"gravitas" poems
Her loneliness wears maroon,
I am aware," to her yin, my yang,"
mine in deep purple echoes,
the density that's her, in my presence.
On an island of her own, she sojourns,
where there is comfortable room for two.
A happy recluse she is, ruminating,
diving deeper in to the sea of consciousness.
What does it really mean?
we are wound around a "KOAN", working on it,
wouldn't stop to think, I flow
with the insistent gravitas of the current,
Through her the dense silence speaks,
in voices clear, heard within me.
all beyond words, and in a far more
subtle plane, than this existence.
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 3:10 PM UTC
Clever minds that stretch
The many elements which live as our backdrop
Too often everyday is spoiled
By unnecessary people, gathering ammunition
For climbing invisible platforms of command
These are cast aside by simple smiles and welcomes
And it was.
Even if the task was invisible to me at first
My soul felt at home amongst these new work mates
My responsible position was underwritten
Given gravitas and a freedom to which I wasn't quite used
The time was charged with familiar but different
It was fraught but strangely healthier in paradox
The honest fight was taken with gestures of family proportion
Success had waned but the unity of 'knowing' was the strength
That continued to support that Company
In spite of the turmoil my personal facets were given air
To run and to adjust, to temper and to manage
Poor communication was completely disastrous
The confusion of three currencies
And the balance of understanding left us guessing
Never mind agreement or translation
Through all this, looking back my heart is lifted
Not by the freedom or the ability to achieve ...mostly,
It is the strength from our leader,
That calm, silver haired man
When many were distraught you kept us going
And fed us with hope and built our confidence,
Not always with the obvious
But gave us the ability to win through by believing ,
Believing in us and building back our motivation and teasing out
The raw infrastructure of our true capabilities
Never before has anyone, apart from my Mother
Believed in me as you did. To tackle the toughest of tasks
Anything that the industry, the public or our customers
Could throw at us, we dealt with it.
Sadly you could do nothing at the final demise but take the role
Of a father giving news of an aged relative sadly moved by
A force greater than yourself
I know had you the influence, the power and the funding............
You were always more than a boss Chris
Your transparent enthusiasm raised our spirits
And in times of worry I hope we lifted yours too.
I think of you often, thank you for being a friend
After we were no longer professionally connected.
I see your generous smile and your warm handshake
I can hear your laugh now
It's always a treat to catch up over a beer.
I now find you in my phone, in my photographs
But mostly in my heart for being a great bloke
You taught me so much.
Speak soon, with love, Max
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 10:01 AM UTC
The owl
owns silence,
it dawns;
movements
are arrested,
as stillness
comes alive
as owl moments.
The condor,
gravitas,
incarnated,
in relentless search,
circling around
the sky's navel,
in a mystical quest,
a motif that arrests
motions of mind.
An owl sits and sees,
a visible presence
of an invisible absence,
on the cosy notch
hid by foliage
on the tree of loneliness.
Perking up ears
inner silence,
the faithful watch dog,
listens owl's unuttered words,
ever echoing,
deep within the walls
of mind's corridor.
The owl and the condor,
the eloquence of silence,
has two voices speaking
in unison.In the secret center
they reveal the forbidden,
silence rules, the dawn of wisdom
bright and spectacular, awaken
the fog filled landscape.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 11:26 AM UTC
jaeger.
chasseur.
foxtail.
seduction of fascism in mind,
like tumbling autumn leaves
ever and always
on the steps of a country house.
always and ever
just outside the aix-les-bains dance hall.
his blousy new bride
and her old lover
aware of his sympathies and
the danger he presents to them.
jaeger.
chasseur.
foxtail.
seduction of fascism in mind,
ever and always
on a deserted alpine road.
always and ever
one trail of blood,
remnant of the preyed upon.
she screams against the glass,
quiet devil in the backseat
haunted by the disorder
of his own mind.
eyes opened to
his own mutability.
alienation is immanent,
bred in the bone.
a desperate need for gravitas,
built upon vaporous credulity.
and she is pursued through the woods
ever and always,
through iridescent fields
always and ever,
until finally in his crosshairs
she falls.
those like him have not suddenly
vanished from the earth, but
are merely lying in wait.
