"ladle" poems
Day-colored wine,
night-colored wine,
wine with purple feet
or wine with topaz blood,
wine,
starry child
of earth,
wine, smooth
as a golden sword,
soft
as lascivious velvet,
wine, spiral-seashelled
and full of wonder,
amorous,
marine;
never has one goblet contained you,
one song, one man,
you are choral, gregarious,
at the least, you must be shared.
At times
you feed on mortal
memories;
your wave carries us
from tomb to tomb,
stonecutter of icy sepulchers,
and we weep
transitory tears;
your
glorious
spring dress
is different,
blood rises through the shoots,
wind incites the day,
nothing is left
of your immutable soul.
Wine
stirs the spring, happiness
bursts through the earth like a plant,
walls crumble,
and rocky cliffs,
chasms close,
as song is born.
A jug of wine, and thou beside me
in the wilderness,
sang the ancient poet.
Let the wine pitcher
add to the kiss of love its own.
My darling, suddenly
the line of your hip
becomes the brimming curve
of the wine goblet,
your breast is the grape cluster,
your ******* are the grapes,
the gleam of spirits lights your hair,
and your navel is a chaste seal
stamped on the vessel of your belly,
your love an inexhaustible
cascade of wine,
light that illuminates my senses,
the earthly splendor of life.
But you are more than love,
the fiery kiss,
the heat of fire,
more than the wine of life;
you are
the community of man,
translucency,
chorus of discipline,
abundance of flowers.
I like on the table,
when we're speaking,
the light of a bottle
of intelligent wine.
Drink it,
and remember in every
drop of gold,
in every topaz glass,
in every purple ladle,
that autumn labored
to fill the vessel with wine;
and in the ritual of his office,
let the simple man remember
to think of the soil and of his duty,
to propagate the canticle of the wine.
27.2k
She watched the water slip and slop
As flurried flames climbed up to heat
And bubble boil the cooking ***
Emitting steam to rise and sweep
In splendid arcs and cloudy wisps
Of candy cotton colored plumes
That filled the cavern air with sips
Of fragrant tones and sweet perfumes
And withered bony fingers bent
To loosely grip a ladle shaft
And scooping water, swiftly went
To pour a steaming cloudy draught
Into a pretty painted cup
Upon a dais of sorcery
And gulping down a mighty sup
She gasped,
"A lovely cup of tea!"
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 3:51 PM UTC
twas a most disturbing scene
in a kitchen at Aberdeen
the details are too horrific
to disclose
let's say this
and this alone
the forensic team
had to ladle some bone
bits of dermis
were scattered around
the kitchen compound
the wife had done the deed
she'd disposed of her husband
who was a bad seed
he'd been thumping and slapping
her around
knocking her with force
to the ground
she'd contended
with his rough house treatment
for far too long
so she decided
to right his wrong
she's in prison
doing time
but it is her husband
who now tows the line
domestic violence
did him no favors
a woman was pushed
one too many times
in a kitchen at Aberdeen
gruesome was the crime
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 8:14 AM UTC
I
The Nutcrackers sate by a plate on the table,
The Sugar-tongs sate by a plate at his side;
And the Nutcrackers said, 'Don't you wish we were able
'Along the blue hills and green meadows to ride?
'Must we drag on this stupid existence for ever,
'So idle so weary, so full of remorse,--
'While every one else takes his pleasure, and never
'Seems happy unless he is riding a horse?
II
'Don't you think we could ride without being instructed?
'Without any saddle, or bridle, or spur?
'Our legs are so long, and so aptly constructed,
'I'm sure that an accident could not occur.
'Let us all of a sudden hop down from the table,
'And hustle downstairs, and each jump on a horse!
'Shall we try? Shall we go! Do you think we are able?'
The Sugar-tongs answered distinctly,'Of course!'
III
So down the long staircase they hopped in a minute,
The Sugar-tongs snapped, and the Crackers said 'crack!'
The stable was open, the horses were in it;
Each took out a pony, and jumped on his back.
The Cat in a fright scrambled out of the doorway,
The Mice tumbled out of a bundle of hay,
The brown and white Rats, and the black ones from Norway,
Screamed out, 'They are taking the horses away!'
