"gorge" poems - Hello Poetry

"gorge" poems

An early evening gust broke the back of the day's blaze Still 90 degrees at eight in orange haze Sweat runs down my neck Through the gorge between my ******* The wind lifts my linen shirt runs its hands along my sides reviving memory of Forest Park of a blanket in the grass Where the pines trace so many faces Crackling popping kids stolen matches, running screaming victorious! Blowing tin cans up with fire crackers Bicycles, sparklers, fireworks at dusk That whole afternoon I spent hammering caps Noise really makes us kids really especially annoying Mom wants us out! Gone! All of us! No needs. No excuses! No cookies! No slices of bologna! “No more Kool Aid! Out now! Out!” That evening I tried to dismiss the itchy sweat of stupid-sister-Suzy-matching-sun-suits at Gino's family picnic When some kid (I don't know?) between the rigatoni and the sweet corn Some kid tosses a sparkler into box of fireworks I don't know? whether to cry or laugh I was pretty scared Rockets going off across the lawn and onto porch Craze of colors through the trees Some at eye-level horror! But the sight of Aunt Nedda diving under picnic table Stockings, garter belt upended Capsized beyond her caring of uplifted dress Some images just stay with you, ya know? July 4th always lands for me on a firework's ***

0

Jul 3, 2018

Jul 3, 2018 at 1:34 AM UTC

elizabeth-balise

July 4th Memories that Last

An early evening gust broke the back of the day's blaze Still 90 degrees at eight in orange haze Sweat runs down my neck Through the gorge between my ******* The wind lifts my linen shirt runs its hands along my sides reviving memory of Forest Park of a blanket in the grass Where the pines trace so many faces Crackling popping kids stolen matches, running screaming victorious! Blowing tin cans up with fire crackers Bicycles, sparklers, fireworks at dusk That whole afternoon I spent hammering caps Noise really makes us kids really especially annoying Mom wants us out! Gone! All of us! No needs. No excuses! No cookies! No slices of bologna! “No more Kool Aid! Out now! Out!” That evening I tried to dismiss the itchy sweat of stupid-sister-Suzy-matching-sun-suits at Gino's family picnic When some kid (I don't know?) between the rigatoni and the sweet corn Some kid tosses a sparkler into box of fireworks I don't know? whether to cry or laugh I was pretty scared Rockets going off across the lawn and onto porch Craze of colors through the trees Some at eye-level horror! But the sight of Aunt Nedda diving under picnic table Stockings, garter belt upended Capsized beyond her caring of uplifted dress Some images just stay with you, ya know? July 4th always lands for me on a firework's ***

Continue reading...

little ladies than dead exactly dance in my head,precisely dance where danced la guerre. Mimi à la voix fragile qui chatouille Des Italiens the putain with the ivory throat Marie Louise Lallemand n’est-ce pas que je suis belle chéri? les anglais m’aiment tous,les américains aussi….”bon dos, bon cul de Paris”(Marie Vierge Priez Pour Nous) with the long lips of Lucienne which dangle the old men and hot men se promènent doucement le soir(ladies accurately dead les anglais sont gentils et les américains aussi,ils payent bien les américains dance exactly in my brain voulez vous coucher avec moi? Non? pourquoi?) ladies skilfully dead precisely dance where has danced la guerre j’m'appelle Manon,cinq rue Henri Mounier voulez-vous coucher avec moi? te ferai Mimi te ferai Minette, dead exactly dance si vous voulez chatouiller mon lézard ladies suddenly j’m'en fous des nègres (in the twilight of Paris Marie Louise with queenly legs cinq rue Henri Mounier a little love begs,Mimi with the body like une boîte à joujoux, want nice sleep? toutes les petites femmes exactes qui dansent toujours in my head dis donc,Paris ta gorge mystérieuse pourquoi se promène-t-elle,pourquoi éclate ta voix fragile couleur de pivoine?) with the long lips of Lucienne which dangle the old men and hot men precisely dance in my head ladies carefully dead

0

10.5k

little ladies than dead exactly dance in my head,precisely dance where danced la guerre. Mimi à la voix fragile qui chatouille Des Italiens the putain with the ivory throat Marie Louise Lallemand n’est-ce pas que je suis belle chéri? les anglais m’aiment tous,les américains aussi….”bon dos, bon cul de Paris”(Marie Vierge Priez Pour Nous) with the long lips of Lucienne which dangle the old men and hot men se promènent doucement le soir(ladies accurately dead les anglais sont gentils et les américains aussi,ils payent bien les américains dance exactly in my brain voulez vous coucher avec moi? Non? pourquoi?) ladies skilfully dead precisely dance where has danced la guerre j’m'appelle Manon,cinq rue Henri Mounier voulez-vous coucher avec moi? te ferai Mimi te ferai Minette, dead exactly dance si vous voulez chatouiller mon lézard ladies suddenly j’m'en fous des nègres (in the twilight of Paris Marie Louise with queenly legs cinq rue Henri Mounier a little love begs,Mimi with the body like une boîte à joujoux, want nice sleep? toutes les petites femmes exactes qui dansent toujours in my head dis donc,Paris ta gorge mystérieuse pourquoi se promène-t-elle,pourquoi éclate ta voix fragile couleur de pivoine?) with the long lips of Lucienne which dangle the old men and hot men precisely dance in my head ladies carefully dead

Continue reading...

We know you, and your little dark colors too. A picture book in your purse penned in mustaches on the full faces of your fare. We call you from bed, 8 o' clock in the morning, dog-light you slow wander the Peruvian darkness making jellyfish tentacles with your hands while you feel your way through Salem. We're colder than night and we wake thrice the bits of your day gig. You collapse in a green field of dandelion where thrushes drown you in Brown. We gorge ourselves on mango slivers, pineapple yolks, a half of grapefruit. We know you are close to your end. On the tops of the cities you call to your lycan friends, the half-sick and muted bray allures them to you, from Bratislava and Mimon, the thoroughfare through the suq. We wait. The foregone untold, the beep beep jug jug swoop sound of the nightingale, in all her dun glory, we wait. Then, as if descending through the moor-lounging silver smoke, the cool stickiness to your fingertips; the fog. We are there when the blue-less and smoky screen surrounds you, when you shank the auburn Scot hair of the sly fox that stalks, say, a cigarette from your lips. When you take the corners swiftly, gadding the streets. The prize king of vulpicide. You rub its matte fur against your bristly gray beard. And while you lay in your lumps of twelve carat flesh you bleat and you nag. One day you will never come home.

0

May 2, 2014

May 2, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC

We know you, and your little dark colors too. A picture book in your purse penned in mustaches on the full faces of your fare. We call you from bed, 8 o' clock in the morning, dog-light you slow wander the Peruvian darkness making jellyfish tentacles with your hands while you feel your way through Salem. We're colder than night and we wake thrice the bits of your day gig. You collapse in a green field of dandelion where thrushes drown you in Brown. We gorge ourselves on mango slivers, pineapple yolks, a half of grapefruit. We know you are close to your end. On the tops of the cities you call to your lycan friends, the half-sick and muted bray allures them to you, from Bratislava and Mimon, the thoroughfare through the suq. We wait. The foregone untold, the beep beep jug jug swoop sound of the nightingale, in all her dun glory, we wait. Then, as if descending through the moor-lounging silver smoke, the cool stickiness to your fingertips; the fog. We are there when the blue-less and smoky screen surrounds you, when you shank the auburn Scot hair of the sly fox that stalks, say, a cigarette from your lips. When you take the corners swiftly, gadding the streets. The prize king of vulpicide. You rub its matte fur against your bristly gray beard. And while you lay in your lumps of twelve carat flesh you bleat and you nag. One day you will never come home.