Mar 25, 2022
Mar 25, 2022 at 3:22 PM UTC
In God We Trust, For He Invented Reasonable Doubt
In Courtroom of the State of New York, Part 62,
where the only decoration extant,
in gold leaf letters,
a magnificent joke,
In God We Trust.
Words so incongruous
to the real time drama,
a poorly acted Law and Order episode
of which I partake,
(as Juror No. 1,
ergo you may address me as
Mr. Jury Foreman),
they stun me into stupefaction
every time we enter and the
Bailiff pronounces with much gravitas,
"Jury Entering"
A potpourri of a dozen Manhattanites,
with wisdom acquired
by the singular virtue of
having attained the robust age of 18,
noteworthy for being free of
criminal record,
having been nominated
to sit upon the jury that will decide
the fate of one Eric B.,
for what he may have done upon West 11th Street
one Summer night in
June Two Thousand and Eleven,
If adjudged guilty,
New York State can take,
incarcerate him for up to
15 years of his life
Predicate felon by the age of twenty seven,
Eric's resume consists of
four felonies,
two misdemeanors
a wife and two little children,
and a partridge in a pear tree.
Facts turgid and muddy,
Eric tells a story
one juror calls a confection of lies,
no one murmurs
much disagreement in the
tiny, overheated room
we have been sequestered to
replay
the 2012 version of
Twelve Angry Men.
But I am not his peer,
nor am I a seer,
common sense says
if appearances are what they seem to be,
he aided and abetted
in the forcible taking of
a nice Connecticut lady's cell phone
with his brother who just happened to be
released from prison earlier that day
A convoluted tale
ripe with inanities is told,
upshot is our defendant's tale,
his robust defense,
portrays him as the unluckiest man
in the whole world,
a good Samaritan,
*{chasing after the thief,
** ** his bro}*
against whom events have conspired
In Manhattan can be a harsh place,
where the natives
a tough lot,
tougher than the Indians from whom
they stole it all.
Our bridges we sell to out-of-towers,
all it takes is one to say,
what the heck,
reasonable doubt is
a ***** to overcome
so let him go
Jan, 2012
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 4:45 PM UTC
there are times
when the meaning
of a word
is asked
one that
has been read
and regurgitated
used regularly
correctly adopted
as part of
an apparent
well-read
or pretentious
vocabulary
however upon
being asked
its meaning
there is only
a blank
vacuous
addled
unable to provide
a succinct
or even literate
definition
to save face
to re-establish
the hubris
of this
abashed lexicologist
analogous alternatives
will be offered
oversimplified
synonyms
carrying a little
less gravitas
a layman's explanation
to maintain
position on his
self-congratulatory
podium
Oct 13, 2022
Oct 13, 2022 at 11:42 AM UTC
my hidden shames
are an excellent source of moral fibre,
nurturing, but not nutritious.
we coexist in a quiet
mutual acknowledgment,
coexisting but un-categorizable,
nonetheless,
among my oldest cohorts,
their singular coordinated characteristic,
they are mine alone,
not meant to be shared.
But they will someday
make an excellent poem.
Mon jan 2 2023
6:47am
@here
———————————————————-
the askew
are my oldest companion,
dating back to my naissance,
faithful, eternal, but single-minded,
with a rueful sense of humor,
of course,
refer to my relatively plentiful hairs
inherited from my mother’ genetics.
a morning chore,
to return their antics
to an adult,
dignified pose,
plenty sufficient to be be brushed,
straight back,
the preferred orderly compose,
of older men
who cannot waste time
with foolishness,
the excessive vanities of
curls, parts and pompadours,
and yet,
every day they wake me with
ridicule, mockery, by presenting
themselves.to me,
as if electrocuted,
each
hair raising itself
pointing to the heaven,
whence
their true Creator resides.
no amount of product
persuasive,
they do what they must do,
akimbo, askew,
with inordinate amount of
malice aforethought and
a venomous sense of
hairy (and now hoary)
absurdity .
a splash of water,
a handful of rigorous brush strokes,
returns order
and the pretense of a serious mien,
an adult demeanor.
But their purpose accomplished,
they have reminded me of the
absurdity of human vanity,
to humble myself
before forces
more powerful
than human self-aggrandizement
by accentuating
our human foibles.