IV
The whole of the household was filled with amazement,
The Cups and the Saucers danced madly about,
The Plates and the Dishes looked out of the casement,
The Saltcellar stood on his head with a shout,
The Spoons with a clatter looked out of the lattice,
The Mustard-pot climbed up the Gooseberry Pies,
The Soup-ladle peeped through a heap of Veal Patties,
And squeaked with a ladle-like scream of surprise.
V
The Frying-pan said, 'It's an awful delusion!'
The Tea-kettle hissed and grew black in the face;
And they all rushed downstairs in the wildest confusion,
To see the great Nutcracker-Sugar-tong race.
And out of the stable, with screamings and laughter,
(Their ponies were cream-coloured, speckled with brown,)
The Nutcrackers first, and the Sugar-tongs after,
Rode all round the yard, and then all round the town.
VI
They rode through the street, and they rode by the station,
They galloped away to the beautiful shore;
In silence they rode, and 'made no observation',
Save this: 'We will never go back any more!'
And still you might hear, till they rode out of hearing,
The Sugar-tongs snap, and the Crackers say 'crack!'
Till far in the distance their forms disappearing,
They faded away.--And they never came back!
4.4k
Ladle Guilt, blame, and regret into me
Someone should convict me and restrict me from emotion
Crest-fallen, I yearn for redamancy
I tormented time with a turbulent fallacy
Condemn my illicit distribution of preconceived notion
Ladle guilt, blame, and regret into me
I can’t recall tasting stories without choking on hypocracy
For all that makes peace & love stems from chaotic commotion
Crest-fallen, I yearn for redamancy
But too long my eyes merely saw until the day I learned to see
Not importance placed like a trophy case but in honest raw devotion
Ladle guilt, blame, and regret into me
Promises sink like anchors, for their nightmare’s being free
We struggled finding solace and settled for continuous motion
Crest-fallen, I yearn for redamancy
If only I could do things differently
Cast a spell, think before I speak, perhaps produce a potion
Ladle guilt, blame, and regret into me
Crest-fallen, I yearn for redamancy
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 6:53 AM UTC
From beyond the clouds,
cavalier and unattached,
sneaking past the yawn of temple bell
woken up from sleep,
trespasses a doomed note
pitched like flight of a falcon
fresh from its swoop on prey,
strumming on the discord in a lonely heart,
stoking once more
the hunger and anger of
an eternal yearning...
...Ah! My ears. They pick up the cruel flute. Here it comes, to ladle my pain. Not again. Not again.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 11:08 PM UTC
)
o ( ( (
O ) ( )
) ( o
( ( ( O
) o ) O ) o
( O ( o ( )
) o ) (
**make me a cauldron of a witch's
brew•let it bubble and boil...;
simmer and stew• allow the con-
coction to churn•feed it with raw an-
guish and spiteful spurn•whisper my wi-
shes into shady ingredients•scatter them in
to render it potent•stir it wild...with an iron
ladle with a wooden haft•raucous incanta-
tions of a long forgotten craft•...now give
me a vial of the witch's brew•let it
**** me or grant me the gifts
promised in lieu•**
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 8:22 AM UTC
What the fork is going on
We argue all knife long
The table settings a froze
What the fork is going on
Can't we at least spoon
A ladle here, a ladle there
What the fork is going on
We argue all knife long
Logan Robertson
11/30/2018
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 7:44 AM UTC
When things were going great
we'd eat transcendental dinners,
we'd take livers
in rainbow saucers
and ladle them
in tartar sauce
until our mouths
were full of salt,
sometimes we'd go to Thai China
and make interstellar fighters
out of the wise guts
of
cream-colored Starships.
But the nights when we went
to Burger King were the greatest,
we'd have simple dinners:
99 cent burgers
and fries like elephant ears,
we'd sit in our booth
in the corner,
you farting ketchup
out of like
twenty packets
into a red **** pile,
and I farted
like
twenty farts
out of my ***
but I like
simple things;
they are natural
even if they don't sound
that way.
Feb 9, 2012
Feb 9, 2012 at 12:27 AM UTC
This doesn't make sense
Soup ladle is for babies
****** *****
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 7:34 PM UTC
I don't know where, if it will end.
