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"friar" poems
In fair Verona where Will set the scene Belle Fortune moves the markers up and down. Two households both alike in dignity Fiercely compete for fear of losing ground. When Juliet saw Romeo at the dance Events were set in motion that, perchance, Would see fair Juliet as our Romeo’s bride but ultimately result in her suicide. With Tybalt and Mercutio both dead, And Capulet and Montague estranged. Young Paris sought fair Juliet to wed not knowing of her loss of maiden-head. Romeo was banished for his crime, a sin for which a peasant would have died Their two households, joined because they wed, remained divided by their foolish pride. Summer’s fierce heat shimmered in the air, oppressive in the absence of a breeze. With Friar Lawrence’s help, Romeo’s girl played dead, as if struck down by some unknown disease Romeo , in Mantua, heard that his Juliet Lay dead amongst the sleeping Capulets. A draught of deadly poison he obtained So they might sleep together once again. When Romeo met Paris at her tomb, Words led to swordplay, leaving Paris dead. Would not the world have been a better place if Romeo had kept it sheathed instead? Unshriven, Romeo drank the poison down- the only son of Montague now dead. Perchance just then fair Juliet revives Bereaved, she took his Dirk to bed instead. Authorities, arriving at the scene, could only mourn a brace of kinsmen lost. Capulet and Montague were reconciled Their amity bought at a fearful cost.
0
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 7:47 AM UTC
Juliet and Romeo
Let's look at this tale of Robin Hood, He was far away, being way too good, Rob the rich, give to the poor, Maid Marian left open her door, She was feeling way too generous, Got it on with Little John, no fuss, Far away was Robin Hood, Really, he was much too good, Then in came Friar Tuck, In with Maid Marian he snuck, Then they both got it on, With hyperactive Little John, Yes, Maid Marian was benevolent, Indeed, they all knew what that meant, Thus, this twisted tale of Robin Hood, John, Tuck, no Robin Hood the good!
0
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 12:37 AM UTC
A TWISTED LOOK AT ROBIN HOOD.....
Seagull on rotting planks, bouy bells ding to fog and driftwood. A culling fire exploits the docking shire. Filled with chlorine shards, legs caught in the clap-traps. Friar palms glisten, Rage responds with frisson. Clear view over water. Feel your arms relax and slip onto your back while the culling fire attacks. Bulbous deadening brain chimes As the eyes slide down to your omission crimes. Leave me alone in my despondent company. Don't push the matter further let communication fail to nurture. A warm breeze carries me like a floating portrait towards unreal scented meats. I'm here now, alone in the corner, The greatest intimacy with the static patterns on the carpeted flooring. The king of this corner is the odor of plank seating and flowery detergent in this lonely corridor fluorescent light-bulb poles and old grain floorboards. Now the returning shards of panic to uncelibate strangers drive me up, far, deep in my own ribcage to something wholly non-organic. Time to clock-in, time to check out.
0
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 1:25 AM UTC
The Church of Privacy
Former trier turned friar Storming rage behind fryers World of potential in the inner mental Work ethic impeccable Work conditions unethical Nine hours no lunch or break Better pump the brakes and pull stake Time to get a slice of thine own pie Reach nirvana prime and let the soul fly Soar above money traps and get the bag Lest your future gets clicky clacked And your happiness capped Spinning poverty’s vicious cycle Grinning sharks made me their disciple Life is trifling when your blood leaves Heat stifling as the done deed Has you on your knees begging Lord have mercy please Escape away from hate And let love into your heart Then and only then will you start To understand the holy ghost That is you And the apostles that are your friends Ride or die to the end This ain’t no game of let’s pretend It’s real life Your one shot to drip and ball So don’t let it slip by Or you’ll fall before you walk, y'all.