Continue reading...

.. Save from the hidden nests of birds, it was the only one there...isolated, like an isle...crested on the leveled top of a gorge...its way down or up was through a hand-carved series of steps on its slope...at its front was a curved gorge......one would think, it was trying to cross over the cottage was small, weather-beaten, desolate......its wooden walls seemed to have shrunk...its faded colors proclaimed its age...its having survived past storms.... from its window, the stream was seen, and heard, flowing on and on between these two precipitous valleys. light came from the sun...and moon, music was provided by the murmurs of the forceful wind, the continuous flow of water on the stream, the stirring of the leaves, the crackling of branches and twigs, the birds' singing in the spring...the pounding of heavy rains on its roof...and countless other hymns of nature......the dweller had heard them all... beneath a lonely moon glow, when nights were cold, there hovered low 'pon its aged roof, rounds of layered fog...like a series of steps....like a stairway to the sky... fog slyly crept, and wilfully shrouded the cottage.....it vanished from view, the two gorges and the stream, hushed, in the dark loneliness of that secluded spot......their vulnerabilities, trapped inside....misshapen silhouettes... in light and in dark, the whistles of nearing and departing boats....were wailing, haunting calls, piercing the peaceful calm of the valleys, or, maybe, the stilled complacence of the cottage, or...of the one living in that lonely cottage, ...lost, or gone astray, now weary and worn, willing to be found...longing to be reunited .......with the light and warmth of love... the cottage, the gorges, and the stream would be loneliest, without the cottage dweller... Sally © Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan August 27th, 2018

0

Aug 26, 2018

Aug 26, 2018 at 6:51 PM UTC

The Cottage, the Gorges and the Stream......

.. Save from the hidden nests of birds, it was the only one there...isolated, like an isle...crested on the leveled top of a gorge...its way down or up was through a hand-carved series of steps on its slope...at its front was a curved gorge......one would think, it was trying to cross over the cottage was small, weather-beaten, desolate......its wooden walls seemed to have shrunk...its faded colors proclaimed its age...its having survived past storms.... from its window, the stream was seen, and heard, flowing on and on between these two precipitous valleys. light came from the sun...and moon, music was provided by the murmurs of the forceful wind, the continuous flow of water on the stream, the stirring of the leaves, the crackling of branches and twigs, the birds' singing in the spring...the pounding of heavy rains on its roof...and countless other hymns of nature......the dweller had heard them all... beneath a lonely moon glow, when nights were cold, there hovered low 'pon its aged roof, rounds of layered fog...like a series of steps....like a stairway to the sky... fog slyly crept, and wilfully shrouded the cottage.....it vanished from view, the two gorges and the stream, hushed, in the dark loneliness of that secluded spot......their vulnerabilities, trapped inside....misshapen silhouettes... in light and in dark, the whistles of nearing and departing boats....were wailing, haunting calls, piercing the peaceful calm of the valleys, or, maybe, the stilled complacence of the cottage, or...of the one living in that lonely cottage, ...lost, or gone astray, now weary and worn, willing to be found...longing to be reunited .......with the light and warmth of love... the cottage, the gorges, and the stream would be loneliest, without the cottage dweller... Sally © Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan August 27th, 2018

Continue reading...

She was nature, beautiful But deadly, her cheeks as Scornful as a rose, the smile hid The thorns underneath. Her presence though unseen, Could be felt, like the sun's warm Breath on bare winter skin. She led him somewhere secret As the night lures the stars, As clouds gorge on the Fragile light of the moon. Over the crumbled bodies Of leaves, into the alien Land of tranquility. When he woke, hands burning, There was nothing left to see. Only a faint feeling glistening In the air, a failing heart and A tongue full of dreams.

0

Mar 11, 2016

Mar 11, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC

As The Night Lures The Stars

She was nature, beautiful But deadly, her cheeks as Scornful as a rose, the smile hid The thorns underneath. Her presence though unseen, Could be felt, like the sun's warm Breath on bare winter skin. She led him somewhere secret As the night lures the stars, As clouds gorge on the Fragile light of the moon. Over the crumbled bodies Of leaves, into the alien Land of tranquility. When he woke, hands burning, There was nothing left to see. Only a faint feeling glistening In the air, a failing heart and A tongue full of dreams.

Continue reading...

I am the flightless pelican. I’ve found myself with my mouth full, my stomach full, and so much still on my plate. Possessed by an inhuman hunger, I will gorge upon pure potential. I will yowl on and on, without sleep. - I have sand between my toes. My shoes are glued to my feet. Keep on running ‘til the calluses come. There has to be a point where I stop to sweat, and I’ll finally get my sigh of relief. I have one ride left on my bus pass. - I have a tendency to ramble and languish in my own stench. People tend to forget this at first; lured in by the false face of a genetic fluke. They want to know the impression I left, not the procrastinator; the cud-chewing goat. - I can’t sleep being held, or if I feel someone’s breath in the still. I start to feel the urge to burrow into the quiet quilts; patchwork Promised Land. I cater to the crowd that caters to themselves, but I’m no Utilitarian. Fox and Lion. - I have cousins like brothers, and I have brothers like strangers. Stray cats with names and a copy of The Mahabharata that I stash my money in. I’m sitting on a sunny pier with my hook in the water; avoiding conflict with no bait. - Paper cuts from the gold leaf on the edges of hymn book pages with burgundy leather covers. These guilty cuts, bleeding for what seems like hours, while we steadily forget that anyone was singing. Alone with our thoughts in the crowd.

0

Jan 6, 2015

Jan 6, 2015 at 9:54 PM UTC

tyler-lynn-pulliam

I Am the Flightless Pelican

I am the flightless pelican. I’ve found myself with my mouth full, my stomach full, and so much still on my plate. Possessed by an inhuman hunger, I will gorge upon pure potential. I will yowl on and on, without sleep. - I have sand between my toes. My shoes are glued to my feet. Keep on running ‘til the calluses come. There has to be a point where I stop to sweat, and I’ll finally get my sigh of relief. I have one ride left on my bus pass. - I have a tendency to ramble and languish in my own stench. People tend to forget this at first; lured in by the false face of a genetic fluke. They want to know the impression I left, not the procrastinator; the cud-chewing goat. - I can’t sleep being held, or if I feel someone’s breath in the still. I start to feel the urge to burrow into the quiet quilts; patchwork Promised Land. I cater to the crowd that caters to themselves, but I’m no Utilitarian. Fox and Lion. - I have cousins like brothers, and I have brothers like strangers. Stray cats with names and a copy of The Mahabharata that I stash my money in. I’m sitting on a sunny pier with my hook in the water; avoiding conflict with no bait. - Paper cuts from the gold leaf on the edges of hymn book pages with burgundy leather covers. These guilty cuts, bleeding for what seems like hours, while we steadily forget that anyone was singing. Alone with our thoughts in the crowd.

