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Vicki Kralapp Oct 2018
From my earliest remembrance,
to this hour I have maintained,
I've never been contented
with a life of the mundane.

I’ve sought to spend each day in life
in search of curious things,
like art and education,
and the richness that they bring.

I hope to write more poetry
and share my verse in print,
and with my use of written word,
paint art with shades and tints.

I’ve been to many distant lands,
but yet my heart implores,
I seek out farther mysteries,
our planet has in store.

But now my body slows me down,
like most as we grow old,
and though I try, oft I fall short,
of plans I can control.

So, to keep myself companion,
while I will myself to heal,
I’ve formed all my ambitions,
which one day I plan to reach.

Since I was just a little child
I dreamt of life abroad,
in Kenya with the Maasai tribe,
I’ve always been enthralled.

I've fancied a safari,
where the famous five are found,
a land where great giraffes stand tall,
against the setting sun.

But, it is the Land Down Under,
that is first among my plans,
and one day soon I’ll see the coast,
of Sydney once again.

My friends will come to greet me,
though a lifetime I’ve been gone,
and united we’ll share memories,
for the present and beyond.

I’ll go for walks amidst the bush,
and hear the magpie’s tunes,
I’ll stroll beside the ghostly gums;
with nature grow attuned.

I’ll tour along the Southern Coast,
drive past Apostles tall,
and see the sites of Melbourne fair,
with all its cultured draw.

Then off to Kiwi’s northern isle,
with nature’s beauty rare,
fulfilling dreams so long desired,
to glimpse the Mauri’s there.

Waitomo, with its glow worm caves,
and Rotorua’s pools,
with geysers, Eco thermal parks,
and Bay of Islands too.

As I make my way back to the states,
I’ll stop along the way,
to visit Fiji’s turquoise coast,
and snorkel time away.

I’ll learn about the culture,
and partake of Fiji’s fare,
and when I go, I hope to leave,
a part of my heart there.

The coast of California,
on my list of sites to see;
from the Wharf in San Francisco,
to the vineyards by the sea.

I dream of redwoods sure and tall:
the parks and smell of pines,
and stand amid the ancient firs,
lest they pass for all of time.

I plan to visit Florence,
where master artists roamed;
the heart of Tuscan Renaissance,
where da Vinci made his home.

I hope to cruise Amalfi’s coast,
with others at the helm,
to view the brilliance of the sights,
and others in the realm.

While in the South of Italy,
I’ll cross the briny foam,
and walk the hills in Athens,
where ancient Grecians roamed.

I dream of Amazonia,
where man has not destroyed,
and natives live within the wild,
with harmony employed.

The last one on my bucket list,
is one I’d left undone,
when first I made my maiden trip,
and I was twenty-one.

I’d hoped to see the Emerald Isle,
and England’s castles old,
Duke’s palaces and British Tate,
are marvels to behold.

I’ll drive the ring of Kerry,
and the magic Isle of Skye,
to see its Fairy Pools of hues,
and Highland’s brilliance sights.

The lush green grass of Glen Coe,
the Scottish hills await,
would be a lifelong dream fulfilled
when all my trials abate.

With this, my final dream fulfilled,
I see my list complete,
full circle with this Commonwealth,
my restless feet at peace.

But ‘til that time when I am healed,
and I can travel far,
I’ll dream of lands beyond my reach,
and one day touch the stars.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
zebra Jun 3
do you know
how much light you have to have
to play in the dark

ask the lady of the moon
my trilling lover of comatose dreams
**** queen dressed in fallen roses
on her knees

her head a cocked jaw
throat; a giraffes
for shirts of skin and magic wands

she prays to be broken
split saliva jewel
kink clutch
little crying angel
hugging her ball and chain
shawled ***; a trussed cathedral
bound in silk
a vomiting flower of *******

her feet bound
puddled black crimson
crumbling at every teasing cuddle
and darkened bite like ghost fire
flame on flame

her ******; buttered Kasbah dark fruit casaba
i take a bite
red teeth and stretched tongue
adorn the hood of lust
and sink flying
into blood scape's womb
she screams hooked on satin's *** nail
wailing; hideous mirth
and folds sweet and sour
siracha tang

her mouth a gagging river
of ***** and oleo tubes
eyes gazing globe video games
****, brewing perfume's of delirium
**** star ships at apogee
riding the glitter rim

my ****
a rabid swoon of towering babble
is full tonight
brimming with white blood
red and trembling milk
to fill your mouth my love
and the bitter honey of my soul
Donna Aug 2018
Why do giraffes have long necks
Because there feet smell
:-))
Joe Workman Aug 2014
The radio alarm is a bit too strong
for his afternoon hangover taste.
He goes downstairs, sets the coffee to brewing,
rubs his hands through the hair on his face.
As he sits and he smokes, he can't quite think of the joke
she once told him about wooden eyes.