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May 14, 2019
May 14, 2019 at 4:17 PM UTC
Hustling
What should I be but a prophet and a liar, Whose mother was a leprechaun, whose father was a friar? Teethed on a crucifix and cradled under water, What should I be but the fiend’s god-daughter? And who should be my playmates but the adder and the frog, That was got beneath a furze-bush and born in a bog? And what should be my singing, that was christened at an altar, But Aves and Credos and Psalms out of the Psalter? You will see such webs on the wet grass, maybe, As a pixie-mother weaves for her baby, You will find such flame at the wave’s weedy ebb As flashes in the meshes of a mer-mother’s web, But there comes to birth no common spawn From the love of a priest for a leprechaun, And you never have seen and you never will see Such things as the things that swaddled me! After all’s said and after all’s done, What should I be but a harlot and a nun? In through the bushes, on any foggy day, My Da would come a-swishing of the drops away, With a prayer for my death and a groan for my birth, A-mumbling of his beads for all that he was worth. And there sit my Ma, her knees beneath her chin, A-looking in his face and a-drinking of it in, And a-marking in the moss some funny little saying That would mean just the opposite of all that he was praying! He taught me the holy-talk of Vesper and of Matin, He heard me my Greek and he heard me my Latin, He blessed me and crossed me to keep my soul from evil, And we watched him out of sight, and we conjured up the devil! Oh, the things I haven’t seen and the things I haven’t known, What with hedges and ditches till after I was grown, And yanked both ways by my mother and my father, With a “Which would you better?” and a “Which would you rather?” With him for a sire and her for a dam, What should I be but just what I am?
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1.7k
The Singing-Woman From The Wood’s Edge
What should I be but a prophet and a liar, Whose mother was a leprechaun, whose father was a friar? Teethed on a crucifix and cradled under water, What should I be but the fiend’s god-daughter? And who should be my playmates but the adder and the frog, That was got beneath a furze-bush and born in a bog? And what should be my singing, that was christened at an altar, But Aves and Credos and Psalms out of the Psalter? You will see such webs on the wet grass, maybe, As a pixie-mother weaves for her baby, You will find such flame at the wave’s weedy ebb As flashes in the meshes of a mer-mother’s web, But there comes to birth no common spawn From the love of a priest for a leprechaun, And you never have seen and you never will see Such things as the things that swaddled me! After all’s said and after all’s done, What should I be but a harlot and a nun? In through the bushes, on any foggy day, My Da would come a-swishing of the drops away, With a prayer for my death and a groan for my birth, A-mumbling of his beads for all that he was worth. And there sit my Ma, her knees beneath her chin, A-looking in his face and a-drinking of it in, And a-marking in the moss some funny little saying That would mean just the opposite of all that he was praying! He taught me the holy-talk of Vesper and of Matin, He heard me my Greek and he heard me my Latin, He blessed me and crossed me to keep my soul from evil, And we watched him out of sight, and we conjured up the devil! Oh, the things I haven’t seen and the things I haven’t known, What with hedges and ditches till after I was grown, And yanked both ways by my mother and my father, With a “Which would you better?” and a “Which would you rather?” With him for a sire and her for a dam, What should I be but just what I am?
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36
Go praise thou the Lord! It's seven o'clock! You cannot afford to slumber ad hoc. Five times you've hit snooze, and you've wasted an hour, Forget your excuse, and go get in the shower. Go praise thou the Lord! The prayerbook awaits, its words unexplored, so get on your skates. It stands on the shelf for the start of the day, For Jesus himself rose up early to pray. Go praise thou the Lord! Praise him in the morn! You seem to be floored. You don't know you're born. I wake you at six and you wail that you're sunk but just try your tricks as a friar or monk! Go praise thou the Lord! Take heed what I say: I know you've implored today's Saturday; No more may you lurk with alarm clock ignored; For praising takes work, so go praise thou the Lord!
0
Nov 3, 2010
Nov 3, 2010 at 4:48 AM UTC
Morning prayer
If love is tied to the stars, and to fate, to what seems to be just a fleeting dream- Perhaps star crossed or maybe all is lost, Will we know before the end of the scene? Are there hints? If so, what do they mean? What exactly, do all of these signs foretell? Is there a theme amongst the clues, between Half-hearted attempts at wishing well? But on these things, we do not dwell- Passions play should be a victimless crime. No heaven, nor hell, nor friar, nor spell, Could part us before our appointed time! Can we live, with the world as our rhyme, And as poets, play our songs to the part? Would you be mine if I could divine the secret melodies that lay in your heart? So this I swear, before God, in this state- To love you, as if this were our final scene. And then forevermore, our love will endure As an endless dream within our dreams.
