"jointly" poems
porch talk, simmering in a Bud light sauce
everyone chair-rocking, even the boxer dog,
in his self-propelled 360 degree swiveling chair
eavesdropping and spy eyeballing the farm for
strangers and any creatures as of yet, unsmelled
get done with weather, the crops,
the neighbors,
the weird, and the truly neighborly,
grandkids escapades, hopes and desires, comparative literature and regional dialects and philosophical dialecticals tickling,
bs’ing and tall tale telling, breathing the windy geography of the air over the land that dictates the how we live,
open another Bud for the buds,
did I forget to mention
farm equipment?
skirt politics cause nobody wants any
nothing-to-be-done-damn-aggravation,
leaves nothing mo’ to ramble on about ‘cept the
absent women
no worries all above board no secrets uncouthed,
but the mood softens as the pale daylight wisps come rarer
as now
nearer to nine pm, obvious saved the best for last,
a very manly-way of ordering things,
big silent pauses in the converso conversation,
guy-sighs many,
as the last essay of the day is being jointly authored,
denotating the generalized listings of
how they drive us crazy,
listing the repetition of ever changing instructions,
which doesn't recognize bi-coastal mannerisms, non-differentiating
just humanism-isms
and the peculiarities of each (a list kept)
in a compare and contrast,
an end of the day summation,
and the boasting-outbesting,
of each of their
specialisms
which is sadly now forgotten and which haven’t been
brain-recorded so cannot be disclosed
other than it’s now ten
and all that’s left is
to sleep, perchance, to dream,
of private things
and bigger and better
John Deere tractors
Jun 9, 2018
Jun 9, 2018 at 2:13 PM UTC
*** is like a game of bridge
How you play is jointly planned
But, if your partner isn’t reliable
You must count, on a good hand
DISCLAIMER
My partner in bridge
Can be a women or a man
My partner in ***
Also can
But, for self gratification
We each, must use our own hand
WIZDUMBs BY JA 628
P.S. for QTWABoOty -your one directional conversation, only leaves you talking to yourself. Do you really like yourself that much.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 4:19 PM UTC
•
*
I.
Ohh, longsuffering,
This love cure all the aches,
Replaced with surety.
II.
Yearning and longing,
Are heightened each precious days,
Thirsty for your lips.
III.
I hunger for you,
Your warmth and touch I dreamed of,
You, so close to me.
IV.
Angelic visage,
Played in my heart, mind and soul,
Each single moment.
V.
Vision of future,
Lock fingers with you my love,
Conquering the evil.
VI.
Together with God,
Praying, praising Him always,
This love to exist.
VII.
These tears there'll be none,
Our love covers it with joy,
Pure and bona fide.
VIII.
Oh thank God above,
For heaven inside our hearts,
Keeping us stronger.
IX.
No storm can vanquish,
No trials can separate,
Invincible love.
X.
Jointly, me and you,
Bonded for everlasting,
Brandon & Earl Jane.
*
with love <3 <3
© Earl Jane
♥ E.J.C.S.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 9:03 AM UTC
twice by god's accidental interference,
our crash vehicles, super sized shopping carts,
connect, we are manger-penalized for unnecessary roughness
and disturbing the supermarkets peace
what better way to judge character than to examine
a single persons shopping cart contents?
hers,
all organic, milk, heirloom tomatoes, even the Chardonnay,
grown upon the farms of the island and vineyards on
the forks that shelter the isle from the ravages of the Atlantic
mine,
Hebrew National franks, yellow mustard,
very classy brioche buns, a six pack of Corona Light,
and funny colored, funny looking, rusted russet potato chips
with a tremulous smile, and an overly loud, derisive sniff,
pronounces me dead man walking sooner than later,
to which, I respond,
then, teach me, where shall we dine tonight?