7:13am
same time & place
——————————————-
morning prayers are
always
a trilogy
the rounded evenness of three,
provides the necessary gravitas
of sufficiency,
three being
not too short,
not too long,
not too quick,
just three right,
to impart
the seriousness
of gratitude
for having gained
another day upon earth,
with it,
many multitudes of
chances to share
thankfulness,
kindness,
yes,
& love too,
and to write,
one more poem
encapsulating
all of the above.
7:35am
same day
same place,
same cup of coffee
Jan 3, 2023
Jan 3, 2023 at 9:17 AM UTC
Touch
You cannot lift or load it,
over your shoulder, throw it,
to best assay its weight -
is it ponderous, full of big *** gravitas
or a snack, a parfait desert,
a haiku delight?
You cannot touch it,
but it can touch you,
It can grasp both your shoulders,
shake you from complacency,
put its hands upon thy throat,
gasp emit, a scream demanded,
paint whimsy lines on thy face,
from ear to ear.
See
With yours eyes, by a mere glance,
true reveal its length,
stanzas multiple or an itty bitty ditty,
but this gives no value clue,
Ogden Nash vs. Tennyson,
in two minutes make you laugh,
in twenty, make you beg, mercy!
Smell
Some Poe poems do stink,
befouled mushrooms in
a dank place, some require nerve to read,
but your olfactory be ill suited for
poetic deconstruction and criticism.
Hear
Wake you with kisses upon thy face,
inject love poems into thy ears,
straight to the brain verbal crack *******
yet even the hearing the whisper
of words from my lips,
is an insufficient,
sensorily speaking methodology,
of how a poem, to best comprehend
How then?
If touch, vision, smell and cursory hearing alone
can't essence capture, what then, weary reader,
is the supposed Laureate's approved analytical tool?
Taste
Each letter, a morsel in your mouth,
Each phrase, a fork full of pleasure,
Each stanza, a full fledged member
in a tasting menu,
Perfect only in conjunction
with the preceding flavor,
and the one that follows, and the one that follows.
Taste each poem upon thy tongue and then pass it on,
you know how....
Each word, whether chewed thoroughly,
or lightly placed upon a bud for flavor,
needs the careful consideration of your mouth.
Feel the light pressure of the tongues tip
upon the roof of your mouth
and the exalted exhalations of
air rushing past thy cheeks
as you messenger breath from
your chest to be shared with the world,
over the poem's interpreter, your tasting lips.
*As I lay each word down,
a brick by brick edifice construct
of mine own design, I am sated, fulfilled only,
when with I see your lips move
as you savor my words,
my taste you share,
and we are closer for it.*
***Deaf, dumb and blind,
all such travails can be conquered, assailed,
but when I cannot, no longer anymore taste
my poems upon thy lips, then I breathe no more.***
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
In aloneness
all in oneness
thoughts trickle
never end
but never mend
these scars
The gravitas
weight of words
push and piston
beating heart
the rise and fall
of chests
Cold and candour
truths in clamour
cresting waves
the callous pull
in quiet calm
the moon
And so I gaze
in silent praise
the constellations
glinting stars
in tessellation
your eyes
As I became
so garrulous
and perilous
chit and chatter
careless talk
to self
While I beheld
the universe
reflected
in reverse
your eyes
the skies
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 7:21 AM UTC
Quite enticing, plush
she is a spectacle,
all the same lacking
substance and depth.
A coffee table book
everyone who is
someone, curiously grab,
turn the pages in a jiffy,
just to feel the gloss
eye the seductive shine
ogle the ostentation,
and caress the pictures
in opulent colors,
then, let go quick
without any qualms.
Throw it back on the table
with a resounding thud
in no time and leave
without even looking back once!
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 8:35 AM UTC
Socrates was a savage son of a gun
Waltzing across town with an urbane gravitas,
Trumping the pimps and priests that passed
His lazy confidence demanded the reverence oft reserved
For kings and queens and prime ministers
Without a home, the world was a playground all his own
He was always gentle, always genial,
Because he descried through his one good eye
That dregs like me had it rough enough already
He was my friend,
And then he died,
And no one cared but me.