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Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 2:09 PM UTC
Ritarando: To Juliette on the Balcony
daylights body wanders down the cobblestone street and falls on the old church steps the friar steps out of its golden doors and tries to sweep daylight off its feet with a ten cent broom but he cant get a purchase on the shadows that follow light wherever it goes daylights groupies are naked for daylights leasure alone so the friar retreats afraid and muttering curses at all the power and influence the church has lost daylights body takes a powder from that strange place and goes down to the shore warm up all thouse chilly babes snowbunny's massing on the beach pale skin honeys needing a tan all give daylight a kiss on both cheeks how ya been babe gimmie a call do lunch but his is a hot phone number to have and you gotta stand in line to catch a breeze in that company daylights body is dying to take a break so he slips on down the back road and kissing the girls one last time slips over the horizon be back tomorrow is the sticky note in the sky snowbunnys are here and its time to fly up to the big tree in downtown ft lauderdale and see what winner gets the bed in the corner under the all night gypsy choir
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Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 8:49 PM UTC
daylights body
During the fifteenth century, in Verona, Italy... Lays a story of the star crossed lovers, that ends in pure tragedy. According to the stars above it is said that the couple, was never meant to fall in love. The Capulet's rue, the Montague's. A long lasting feud, that ended very crude. Already secretly wed, by the Friar Lawrence. Juliet is forced to Marry Paris instead. On the day she is to wed she drinks a potion, to fake herself dead... When Romeo hears about his wife's death... It is at that moment, he is ready to take his very last breath. Their love was marked ill-fated. All because one family was very well hated.
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Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 1:10 PM UTC
Romeo & Juliet
In a Green Friar car park a professor turns the key - his engine shudders - falls mute. Leaning classword into the wind, his footfalls cover the echoes of the lethal chaos beneath his feet - masking the curses of proud Richard struggling to keep his saddle. Then, in a whirlwind of swords, the final Rose of Lancaster falls in slow motion to the Leichester earth - merging with the primal dust. The professor's archaeologists have arrived for the dig and Richard's bones begin to stir.
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Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 11:29 AM UTC
Richard's Bones (repost)
Some call me a prophet Others see me as a derelict These stories I’ve stored in my head Can easily be twisted to fantasy Am I reliable? You have no choice But to take what I say and believe At least for a little while I believe the listener Is as naïve as I seem Sitting on every detail Every word While visiting Southwark I met a variety of characters From different means of life With different perspectives on the world Looking innocent has its advantages It gives me a leeway To invade other’s privacy And extend the truth to the edge of fabrication Have you ever questioned a storyteller? We all seem friendly We talk highly of everyone we meet Until we dive deeper into their secrets The Squire Composing music is his forte I say it sounds beautiful And he seems fresh as the month of May The Friar A gossiper full of language I hope to understand To grasp A Sailor Having bad joints From extensive labor. He must work substantially to acquire those injuries The Summoner Full of white pimples Yet drinks red wine As red as blood I create a story Yet can end it all the same I tell you what you want to hear Not what reality presents in front of me For life is not exciting Without a bit of imagination. And with my mastered poker face It may be impossible to seek out my lies The darkness inside us all Can peek its head at any time Consuming us into a downward spiral Of lie after endless lie So am I reliable? We’ll just have to see. So here comes a story Told by me.