later that night,
after a thousand kisses of her fluttering eyelashes,
she props herself upon an elbow and
in a tone sincere and caring,
extracts from the poet promises of
natural exclusivity
from now on, healthy, natural only, organic and pure,
from the soul soil of our shared habitat
her suntan skin, garden-digging hand, I clasp,
softly climbing on top of her,
announce with total genuine sincerity and solemnity;
I swear it, from now on, all my loving will be sourced locally
rewarded with a laugh and a gentle but hard enough,
garden to table (with her free hand), head smacking,
I noting nod, good naturedly
that both the laugh and smack,
as well,
*sourced locally,
sourced lovingly,*
which then seeded
this new only love jointly authored poem,
planted in our mingling blossoming crashing
bodies
5/29/17 i
12:43pm
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
•
*
I.
Wake up my darling,
Your eyes I want to behold,
Empyrean turquoise.
II.
Wake up my darling,
Your ears I want to whisper,
Listen to my love.
III.
Wake up my darling,
Sway with me as I kiss you,
Your lips I'll indulge.
IV.
Wake up my darling,
Feel me as I enfold you,
Feel my warmth, dearest.
V.
Wake up my darling,
It's another new bright day,
To show you my love.
VI.
Wake up my darling,
Let me lock figers with you,
Jointly, we stride brave.
VII.
Wake up my darling,
Let me sing my love to you,
Feel peace in my song.
VIII.
Wake up my darling,
Wake up and savor my love,
This bond we relish.
X.
Wake up my darling,
Yesterday, now, forever,
Our love will not end.
IX.
Wake up my darling,
Together let's praise our God,
For blessing this love.
*
with love <3
© Earl Jane
♥ E.J.C.S.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 8:42 AM UTC
It is impossible to compass life without suffering harm
from loved ones.
Wrongs that take the ground from under the feet.
Wrongs that hurt heart through and through.
Wrongs that make us distraught victim.
Does forgiveness immunize us for further injustices?
Does forgiveness soothe suffering?
One thing is certain, everyone has been hurt in life
and everyone once inflicted wound:
betrayal,
selfishness,
criticism,
unjust judgment,
bad word,
emotional abuse,
unfair reward.
Love that bears all things, and endures all things
shows the principle of overcoming evil with good.
We live in times where love is seen as pleasure.
When there is lack of fulfillment the connection ends
instead of support in moments of weakness,
jointly bearing burden,
willingness to give up the ego.
In relations underflow of virtues is worthless.
Every love at some point hurts.
The more we love the greater the suffering.
Remember, that you are also sometimes hard to bear.
One of the most important lessons in life
is non acceptance of evil.
Always we are entitled to protest and defense.
There is a difference between sagacious enduring of injustice
and permition for hard time and humilitation.
Defense against evil should be free from desire
for revenge, hate, wrath, punishment and anger.
Leave vengeance to God.
The point is love. It is she who shows the right path.
The cure for the human pain of injustice is forgiveness.
Man needs time to forgive,
therefore necessary at times of touch of hurt is compassion.
Does forgiveness mean to forget?
No, forgiveness is an act of will not of forgetting.
Great injury can not be erased from memory.
Forgiveness is duty that gives hope and strength for the future.
Forgiveness is the transition from helplessness to peace of heart.
Forgiveness is overcoming anger and grief towards acceptance of reality.
Is forgiveness reconciliation?
No, although it is a quantum leap in the direction of reconciliation.
There is no way to force act of reconciliation.
Forgiveness is one thing,
and to be mature for reconciliation is another thing.
Most important in forgiveness is not to rely
on gesture of compensation.
Some believe that only weak people forgive.
Forgiveness requires tremendous effort and courage.
It is easier to sail away in anger
than creative dialogue which leads to remedy of the situation.
Without forgiveness you can not win
with guilt, abyss of past and human frailties.
Forgiveness is above all priceless gift for yourself.
Forgiveness frees you from inner poisons,
and also opens up new lands.