The coffee is ready, his hands are unsteady
as he pours his first cup of cure.
He tries to be happy he woke up today,
but whether being awake's good, he's not sure.
Outside it's raining, but he's gallantly straining
to keep his head and his spirits held high.

As soft as the flower bending out in its shower,
fiercer than hornets defending their hives,
the memories of sharing her secrets and sheets
run him through like sharp rusty knives.
He decides that his cup isn't quite strong enough,
takes the ***** from the shelf, gives a sigh.

He goes to the porch to put words to the torch
he still carries and knows whiskey just fuels.
Thunder puts a voice to his hammering heart.
Through ink, his knotted mind unspools,
writing of butterflies and of how his love lies
cocooned under unreachable skies.

From teardrops to streams to winter moonbeams
to a peach, firm and sweet, in the spring,
he writes of pilgrims and language and soft dew-damp grass
and how he sees her in everything.
He rambles and grieves, and he just can't believe
how much he has bottled inside.

He writes how the leaves, when they whisper in the breeze,
bring to mind her warm breath in his mouth,
how when walking through woods he loves the birdsong
when they fly back in the summer from the south
because she would sing too and he always knew
he wanted that sound in his ears when he died.

He writes even the streetlights, fluorescent and bright,
make him miss the diamond chips in her eyes,
how the fountain in the park plays watersongs in the dark
when he goes to make wishes on pennies
and while he's there he gets hoping
there will be some spare wishes
but so far there haven't been any.

He writes that the cold makes him think of the old
hotel where they spent most of a week,
lazing and gazing quite lovingly,
and how he brushed an eyelash off her cheek.
The crickets and frogs and all of the dogs
sound as mournful as he feels each night.

He writes about chocolate and fun in arcades,
he writes about stairwells and butchers' blades,
and closed-casket funerals, and Christmas parades,
then sad flightless birds and tiny brigades
of ants taking crumbs from the toast he had made,
and political goons with their soulless tirades,
old-timey duels and terrible grades,
strangers on  buses, harp music, maids,
the weird afterimages when all the light fades,
the pleasure of dinnertime serenades,
sidewalk chalk, wine, and hand grenades.

He writes of how much fun it would be to fly,
and saltwater taffy and ferryboat rides,

sitting on couches, scratched CD's
pets gone too soon and overdraft fees,

the beach, the lake, the mountains, the fog,
David Bowie's funny, ill-smelling bog,

jewelry, perfume, sushi, and swans,
the smell of the pavement when the rain's come and gone,

and shots and opera, and Oprah and ***,
and tiny bikinis with yellow dots,

stained glass lamps, and gum and stamps,
her dancing shoes on wheelchair ramps,
that overstrange feeling of déjà vu,
filet mignon and cordon bleu,

bad haircuts at county fairs,
honey and clover, stockmarket shares,
the comfort of nestling in overstuffed chairs,
and her poking fun at the clothes that he wears,
and giraffes and hippos and polar bears,
cumbersome car consoles, monsters' lairs,
singing in public and ignoring the stares,
botching it badly while making éclairs,
misspelled tattoos, socks not in pairs,
people who take something that isn't theirs,
the future of man, and man's future cares,

why people so frequently lie
and bury themselves so deep in the mire
of monetary profits when money won't buy
a single next second because time's not for hire,
and that he sees her in everything.

Then unexpectedly, unbidden from where it was hidden
comes the punchline to the joke she had told him.
He laughs -- it's too much and his heart finally tears
as a blackness rolls in to enfold him.
The last thing he hears is birdsong in his ears --
the sound brings hope and is sweet as he dies.
Vitruvius Oct 7
The second light of sunrise filters
through the blinds of a broken transom window, gliding the kitchen.
There’s an instant
in which bottomless jars, worn out dishes
and a headless Mickey magnet that has fallen off the fridge
Seem to levitate in a sea of dusty honey.

I haven’t witnessed the scene.