Continue reading...

I want peace in my heart, create black holes in dark memories. Out of the holes crawling spiders, they start to spin webs out of my thoughts, my smallest defeats, my indifference. In these sticky webs they catch my light, swallow my energy, my time. Gorge themselves big and bold. Sometimes I can hear them smacking or maybe they snickering? I don't know. I know. Soon they will burst. Their black, viscous blood will spread. Everywhere in my mind. The last little light will drown in this evil liquid. I will turn again into this ******* zombie. Controlled by darkness...

0

Aug 28, 2014

Aug 28, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC

I want peace in my heart, create black holes in dark memories. Out of the holes crawling spiders, they start to spin webs out of my thoughts, my smallest defeats, my indifference. In these sticky webs they catch my light, swallow my energy, my time. Gorge themselves big and bold. Sometimes I can hear them smacking or maybe they snickering? I don't know. I know. Soon they will burst. Their black, viscous blood will spread. Everywhere in my mind. The last little light will drown in this evil liquid. I will turn again into this ******* zombie. Controlled by darkness...

Continue reading...

Long winding Lost roads Dead dog Or maybe mountain lion **** roadkill) Car stopped in the middle of the road Woman drove off the side of the road (with the ******* pigs) Gas station stops No service area Keeping me on long winding lost roads! Now there Misty fog Hot steam As I baptize with bubbles In this hot tub at Grand Haven A locked cabin Enjoyed for a time by myself Alone.

0

Oct 18, 2016

Oct 18, 2016 at 3:02 PM UTC

Red River Gorge; **** Roadkill

Long winding Lost roads Dead dog Or maybe mountain lion **** roadkill) Car stopped in the middle of the road Woman drove off the side of the road (with the ******* pigs) Gas station stops No service area Keeping me on long winding lost roads! Now there Misty fog Hot steam As I baptize with bubbles In this hot tub at Grand Haven A locked cabin Enjoyed for a time by myself Alone.

Continue reading...

So delicate and ripe Fruit waiting to be picked I can smell the sweetness Before I even dive in So excited the anticipation Has me famished And us both leaking So earnest in my approach My descent seems snails pace Spreading her open wide Caressing those thick buttery thighs My moans haven't developed yet So all I can do is sigh As I plant delicate kisses along each thigh Tongue tracing the curves of her love Nuzzling my nose in her fresh mound Inhaling the intoxicating essence This meal may stick to my ribs Running my tongue along get dripping cavern Such a sweet drink Sweeter than my dream My thirst has been ignited As I envelope her between my lips I feel her pearl throb and twitch My tongue can't resist And as much as i try to pace myself I become ravenous for her nectar desperate for her taste vice grip on her hips Caught in a frenzy Oblivious to her moans, cries sighs and thrashing Her libido is no match for my palate

0

May 12, 2014

May 12, 2014 at 4:41 PM UTC

alexandria-n-brown-pitts

So delicate and ripe Fruit waiting to be picked I can smell the sweetness Before I even dive in So excited the anticipation Has me famished And us both leaking So earnest in my approach My descent seems snails pace Spreading her open wide Caressing those thick buttery thighs My moans haven't developed yet So all I can do is sigh As I plant delicate kisses along each thigh Tongue tracing the curves of her love Nuzzling my nose in her fresh mound Inhaling the intoxicating essence This meal may stick to my ribs Running my tongue along get dripping cavern Such a sweet drink Sweeter than my dream My thirst has been ignited As I envelope her between my lips I feel her pearl throb and twitch My tongue can't resist And as much as i try to pace myself I become ravenous for her nectar desperate for her taste vice grip on her hips Caught in a frenzy Oblivious to her moans, cries sighs and thrashing Her libido is no match for my palate

Continue reading...

The Peppered Pickle Clown (Peppered Pickle Day) This is a story you may not know And it's banned in pickle town It's about a peppered pickle That became a circus clown He started out his short life Looking through a stained glass jar Watching his sweet pickled brother Become a kosher star Although his peppered pickled life was sweet This peppered pickle wanted more He would join the circus as a clown And be a smash that fans adored At first it started slowly No fans would call his name But a peppered pickle as a clown Well thats funny just the same As time went on he made them laugh They started yelling for him more Then a show was given just to him And a peppered pickle day was born All the fans they ordered pickles On peppered pickles they would gorge Then one day there came a time When peppered pickles they ran short The peppered pickle clown knew right then That it was time to make his mark So he made a deal with Vlasic corp. To put peppered pickles in their jars Well Vlasic corp. invited him To come take a private tour They said that he would relish it And be a cut up in the stores They put the peppered pickle clown In a clown chair and tied him down They said it was for safety As the belt showed him all around The belt went slow when starting out Picked up speed as it went along The peppered pickle clown was sliced and diced Vlasic didn't clown around So remember the peppered pickle clown When you shop at your home store He gave his life for stardom And thats why you now pay more Today is peppered pickle day And should be known the world around Made famous by a sweet delight The peppered pickle clown Carl J. Roberts

0

Oct 7, 2013

Oct 7, 2013 at 7:14 AM UTC

carl-joseph-roberts

Thank The Peppered Pickle Clown...... ( Peppered Pickle Day)

The Peppered Pickle Clown (Peppered Pickle Day) This is a story you may not know And it's banned in pickle town It's about a peppered pickle That became a circus clown He started out his short life Looking through a stained glass jar Watching his sweet pickled brother Become a kosher star Although his peppered pickled life was sweet This peppered pickle wanted more He would join the circus as a clown And be a smash that fans adored At first it started slowly No fans would call his name But a peppered pickle as a clown Well thats funny just the same As time went on he made them laugh They started yelling for him more Then a show was given just to him And a peppered pickle day was born All the fans they ordered pickles On peppered pickles they would gorge Then one day there came a time When peppered pickles they ran short The peppered pickle clown knew right then That it was time to make his mark So he made a deal with Vlasic corp. To put peppered pickles in their jars Well Vlasic corp. invited him To come take a private tour They said that he would relish it And be a cut up in the stores They put the peppered pickle clown In a clown chair and tied him down They said it was for safety As the belt showed him all around The belt went slow when starting out Picked up speed as it went along The peppered pickle clown was sliced and diced Vlasic didn't clown around So remember the peppered pickle clown When you shop at your home store He gave his life for stardom And thats why you now pay more Today is peppered pickle day And should be known the world around Made famous by a sweet delight The peppered pickle clown Carl J. Roberts

Continue reading...

pulling back the covers dimming the lights an owl calls from the holly tree just outside of my window the garden below has grown beyond my control weeds sprout vines tangle in the summer squirrels gnaw on the green holly berries littering the courtyard with half-eaten haws in the spring mockingbirds gorge on the bright red fruit their florid songs celebrating light sky life sun leaf air closing my eyes I think back through the decades to when I planted the tree it was a time of hope a time when we dared dream of a world without mortal enemies when you could imagine shaded islands of calm hidden coves immune to rancor now look at us heads down lost hurtling stumbling under a trance we have turned on one other distracted by those who grab wealth and power under the cover of night confused by the constant trumpeting and alarms blind to what we share we retreat into the darkness of our fears Tom Spencer © 2018

