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Alex Mejia May 2015
Sway me into this night
Let the insomnia in our eyes lash away our love,
Interlock your toes and fingers with those which you call mine.
Where the time becomes stuck
Let me live this golden moment
Just once more- of the many.
I wouldn’t mind if your beautiful eyes would
Awake once again and undo my faults and break the door pane.
Every move you make is stunning,
Every presence of your completes me.
Your love is a bandit in disguise
Steal my love with your words of golden-hue
Wise, with a dulcet tone
Beauty and charm
Knowledge, witty
Utter belief, inscriptive poetry
And humane weakness.
Hung high in the skies I deceived my enemies,
You my armor-
You my revolution.
Subtleties of Autumn and Spring,
Your affections whisper lush
Whistles oxygen
Mumbles endearment
Mutters what I need.
But its effect are sounded magnificently
Embrace.
You pink mouth and hazel eyeshades
Gleam over my past,
Your words simmer under the vapor of tempest
And by the meadow land- this of which we own
I fall for you,
In this prohibit-pious realm,
Unbeknownst to me.
Your name implanted in my skies is all I see.
I had a friend, a botanist by training,
A florist by design, who purchased
Two & a half relatively fertile,
Well-water irrigated acres in
Southern California.
(That’s about a hectare for you
Metric freaks.)
The land, Katie Scarlett:
Moreno Valley, Incorporated,
Part of the hilariously misnamed
“INLAND EMPIRE,” to wit:
Riverside and San Bernardino,
The latter county already this year’s
****** Capital of North America.
Last year’s too and the year before that.
ZAP! I am neuro-linguistically
(Thank you, Noam!)
Pre-coded to check the numbers:
The IRAs and bank accounts;
The living trusts; the Gary U.S. bonds.
My safe-deposit box, and right on time,
With a puff of smoke, a drum & cymbal smash,
The Confiscatory Duke appears.
The Duke-Duke-Duke of Earl,
The eternal, the infernal—
Internal Revenue Service:
THE I.R.S. hurdy-gurdy 1040 Man--in this
Case Men--stiffs in dark overcoats & fedoras,
Official 1040 Men, thank you very much,
With a tip of their green eyeshades,
Polite debt-collecting blokes,
No “Break-a yah face” guidos,
Just subtle government lawyers
Garnishing what’s left of your future.
Whoever came up with: “In this world,
Nothing can be said to be certain,
Except death and taxes.”

(Probably Benny C-Note
Go Fly a Kite himself,
Benjamin Franklin, one of
The so-called Founding Fathers—
Need I remind you all, who gave
Alexander Hamilton--an out-of-wedlock
West Indies *******--- Poor Richard’s blessing
To create the U.S. Department of the Treasury,
Which oversees the Revenue Bureau.)
Yeah, Death & Taxes--
Benny sure hit the nail’s head.

But I digress . . .
My friend Louie, the Botanist
Plants two & a half acres,
A hectare of flowers,
Broadcasting, strewing
Like alfalfa grass, many thousand
Bird of Paradise seeds,
Sal’s bird—if you catch my drift—
The Bird of Paradise,
Strange plant, N’est-ce-pas?
Looks like a punk rock
Woody the Woodpecker,
Day-Glo orange plumage,
A strangulation collar,
A ring around the collar of
****** blue hickeys, those freaky rings,
A veritable Sprezzatura!
Louie’s field of simple joy:
Mother Earth at her best.
Fay Slimm Oct 2016
Walking her tight-rope
Night falls just when dawn
Puts on her eyeshades to learn how to cope.

Changes in morning occur
As light-shards invade,
Undress dark, and ignite dawn's zest further.

Glints of daylight begin
When grass shakes awake,
And breezes stir as trees start to limber.

Listen, catch whispers
Of dawn's waking yawns
As she waits at Sun's door, young and unkissed.
Satsih Verma Feb 2018
Your body, intense―
eats the sins,
dedicated to hunger OF temple.

Weeping windows
will speak for ground zero
from where you picked up the rosary.

Would you invoke
the spirits of owls, who would
not open their eyes in day light?

This was the thought
of the moment. I hail
the half-finished kiss.

There was an allegro
in the outskirts of moon.
I wanted to wear a mark.
Satsih Verma Feb 2018
Your body, intense―
eats the sins,
dedicated to hunger OF temple.

Weeping windows
will speak for ground zero
from where you picked up the rosary.

Would you invoke
the spirits of owls, who would
not open their eyes in day light?

This was the thought
of the moment. I hail
the half-finished kiss.

There was an allegro
in the outskirts of moon.
I wanted to wear a mark.
Jill Tait Aug 2020
Squawking Seagulls swooping on the seashore.. now there’s s screeching sound that I absolutely adore..
scavenging the coastal lands as happy people play.. building brilliant sandcastles on a midsummer’s day

Seaside resorts are as busy as can be.. scoffing fish and chips with mushy peas for their tea.. a scattering of shops selling seaside souveniers.. caring Grandkids buying bric-a-bric for the little old dears..There is nothing nicer than a trip to the coast and if you go on the sabbath you will love a Sunday roast

So grab the stripey wind breaker and some buckets and spades.. now don’t forget to add the  suncream with everybody’s eyeshades..pack a picnic basket..sandy sandwiches are a tasty treat.. but don’t take chocolate coz it will melt in the heat.. your carboot is full to the brim.. you are off to the seaside to enjoy that swim

— The End —