If we are able to injure,
we are also able to say the sorry and make amends.
Act of contrition allows for a true change of heart.
Act of forgiveness is the bud of heart at peace.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 9:00 AM UTC
He lives in a time of plague.
The tag team of cholera and dedication killed his father, for all Dr. Juvenal Urbino knows, his father was faithful to both work and love.
The good doctor knew from an early age that his work would be his love, and from a slightly less tender age he discovered that his love of flesh and the body ran deeper than mere science could take him.
He met Fermina Daza in the doorway between clinical curiosity and obsession over her doe’s gait, and as he walked through his heart made room for a new kind of dedication.
He thought his devotion would be equally as precise as his practice.
Fifteen or so years of marriage, between years in Paris they bled together like a Van Gogh after a rainshower, the intricacies of their companionship were jointly held in a contractual cradle, but neither of them felt obligated.
Dr. Urbino was before my time, but my story will know the life of Carlos Mucharraz, Pre-Med major, they both dedicate themselves to their love. I’ve never seen her, but I can imagine Carlos likens her gait to that of a doe. He fawns over her from 17 hours away, for nearly a year.
Like a Texas dust devil, he sends his love through the air to Minneapolis to brighten her phone screen and her day.
They’ve only ever spent time together twice.
I’d like to think of his devotion like a boulder, immovable, but twisters slither across prairies as wicked winds push them towards seas of lust, but I’d like to think his love flew above turbulent skies.
I thought Dr. Urbino as a rock.
He must have thought of his fidelity as a disease. His father died fighting cholera, and Urbino would not let his affliction of faithfulness **** him. He thought himself ill, and the mantra of his practice taught him one thing only: cure.
In a slum of San Juan de la Cienaga, pants around his ankles, holding a mulatto girl’s legs around his waist, he crumbled like stale bread as he plunged himself into infidelity.
This man of granite broke and fragmented, his sin etched a crooked cobweb of fractures into his back, I wonder if the beads of sweat stung his spine, or dulled the pain.
But maybe I should put my faith in dust devils.
Humans may be able to shatter the hardest stone, but no one commands the sky, for it straddles North and South, East and West, Fort Worth and Minneapolis.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 7:20 PM UTC
if the sinking-of-boat …ice-cream by name
be deducted from the swept-off-in-flood … by name roll no 31
then would the wings of the comics
cease to exist
what says the uninterrupted sound of water-falling
from the stomach of the moon
what writes the pus and blood
what writes the fuming-hot rice
the creepers and the herbs grow continuously
in the insomniac bath-tub
the sounds of the horse-hoof floated by the river
used to change the velocity of its clothes
both in the morning and evening
the birds from the cornice go to school
by dip-swimming
it may come one day when the fishes
become very angry and in the tale of the sweet-meat
the potter will destroy the jointly-built bee-hive
then all hurricane would be habituated to dinner
sans saliva
then there would be no such morning-walk
in the body of the trees
from which such a bore could be found out
through which an elderly saral may fly
into the blue translation of a squirrel
the magnetic field of the orange-pulp
and the productivity of the open window
reside in the same locality
if their frequency be touched
then the the antenna of the mermaids
speared with sleeping-oil
may be injured
by burnings their eyes
the crow-birds knocks at
in the soap-foams
produced by the afternoon
the pond with a jumping deer
wants to make bite
it is not known by this way
when a white hyphen
sticks to the palate of the shirt
now put off all the whispers
and let it be talked on the will-paper of the bees
why the pages from the honourable ash-trays
be excluded
those bunch of waters
that come out from the churning of the anises
and the jumps born of their *****
also make friends with the group-photos
now let this other night sends its best wishes
to the future candles
through a cell-phone
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 5:25 PM UTC
I'm not afraid to die of her smile
because no poison
no fuel, adulterated......