0

Oct 12, 2018

Oct 12, 2018 at 7:50 AM UTC

pulling back the covers

pulling back the covers dimming the lights an owl calls from the holly tree just outside of my window the garden below has grown beyond my control weeds sprout vines tangle in the summer squirrels gnaw on the green holly berries littering the courtyard with half-eaten haws in the spring mockingbirds gorge on the bright red fruit their florid songs celebrating light sky life sun leaf air closing my eyes I think back through the decades to when I planted the tree it was a time of hope a time when we dared dream of a world without mortal enemies when you could imagine shaded islands of calm hidden coves immune to rancor now look at us heads down lost hurtling stumbling under a trance we have turned on one other distracted by those who grab wealth and power under the cover of night confused by the constant trumpeting and alarms blind to what we share we retreat into the darkness of our fears Tom Spencer © 2018

Continue reading...

a gift for Aladdin Aures H from his 3rd follower... <>><<> the inescapable need, unformed firmament inquiring; am I capable? the impulse palpable, the urge to urgent, to gorge and disgorge? instead of morning prayers, precomposed and ordered, morning poem plucked from morning fog, gusted breezes, early-on, newborn sun rays, progeny of disheveled skies words fused, in irregular sizes, senses censured by drowsy eyes, but the chest beating arrhythmia means bursts of free verses superimposed on reluctant eyelids, jigsaw puzzlement be re-conformed and the first poem of the day, emerges from the intersection of mind, pale dreams, and the first is special till the neu morrow, when fresh bursts explode inward to windward, and the first is just yesterday's mesh of hash, once formidable, now last, pinned, yellowing, purely a **descendant of the recent, but always, ancient past*^

0

Jun 19, 2025

Jun 19, 2025 at 3:13 PM UTC

The Poem Writes Me

a gift for Aladdin Aures H from his 3rd follower... <>><<> the inescapable need, unformed firmament inquiring; am I capable? the impulse palpable, the urge to urgent, to gorge and disgorge? instead of morning prayers, precomposed and ordered, morning poem plucked from morning fog, gusted breezes, early-on, newborn sun rays, progeny of disheveled skies words fused, in irregular sizes, senses censured by drowsy eyes, but the chest beating arrhythmia means bursts of free verses superimposed on reluctant eyelids, jigsaw puzzlement be re-conformed and the first poem of the day, emerges from the intersection of mind, pale dreams, and the first is special till the neu morrow, when fresh bursts explode inward to windward, and the first is just yesterday's mesh of hash, once formidable, now last, pinned, yellowing, purely a **descendant of the recent, but always, ancient past*^

Continue reading...

Jesus Christ, Lord Almighty Expel my demons and watch them die with me Satan Lord, Leviathan Give my demons an interesting origin Plague me with poets smoking joints rolled with rejected poems Fill my thoughts with cockney accented thespians Let them hold Academy award nominations from films long forgotten Enthuse my self-destruction Bring me goth kids brought up in wholesome homes Bring me Art school students choosing to abandon their degrees Bring me women aroused by smashed clocks Bring me men aroused by awkward teenagers Bring me Christians questioning their faith Lord Almighty, God, Yahweh, Jehovah Tell me the story of your disagreements with Vishnu Let me see Moloch's disgruntlement and subsequent drunk and disorderly Show me when Hera was seducing your nephew Bring me into the world of the soap opera battles Write to me Paris Write to me Paris I want to read your poetry I want to read your mind Sing to me Helen Embrace me and we shall escape from torments Heavenly and humane We shall watch hipsters walk past us Smoking Spirits and drinking poison berry teas Let Adam grow disgruntled Let children laugh If, Lord Jesus, you grant me my wish Send me a djinn with evil in his heart Who's bound to be annoyed by my desires Send me an ent to lift me above my world Send me an elf to love me for all my time Send me a mountain to travel over home Transport me to Germany Transport me to Spain Transport me to New Zealand Give me a free pass, one-way ticket to Darwin's islands Write my story so that I collect new, unprecedented species And devour the flesh of my find Hide me in Antarctica with a monstrous creation of my own mind Let me eat Let me gorge Then starve me Show me Caligula Show me Marilyn Monroe Then leave me with Ed Wood And force me to watch his films so that I may inherit my grandfather's fortune in comic books Which, of course, will bring her to love me again Oh Lord Jesus Lord of Hosts Possess me so that I may live again

0

Feb 24, 2012

Feb 24, 2012 at 4:56 PM UTC

I'm not neurotic or depressed, but I find myself full of Drive with nowhere to go with it

Jesus Christ, Lord Almighty Expel my demons and watch them die with me Satan Lord, Leviathan Give my demons an interesting origin Plague me with poets smoking joints rolled with rejected poems Fill my thoughts with cockney accented thespians Let them hold Academy award nominations from films long forgotten Enthuse my self-destruction Bring me goth kids brought up in wholesome homes Bring me Art school students choosing to abandon their degrees Bring me women aroused by smashed clocks Bring me men aroused by awkward teenagers Bring me Christians questioning their faith Lord Almighty, God, Yahweh, Jehovah Tell me the story of your disagreements with Vishnu Let me see Moloch's disgruntlement and subsequent drunk and disorderly Show me when Hera was seducing your nephew Bring me into the world of the soap opera battles Write to me Paris Write to me Paris I want to read your poetry I want to read your mind Sing to me Helen Embrace me and we shall escape from torments Heavenly and humane We shall watch hipsters walk past us Smoking Spirits and drinking poison berry teas Let Adam grow disgruntled Let children laugh If, Lord Jesus, you grant me my wish Send me a djinn with evil in his heart Who's bound to be annoyed by my desires Send me an ent to lift me above my world Send me an elf to love me for all my time Send me a mountain to travel over home Transport me to Germany Transport me to Spain Transport me to New Zealand Give me a free pass, one-way ticket to Darwin's islands Write my story so that I collect new, unprecedented species And devour the flesh of my find Hide me in Antarctica with a monstrous creation of my own mind Let me eat Let me gorge Then starve me Show me Caligula Show me Marilyn Monroe Then leave me with Ed Wood And force me to watch his films so that I may inherit my grandfather's fortune in comic books Which, of course, will bring her to love me again Oh Lord Jesus Lord of Hosts Possess me so that I may live again

Continue reading...

"Found poem", all the text lifted from a tourist pamphlet picked up in Crete, only very slightly edited. There are daily buses starting from Chania to the head of the gorge, which is called Xyloskalo. Buses say on the front "Omalos" and depart from the central bus station. By taking any of the morning buses you get to Xyloskalo after one and a half hours. At Xyloskalo there is a tourist pavilion where you can get meals, drinks, and which has only seven beds for staying overnight. For those wishing to spend the night on the Omalos plateau there is another possibility, that of staying at Omalos village itself, five kilometres before Xyloskalo, where are two cafés providing several beds. From there you get any of the morning buses starting from Chania to the head of the gorge. The length of the gorge is sixteen kilometres, and you need five to six hours to walk through it. There is plenty of drinking water all along the gorge. Tennis shoes or walking boots are recommended. Camping, overnight staying, smoking, hunting, cutting and uprooting plants are forbidden. At the mouth of the gorge is Aghia Rouméli village, which provides restaurants and accommodation. From there you take boats either to Sfakía (duration: one hour) or to Soughia and Paleochora. Remember that the last boat to Sfakía is at 17 hours, which connects with the last bus to Chania at 18 hours. Duration of the bus trip: two hours.