Refuse to voice or recommend.
To treat what ails us is pretend.
Slips through fingers apprehend.
To help more than to hurt,
reflexive sunny disposition
which can cradle sallow sleeping stoic pride.
Distinguishing the dirt,
collective run beside conviction;
acting ladle heavy, heaping, terrified.
Leave things better than you found them
Received our debtors stand; surround them.
I wonder if to soothe what ail,
under apprehension prevail.
Therein lies each us, our grail -
our demons sinking in each nail.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 10:20 PM UTC
I made some soup.
But it’s not for you.
It’s for me.
I don’t want you to change it.
It’s my soup.
Some people want to add some basil or maybe a little oregano.
But it’s my soup.
Some people think it’s too salty.
One person thought it’s too sweet.
But I told ‘em
f--k you.
I won’t change a thing.
It’s my soup.
Someone even tried to stir the ***
I grabbed the ladle
and bopped him on the head
I told him it was my soup.
Someone told me to turn up the heat
For what reason?
It’s a perfect temperature.
Someone else told me to turn down the heat.
I told him that would make it too cold.
It’s my soup.
Someone even told me I had to take some ingredients out.
But I love it the way it is.
It’s my soup.
Someone even tried to take a sip
The nerve!
It’s my soup.
Make your own.
Someone said I overcooked it.
I told her to leave me alone.
I like the smokey flavor.
To my horror, someone even tried to throw it out.
I grabbed the *** and put it back on the stove
Where it belongs.
This is my soup.
This soup…
is my life.
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 10:34 PM UTC
My heart is a boiling cauldron stewing with
A pinch of kindness,
A sprinkling of hope,
A dash of hate,
A gram of generosity,
A dram of charity,
A tablespoon of despair,
A measure of temperance,
A teaspoon of patience,
And a shake of faith.
Now, simmering on the element,
I can ladle out bowls of love.
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 12:02 PM UTC
A young man was walking along when he came across monk who was sitting on the side of the path meditating.
The young man, curiously stopped. “You are not from here? For I know everyone in this kingdom, and everyone know who I am. My name is Narcissus, son of Cephissus, and I am King of this land. Where do you come from, and what are you doing in my kingdom?
The Buddhist monk sat silently, and continued to meditate. His eyes were closed and at his side was a banana and a pale of water.
“Did you hear me? I am Narcissus and I am King of this land. If you know me like my people do, you would know that; I am honest, I am kind, and I am loving and full of compassion. I am fair and just. I am an advocate of peace, I judge no-one, and my subjects love me. And you sir, what are you?”
The monk opened his eyes, took the banana and peeled it. He halved it and offered Narcissus the King the other half, then continued meditating without saying a word.
Narcissus ate his banana, musing at the monk who didn’t speak. Why do you not speak?” asked Narcissus. I am the King and I demand to be answered when I ask a question.”
It was deathly hot, so the monk offered Narcissus a drink from his pale of water.
“I am thirsty. I will accept your offer,” said Narcissus. He drank all that was in the ladle and helped himself to another. He stood and waited for the water in the pale to become still again. Then he pitched over and looked into it, admiring his reflection, and smiled. I am still beautiful he thought. Again he addressed the monk, asking him who he was.
The monk leant over and kissed Narcissus on the feet, and bowed to him without saying a word.
Narcissus peered down at monk, smiled, and said to himself, “strange man,” and moved on.
The monk resumed his position, smiled, and whispered to himself,
“I am nothing.”
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 3:54 PM UTC
Run with this cauldron, ladle out soup
To the soldiers of our land
In the field of battle, lay out a cloth
And let them stretch their bloodied limbs as they eat
Their minds are weary, untrusting
Each spoonful less viscous than its predecessor
A succession of leaders repeated in their heads
Every dead soldier, a reason for abdication
The people hate the war they’ve started
The fools!
No matter how much soup I take to them
No matter how watery the broth
Each day they watch me leave the front
Each day I walk alone back to base
And munitions are airlifted daily
Jul 10, 2010
Jul 10, 2010 at 1:06 PM UTC
Wing clipped at birth, domestic birds they were.
