently mutinying over
The ‘insolent might’!!
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 12:24 PM UTC
Dear diary:
Land sakes! Leofric cannot believe I carried through with it. But indeed, today I rode naked along the sparse, meager streets of ye old Coventry.
And whilst my long hair, let down for the occasion, did provide me a jot of modesty; alas! a strong breeze I am most certain granted uncivil eyes to plainly see my top half is much ado about nothing.
Nonetheless, an even more discomfiting fear shall be if some peeping tom espied his fair countess to be no natural blonde at all; just a fare-thee-well lemon juicing, miracle bra wearing charlatan.
On the plus side, I did achieve quite a lovely, even, 'no-lines' tan!
Jul 2, 2020
Jul 2, 2020 at 2:33 PM UTC
This is where the beech tree fell
all that remains is a splintered stump
all the birds morn her death
and with no songs bow their heads
The forest weeps in silent tears in falling leaves
for she was the last boarder of the ancient woodlands
now her shadow with never be cast in her majestic frame
never one liken to her will ever be seen again
Through the years by the new road
she had endured motorized impacts
even her new buds of early spring
would replace their own when singed
Mighty was her endurance of winds swift and fast
she had withstood the blight of many a parasite
had broken off limbs for the fear of loosing all
on hot heat waves that could finish ones all
In her younger years of life
she had witnessed great battles
seen many a brave man
fall on her espied battlefield
Yet that night of that great tempest
she made her whispers to the others
and as the corn turned ****** red
she resigned herself to her death bed
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 7:37 PM UTC
she stood naked neath the cascading waterfall
a bush walker espied her from the track
he was enthralled by her pert *******
they almost were saying we need caressing
he made him self known to her
by saying isn't it a lovely day
she replied it certainly is
why not join me in the waterfall's spray
he disrobed on a bolder rock
and swam to where she stood
then they imbibed
in some physical interplay
the atmosphere
they created neath the waterfall
was truly pleasurable
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 6:20 PM UTC
perhaps it was because i espied
zeppelin and the eagles-beatles
in your words
perhaps it was the soft sadness
of half sung songs
and leftover musings
perhaps i saw
a bit of my soul
echoing in your work
for that and
all that is to come
I Thank You.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 2:00 AM UTC
he espied our poems
on the internet
so fetching they'd look
in his pilfering net
without so much
as a by your leave
that thief did stow them
up his ****** sleeve
he twas like an incessant
plaguing parasite
taking those fab writes
which did so invite
none of them were
his intellectual property
they'd been nicked
with much impropriety
he got his fingers
caught in the honeypot
making off with works
which were not of his own slot
such brashness he did exhibit
for all to see
pretending that the pieces
were of his tree
he shall be recalled
for the loot that he took
of this deed he should be
bought to book
no person with a conscience
would ever steal
what isn't rightfully theirs
in its creative deal
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 6:10 AM UTC