0

May 9, 2016

May 9, 2016 at 10:40 AM UTC

How to make the walk through the Samaria gorge *

"Found poem", all the text lifted from a tourist pamphlet picked up in Crete, only very slightly edited. There are daily buses starting from Chania to the head of the gorge, which is called Xyloskalo. Buses say on the front "Omalos" and depart from the central bus station. By taking any of the morning buses you get to Xyloskalo after one and a half hours. At Xyloskalo there is a tourist pavilion where you can get meals, drinks, and which has only seven beds for staying overnight. For those wishing to spend the night on the Omalos plateau there is another possibility, that of staying at Omalos village itself, five kilometres before Xyloskalo, where are two cafés providing several beds. From there you get any of the morning buses starting from Chania to the head of the gorge. The length of the gorge is sixteen kilometres, and you need five to six hours to walk through it. There is plenty of drinking water all along the gorge. Tennis shoes or walking boots are recommended. Camping, overnight staying, smoking, hunting, cutting and uprooting plants are forbidden. At the mouth of the gorge is Aghia Rouméli village, which provides restaurants and accommodation. From there you take boats either to Sfakía (duration: one hour) or to Soughia and Paleochora. Remember that the last boat to Sfakía is at 17 hours, which connects with the last bus to Chania at 18 hours. Duration of the bus trip: two hours.

Continue reading...

if you drill down, past the hair, flesh and bone. into my mind where the ego and id reside. then turn to the left, and follow the i.q. down the alley, you will find a place. where on thrones of cogitating thoughts, king big questions asked, reigns in conjunction, with, queen yet unanswered. they watch with interest benign, over a field of an eternal tourney, split roughly down the middle by a chasm quite wide. on one side of the gorge is arrayed, the banners of philosophy. at the vanguard, the epistemological knights; plato, descartes, ferrier, kant, hume,spinoza and bosanquet. the major forces ride beneath the banners, of their schools of thought. followed by the lesser lights, and those, obscure or forgotten, who walk at the rear,carrying the gear and to set the tent poles. as to the other side, that is given to, the seminaries of religion; bhuddism, taoism, islam, hindu, juche, rastafarian, sikh, diasporic, parsis, tenrikyo, judaism and christianity with all its clans. they array themselves in cadres, according to belief. and to the rear, there rides, an interesting guerilla band, of intertestemantals, about 3 or 4 hundred years wide. these are the few who are accounted for, when god spoke nothing, or perhaps a lot but the message just got lost. they number in their disparate clan, alexander the great, ptolemy, the hellanic masses, seluecids, maccabeans, hasmoeans and pompey the great, not all, but the noteworthy. across the divide, by arrowing thought were fought rallies of acumen and battles of wit and occasionally, a persipacious fire was lit. but there is one more player, to mention. apathy, the great hulking ****** who for want of gumption, and get up and go, sat crouched, (quite uncomfortably so) on a spire. made of mediocracy, cemented by woe, in the iddle of the rifted abyss. unable to decide with which team to go.

0

Mar 31, 2014

Mar 31, 2014 at 5:37 PM UTC

if you drill down, past the hair, flesh and bone. into my mind where the ego and id reside. then turn to the left, and follow the i.q. down the alley, you will find a place. where on thrones of cogitating thoughts, king big questions asked, reigns in conjunction, with, queen yet unanswered. they watch with interest benign, over a field of an eternal tourney, split roughly down the middle by a chasm quite wide. on one side of the gorge is arrayed, the banners of philosophy. at the vanguard, the epistemological knights; plato, descartes, ferrier, kant, hume,spinoza and bosanquet. the major forces ride beneath the banners, of their schools of thought. followed by the lesser lights, and those, obscure or forgotten, who walk at the rear,carrying the gear and to set the tent poles. as to the other side, that is given to, the seminaries of religion; bhuddism, taoism, islam, hindu, juche, rastafarian, sikh, diasporic, parsis, tenrikyo, judaism and christianity with all its clans. they array themselves in cadres, according to belief. and to the rear, there rides, an interesting guerilla band, of intertestemantals, about 3 or 4 hundred years wide. these are the few who are accounted for, when god spoke nothing, or perhaps a lot but the message just got lost. they number in their disparate clan, alexander the great, ptolemy, the hellanic masses, seluecids, maccabeans, hasmoeans and pompey the great, not all, but the noteworthy. across the divide, by arrowing thought were fought rallies of acumen and battles of wit and occasionally, a persipacious fire was lit. but there is one more player, to mention. apathy, the great hulking ****** who for want of gumption, and get up and go, sat crouched, (quite uncomfortably so) on a spire. made of mediocracy, cemented by woe, in the iddle of the rifted abyss. unable to decide with which team to go.

Continue reading...

A pear is a seed my darling dear And if You, my sweet pear, was a sapling it would take a thousands years for You to be as wise as the young redwood tree in the forest by the salty sea You don't pick the buds off the rose bush expecting them to blossom in Your possessive hand You wait for the perfect moment for the bud to open sharing her beauty with the sunlight only then allowing You to gaze at her full glory And a whole year has gone by for the tree in which You call home to bloom, The tree that provides a safe haven for You to ripen in a burrow between her leaves protecting You from harsh nights My dear fruit, You are not ripen yet You have a couple more months bloom my sweet pear if You are too hasty and allow the nats to gorge on Your splendor then You will no longer be of value to anyone I will discard You my lips will never kiss Your gorgeous skin You will never be chosen at the market tucked away in a basket given as a precious gift. You will be thrown mixed into compost to live the rest of Your days rotting, unhappy, until You die; A spoiled little fruit.

0

Jun 26, 2013

Jun 26, 2013 at 12:00 AM UTC

nebraska-sinclair

A pear is a seed my darling dear And if You, my sweet pear, was a sapling it would take a thousands years for You to be as wise as the young redwood tree in the forest by the salty sea You don't pick the buds off the rose bush expecting them to blossom in Your possessive hand You wait for the perfect moment for the bud to open sharing her beauty with the sunlight only then allowing You to gaze at her full glory And a whole year has gone by for the tree in which You call home to bloom, The tree that provides a safe haven for You to ripen in a burrow between her leaves protecting You from harsh nights My dear fruit, You are not ripen yet You have a couple more months bloom my sweet pear if You are too hasty and allow the nats to gorge on Your splendor then You will no longer be of value to anyone I will discard You my lips will never kiss Your gorgeous skin You will never be chosen at the market tucked away in a basket given as a precious gift. You will be thrown mixed into compost to live the rest of Your days rotting, unhappy, until You die; A spoiled little fruit.

Continue reading...

I call last summer the "Summer of Smoothies" for the usual ones made of fruit and for those kind of men, you know, the smooth-talking types. I liked the thick ones, especially with yogurt as a base and with some sort of berry. I would sip them slowly while swinging my feet off of the old suspension bridge that stretched wide across the quiet gorge. I liked the tall ones too since I never liked dating any of the short ones who made me feel like I belonged with that river in South America. Not tall, dark, and handsome, though. Tall and nerdy. But I couldn't tell you why. Every morning you would run past me as I day dreamt in the sun on my bridge and I wondered why you never changed your route. Every morning I quietly sipped my smoothie and hoped that it was me.