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Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 7:44 AM UTC
Storytellers
Some call me a prophet Others see me as a derelict These stories I’ve stored in my head Can easily be twisted to fantasy Am I reliable? You have no choice But to take what I say and believe At least for a little while I believe the listener Is as naïve as I seem Sitting on every detail Every word While visiting Southwark I met a variety of characters From different means of life With different perspectives on the world Looking innocent has its advantages It gives me a leeway To invade other’s privacy And extend the truth to the edge of fabrication Have you ever questioned a storyteller? We all seem friendly We talk highly of everyone we meet Until we dive deeper into their secrets The Squire Composing music is his forte I say it sounds beautiful And he seems fresh as the month of May The Friar A gossiper full of language I hope to understand To grasp A Sailor Having bad joints From extensive labor. He must work substantially to acquire those injuries The Summoner Full of white pimples Yet drinks red wine As red as blood I create a story Yet can end it all the same I tell you what you want to hear Not what reality presents in front of me For life is not exciting Without a bit of imagination. And with my mastered poker face It may be impossible to seek out my lies The darkness inside us all Can peek its head at any time Consuming us into a downward spiral Of lie after endless lie So am I reliable? We’ll just have to see. So here comes a story Told by me.
Continue reading...
56
Each button Of the elevator Is lamented with the misers Of religions rejects To see the Face of a man Forgotten in time is To look in the mirror Every waking morning alive And well until you are no longer The centipede creeps Like rain wet fingers in the In the depths of a mournful jungle, Swearing that the good times are ahead Of them if they can just survive this summertime Entranced, we mention Gods but in our Dreams only can Imagine ourselves Freud said Something like that But he's dead Long gone Living in books To be: Misinterpreted Misspelled Misused & Manufactured For future generations Of blood thirsty swine Wiping their ***** with Hundred dollar bills and Ingesting 50 cent pieces Just for the hell of it When the night finally falls And love subliminally dies The circus will stay open & The ferris wheel will continue To spin and spin and spin I like the Way you Brush your Hair after the Nightingale sings I like the Way you Say you Never hated Until You Met me I like the Way you Make up things That are Seemingly true But when the Do needs to be done The only way You act Is Blue And the separation Of ourselves Is left To the open road The naked toad The unmentionable node God's broken big toe "The Devil made me stub it," The friar said to brother John, "We got To get out of here, we don't Have very long." Press my linens with The soft ****** hands of angels Let me pray for my own sins My own low down ***** miseries As we walk to the top of the hill We think we are entering the right realm There are secrets in the stones In the rivers Within the leaves and the branches Of every living tree Listen Hear And learn To believe
0
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 3:10 PM UTC
Practicing the Low Down ***** Way
Each button Of the elevator Is lamented with the misers Of religions rejects To see the Face of a man Forgotten in time is To look in the mirror Every waking morning alive And well until you are no longer The centipede creeps Like rain wet fingers in the In the depths of a mournful jungle, Swearing that the good times are ahead Of them if they can just survive this summertime Entranced, we mention Gods but in our Dreams only can Imagine ourselves Freud said Something like that But he's dead Long gone Living in books To be: Misinterpreted Misspelled Misused & Manufactured For future generations Of blood thirsty swine Wiping their ***** with Hundred dollar bills and Ingesting 50 cent pieces Just for the hell of it When the night finally falls And love subliminally dies The circus will stay open & The ferris wheel will continue To spin and spin and spin I like the Way you Brush your Hair after the Nightingale sings I like the Way you Say you Never hated Until You Met me I like the Way you Make up things That are Seemingly true But when the Do needs to be done The only way You act Is Blue And the separation Of ourselves Is left To the open road The naked toad The unmentionable node God's broken big toe "The Devil made me stub it," The friar said to brother John, "We got To get out of here, we don't Have very long." Press my linens with The soft ****** hands of angels Let me pray for my own sins My own low down ***** miseries As we walk to the top of the hill We think we are entering the right realm There are secrets in the stones In the rivers Within the leaves and the branches Of every living tree Listen Hear And learn To believe
Continue reading...
87
If it is only *** spirited and jolly That gives utter joy in fading life; Then that priest pious and holy, Who must not have a darling wife-- Seeing he hath pledged to celibacy-- Will never experience earthly ecstacsy. And if it is alone gluts of money That do ensure the soul's bliss And peace; then that ascetic crony-- The friar--who did willingly kiss And vowed wholly to worldly poverty, Neither will know also prosperity. But, nay; it's neither cash nor coitus That gives the heart satisfaction surplus. Rather it be Jesus supreme and superior That guarantees man intense joy interior.