and no betray in her mind
when she smiles deep and sweetly
then I want to swim as much as I
and, of her tears like ocean
i wish I could swim, I can fly of her voice
I love her specifically, since
when we had been strangers for a day
for a night of flowering season
and we had smiled jointly by faced
I recalls that moments by heart and silenty
the beautiful moments returning
with holding her shadows --
she was smiled, that pictures arrived again
Like a baby of smallest ages I play
and the pictures makes me happy
as I feel like the climbing on the peak of mountain's
I love her smile
makeup, beautify herself and
everything of her fashion
and designing, and become natural beauty
i love her like a fish loves water
i love her like a bird loves sky
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 9:45 AM UTC
Two great minds
On each other they land
Each never knew the other
But they fought each other
The secret was kept
Not to let unconscious conscious
So there were two men
One a poacher
The other trader.
Trader:my friend, make me a sword,
My honey I give in return.
Poacher:ok,let us meet tomorrow.
(They part)
The trader was a liar
The poacher was a cheat
The day came
Each sent a boy to pick the items
Trader:(sent soil,smeared by honey,)
Received a wood carefully
Chopped and a sword
It looked.
Caught amazed
Just laughed at himself
Pocher:(sent the "sword")
Received the "honey"
Caught amused
Laugh at the haux
...
Again,
The poacher invite the trader
They go poach
The day was set
And it came,off they set
The bush rough,
Grass wet,
Poach on the lead!
Poach:(seeing an angry beast,)
My friend,the coarse has
Turned rough,come lead this
Shrubby path!
Trader:is it ***** or thorny?
Poach: *****
Trader:I lead we go back home,turn
And follow me!
They went back home
The danger was evaded.
The liar and the cheat were clever.
The trader invited the poach
Come for this honey
we got to harvest
And he came
Trader:(climbs the tree,he realises
that there was a big snake
inside)
My friend,the bees are fierce
Come help me.
Pocher:is it smooth or sticky?
Trader:smooth my friend!
Poacher: come we go,we have to set
another day then
The clever men went home save
The liar lost,the cheat lost
They were clever.
The cheat invited the liar,
Come home for a meal!
That day he drank a cow!
And the friend arrived
A heavy lunch then,
Poacher:I have a problem,for years
This my cow has been sick!
What kind of sickness
This can be?
Trader:(taking his time,'staggering?')
If cows could take alcohol
I can say this one is drank!
......
The men laughed jointly
And the wisdom minds
Got them by surprise.
The liar and the cheater
Were the best wisdom
Of the time
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 1:59 AM UTC
It is September and my personal fruit fly has returned
From his long vacation,
And is happily perched on the rim of my wine glass
Polity hopping off whenever I reach for a sip,
Quietly resuming his place when I set down my glass.
I can hardly resent his microscopic intrusion
Especially when I find that he and a partner have ended
Their wandering keratinous lives
And are now jointly denting the meniscus of my economy class Chardonnay.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
Six Straight
The old cowboys of TV fame,
Were straight shooters,
Who carried six shooters,
Sometimes two.
When I grow up,
I want be a six straight cowboy too,
Six straight hours of sleep,
Or dem bad poems all dressed in black,
they're a gonna shoot me, holy dead.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The youniverse is getting smaller
The you-in-verse is getting smaller,
My poems, shorter,
Hemingwayesque, see!
Why use two words,
Whenonewilldo.
Warmer, too,
Somehow tho global heat
Ain't reached my woman's
Hands or feet.
When you touch my GPS,
It stands ready, at attention,
Always opens up with a prayer,
Directions to Home,
Like I said,
The you-in-verse is getting smaller.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lend Me a Tune
Wish I knew how to
Compose some love lyrics,
But can't carry a tune,
It seems that the music
Must always comes first.
So with conceit and disbelief,
Wrote words and shot 'em into space,
Hoping they'd pass thru galaxies,
Maybe a comet tail,
Find a Songster who will strum them
Into perfect, into complete.