0

May 23, 2010

May 23, 2010 at 3:07 PM UTC

Summer of Smoothies

I call last summer the "Summer of Smoothies" for the usual ones made of fruit and for those kind of men, you know, the smooth-talking types. I liked the thick ones, especially with yogurt as a base and with some sort of berry. I would sip them slowly while swinging my feet off of the old suspension bridge that stretched wide across the quiet gorge. I liked the tall ones too since I never liked dating any of the short ones who made me feel like I belonged with that river in South America. Not tall, dark, and handsome, though. Tall and nerdy. But I couldn't tell you why. Every morning you would run past me as I day dreamt in the sun on my bridge and I wondered why you never changed your route. Every morning I quietly sipped my smoothie and hoped that it was me.

Continue reading...

Sailor, sailor You lost your anchor You lost your atlas Sailor, sailor You killed your comrades And there's no place on land for you Sailor, sailor They told you to never come back They told you to stop breathing Sailor, sailor And how about all the pain that you felt? Have you lost your heart? Sailor, sailor They hate you You are death itself, they say Sailor, sailor Are the tailor and the midnight boy in peace? Are their ghosts still haunting you? Sailor, sailor Have you lost the fear of that boat? That old broken boat that is you Sailor, sailor Did you feel the smell of home? Your comrades are on land Sailor, sailor How do you navigate on the gorge? How do you fight with the despair? Sailor, sailor I found your anchor and your atlas But they belong to another sir Sailor, sailor Did you give up on your destiny? You abandoned your crew Sailor, sailor Where will be your burial? Because you're dead after all Sailor, sailor If I say that I hate you Because you left your crew? Sailor, sailor You would answer me If I said that I hate you? Sailor, sailor If you're dead after all Why am I a ghost? Sailor, sailor Where is your heart? Because I don't want to suffer anymore Sailor, sailor Who are you after all? Because I'm a spectre of who you've been Sailor, sailor If I **** my comrades And leave the crew Sailor, sailor Am I going to be free from this despair? Will the darkness leave me? Sailor, sailor Why am I so sad If I'm a lonely ghost? Sailor, sailor They say that you are the worst The one who should never have existed Sailor, sailor What does it say about me? If you had not been born after all How could I be here? Sailor, sailor If you recover your anchor and your atlas If you recover your crew Do you accept me? Sailor, sailor If you are alive after all Can you lend me your name? Because I'm tired of suffering Sailor, sailor If I'm your heir Do you let me sail on that old boat? Sailor, sailor Do you let me be the death itself? Because I don't want to suffer anymore. Sailor, sailor Do you let me be just a ghost Wandering aimlessly through the darkness? Sailor, sailor Do you let me **** myself In order that I don't make anyone suffer anymore? Sailor, sailor Why did everything change? It was easier when we were all dreamers Sailor, sailor I want to be a sailor again In order that I can feel the smell of home Sailor, sailor If I'm not a sailor anymore Can I leave the boat? Sailor, sailor I want to embrace the sea Sailor, sailor I want to bleed with the sea. Sailor, sailor I want to understand completely Why I stopped being a sailor Sailor, sailor I'm going to become your comrade We will be dead after all.

0

Dec 3, 2016

Dec 3, 2016 at 10:43 PM UTC

serafeim-blazej

Sailor, sailor You lost your anchor You lost your atlas Sailor, sailor You killed your comrades And there's no place on land for you Sailor, sailor They told you to never come back They told you to stop breathing Sailor, sailor And how about all the pain that you felt? Have you lost your heart? Sailor, sailor They hate you You are death itself, they say Sailor, sailor Are the tailor and the midnight boy in peace? Are their ghosts still haunting you? Sailor, sailor Have you lost the fear of that boat? That old broken boat that is you Sailor, sailor Did you feel the smell of home? Your comrades are on land Sailor, sailor How do you navigate on the gorge? How do you fight with the despair? Sailor, sailor I found your anchor and your atlas But they belong to another sir Sailor, sailor Did you give up on your destiny? You abandoned your crew Sailor, sailor Where will be your burial? Because you're dead after all Sailor, sailor If I say that I hate you Because you left your crew? Sailor, sailor You would answer me If I said that I hate you? Sailor, sailor If you're dead after all Why am I a ghost? Sailor, sailor Where is your heart? Because I don't want to suffer anymore Sailor, sailor Who are you after all? Because I'm a spectre of who you've been Sailor, sailor If I **** my comrades And leave the crew Sailor, sailor Am I going to be free from this despair? Will the darkness leave me? Sailor, sailor Why am I so sad If I'm a lonely ghost? Sailor, sailor They say that you are the worst The one who should never have existed Sailor, sailor What does it say about me? If you had not been born after all How could I be here? Sailor, sailor If you recover your anchor and your atlas If you recover your crew Do you accept me? Sailor, sailor If you are alive after all Can you lend me your name? Because I'm tired of suffering Sailor, sailor If I'm your heir Do you let me sail on that old boat? Sailor, sailor Do you let me be the death itself? Because I don't want to suffer anymore. Sailor, sailor Do you let me be just a ghost Wandering aimlessly through the darkness? Sailor, sailor Do you let me **** myself In order that I don't make anyone suffer anymore? Sailor, sailor Why did everything change? It was easier when we were all dreamers Sailor, sailor I want to be a sailor again In order that I can feel the smell of home Sailor, sailor If I'm not a sailor anymore Can I leave the boat? Sailor, sailor I want to embrace the sea Sailor, sailor I want to bleed with the sea. Sailor, sailor I want to understand completely Why I stopped being a sailor Sailor, sailor I'm going to become your comrade We will be dead after all.

Continue reading...

The Ashes of a million souls drift down to the Baranco Wall and Moorland. Seventeen thousand feet is All Deep and dead is the cap on Kilimanjaro. If a tree falls in the Forrest. you will hear it on Kilimanjaro. Haunting stones on Easter Island whisper in the dead of night and speak to Kilimanjaro. Pitcairn Island far and lost. Fletcher Christians mournful ghost wails and screams as the Bounty burned a light seen from The Kilimanjaro. Supai City Arizona in the bowels of the gaping gorge looks out to Kilimanjaro. Oymyakon Siberia. Minus 93 degrees. chatter and freeze akin to The Kilimanjaro World ends in the stratosphere Fight for breath face you fears. Where minutes pass like plodding years in grasp of Kilimanjaro.

0

Aug 6, 2013

Aug 6, 2013 at 3:01 AM UTC

geno-cattouse-1

Snowfall On Kilimanjaro

The Ashes of a million souls drift down to the Baranco Wall and Moorland. Seventeen thousand feet is All Deep and dead is the cap on Kilimanjaro. If a tree falls in the Forrest. you will hear it on Kilimanjaro. Haunting stones on Easter Island whisper in the dead of night and speak to Kilimanjaro. Pitcairn Island far and lost. Fletcher Christians mournful ghost wails and screams as the Bounty burned a light seen from The Kilimanjaro. Supai City Arizona in the bowels of the gaping gorge looks out to Kilimanjaro. Oymyakon Siberia. Minus 93 degrees. chatter and freeze akin to The Kilimanjaro World ends in the stratosphere Fight for breath face you fears. Where minutes pass like plodding years in grasp of Kilimanjaro.

