"halter" poems
The youth walks up to the white horse, to put its halter on
and the horse looks at him in silence.
They are so silent, they are in another world.
8.7k
Visiting a friend on his Quarter
Horse farm, the day sunny and warm.
We walked out to his brood mare
pasture, the ladies were running,
awaiting and sunning, anticipation
in the air and their nervous behavior.
Noble his name, consistency his game,
a reliable aging stallion, sire to many
fine sons and daughters, years of proven
pairings, came halter led and prancing.
He had their scent and his spirit awakened,
the three ladies believed to be in season began
to snigger and whinny, their excitement growing
as the stallion entered their grassy domain,
the dance was about to commence.
The handler led the big fella' forward,
both sides began their quizzical inspections.
one young filly more aggressively willing
than the others. Noble excitedly returned
her heightened interest.
Within a few minutes Noble began to rear up,
he knew his job, his august appendage extended,
trying several times to mount his mate intended,
adrenaline pumping his back legs began to shake,
on his fourth failed attempt the eager proven
suitor fell to the ground, rolled over, paused for
a moment and struggled to stand on unsteady legs.
Appearing even somewhat embarrassed.
The mare moved aside, kicked her hind legs in
the stallion's direction, whinnied loudly and
ran away. Rejected the old stallion stood looking
perplexed, failure was something unknown to him.
His spirit was willing but his aging body was weak.
The old stud slowly returned to the barn, his head
hung low, no longer prancing.
For every time and being there is a season, aging
is part of the cycle, like this stallion, we all reach
this moment of understanding. Sometimes gracefully,
most times with stunned disbelief.
From Noble to nothing in one afternoon.
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 4:02 PM UTC
My memories deceive me, and my heart bleeds to thoughts of
you, poisoned from the curse that runs deep within my veins.
Do I halter and use the words that I can, to try with you,
another chance?
My memories deceive me, and my mind is headed to a paradox of
life that doesn't bring happiness but only a subtle feeling
of contentment. For in my memories you are with me in a
final, never ending dance.
My memories deceive me, as the bewildering cries from within
awaken the soul that has been bound by chains created from
the sins of my past life, and are made stronger by the sins
of which are my own.
My memories deceive me, as the rumors of your betrail fade
into the shadows but the calling from our hearts reach into
the light, violently, yet no sound have they shown.
My memories deceive me, trying to hold them back, all that
accomplishes is bringing you into my senses once again, but I
go forth to a different land with what could have and should
have been.
My memories deceive me, chased by an altered state of mind
where nothing has gone wrong, no death, no pain, just the
feeling of contentment once again.
My memories, they deceive me and everyone around me, for I do
not see faces, only souls that fade into surroundings. A
paralytic view is what they show, of what should have, could
have been you and me.
My memories deceive me, but could they instead be the truth
that I have been seeking as I try hard to sink them in
deeply...
My memories. My memories, immortal as they come, they open my
eyes, though they burn like facing the sun, in this time I
have begun, to realize my memories. They do not deceive, but
only conceive the past that I have forgotten and shields me
from...you.
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 11:14 AM UTC
Who's that I hear?—It's me—Who?—Your heart
Hanging on by the thinnest thread
I lose all my strength, substance, and fluid
When I see you withdrawn this way all alone
Like a whipped cur sulking in the corner
Is it due to your mad hedonism?—
What's it to you?—I have to suffer for it—
Leave me alone—Why?—I'll think about it—
When will you do that?—When I've grown up—
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it—
What's your idea?—To be a good man—
You're thirty, for a mule that's a lifetime
You call that childhood?—No—Madness
Must have hold of you—By what, the halter?—
You don't know a thing—Yes I do—What?—Flies in milk
One's white, one's black, they're opposites—
That's all?—How can I say it better?