While functional American boys were
Learning from their fathers,
I was learning from that feral cat.
Good old Socrates.
Good boy, Socrates.
Jun 9, 2010
Jun 9, 2010 at 8:52 AM UTC
She was a barefoot singer
Her toes sliding
through the fine, cool earth
It was how she drew
from the spring of nature
She never could hit that high C
while wearing shoes
Their soles are blacker than ours
she used to say
Those ugly boots are cutting you off
she used to tell me
You'll never hit a high C
She sang and I played
I wore my shoes
And I let my hair grow long
My savage war paint
Smeared across my chest
under my shirt
Unknown to everyone but me
And her, she saw it too
We only played outside
The earth on her soles
The wind in my hair
The tortured animus of song
How those nights conspired against us
The natural warmth of audience and music
Our blighted bond, tenuous at best
Soared strong on those nights
A wind over the mountains
A wind that promised rain
Her voice was fragile
But also eerie in its gravitas
It commanded the respect
of the dead soldiers and sailors that came out for us
It made her younger
It declawed and dulled her fangs
I would sometimes cry
when she hit that high C
On our very last number
On the very last page
The fire would kick up
and my fingers would dance
And we both believed in the other
She in her naked earth
Me with my jaguar soul
Oh, how those nights
conspired against us
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 9:03 PM UTC
ambiance amplified and gravitas dead inside
drink alone, danger zone, shot the Jekyll, saved the Hyde
cut my seat belts so my doors wouldn't beep, though
I creep with a fleet of conceited banditos
to the park, skip some rocks, play the shark, shuffle birds
find the narc, go and knock, make it bark, no one heard
a million reason to stay awake wide-eyed tonight
ninety-nine ******* one problem: you're in my line of sight
black & decker woodpecker, fur-trap chop with my power-drill
trill wagon, cool dragon flagon of honey mead on the window sill
unseen fiends mean for stones out beating streets to smithereens
you only live nine times: shake the earth, **** the silver screens
pair of sweet, pear-shaped tweets for you to meet in the suite,
they can show, you can see that they know how to greet
enough throwaways to keep boost mobile open
enough light reflecting princess cuts that they think my neck is frozen
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 2:46 AM UTC
If I could send
one message
back through time,
I wouldn’t write to beg
words off a writer
I admire –
be it Dante or Blake,
Yeats or Cummings –
and I wouldn’t warn away
the gazes of a to-be
lost love
or push the glad
hands of not-yet
abandoned friends.
I would write
to my yesterday self,
who lazily left
dishes for today’s
me to do,
and I’d rightly tell him:
“Please, reconsider
the sink-
me urge to shirk
was.
“These are citrus-
scented suds,
and if you let them,
they’ll tickle
a memory of 3
too-old oranges
forgotten to bother
the bottom of a wicker bowl,
which in turn
will return you to rethink
the how of when
a younger you
grew 5
times in those 10
years before the death,
and then
you stopped caring for the 20
since.”
It’s news of the wee,
menial
and non-consequential
tasks that gives
all of these me’s pleasure
now.
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 6:42 AM UTC
hard to play the idiot; likened to Mr. Bean
taking the role from
Angus Daily into a Blackadder
hurrah who? ha, ha, ha!
my eyes never
left me baffled - or washington prone:
*** to a stirrup - furthermore,
or Rushmore:
Atilla with an entourage
worthy of Genghis: of prone gravitas -
i too santa's little helper
and sinatra's
five p.m. flamingo strut's
worth of martini -
when said slavic eye then lessened
germanic white-boy fisheyed to boot...
i mean less binocular and more concentrate...
but
there's me as a fifth of Nevada in Siberia
that's always the: **** we sold Alaska!
Nicolai! oh Nicolai! Alaska! **** or
of what was the Crimea, of what is the Kremlin:
k, c, k, c, s, c, k, c, k, c, Vlad, s, t, u, v, k, c, s,
Rasputin, k, c, k, c, Boney M....
i'm still fidgety about the third ethnicity in
europe... i have to gather them attune to being
southern slav, or pseudo-turkish,
Finns, Latvians and Greeks... sounds like
falafel: all guidance to the subsequent reprimands
of necessarily tongue-tied whiplash -
gravitas with the kink and jeopardy of a gimp
fetish on the loose.