Continue reading...

I don't understand Thanksgiving I don't understand it at all Instead of giving thanks for things We sit and watch football Americans give thanks each year For the bounties in their life Like freedom, food and housing A loving family, little strife But, in Canada, it's different We give thanks, slightly the same But, ours is a holiday from politicians It's not held the day we came We watch football, and eat turkey Gorge ourselves and fall asleep Leaving dishes till tomorrow We know the mess will keep but, if Thanksgiving has true meaning And we give thanks, I want to know Who are we truly thanking really Is it God ? I need to know Are we thanking God for loving us Even though he can't be seen Do we thank ourselves for what we've earned It's not as easy as it seems I mean, really when it comes down to it What is Thanksgiving truly for? Is it to gorge ourselves on turkey So we can watch football some more It's not something that I'm fond of It's a day off work, that's all I'm thankful for my bounty But, I don't know who to call To tell that I am thankful I'm a transplant here you see I don't understand Thanksgiving It don't mean much to me If a homeless man is thankful Is it right that some are not They just eat and watch their football All the things that he has not He's as thankful as the next man In fact I'd say he's more Because to him, a true thanksgiving Doesn't need to have a score.

0

Oct 3, 2012

Oct 3, 2012 at 4:47 PM UTC

I don't understand Thanksgiving I don't understand it at all Instead of giving thanks for things We sit and watch football Americans give thanks each year For the bounties in their life Like freedom, food and housing A loving family, little strife But, in Canada, it's different We give thanks, slightly the same But, ours is a holiday from politicians It's not held the day we came We watch football, and eat turkey Gorge ourselves and fall asleep Leaving dishes till tomorrow We know the mess will keep but, if Thanksgiving has true meaning And we give thanks, I want to know Who are we truly thanking really Is it God ? I need to know Are we thanking God for loving us Even though he can't be seen Do we thank ourselves for what we've earned It's not as easy as it seems I mean, really when it comes down to it What is Thanksgiving truly for? Is it to gorge ourselves on turkey So we can watch football some more It's not something that I'm fond of It's a day off work, that's all I'm thankful for my bounty But, I don't know who to call To tell that I am thankful I'm a transplant here you see I don't understand Thanksgiving It don't mean much to me If a homeless man is thankful Is it right that some are not They just eat and watch their football All the things that he has not He's as thankful as the next man In fact I'd say he's more Because to him, a true thanksgiving Doesn't need to have a score.

Continue reading...

You become lost once you decide to dine with the ghosts of the past for all they do is gorge you in sorrow and feed you with fury.

0

Apr 7, 2014

Apr 7, 2014 at 1:07 PM UTC

_penchantforpoetry_

Dining with Ghosts

You become lost once you decide to dine with the ghosts of the past for all they do is gorge you in sorrow and feed you with fury.

Continue reading...

Death lies at a bottomless cliff Gorging the valley till the earth splits And marrow spills through black haze chatter Between bones of ancestral desires His voice came through to me one night A wisp that seeped past glass and flesh To trickle deprecation And lay my fitful mind to rest "All you are, all you to blame No innocence You gorge yourself to death All you are, all you to blame No innocence Where men exist"

0

Sep 28, 2013

Sep 28, 2013 at 7:36 AM UTC

Death lies at a bottomless cliff Gorging the valley till the earth splits And marrow spills through black haze chatter Between bones of ancestral desires His voice came through to me one night A wisp that seeped past glass and flesh To trickle deprecation And lay my fitful mind to rest "All you are, all you to blame No innocence You gorge yourself to death All you are, all you to blame No innocence Where men exist"

Continue reading...

Mon papa, c'est le plus fort des papas. Mon papa, c'est le plus beau des papas. Mon papa, même quand il est fatigué, on dirait Richard Gere. Mon papa, même si il est carnivore, moi, je l'aime quand même. Mon papa, quand il mange, on dirait qu'il a 5 ans, mais moi, je l'aime quand même. Mon papa, il a des voitures super cool qui font vroom. Mon papa, quand il conduit, on dirait Michel Vaillant, même pas peur. Mon papa, quand il me dit bonne nuit, j'ai même plus peur. Les monstres sous mon lit, eux, ils se désintègrent avec la force des bisous de mon papa. Mon papa, parfois, il ronfle et je l'aime quand même. Mon papa, quand on est dans la piscine, il joue au crocrodile avec nous. Mon papa, quand il porte des choses, les manches de sa chemise se déchire sous les muscles. Mon papa, avec une barbe, on dirait un homme des caverne, c'est trop cool. Mon papa, quand il fait des câlins, on disparait sous ses couches d'amour. Mon papa, quand il nous emmène faire du shopping, il supporte des heures et il sourit. Mon papa, il nous laisse faire des trucs qui lui font peur, mais il veut nous faire plaisir, alors il dit oui. Mon papa, il m'a laissé faire du saut en parachute, et je suis même pas morte. Mon papa, il râle parfois mais on sait qu'en fait, c'est parce qu'il nous aime. Mon papa, même quand il voyage, il pense à nous. Mon papa, il nous emmène en voyage avec des photos tout le temps quand il travail. Mon papa, il nous emmène en voyage tout le temps quand il est en vacances. Mon papa, il fait des trucs de papa trop génial. Par exemple, il connait nos restaurants préférés, et il sait ce qui nous fait plaisir. Alors il nous y emmène. Mon papa, même quand il est en colère, il est beau. Mon papa, quand il sourit il est comme Thor, le dieu du tonnerre, il est puissant. Du coup, parfois, ma maman elle fait un nervous break down. Parce que mon papa il est trop beau c'est même pas normal. Mon papa, il a un double menton pour que si un jour Game Of Thrones arrive dans la vraie vie, on pourra pas lui trancher la gorge. Mon papa, il fait du vélo plus vite que le Tour de France. La preuve, ca fait des années qu'ils sont en France, mon papa, lui, il est déjà à Dubai. Mon papa, parfois il oublie notre anniversaire quand on lui demande au pif, mais il oublie jamais de le souhaiter, donc on lui pardonne. Mon papa, il voyage en first class. Mon papa, il connait les aéroports mieux que James Bond. Mon papa, il regarde des series TV de jeunes. Mon papa, il porte des costards. Mon papa, il nous emmène manger des dans endroits incroyables. Mon papa, il nous emmène dans des hôtels de luxe. Mon papa, il devrait être président du monde. Mon papa, il est mieux que les autres papa parce que c'est le mien. Mon papa, il est irremplaçable. Mon papa, si on m'en donnait un autre, j'en voudrais pas. Mon papa, je veux que celui la. Mon papa il est pas toujours là, mais c'est pas grave, parce qu'il est jamais **** Mon papa, il traverse le monde mais après il nous raconte, alors c'est cool. Mon papa, il fait une super vinaigrette. Dommage que j'aime pas la vinaigrette. Mon papa, quand il fait un barbeque, ca fait beaucoup de fumée et pas beaucoup de feu, mais c'est pour mieux nous impressioner quand il fait rôtir la viande. Mon papa, il parle Anglais. Mon papa, c'est le meilleur papa du monde. Mon papa, je l'aime, même si maintenant, il a presque un demi siècle. Mon papa, c'est comme un druide. Ca meurt jamais. C'est trop cool. Mon papa, c'est comme une mode indémodable, tu veux jamais le remplacer, il est toujours tendance. Mon papa, on peut pas le comparer a une mode fashion, parce que c'est un humain. Mon papa, c'est le meilleur humain que je connaisse. Avec ma maman et ma soeur et mon chat, mais chuuuuut. C'est un secret. Mais ce que je préfère à propos de mon papa, c'est que dès que je le vois, je peux lui dire: "mon papa, je l'aime."