If that doesn't suit you I'll start over—
You're lost—Well I'll go down fighting—
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it—
I get the heartache, you the injury and pain
If you were just some poor crazy idiot
I'd be able to make excuses for you
You don't even care, all's one to you, foul or fair
Either your head's harder than a rock
Or you actually prefer misery to honor
Now what do you say to that?—
Once I'm dead I'll rise above it—
God, what comfort—What wise eloquence—
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it—
Why are you miserable?—Because of my miseries
When Saturn packed my satchel I think
He put in these troubles—That's mad
You're his lord and you talk like his slave
Look what Solomon wrote in his book
"A wise man" he says "has authority
Over the planets and their influence"—
I don't believe it, as they made me I'll be—
What are you saying?—Yes that's what I think—
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it—
Want to live?—God give me the strength—
It's necessary...—What is?—To feel remorse
Lots of reading—What kind?—Read for knowledge
Leave fools alone—I'll take your advice—
Or will you forget?—I've got it fixed in mind—
Now act before things go from bad to worse
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it.
3k
Labor Day still three weekends away,
Why play gravedigger so prematurely?
Do not the long legged teen girls yet parade,
In halter tops and shortest of jeans cutoff?
Bare shoulders, tans, caramel cream, short and
tight,
The dresses and the contents, and your chest too,
right?
True, but the thermometer barely brushes 75,
That evening coolness, not yet a chill, now ever-present.
Soon the acorns in August will appear, but for sure,
I know that summer's end knells loud and clear,
Because tonight, the ladies wore pantyhose.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 11:43 PM UTC
She stands with dignity in the middle of the field
Perks her ears at the sound of my boots.
She swings her big head toward me and looks.
I whistle to her, knowing it will never work.
She will wait for me, but never come.
I approach her and slip the halter over her ears,
Kiss her nose.
I brush her graying mane, and try to pretend she is not old.
And she trots with pride and
Is not embarrassed when she trips.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 10:46 AM UTC
There once was this maid in Gibraltar
who was proud of the ******* in her halter-
so she flashed them around
to the boys of the town
who all took her to bed, not the Altar
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 9:17 AM UTC
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a little straight slip of a thing,
red, a quartier inch wide,
red, a quartier inch thin,
suggestive, inquisitive,
a political and philosophical,
lovely provocation to conjecture
as if it were a colored arrow,
pointing strangely down,
instead of up,
to the next handhold
on a rock climbing wall,
in this case,
handholds on a
woman's body
this way,
follow me,
to the barricades!
a tourist mapped-path to follow,
visit the glories of the republic,^
and the charming Quartier Latin!
entrap and entice,
the eyes willful blinded,
taken away to thoughtful solitary,
on-one-side-only,
does the
bra strap
conveniently,
consciously,
haphazardly,
(yes, that's it,
a hazard,)
invitingly, speaks to,
looks to me,
inquiring will you vote,
RSVP to red?
as if a line of lipstick on the body drawn,
the directive points,
this way, perhaps,
always, just perhaps,
this way tourist,
to the dome of the pantheon,
where the statutes
are the course,
or perhaps
disguised, well-placed, statuesque, (ha!),
improvised explosive devices,
purposely presented,
needy for a desired
psychological high impact detonation
If
that is its purpose
under heaven,
under sweater,
under halter,
under cutoff gym top,
under liberty,
to tempt and remove
the blindfold from the womanly scales of
under justice
to tilt him favorably one way
If
it, is theater,
I, the audience
then whatever is on stage,
(Ibsen's Doll House, ironie délicieuse)
is a failed distraction, naught to naughty,
to no avail,
his eyes fastened, stapled wide
to the quarter inch thin
red path
from her slender shoulder,
leading, stepping him ****** down to
his I-magination,
for which unknowingly,
he, ticket purchased,
months ago for
two hours and one intermission
He must go again,
the show was
superbly acted,
for so the reviews said,
Ibsen's play,
"an unremitting portrayal of the suffering of a women"
^republic ~ a state in which the power rests in the body,
of those entitled to vote, exercised by their representatives, their eyes, chosen directly by and for them.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 3:50 PM UTC
hark near!