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Jul 12, 2012
Jul 12, 2012 at 7:42 AM UTC
Not Just That
As I review the periodic table of elements I have resorted to some thing so Idiotic That the scientist have adored the relevance of some infantile youthful designation. I wondered... if one hydrogen atom became two in what state, what would two hydrogens be in another state.   Shiftless bonds, or double 0 eight. Is H2o oxygen or is it O2 in rain drops. How exactly do I love your poetry. Do I breath as do tears fall from my eyes. Are we all spying in on the great love. Does a capitol L make us doves?   Ive never had such a crush, To turn down.  How much of a hug is a lie to another friend.  Ive had so many affairs. That the friar asked me to spell affiar again aware of a fraudien slip.   I listed turned and down again I went as I listened to my mother speaking to frenchmen. The diety, the diet, the destruction of language, I just stood there smiled and again I said... I wish you knew what you were saying in Latin as the holy spirit convenced him.  She said in uncertain latin, the angle (angel) condemed us to understanding demi gods and taro cards from matter to benevolence.
0
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 5:52 PM UTC
One Plus One
INTO THE INELUCTABLE MODALITY OF THE INELUCTABLE VISUALITY Leopold Bloom tousles my hair. Tells me I'm a "...grand little fella altogether!" His large black eyebrows look as if they will leap off his face and land on mine chew my mind. Of course he is only Milo O'Shea. Actor extraordinaire from Strick's ULYSSES. Some concert in the girl's gym has mad him appear here before me quaking in fear. He is the first man I see in a tux. Our class is to recite THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS. Was I not nervous? Jaysus I was so I was! The spotlight a Medusa turning us to stone. An audience a many headed monster. I...I...I petrified. I throw my voice out into the dark like throwing a mad dog a bone. "As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle mount to the sky." Guy beside me starts to cry wee running down his left knee. Now it's over and I am returned to myself again. Meeting Mr. Milo is just a happenstance. Later he will will become Durand Durand trying to **** Barbarella with sheer pleasure. Now,  Zeffirelli's kind friar in ROMEO AND JULIET. But for me he always blossoms into Bloom tousling my many many curls. "A wink of his eye and a toss his head. soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread."
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Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 5:47 PM UTC
INTO THE INELUCTABLE MODALITY OF THE INELUCTABLE VISUALITY
Dragged forth East out of Wales land of song and tales even then. The harp cherished more than the sword. Oxen strained as his joy drew them on. This effigy would change so much healing and mending with its power. Ancient oak, left to dwell, kept deep in some unforgotten cwm, revered still then stolen by this mendicant friar blinded to his only fate. What songs and spells it hid within the silence of its brooding? Feeling now the time had come choosing a earnest man of Christ to make its final play. What form it had no book tells, an Great Oxen in my mind to draw the condemned souls back from hell. Condemned as Forrest himself poor fool. Burned on his pagan effigy, at london's gates his fate. And the final victory for the tree. Darvel Gatheren you might read, this twisted form spoken now still makes branches stir on windless days. And trees smile, and thank the bishops for the last sacrifice to the old British Gods, made by the new order.
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Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 11:26 AM UTC
The Last Sacrifice
Who will sail down these laugh line Ganges rivers? you should hope someone will. turn to me and whisper, declare, utter that in the sinosphere, they hire crying women lest we pass, sail, transcend within the silence we were ushered onto this plateau with. lest our Deity mistake the two. scratch. stratch scratch scratch on the back of your throat. Two Hundred and Two Days ago this would have been your Angela’s Ashes spiral into veiled, Catholic interment. but you’re a heathen and no criers will have been hired no doters at your stone come Dias de Los Muertos as mother to grandmother, as peasant to ****** Spanish friar. but you have a plan. you, will be ground into a fine dust and pressed into a record. eight minutes on both sides be not afraid, be not a swan song.