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 9:24 PM UTC
If only I could summon the will to banish my daemons;
Exorcise the rot that for too long has brought me low;
Waged a war unseen and unheard by the outside;
Inside, a mutinous cacophony of a ****** battlefield;
Where the parts of me unfouled by corruption, weep;
Tears of crimson blood run down as flowing rivers rage;
Anger, that the current refuses to change its course;
Sadness, that I was the one who had diverted destiny;
Swept away by tides no mortal man can hope to shake;
Trapped, like mighty Atlas, beneath the weight of fate;
An unfortunate purgatory of endless indecision;
A fear to see myself beyond the scars I have caused;
Calloused, my pessimism knows no boundaries;
There can be no going back to brighter days;
When days are comparable only to the blackest night;
Sunrises carry the gravitas of the setting sun, reversed;
Life, loses the beauty that once inspired the muse;
Leaving me feeling empty, lost on 'oft forgotten seas;
Praying for Charybdis to churn and drown my daemons;
Finally setting me free from this self imposed slavery;
Shattering the chains holding my past to my present
Jun 15, 2024
Jun 15, 2024 at 1:21 PM UTC
You are the sun in the solar system,
Somehow pulling everyone into your orbit.
Even passer by asteroids like myself
Get captured and entranced
By the gravitas of your enigma.
Forever stuck in the same trajectory,
Always circling back to you.
How do you do it?
Dec 1, 2020
Dec 1, 2020 at 11:36 PM UTC
This week I have been mostly petrified,
and in between such periods I have been jelly.
Do you remember the action of freeze and thaw?
Surely you do, it’s the one clear spot
in the fogged grey landscape of your old school geography.
Well that is the state of me.
I am eroding.
When this process began I cannot tell,
I only know that it continues.
I like to think that the fragments of my self
are at least collecting somewhere,
perhaps in my socks.
If I had the will I might tip out the sediment nightly
and store it in a glass jar by the bed.
I am of course losing weight,
though not so much weight as gravitas.
Conventional scales won’t register the change
as I have tried to explain to my doctor,
but he smiles the smile of an indulgent uncle
then writes me another little green ticket
for little blue pills.
When the last essential ballast is crumbled and gone
Into that that jar, nicely striped,
my substance will rise
like a cheap balloon, leaving
something empty and indifferent
and insensitive.
Hooray is what I say!
I, or that thing that is I minus self,
might at last succeed by blundering on into money regardless,
by making the right decisions.
Judgement is right because there’s no backchat inside
to say otherwise.
Bring it on.
Apr 24, 2012
Apr 24, 2012 at 5:32 PM UTC
Expatriated.... silence swallows whole,
enunciated expression:
Fists pummel at an empty sky.
A voiceless scream tears anaesthetised night.
Who needs gravitas,
what piety awards accolades;
why strike a solemn clarion
where dignity and virtue fail to roam,
when last breathe approaches?
How can we repatriate orphan, edulcerate elocution?
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 4:36 AM UTC
brewing potion with ritual
reciting chants, merely verbal
niching these little caviar
a mixture of gravitas and war
such ladle so long enough to combine
a virgin's blood with a spoon of wine
perhaps adding a buckskin would suffice
this hellcat's hellacious bliss
a bushel of a misogynist's intestine,
must not forget to hitch gobs of sharks fin,
augment a pair of an old man's sight
then smatter the hogs' teeth bite
sing song this dark lullaby
you ought to hear plead and cry
smell and smear this fatal brew
any life it shall take and shoo
death will come and it will reign
blood will begrime and it will stain
thoroughly toting the daring deathly hex
seeking a prey who must be next
Nov 25, 2019
Nov 25, 2019 at 10:52 PM UTC
How to Read a Poem (Hint: Not With Your Eyes)
Touch
You cannot lift or load it, over your shoulder, throw it,
to best assay its weight - is it ponderous, full of big *** gravitas
or a snack, a parfait desert, a haiku delight?
You cannot touch it, but it can touch you,
It can grasp both your shoulders, shake you from complacency,
put its hands upon thy throat, gasp emit, a scream demanded,
paint whimsy lines on thy face, from ear to ear.