speak knives upon ears...
make them plea,
and beg upon swollen knees.
for we are truly so,
the ones in which we sow
coagulated clots into a beaded necklace,
blood berries--blood berries
of an aching vocabulary's.
waiting.
begging.
pleading for one swipe.
aching for someone to hurt,
and hope they fully bleed at night.
we merely want to help,
aide the eulogies and add a scissor kiss,
to the concoction of labor,
and amalgamation of agony,
in order to spice,
and to cease.
nothing but a sweet disease
for the white blood cells,
and wish you deep luck,
on a tall grass journey.
we simply wish for ****
after ****
and smile when you still go up running,
blood stained grin after blood stained grin,
and spitting saucers of cut lips upon your hurt cheeks.
spit teacups
and an half full glass
have nothing to do with a child
or years of class.
you may think we're nothing but a nuance,
and don't mean anything but to watch you cook your own brain,
but we are simply here,
to help you on the chair,
and tighten your own noose.
save the ache of being petty,
and moans of disgrace,
we're here to swallow your pity,
and make you drink your own ****
simply--surely--simply and surely so,
but we don't mean anything but to guide you to the ditch,
with slices of paper from rusted scissors,
and help you die with your pitch.
you're one of those, are you not? a ********* and nothing more?
you'd best be reminded,
that what is a song,
without its poem?
you have nothing to fear but your own tongue,
and your own blood,
and your own tears,
and make you think you're nothing but clod.
but you'd best be sweating salver if you really are what you say you are.
a place with no shelter?
no story to show?
no roof and no halter?
no place to know?
for the earth mirrors the heavens
and you place what lays between.
you are truly pathetic--but you scribble that.
you are truly meaningless--but you bleed that.
you are truly wordless--but you speak them.
and no one--not even us--can tell you what you really are.
and if you really are what you say you are--then show us.
but don't prove it.
remember, you have a noose that is tight.
all you need is a chair to kick over...
and paper--and pencil--and keyboard--and mind.
now, go ahead and tell me what you are...
the naive scholar for all mankind.
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 11:15 AM UTC
John and Eric
had gone to New Orleans
to get drunk,
so when they saw the girl
hanging over the railing
of the balcony
pulling her shirt
up and down
up and down,
they hurled beads at her
aiming for the top of her head
so that they'd
circle the drain of her neck
in a circling, shimmering starlet
down
her shoulders.
"Come down here," John yelled.
The girl pulled down her halter-top
one more time,
exposing two
globes of bouncing flesh.
Thinking he had said,
"Pull them down."
It was so loud and everyone was whistling
and there wasn't just a single color of light;
the aura from the club
was a nebula of parti-colored flashing.
later that night
she did come down.
She bumped in between John and Eric
as they navigated her through the crowd
trying their hardest to keep her
from falling over and puking,
while trying to do the same
for themselves.
She hung to them like they were long singular beams of steel.
When she rolled her head around at them
she remembered that they looked
hard and unknown.
And while holding her
in the crooks of their arms,
they maneuvered the flesh in their jeans
with their free hands,
trying to subdue the worlds
rising out of their pants
like volcanoes.
They got her back to the hotel.
A small room
with a tiny old bed, with flower-print
comforters and
an antique dresser with swirling
sculptured wood at its corners.
John slipped off his black leather jacket
and shook his mop of
curly black hair.
Eric plopped onto the bed,
pulling her with him.
She felt him pull,
she felt the gravity of him;
the warp as she bumped against
the bed.
"You guys should come back next year."
"Maybe," Eric said.
She didn't know if she was here or not.
If she'd been here the whole night
or if she was dreaming.
But she felt something physical
on her body.
Eric sat in the corner--
beside the humming a/c
as it vacuumed out the room--
watching with lifeless eyes.
It moved across her stomach.
Slow and continuous.