0
Apr 27, 2011
Apr 27, 2011 at 6:06 AM UTC
gate
It's morning, I wake. To my shock, it's all the same. The scenery. The air. The silence. Without hesitation, I continue the ritual, The manufactured production line of life. I pass you by, the love I see. Everyday I pray to be, Your one and only in trust, But before that we must. Build bridges o'er the system, The malfunction is just too much. Create an identity and own our own privacy. We cherish most what we desire, Acknowledged just by the friar. Sacred matrimony, bond, connection. I pass you by the love I see, What more can I hope to be? Than your one and only.
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Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 5:03 PM UTC
Preoccupied Oversight
In fair Verona where Will set the scene Belle Fortune moves the markers up and down. Two households both alike in dignity Fiercely compete for fear of losing ground. When Juliet saw Romeo at the dance Events were set in motion that, perchance, Would see fair Juliet as our Romeo’s bride but ultimately result in her suicide. With Tybalt and Mercutio both dead, And Capulet and Montague estranged. Young Paris sought fair Juliet to wed not knowing of her loss of maiden-head. Romeo was banished for his crime, a sin for which a peasant would have died Their two households, joined because they wed, remained divided by their foolish pride. Summer’s fierce heat shimmered in the air, oppressive in the absence of a breeze. With Friar Lawrence’s help, Romeo’s girl played dead, as if struck down by some unknown disease Romeo , in Mantua, heard that his Juliet Lay dead amongst the sleeping Capulets. A draught of deadly poison he obtained So they might sleep together once again. When Romeo met Paris at her tomb, Words led to swordplay, leaving Paris dead. Would not the world have been a better place if Romeo had kept it sheathed instead? Unshriven, Romeo drank the poison down- the only son of Montague now dead. Perchance just then fair Juliet revives Bereaved, she took his Dirk to bed instead. Authorities, arriving at the scene, could only mourn a brace of kinsmen lost. Capulet and Montague were reconciled Their amity bought at a fearful cost.
0
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 8:18 AM UTC
Star Crossed
(crazy indeed i believe) by me..... Forensic friar, frigid liars, arent we all the forecast over overnight paintings? Packs to be handled, monstorious scandal, Murk with no lighted candle to show you thine way!!! Merry making believers believe, concievers concieve only to turn around to be fooled once again!! Minced meat poison to drain thy wearied inner, thy eyes sink in thinner, as the sharpened mirrage stares back at you....... indigence canst only grim so much, doth thou haveth any more meaning without your Mr or Mrs special touch? cacoon hustles muffled to trotted maturities, where conspiracy takes strange, taketh realism in full pains!! tear away at these cut patches, where bought blotches are nearly detailed!! Crusade of all Majority, spare from this speared destiny, where old timing recipe's become thine old time Menu...........
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May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 12:16 PM UTC
crazy indeed i believe...
Books in Barnes; A Noble night. One of laughter, Not of fright. We walked and read With coffee, hot. As I watched your head Bow to words so smart. We waited an hour; Then a bit more. For you to see My one fine ***** I'm joking of course. She's really quite grand. As you are to stars And I to any man. And that little bundle Of energy and words That never stops, As if were birds. Oh, the *** food with salad Dead fish without tan. Talking about the stars As if ocean sand. So immensely vast Just as our souls You read your lyrics As we shared our Bowles. You told of life And the struggles thrown At each of us And how it's known To rock us roughly Then settles to peace As we know more each day And walk with more ease. To find another As we found they Across a parking lot Waving "hey". But not your first meeting. I'm not talking about Jim and Nick's; But beyond what we see In stones, leaves, and sticks. We are out of this world And in the center of it. Lives crossing through others Bit by bit. So you know them well You just missed their smiles And the giggles unlimited While we spun our tires. We've danced before, But not like this. We've hugged like bears With ethereal kiss. Across the miles Through water and fire; Through earth and wind By slave and friar. By king and jest, Princess and queen. Through beast and fowl We each have seen Each other before In glancing ways And finally spent one of my dreams At night, after one fine day. And I'm thankful to all That we met up that night. That we shared our shared being Through touch, sound, sniffing and sight. And to the cosmos I'll say this quite loud I love you three the mostest post toastest. Ha!