0

Sep 19, 2014

Sep 19, 2014 at 12:08 PM UTC

turnoffthelights

Mon papa, c'est le plus fort des papas. Mon papa, c'est le plus beau des papas. Mon papa, même quand il est fatigué, on dirait Richard Gere. Mon papa, même si il est carnivore, moi, je l'aime quand même. Mon papa, quand il mange, on dirait qu'il a 5 ans, mais moi, je l'aime quand même. Mon papa, il a des voitures super cool qui font vroom. Mon papa, quand il conduit, on dirait Michel Vaillant, même pas peur. Mon papa, quand il me dit bonne nuit, j'ai même plus peur. Les monstres sous mon lit, eux, ils se désintègrent avec la force des bisous de mon papa. Mon papa, parfois, il ronfle et je l'aime quand même. Mon papa, quand on est dans la piscine, il joue au crocrodile avec nous. Mon papa, quand il porte des choses, les manches de sa chemise se déchire sous les muscles. Mon papa, avec une barbe, on dirait un homme des caverne, c'est trop cool. Mon papa, quand il fait des câlins, on disparait sous ses couches d'amour. Mon papa, quand il nous emmène faire du shopping, il supporte des heures et il sourit. Mon papa, il nous laisse faire des trucs qui lui font peur, mais il veut nous faire plaisir, alors il dit oui. Mon papa, il m'a laissé faire du saut en parachute, et je suis même pas morte. Mon papa, il râle parfois mais on sait qu'en fait, c'est parce qu'il nous aime. Mon papa, même quand il voyage, il pense à nous. Mon papa, il nous emmène en voyage avec des photos tout le temps quand il travail. Mon papa, il nous emmène en voyage tout le temps quand il est en vacances. Mon papa, il fait des trucs de papa trop génial. Par exemple, il connait nos restaurants préférés, et il sait ce qui nous fait plaisir. Alors il nous y emmène. Mon papa, même quand il est en colère, il est beau. Mon papa, quand il sourit il est comme Thor, le dieu du tonnerre, il est puissant. Du coup, parfois, ma maman elle fait un nervous break down. Parce que mon papa il est trop beau c'est même pas normal. Mon papa, il a un double menton pour que si un jour Game Of Thrones arrive dans la vraie vie, on pourra pas lui trancher la gorge. Mon papa, il fait du vélo plus vite que le Tour de France. La preuve, ca fait des années qu'ils sont en France, mon papa, lui, il est déjà à Dubai. Mon papa, parfois il oublie notre anniversaire quand on lui demande au pif, mais il oublie jamais de le souhaiter, donc on lui pardonne. Mon papa, il voyage en first class. Mon papa, il connait les aéroports mieux que James Bond. Mon papa, il regarde des series TV de jeunes. Mon papa, il porte des costards. Mon papa, il nous emmène manger des dans endroits incroyables. Mon papa, il nous emmène dans des hôtels de luxe. Mon papa, il devrait être président du monde. Mon papa, il est mieux que les autres papa parce que c'est le mien. Mon papa, il est irremplaçable. Mon papa, si on m'en donnait un autre, j'en voudrais pas. Mon papa, je veux que celui la. Mon papa il est pas toujours là, mais c'est pas grave, parce qu'il est jamais **** Mon papa, il traverse le monde mais après il nous raconte, alors c'est cool. Mon papa, il fait une super vinaigrette. Dommage que j'aime pas la vinaigrette. Mon papa, quand il fait un barbeque, ca fait beaucoup de fumée et pas beaucoup de feu, mais c'est pour mieux nous impressioner quand il fait rôtir la viande. Mon papa, il parle Anglais. Mon papa, c'est le meilleur papa du monde. Mon papa, je l'aime, même si maintenant, il a presque un demi siècle. Mon papa, c'est comme un druide. Ca meurt jamais. C'est trop cool. Mon papa, c'est comme une mode indémodable, tu veux jamais le remplacer, il est toujours tendance. Mon papa, on peut pas le comparer a une mode fashion, parce que c'est un humain. Mon papa, c'est le meilleur humain que je connaisse. Avec ma maman et ma soeur et mon chat, mais chuuuuut. C'est un secret. Mais ce que je préfère à propos de mon papa, c'est que dès que je le vois, je peux lui dire: "mon papa, je l'aime."

Continue reading...

Alone the groans of humanity that were once united in love at last. finds its rest . We wait for a call that never comes , and close our eyes in death . Now the cricket finds its leaf on some Tunisian shores weaves silk it’s song of love , just as My hand reaches out to yours only for you to flinch and turn from love . the pebble washed over by the shore finds itself on ship wrecked Oceans of thee . Where once lovers walked hand in hand their love like the sands of time exposed . Like pebbles stolen from the beach where once Greek lovers found play ,Their. wedding songs bliss , hand in hand on moon set tidel bays . So the twilight casts its gaze , Soon my time moves ever on , the midnight flyer i once caught Only to never find the one . Love and death have yet to follow me , their paths I know not well , the sunshine tomorrow’s ring brings sage of old to tell . Out of these dark ages Saxon roamed , Autumn leaves once green in bloom , have turned a golden brown only now to deaths decay . Their sorrows winter shall take and find , An Ampetheatre of Chicken bones they gorge, eight thousand demon hoards , helmet , belt and sword and my victory is assured . “ Now set the table honey just mix the salad dear “ “ Look mother an olive all by itself can I have it please ? ” “Yes , now wash your hands “ and i was swollowed , ...whole ..

0

Sep 29, 2018

Sep 29, 2018 at 5:03 PM UTC

Travellerintime

Chicken salad .

Alone the groans of humanity that were once united in love at last. finds its rest . We wait for a call that never comes , and close our eyes in death . Now the cricket finds its leaf on some Tunisian shores weaves silk it’s song of love , just as My hand reaches out to yours only for you to flinch and turn from love . the pebble washed over by the shore finds itself on ship wrecked Oceans of thee . Where once lovers walked hand in hand their love like the sands of time exposed . Like pebbles stolen from the beach where once Greek lovers found play ,Their. wedding songs bliss , hand in hand on moon set tidel bays . So the twilight casts its gaze , Soon my time moves ever on , the midnight flyer i once caught Only to never find the one . Love and death have yet to follow me , their paths I know not well , the sunshine tomorrow’s ring brings sage of old to tell . Out of these dark ages Saxon roamed , Autumn leaves once green in bloom , have turned a golden brown only now to deaths decay . Their sorrows winter shall take and find , An Ampetheatre of Chicken bones they gorge, eight thousand demon hoards , helmet , belt and sword and my victory is assured . “ Now set the table honey just mix the salad dear “ “ Look mother an olive all by itself can I have it please ? ” “Yes , now wash your hands “ and i was swollowed , ...whole ..

Continue reading...