It moved down to her
pelvis,
slow and continuous.
It reached inside of her
slow and continuous,
and she felt the vacuum of space.
John and Eric
tag-teamed her.
Eric
taking her mouth
and working it around his *****
saying
"Come on baby,
****
John pushing against her
his glowing body
making a slapping noise
as he struggled
with his hands under her stomach
making hard dimples of flesh
on her mid-section
as he tried to hold up
her limp body.
"She's out cold,"
he said.
Dec 6, 2011
Dec 6, 2011 at 10:50 AM UTC
At midnight, out on the cobblestones
There’s the sound of rolling wheels,
And a shadow cast on a window pane
From the road outside, it steals,
A wagon, black in its livery,
And pulled by a single horse,
As black as the heart of the man that steers,
Whipped up from the watercourse.
From down in a tiny inlet, deep
Enough for a man of war,
A French corvette is lying, waiting,
Just metres away from shore,
It carried a cargo of brandy, wine,
And cases full of tea,
Smuggled into the tiny cove
Its goods all duty free.
Now it’s waiting upon the tide
To turn the ship around,
Its cargo gone in the wagon now,
Headed for higher ground,
And then the galloping hoofbeats echo
Over the cobblestones,
The crack of a couple of pistols and
The air is filled with groans.
The horse breaks free of its halter and
The wagon rolls back down,
It’s shadow passing my window pane
A second time around,
It rolls back into the harbour while
I hear the boom of guns,
Firing from the French Corvette
As it hoists its sail, and runs.
Once a year on the fifth of June
And late into the night,
Whenever the moon is lying low
And casting down its light,
I see the shadows and hear the sounds
From that deadly time of yore,
As the ghostly French Corvette departs
And sails from the ghostly shore.
And glistening out on the cobblestones
There’s a dampness, looks like mud,
That dissipates in an hour or two,
A pool of the smuggler’s blood,
I dare not go to the window, look,
Or even open the door,
In case I’m carried away by them
From two hundred years before.
David Lewis Paget
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 1:51 AM UTC
*Seven New Poems For Seven Days # 5: Summer Girls In Their Summer Clothes
Oh yes!
The streets of Manhattan, jewel dusted,
Summer girls in their summer clothes,
Bedeck the streets and make men say, Thank You!
To their creator.
Little black dresses, previously immortalized^,
Seasoning and sauces, halter tops and jeans cutoff,
Give thanks for the tanks, revel in the revelations,
For God created man and women in his/her teasingly bare image.
*Yo! Dude! This is number 5 in the series,
Of sad and somber, re dad and mother, ***
Have you lost perspective, not read the directive,
You're in mourning, time to be introspective,
Not dis-respective!
My mother was a beautiful women.
Till the day she died.
Yes, physically beautiful at 98.
She, was a poem.
For her exterior was suffused, burnished,
By the spirit residing within her body
I ask myself, why not judge a book by its cover?
Her cover was exquisite, but what gave her a glow,
A radiance, was her modesty, her love of humanity.
What's under our cover?
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 1:11 AM UTC
The muse inquires,
knowing that a question such as this is
cannon fodder, an off-the-shoulder-blouse tease,
just a hint of cleavage, a whiff of parfume,
something to make poet sneeze,
ejecting an answering essay
without a clue where to go, but,
now the fifth gear engaged,
compulsion full,
immédiatement, en ce moment, laisser's aller!