See
With yours eyes, by a mere glance, true reveal its length,
stanzas multiple or an itty bitty ditty, but this gives no value clue,
Ogden Nash vs. Tennyson,
in two minutes make you laugh,
in twenty, make you beg, mercy!
Smell
Some Poe poems do stink, befouled mushrooms in
a dank place, some require nerve to read,
but your olfactory be ill suited for
poetic deconstruction and criticism.
Hear
Wake you with kisses upon thy face, inject love poems into thy ears,
**straight to the brain verbal crack *******
yet even the hearing the whisper of words from my lips,
is an insufficient, sensorily speaking methodology,
of how a poem, to best comprehend
How then?
If touch, vision, smell and cursory hearing alone
can't essence capture, what then, weary reader,
is the supposed Laureate's approved analytical tool?
Taste
*Each letter, a morsel in your mouth,
Each phrase, a fork full of pleasure,
Each stanza, a full fledged member in a tasting menu,
Perfect only in conjunction with the preceding flavor,
and the one that follows, and the one that follows.*
Taste each poem upon thy tongue and then pass it on,
you know how....
Each word, whether chewed thoroughly,
or lightly placed upon a bud for flavor,
needs the careful consideration of your mouth.
Feel the light pressure of the tongues tip upon the roof of your mouth
and the exalted exhalations of air rushing past thy cheeks
as you messenger breath from your chest to be shared with the world,
over the poem's interpreter, your tasting lips.
As I lay each word down, a brick by brick edifice construct
of mine own design, I am sated, fulfilled only,
when with I see your lips move as you savor my words,
my taste you share, and we are closer for it.
Deaf, dumb and blind, all such travails can be conquered, assailed,
but when I cannot, no longer anymore taste
my poems upon thy lips, then I breathe no more.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 8:13 AM UTC
humid temperance in your tussled hair
you are fair to begin with
a more wholesome lust-
my ***** could pray too.
you give this
gravitas -
while withholding a miracle of aftermaths.
you're spot on.
manifest this for me...
bring out the outcasts of your hinterlands and small tokens.
bring out your fists so that i may comfort them
with too warm kisses.
let me languish in your paradox
swollen with joy
totally into it,
let me love you like like like like daybreak mending.
i'll size you up
on a pedestal
and catch
you
like a lover.
try me.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 11:29 AM UTC
Iambic pentameters are quite old
As poetry fashions go now, I must say.
Tetrameters are sharper, yes,
But both are old I must confess.
Make any speech, with force, you’ll surely find
Iambic rhythms: the power of pulse.
Such things are found in common speech for sure.
And lines of ten syllables must endure.
Poetic structures set in stone are not
My way: variety is key I have
To say. Some use of rhyme is okay too.
So how you write, that’s up to you (my friend).
For I prefer to write free verse,
To steer away from doggerel’s curse.
Longer lines are languid, with gravitas.
Short ones clout,
It’s as simple as that.
Paul Butters
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 11:18 AM UTC
all lips and spit
rinds glittering pleasure
i'm lean sinew knotting heavy gasps
at nails and texture rawly rumples
the divine shale
your pertinent flavor strums a tattoo polished on my back upper
sprouted feathers
how contracting desperate talons
grapple cotton bedding
shouting mumbles of lipbiting
sweat
in tremulous arcs
of ***** lint
i gravitas surreptitiously
the cradle of your spark spitting electric engine gloved
in black hard fuzz
tickling the moist
tremor of
my rose petals splitting
tongue delivers
screeching love
Jan 8, 2011
Jan 8, 2011 at 12:37 PM UTC
**casual *** causal**
for the voyeurs and titillation-needy,
the only *** here
is the celestial gravitational
undivided divide begging to be
crossed over,
the pull of desire's
mutual assured destruction
between
Mars and Venus,
the war cause,
the Casus Belli,
of casual ***
and
that's it,
it's a wrap
a casual poem
about the non-causality,
the logic of the non-logicality
of
*** casual,
that breaks all the rules
of space, time and
the earnest gravitas
of anti-gravity,
succumbing to light bending dark matter
that resides where reason does not
and your wonder does this qualify
as only love poetry,
but you don't wonder for long...
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 4:34 PM UTC