I ain't unhappy that all I got
Was the lesser gift of
Humming words to myself,
Ain't dissatisfied, but wish they
Could be ratified, by the music
Of a voice reading them to me
Or fingers tapping, happening them
Upon the ivories upon my chest,
The chest that needs exploration.
So let's make some music
Finish these lyrics jointly,
When all finito, pointedly
Take our co-sing-song,
Dance to it with our bodies
Sing words the whole night long,
And please baby,
Don't tell me to shut up so you can sleep....
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 6:28 PM UTC
he called me *****
when I left the room,
he called me *****
My tomes of Shakespeare,
witnesses,
fellow poets all, my wall decor.
well familiar with fools,
reported the occurrence
upon my return.
confronted, it,
he did not deny,
for he understood
pointless
at that point,
exceedingly well.
was not angered, simply asking,
since he fancied himself a poet, did
he know any rhymes for that word?
in the interest
of poetic brevity,
answered for him.
*****
witch.
twitch.
gave him reason to use
those words
sequentially.
after that, he addressed me
as mistress, or **********
with respect, an attitude
that was previously
menu unavailable.
what then shall we call you?
the Bard,
his Band of Brothers, and I
jointly confabed.
undignified is slave,
Shakespeare opined,
human dignity needs
respecting.
my walled observer,
co-conspirator of
all that transpired,
drew upon his
own source material,
suggested,
knave.
yes, quite apropos,
my considered reply,
a fool always, and still,
after all, was he not
himself not a
son of a *****
as much as I,
Brandy Channing, is, was, daughter, proud, child
of one great and wonderful Queen
*****
Jul 10, 2020
Jul 10, 2020 at 12:15 AM UTC
*for my friend, Betterdays, who has never written
a poem that did not seek, reach, or teach, even
when she thinks she knows not, the lesson plan below*
wisdom arrives daily,
Even after you need all ten
fingers to count your
decades and generations
was it but last year
that a single gull cawing,
a solitary iris saluting the sundial,
a moment of watching her,
arms flung hither, encased in drowsy drops,
a mother and her child strolling,
she patrolling, and they, child world exploring,
only continents discovering,
a grandchild's freely given first kiss
would prompt a write as if a shotgun shell
had arrived not overnight, but instant implosion,
in a chest that could not contain emotion,
only seep, none to keep, skin to shed,
and of course,
tears of, what should I call them,
tears of more than life, tears of essence,
real tears come from invisibly indivisibly real places,
wiping me clean
and so I oathed, I swore,
the Supreme Court and the Village Clerk
jointly administered this vow,
my hand upon my heart,
where the words come from,
*what ere you pro-prose,
what ere delights,
or havocs thy temperaments,
if to be,
duly noted, dispatched and possibly
shared,
let it be only thine best,
to the higher standard,
hold thyself close and closer still,
be happy to admit failure,
for that is excellence attained,
and when you are satisfied,
then we will be
but not mere satisfied too,
enthralled to you
for in they words,
you raise the sea level of this world's humanity,
higher and higher*
so, thank you
and thank yourself
this line drawn,
only at or above it,
the goods ones breathe...
the oxygen of poetry
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 8:01 AM UTC
Lend me a tune
*(For Robert C Howard,
One of the lucky ones)*
"But I'll know my song well before I start singing". Bob Dylan
Some of us poets,
some of us musicians, and a few,
A very blessed few
Songwriters and lyricists,
Poets in sound and words,
Both.