and he knows exactly what to say
what if poet possessed a special character,
to define the sadness that reflects that
summer has had its memory card wiped,
and even though today,
will be a Saturday of
jeans shorts, a halter top, sort of day,
the chill of dreaded winter is not coming,
already present and accounted for,
enchanté, déjanté,
has already encased his heart in ice so thick,
that even if poet drank a Joni case
of his fav summer quaff,
un provence rose,
his seasonal loss cannot be overcome,
the summer man~king is dead
all that in but a single character, a precise capture,
a labor and time saving device, but
a character with no character
for the labor would be love lost
yet you swear by your succinct emojis,
their immaculate efficient composition,
and I would not trade one accidental,
just-slipped-out I love you
even for ten thousand disheartening heart symbols
would you prefer
|£%!<#
instead of:
*I love you so much it is
driving me batshit crazy!*
I'm stuck with my troop of twenty six
and their multiple endless quilted rearrangements
call me old and out of fashion,
to your question,
this poem is my ask and answered at 5:13am
Sep 23, 2017
Sep 23, 2017 at 5:30 AM UTC
I was alarmed as nobody
paid attention to me:
if there was a Plan B -
it was to die - dramatically.
A hangman’s halter I took to swing
snapped and failed my neck to wring.
Then I drank of hemlock deep:
all it did was make me sleep.
Wide awake I’d somehow made it back
I laid me down on a railway track
Alas! never once was I alerted
all trains had been diverted.
It seemed a good idea to me
to drown myself in the Dead Sea:
buoyant in such drink, I did not think
no swimmer there is known to sink
From a high rise parapet I dropped over
and landed in a cushioned bed of clover.
I tried to cut my jugulars but By Heck!
the blade was blunt and just grazed my neck.
A contract killer - hired off the shelf -
took the money then shot himself
after stating though he’s willing
I was not worth the killing.
By now getting frantic
on the internet I met a tantric
guru whose advised me tarry
“All I needed was to marry…
…It is a kind of death, all near
and dear pity you - but it’s clear
you get everybody’s attention
and in obituaries never a mention”.
.
Tobias
May 31, 2019
May 31, 2019 at 6:35 AM UTC
Four friends set out, all young and free,
Faith, Hope, Selfless Love and me.
Coasts, river banks we found by stream
To first set foot on country green,
Through the meadows’ flowery plain,
Downs, fragrant woodlands soon we gained,
Till in a dark and wretched time
Foul smirched us with night-black grime
The stinking noisy city of towers,
Stretched over us its binding powers.
Our friend Faith with her smile so sweet
Took a bullet in the street.
Where wealth’s gold temples over steeple
Men with guns who aim at people,
Our constant Faith lay cold and dead
Who friends us three had always led:
The thorns of life had ragged our flesh,
She lifted us each time afresh
To chase our aims so dearly sworn
Before her gaze, so clear up borne.
Shame to the creature, not saying man,
For hate or for money who laid her down.
From the city to a lair
Hid remote mid mountains bare
Selfless Love and Hope and me
Crept, far from that press to be,
In a crack a mile down
Close controlling her domain
Reigned absolute a gross old girl
The wicked witch of all the world.
Hope and Selfless Love and me
Abject subjects we took her fee.
Our mothers’ love, our fathers’ guidance
Wasted on our evil living.
Slaves of her cruel strict enforcing
But Selfless Love himself abhorring
Loved her, and upon the altar
Stripped and bare he wore her halter,
Tight restrained his naked chest
Awaited the blade her claim must test.
As she took him, Hope and me
Had our chance away to flee;
A blessed isle lies still afloat,
There we went in one small boat.
In the morning may both be
My strong companion Hope and me.
Who us three friends had always held,
Despair with tireless arms dispelled.
If the waters of the isle
Take him from me as we sail
If the little boat shall knock
On the island’s jutting rock
And we swim and he should drown
Let us both to death go down,
Not upon a beach set me
From the danger of the sea,
Paradise is Erebon
With Faith, Hope, Love gone; all alone.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 2:51 PM UTC
That coffin nail smile
All the while it never broke.
**** after **** we took the plant apart,
As if the night was a chocolate cake,
And we knew it wouldn't last.
Cast of with a flick of the hand,
They were like that ash,
They never understood,
It was never any good.
But you were so good Betty.
That ***** blond mop,
The halter top,
And that coffin nail smile,
All the while, it never broke.