I think about all the other ordinary prodigies
That must be happening somewhere.
A trembling chrysanthemum blossoms in the frosty gardens of Nagoya.
Six grey wolves fail to hunt down a white deerling.
A middle aged man whispers into a hollowed stonebrick, then covers his secret with mud.
Two  giraffes disappear in the middle of a starlit Colosseum, to the astonishment of a roman dilettante.
Twenty years of boredom; then an ex con feels the tact of dewy grass under his feet again.
In a balcony over the Seine, two lovers prepare a padlock.
Some skinny kid from La Matanza scores a last minute free kick to win the neighborhood derby.
A pretentious teenager watches The purple rose of Cairo for the first time, and  discovers his true calling.
Days before dying, an old man stops by a bakery and inhales the same caramel fragrance he would inhale in the afternoons of his childhood summers.
An older brother decides to throw a game of Mario Kart to his sibling.
On a deserted reed bed, a blackbird sings the most beautiful tune in the world. There is no one there to listen.
A single mother finishes cooking breakfast for his son, and decides to let him sleep for another five minutes.
A physics grad student solves the meaningless quantum noise model that’s been torturing him for weeks, and stops wondering why he didn't choose to be a lawyer
Two old friends share the same espresso in a hidden Manhattan coffeehouse, perhaps for the last time.  

None of this everyday miracles are
happening to me.
Deb Jones Apr 22
If animals were mobsters....

A ****** of Crows.
An Unkindness of Ravens
A Shrewdness of Apes
A Sleuth of Bears
A Glowering of Cats
A Destruction of Wild Cats
A Quiver of Cobras
A Stand of Flamingos
A Parade of Elephants
A Charm of Foxes
An Army of Frogs
A Mob of Kangaroos
A Business of Ferrets
A Tower of Giraffes
A Crash of Rhinoceroses
A Bloat of Hippopotami
A Smack of Jellyfish
A Shadow of Jaguars
A Cackle of Hyenas
A Conspiracy of Lemurs
A Drift of Pigs
A Herd of Rabbits
A Barrel of Monkeys
A Parliament of Owls
A Shiver of Sharks
A Stench of Skunks
A Band of Gorillas
A Knot of Toads
A Pandemonium of Parrots
A Leap of Leopards
A Pride of Lions
A Prickle of Porcupines
A Scurry of Squirrels
An Obstinacy of Buffalo
A Labor Of Moles
A Bale of Turtles
A Zeal of Zebras
An Ambush of Tigers
These are the actual names of the groups. How great is this?
Paul Hansford Jan 2016
Very early in the morning we were woken from our sleep,
We were going on safari, being driven in a jeep,
We went out before our breakfast, we went out before sunrise,
We went out before the sleep had fully vanished from our eyes.
We had to dress quite quickly, and we went out in a rush,
And after we'd been driving through miles and miles of bush
For an hour or two, I have to say - forgive the way I speak,
But the roads were very bumpy - I was dying for a leak.

The driver stopped the jeep and kindly offered us a drink,
But it might have been more kind if he had only paused to think;
We had seen a herd of elephants, some vultures in the sky,
Several wildebeest and zebra, a hyena passing by,
Giraffes, a pair of ostriches, a buffalo or two,
And we'd taken lots of photographs (well, that's what tourists do);
We had even seen some lions lazing underneath a tree,
But ... we hadn't seen a toilet ... and I really had to ***.

Beside a water-hole at last we found a pair of loos,
And I hurried to the gents', 'cos that's the one I have to use.
Yes, I went up to the gentlemen's, and pushed the door ajar,
But I didn't push it hard, and it didn't open far.
There was something in the way, you see. I did a double-take,
For it looked just like a tail, the last six inches of a snake.
I decided not to panic - I'm not that sort of bloke,
And it could have been a rubber one, left there for a joke -
So I pushed the door wide open, to be sure of no mistake,
And what should I clap eyes on but two yards of living snake!

I closed the door, quite firmly, and went to tell the guide,
"I was going to the loo, but then I found a snake inside."
He didn't quite believe me, but he went across to check.
- Not just a snake, a cobra! - "Gosh," I thought, and "Flipping Heck."
For the snake looked very supple, and the snake looked very strong,
And if it would uncurl itself, the snake looked very long,
And a cobra's bite is savage, and a cobra's bite is quick,
And if that snake had bitten me, I'd be feeling rather sick.
"It might even be a spitter, judging by the size,
"So don't you go too close, and please be careful of your eyes."
But I had to take a photograph, for that's what tourists do,
And, warily, I took a snap of the cobra in the loo.