0
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 1:02 AM UTC
One Fun Night
Books in Barnes; A Noble night. One of laughter, Not of fright. We walked and read With coffee, hot. As I watched your head Bow to words so smart. We waited an hour; Then a bit more. For you to see My one fine ***** I'm joking of course. She's really quite grand. As you are to stars And I to any man. And that little bundle Of energy and words That never stops, As if were birds. Oh, the *** food with salad Dead fish without tan. Talking about the stars As if ocean sand. So immensely vast Just as our souls You read your lyrics As we shared our Bowles. You told of life And the struggles thrown At each of us And how it's known To rock us roughly Then settles to peace As we know more each day And walk with more ease. To find another As we found they Across a parking lot Waving "hey". But not your first meeting. I'm not talking about Jim and Nick's; But beyond what we see In stones, leaves, and sticks. We are out of this world And in the center of it. Lives crossing through others Bit by bit. So you know them well You just missed their smiles And the giggles unlimited While we spun our tires. We've danced before, But not like this. We've hugged like bears With ethereal kiss. Across the miles Through water and fire; Through earth and wind By slave and friar. By king and jest, Princess and queen. Through beast and fowl We each have seen Each other before In glancing ways And finally spent one of my dreams At night, after one fine day. And I'm thankful to all That we met up that night. That we shared our shared being Through touch, sound, sniffing and sight. And to the cosmos I'll say this quite loud I love you three the mostest post toastest. Ha!
Continue reading...
75
I don’t dwell on the whiskey burn  Or on lager-foamed lips Rouge lipstick mark hints
 Of a bruise to form and swell You say you remember it well 
Of me doe-eyed, above the glass That captured a moment passed Sleuth youths with young lungs 
Huff up Villier’s smoke - so cool Smirking, as we watch the girls In vintage skirts, they coyly twirl With kindling eyes and Gordon’s wine In shy reply. Echoes of the night before Slowly fade in violet hours. What’s so inviting under Arches Now clatters back to the Strand, Away from Embankment And stolen midnight kisses. So to remove a part of me
 Is to remove a world of Pride. A journey not yet run its course, A journey not at its hearse
; For if it is not alright
, Then it is not yet the end. Without due care I flick the end Towards the river well
. It roars and sighs, By the ‘friar,
 Past the Tower, And Shadwell, All through Rotherhithe. It’s not the end, it’s not the end
. For we go on and on Just like the Thames.
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Apr 23, 2020
Apr 23, 2020 at 4:59 AM UTC
In Violet Hours (and Other Colours)
Many thoughts flying And sides trying To find the underlying meaning To words actions and mannerisms Winding up in a cataclysm - Quickly turning to the television In a fog, thick mist, I’m foraging For a piece of me thats readable Or even just believable I’m a liar, I envy the friar To whom the word is dropped down For them to pray on and drop down To their knees and say “Oh God you guided me Kept your eye on me When I couldn’t see And I believe I believe” But if I did so blindly seek Affirmations from this heaven freak There’s so much to concede Cos my world is telling me We don’t deserve equality No, Earth’s no hell But its a hell of a monstrosity Good god Is for those with no gut for suffering For those who can’t bear uttering Words that simply bounce around a void Devoid of meaning and shattering Their dreams of happiness Good god Suddenly this entity Is growing heavy with hostility Who's the enemy? Think I’ll choose quite pleasantly/vasectomy Over your supremacy
0
May 14, 2019
May 14, 2019 at 4:39 AM UTC
Could I be a friar?
Between two caves deep underground lies a place they call the whispering sound. Once a place of castles Kings and Queens, a place of silence in your dreams, a place where Arthur has the throne, where Robin Hood is known and speaks of John and Will and Friar Tuck, where Puck ***** on the nannies *** (the last bit an irrelevance) but needs must speak of past and all events. They were seen, the courtiers passing vessels to the Queen,and she who plots against the King was seen by Fairies in the fairy ring. Spells were cast a ruling passed and death flew in on scarlet wings. In the whispering sound deep underground silence sits alone, no king no throne, the whispers whisper all alone.
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Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 3:36 AM UTC
Stray dogs