They say, you had it on your face still,
When they pulled you out of the wreck,
A few teeth short, bloodied,
But intact.
I beat myself up over it,
Nonstop.
Its a horror,
What four hours can do.
To have the world wrapped up in a piece of bambu,
Twenty-two records, without a single skippable song,
A plant in full bloom,
A room with a you...
I saw the ******* two months later,
Drinking himself to death,
In the Orlando international airport lounge.
******* on an olive, and sobbing on your picture.
I wanted so much to strangle him
Until his eyes popped out of his head,
Until he was dead...like he made you.
But I figured...he was doing a good enough job on his own,
So I left him alone.
I'll never forgive him though...
He's been dead twenty years now,
But I'll never forgive him...
For hitting that guardrail at ninety...
And for walking away, with a broken collar bone,
While you...
Oh Betty,
You were so ******
Why didn't you stay that night,
Stay with me...
You didn't...
Oh, Betty...
Why did you leave us like that,
Why did you leave me...
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 8:52 AM UTC
How I miss
the pot-holed path
that one that never ends.
The one that blocked us
as we walked, secured
by great green fence.
The tumultuous crash of the Clyde;
our halter
as people roar past us
in manic motors.
A wicked wait brimming with tribal tension;
an unheard prayer for divine intervention,
the distractions we made to stay like this,
the noise we made to refute our lips,
a fear of another chance to miss,
such horrors hold from cupids kiss.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 10:03 PM UTC
when you lost your virginity,
i remembered you were slightly glowing
a halter neck dress under a fluorescent
light.
i didn't have any clothes on, just a brown blanket,
and your brother's
anger could almost be tasted drifting in the air
like snapping crocodiles.
what we really needed was more alcohol,
but our vaults we're empty,
so we settled with three embers burning brightly in the deepening night
and the boy upstairs struggled to find his pants.
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 10:44 AM UTC
i remember i loved you so much
that i left a bowl of dry ingredients for brownies
stranded in the kitchen when you asked me
to come over.
and when you came home from toronto
and i got off of my third or fourth shift
at my first job
i left early and i ran to your house.
and for your 17th birthday (before i acquired
my majestic cupcake gig)
i spent all my babysitting money on
a worn sweater with the gucci label screened
onto it.
i had planned this months before we even dated,
i remember thinking we were going to be so close
that it would warrant me getting you a present.
i had only kissed you once and had only spoken to you
for two months.
and i still remember what i wore the first time
we hung out (rose gold crop sweater, black jeans, brown boots)
and what i wore the first time we kissed (tights, black romper, braided belt, earrings that kept falling out)
and what i wore when we broke up (flats, black high waisted skater skirt, weird 90s crop bustier)
and what i wore when i saw you for the first time afterwards (light wash jeans, grey knit top, pink sparrys)
and what i wore when we had our end of the line fight (black jeans, purple halter top)
the times i saw you after weren't overly notable, you reached out and i recoiled. you noogied me and i didn't let my friends make fun of you.
and then you asked me to start coming over again (light blue jeans, navy turtleneck)
i'm not sure what this poem was ever supposed to be.
i wish i remembered what i wore the night you told me
that you missed me.
but since you've been back, or i've been back, or we've been back
i only remember what it is to be with you.
we'll keep growing.
11:18 P.M. June/22/2014
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 2:19 AM UTC
Goodnight dear friends who found a new…
And drink to old times we rehash when we’re back
And drive with convertible tops down and halter tops too.
So that when we pass Christian Hill, and Katrina’s Aunt Jane’s house
We shriek so loud the elementary school librarian turns on the lights
Of the 19th century green high roofed home, with that neat front porch
Where the last family decorated the wicker swing
Goodnight my high school where fondness lurks and relationships rest.
Never will we go back, as much as you like that.
And these are the things, the forgotten things, I dread.
As you like it, I shall dread it.
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 1:11 PM UTC
halter of progress
bane of evolution
frostbite of growth
death of the future
try to stop me now!