The driver wrote a notice "Danger, Big Big Snake Inside",
And the lady with the first-aid box took out of it with pride
A strip of sticking plaster to stick it to the door,
To tell anyone who came, there was a cobra on the floor.
By now the snake was moving, it was climbing up the wall;
It hid behind the cistern, and could not be seen at all;
It came down again, and wrapped itself around the waste-pipe neatly,
Then slithered right inside the pan and disappeared completely.

Now I was on a mission to tell others what I'd seen,
But I was very conscious of the fact I'd Still Not Been!
So in that situation, though most times I wouldn't dare,
When I found the ladies' empty, I quickly popped in there.
I'd had a narrow squeak, but now (in every sense) relieved,
I had to write my story, which I hope will be believed,
For every word is gospel truth, I fully guarantee,
And it's even got a moral, which is very plain to see.

    (Moral)
If you ever see a man who's coming from the ladies' loos,
Please don't jump to conclusions, he might have a good excuse,
- "I went to spend a penny, for my need was quite intense,
"And I had to use the ladies' - there's a cobra in the gents'!"
The record of a true encounter, in Zimbabwe a few years ago, when things were less difficult.
Paul Butters Oct 2018
Let me inspire you to go higher:
Lost among the stars.
Our universe glitters, spread across the sky.
The world keeps turning,
Resplendent with hills and mountains,
Dales and plains.
Continents surrounded with seas and oceans
And clothed by grass and trees.

Mother Earth is blessed with flora and fauna:
Sentient beings of every shape and size,
From mighty whales and elephants,
Through furry friends like dogs and cats,
Tall giraffes, slithery snails, right down
To scattering ants and pesky flies.

Smell that fresh sea breeze,
Hear those rolling waves,
Screams of gulls
And twittering sparrows.
Feel the warm moist air
Of an Indian Summer.

Be mindful of all that is around,
Yet let imagination wonder,
For out there
There is more
So much more.

Dark Monsters of The Id
Are out there too,
We all know that.

But Life in all its splendour
And determination
Is there for all to see.
Oh to live forever with such things.

Paul Butters

© PB 16\10\2018.
This is what poetry is about.
TheIdleOwl Jul 26
33
The jester walks the garden path,
Carrying the gullible in his boots,
The jester walks the garden path,
He makes them late as he commutes

He star jumps gleefully into the road,
The traffic comes he sees a chance,
He star jumps gleefully into the road,
For everyone to witness his deadly dance,

But they laugh and laugh and say he's them,
But he's not them for he is him,
He knows only a culture of owning,
A culture of convenience above knowing,
A world of gold and broken seams,
One where laughs distract from extremes,
He knows not empathy, or love or service,
Only a selfish desire to hold office

He knows not the energy he steals,
From those who pass it to him through laughs,
Those who have everything pulled from their heels,
While the jester stands and points at the giraffes.
Whit Howland Dec 1
ceramic
with a childish image

of an ark filled
with simple happy pigs

giraffes
and elephants

sans
the smiting rain

and
biblical justice

I’m sorry
most days as hard as I try

I fail you
miserably

so right now
I need a God that forgives

with an abundance
of gopher wood

Whit Howland © 2019
Part of a series of poems about household objects where the object is a set-piece in a human comedy or portal into a person's interior landscape.
Jackie Mead Jul 1
There was a young Monkey called Mr Lee
Who loved to hang out, swinging in the trees.

One day suddenly from below, a Giraffes head appeared, real slow
"Hi" he spoke my name is Ted
"I am looking for somewhere to lay my head"
"Not here" replied Mr Lee
"I am afraid there is no room for you in my tree"
"Oh" Ted the Giraffe replied and walked away with a heavy sigh

Mr Lee feeling he had been a bit mean
Offered Ted the Giraffe a leaf so green
Mr Lee said " I am sorry I didn't mean to say,  there was nowhere for your head to lay"
"I am swinging from branch to branch, tree to tree, I  don't usually have visitors, its usually only me!"

"Thats okay" said Ted "I have found myself a soft hay bed"
"But what you are doing looks like fun, do you fancy company of another one?"
Mr Lee considered the request, it would be fun to have the company of another one.
"Yes, indeed" he did reply "although you are rather tall, I believe your knees would knock on the floor"
"I dont want you to hurt your knees whilst your swinging in the trees"
"Why don't you walk by my side, we can talk as we cover the countryside"

Ted the Giraffe was delighted to make a new friend.
And that is very nearly the end.
Just enough time to say have you made a new friend today?
It does not matter how you look, how tall you are or how you speak
Noone likes to feel lonely
Take the time, say "hello" boldly
Children are not bound by heavy chains
Make a friend dont refrain
Say "hi" again, again and again

— The End —