Wish I knew how to
Compose some love song music notes,
But can't carry a tune,
Seems to me,
Comes first the music,
Must music comes first
So with conceit and disbelief,
Wrote words and shot 'em into space,
Hoping they'd pass thru galaxies,
Maybe a comet tail,
Find a Songster who will strum them
Into perfect, into complete
I ain't unhappy that all I got
Was the lesser gift of
Humming words to myself,
Ain't dissatisfied, but wish they
Could be ratified, by the music
Of a voice singing them to me
Or fingers tapping, happening them
Played upon the ivories upon my chest,
Where the lyrics are aborning,
The chest that needs
Music to be whole, and word-completing
Wish I knew how to
Compose some love notes
But can't carry a tune,
Seems to me
Music,
Must come first
So let's make some music
**** right, together,
Finish these lyrics jointly,
When all finito, pointedly
Needed your music, my darling,
Music to make them soar,
Take our co-sing-song,
Dance to it with our bodies
Sing words the whole night long
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 8:38 AM UTC
11:00 PM July 7th 2011
Outside Delacorte Theater,
Home of Shakespeare in the Park
Central Park, New York
~~
What wretched wags
we have become,
sold rhyme and couplet
into slavery and meter sacrificed,
upon the altar of expediency.
LOL and BRB, the hallmarks
of our
insincerity,
forgetting that civility
is resurrected when
we employ the poetry of speech
in our plain and
simple communiques,
most especially in the simple,
please let beauty hold sway.
Brutalize our tongues,
thus our lives,
compression of our language
into single words that celebrate
the mundane, as fashionable.
yeah, yeah, yeah...
Our speech, its fragrance lost,
sublimates but does not sublime,
one liners demean our humanity,
grunts of yeah and cool,
are awesome not,
our future hope is in
the details of our expression,
whereby we inject
into our verbal demeanor
a grace that sets human
above the existence animal.
So touch this screen and
let us begin,
to take our measure
by our measure
of the care we demonstrate
when we communicate.
These words have transversed
from weekday to weekday,
soon at morning prayers
to the gods inside of me,
David's hymns and poems
I'll recite,
a slow eloquence will infuse
my hallelujah eyesight.
Plain truths will be spoke,
in rhyme with
diction apace,
transfuse my soul
elevate us
severally and jointly
above the confused noises of
the prison of nondescript lives,
leaving me a believer that
all's well that begins well.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
you were a peace offering
hope for a future
not the future (i devastated)
but the deja'vu i grasped at
jointly confused and at wits over you through
innuendo consumed conversation.
you were hope,
living, breathing, colorful hope
now--
i have to watch you die
Feb 12, 2010
Feb 12, 2010 at 5:06 PM UTC
I sat on the front doorstep
with Lydia
of her parents' flat
on the ground floor
looking onto the Square
she had her thin chin
in the palms
of her small hands
her mother's words
still hanging in the air
from moments before
Paddington Railway Station?
you want to go all that way
to see a ****** train station?
yes
Lydia said
we want to see the trains
that go to Scotland
her mother stared at us
as if we started speaking
in a foreign tongue
it isn't Paddington
it's King Cross train station
she said
is it?
I said
yes it is
she said
I should know
her dad goes there
now and then
but not often enough
can we go there?
Lydia asked
what for?
her mother said
all that way
just to see trains to Scotland?
yes
we said jointly
and how are you going
to get there
walk?
she said
go by bus or train
I said
have you the money?
because I sure haven't
she said
or underground train
I said
be quicker
have you the money then?
her mother asked
I stared at her hair
pinned in curlers
red lips
arms folded
cigarette in between
her fingers
I can get some
from my old man
he'll give me some
I said
if you can get the money
Lydia's mother said
you can go
but don't be late home
or I’ll slap your backside
my girl
and she went in
and slammed the door
I looked at Lydia beside me
well are we going?
will your dad give you
the money?
I've got some
in the blue
metal money box
he made me
I said
enough to go
to Kings Cross station?
should have
wish we had enough
to go to Scotland
she said
maybe one day
I said smiling
she looked at me
let's go then
she said
so we got off
the front doorstep
and made out way
across the Square
leaving her mother's
words behind
smelling adventure
in the air.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 3:19 AM UTC
“A to Z—the beginning and end
Abraham the volatile catalyst
Zara the terrestrial base
to neutralize and stabilize
the reaction; jointly they shall
set mankind to rightfully inherit
the world; free of thy oceanic reign.”