I dare you!
I know your tricks!
your snarly ways!
the maybes
the sick feelings
the doubtful thoughts
the double-takes
I know them all!
every
single
one
and you can’t stop me anymore!
nuh-uh
you can try,
but you
can’t!
so now,
be afraid!
be very afraid!
because world
here I come
and honestly,
you’ve got no way
to stop
me
(unless you **** me,
of course.)
Nov 14, 2010
Nov 14, 2010 at 4:41 PM UTC
Throw it down to the stage
let down your guard
place your worship on this altar
the cackles of men and witches preside over all.
Keep these Gods in their cage, or free them
it’s all down to you
but they must be appeased
they bring you to your knees
with string and cymbal
withdrawn or symbol
watch them hard
as their eyes roll back in their skulls
the keepers of music; they hold the halter
or release it for you.
Feb 22, 2012
Feb 22, 2012 at 5:41 PM UTC
In the sweet crisp calm of twilight when sparrow
chirps tuck silent and their feathers puff to roost,
I gad about the starry night and harken to the hosts
who sing refrains of winsome cheer that boundless love ripostes.
My bones and flesh the earth holds fixed
in time with sure embrace, while my soul stows away
to voyage upon the Milky Way.
Enchanted hopes and yearnings of earthly dreamers fill the sails
and bound together do we wayfare amidst the starry veil
where dreams already born, like gulls pursue my celestial wake
until back home to earth I sail to foghorn sighs at harbor’s edge
where owls cry and wait.
And so to slumber must I go with dreams aflutter still
chattering of souvenirs from my nocturnal thrill.
Reluctant to return to earth is my soul’s soaring heart,
she would rather amidst the stars remain in perpetual skylark.
I must halter and put to earthbound paddock this courser racing free,
yet she tremors within my breast yearning for liberty.
I implore my earnest feet to climb without delay into the bed,
in hope my will shall follow despite the ceaseless call to vigil.
For all who slumber sweetly, preparing for the light of day,
I feel the eager mercy of history’s longing for each today.
~ P.A. Moffatt
© 3/5/2014
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 6:25 AM UTC
Lisas and Cheryls in halter tops walk the
Halls of Stoughton High full
Throttle, coiffed fleece fiercely feathered,
Tonys and Tims trawling in tow, toting
Texts.
Tims and Tonys slip
Slyly away, skip shop, talk
**** **** a doob behind
Bob’s Baitshop’s garbage dunes, tunes of
Geils and Seeger and Stones, applaud
Lisas and Cheryls, laud deserving
Donnas and Dianes (but dude, don’t
Let on!)
See,
A solitary Tony takes to one shapely
Cheryl’s sultry swagger, staggers, blathers
His rathers, turning her hair’s fair feathers
A-flair, she helping his hand higher up her hip, her
Cup, her concupiscent luscious lower lemon-lacquered lip, he agog, a *****
Dog with a bone. And a libidinous loner
Lisa prefers a particular turgid Tim, digs
His Doors tee tucked
In to tight tan cords, affords
Herself a longer linger as his fingers
Dangle, thick thumbs hooked in belt. Looked at,
Felt, ***** his hip, flips a nod, draws a
Sneer, paws her rear, she his
Haunch, he steady and
Staunch, Steady and
Staunch
Not gonna
Launch
Steady
gawdamnsunuvabitch!
Thaws the sneer
Right there.
High gears it outta here.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 5:44 PM UTC
Maybe you will never understand why
when another insult leaves your lips
I wish I was there to kiss you and
halter any more words
you could speak,
which lost in translation have
the power to break the bones
across my heart, unhealed from
the last words I’d hoped
you’d refrain from saying.
So if I bleed, or if I cry,
or if I don’t even know how to smile,
know I’ll only kiss your lips because
I’d rather give the kiss of Judas
than hear another word.
© Sia Jane
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 4:33 PM UTC