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 12:58 PM UTC
Alieness
I am a lover not a fighter
Sad that as we walk our ropes get tighter
I am a hugger not a hater
Sad that we hate instead of love one another
I am a nurturer not a nagger
Sad that we enjoy using words as daggers
I am a peacemaker not a pot-stirer
Sad that we lie and lose trust in one another
I am a human not an alieness
Sad that we deny ourselves instead of jointly progress
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 10:50 PM UTC
@First Movement
Flash blue, breezes and gentle touches where he is her favourite dancer.
Twitchy tickly itchy movement, likewise violin trembled string
Autumn arrives with butterfly wings. He is a dancer. Fainted @
Noon sun ray. He says “Hi… Give me a Five”
Shine or silver, day to day. It all turns to grey.
@Second Movement
Life in a day where there are knots in every skein. The moment of whispering
And the surprise gifts of the Year. Look. Rains and showers flushed into her skirt.
Autumn lands with a giant painting brush. She is a painter. Arrayed in
Gold and red, twirling canvas panels with leaves upon her ankles.
Their intense autumnal melancholy embittered
@Third Movement
life wonders’ bedroom window. Of oscillating thread
that winds between the living and the living we thought were dead.
Autumn falls with hymn choral from spider’s web. He and she reunions
Soul to soul, pole to pole with blesses with increase and life,
They are gross and simple creatures, jointly servant of the Will.
Aug 26, 2021
Aug 26, 2021 at 11:30 PM UTC
There’s only a dew of elixir in the bottom of the empty cup sleeping as lamb
Now they call it heart, I call it polluted spirit, and you may call it ruby pomegranate granules
But we the simplest so called human entities jointly may only Love and this is sufficient
To suffer for the thousand years and a day more
The one who cares not is the luckiest mundane ignorant but I’m the one alike who outpours his quintessential not knowing for whom
Not knowing for what reason a purpose never show its glamour in advance
For warning, for love or even for sake of its purest manifestation
In times when words were queued in the thread abundantly curved in bobbin from the human scalp
The necklace of verse is fading its shine no sparkling truths gurgles from its spring to obey our thirsts
We the thirsty souls for divine morsel wandering in here as the spirits of suicide victims
Empty stomachs of enfant terrible only for the grasp of the truth they never hear even as the sound of insect
Never as the sound of falling frozen spirit in jade that you may later see as the Galatea of divine maternal essence
A cornucopia of latent blessings waits
A deficit of Love outbursts proudly displaying its genitalia without a drop of shame
I wander as a working bee searching for the nectar of wisdom to feed my Queen bee
And bestow her eternal life with the royal jelly leaking elegantly from the bottom to the navel
Apr 18, 2012
Apr 18, 2012 at 7:35 AM UTC
I can’t help thinking
that almost every girl I meet
could possibly, potentially be,
yes, a screamer in the sack,
or better, a soul mate in the sack,
or even a confidant in a coffee shop, or anywhere.
And then they could jointly rule my kingdom
imperiously, like the Queen of Babylon,
or maybe Bathsheba, who was having a bath
when David espied her and then jumped her in his boudoir.
I suppose an exhibitionist needs a ******
Gee. But it wasn't kosher for David, the King of Judea,
to then have murdered Bathsheba's husband, Uriah,
so he could afterwards marry her.
What? Yeah, this is all in that whodunnit,
the first tabloid, the Old Testament.
But look, I'm getting away from the path here.
What I'm talking about is girls that I innocently meet
without trying to get them in closer.
I don't spy on girls in the bath or the shower
and I don't have anyone murdered for *** or for power.
Or for anything! I'm a writer, see?
I simply imagine, inside my head,
that we all fall fabulously in love,
and blow our minds instead.
Mike T Minehan
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 1:15 PM UTC