Farm and spacious pen bound together six years.
She a prodigious egg layer, Don her attentive,
aggressive defender.
Daisy one day predator killed,
old Don outwardly mourning her loss
became a very different bird. All alone
for the first time in his Duck life.
We opened his gate and let him free roam.
A lonely flightless fowl only earth bound.
All aggression subsided with no mate to protect,
he became more social, needing a friend.
Crossing the yard from the barn,
when ever he may see us there.
He hunkers down in the shade
while I tend to the garden,
him like a supervisor, chortling occasional
reprimands or encouragements, I can never
tell which. All just to be close to some living thing.
He will chase after wild doves that land near by,
sadly mistaking them as perhaps a new mate, they
fly quickly away, him wondering what social Duck
blunder he might have made.
When finished in the garden, Don and I to the
barn retire, I ladle out a cup of corn for his pleasure.
Then it's back to his always open pen where his
bathtub sits, I turn on the hose and his excitement
ramps up. Excitedly he squawks and ***** his wings,
jumps into the tub, dives below the surface, reveling
in the cool spray of man made current in his artificial lake,
and with our few moments of companionship shared.
Him doing what ducks do, for a while loneliness abated.
It's almost as if I can see a smile on his pleasant Duck face.
Most days he sits close to the chickens pen, watching
the laying hens, scratching and moving within,
perhaps wishing he was in there with them.
I fear that if I open that wire door and let him go in,
that those ladies would peck him bald or even dead.
No matter how much a lonely Duck wishes he were
a chicken, they remain birds of a very different feather,
and a Duck can remain but a Duck forever.
A thing we might all remember....
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 5:29 PM UTC
Session 1
*Greet people you meet;
smile and give 'em a Presidential wave*
Session 2
Facilitator:
*What happened to you
Participant Jones?
Would you care to tell everyone?*
Participant Jones:
*This man at the mall
stepped up to me and punched me
Cause, he said, I was smiling at his woman*
Facilitator:
*Be undeterred, O participant Jones
Be persistent - practise positive behaviour*
Session 3
Facilitator:
*What's with that bandage on your head
O participant Jones?
Would you care to tell everyone?*
Participant Jones:
*That's where my wife's ladle landed
O positive Facilitator -
for my wife thinks I'm trying to get fresh
with the women in the neighbourhood
with my exuberant smiles and hand waves*
Facilitator:
*Have no regrets, practise in earnest;
the broad smile wins all hearts*
Session 4
Participant Jones did not attend;
has not been heard from since Session 3
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 2:22 AM UTC
The world isn't real to me,
it's outside a thick skull.
It's my muted screams you hear
coming from inside
this bone brazen bull.
The body pursues pleasures while
pleading to me "Be happy! So that I...
so that we may find love."
The nerve.
The nerve!
And trust you me this bag of bones,
this lustful flesh has too many nerve ends firing.
And they all want something,
all demand my attention
for even the most mundane events
of their spoiled lives of experience.
Thank you, nerves, for sharing how a cool,
spring breeze blowing lightly over you feels.
Thank you too, way down there,
for making me aware
of the soft grass sliding taught between your toes.
How special for you, no jealousy here.
Now, lets bring this mess to order,
would somebody please go ask the warden when
visiting hours are over?
Because, you see,
The world isn't real to me,
it's outside a thick skull.
It's my writhing & thrashing you mock
twisting within
this bone brazen bull.
"Be happy" it tells me.
To better pursue it's goals!
It has clearly never even once tried reversing roles.
Well, I have. Many times. For, I've the time to think, believe you me.
I would stuff the body in a box barely big enough to fit it,
and add within the 'creature comforts' found in my abode
which you'll daily find me in abidance.
Inside would be dark, hard, and for reasons still unexplained
somewhat sticky...
Would somebody PLEASE! tell me why it's sticky in here?!
Excuse me, moving on...
I would taunt it then:
"Let's go for a run." I'd say,
"The breeze caressing my grey matter sure is nice." I'd add,
"Why aren't you happy in your dark, dank, brain-box, body?!" I'd shout.
Between you and me, I only smoke because I know it makes
its lungs all sappy.
Why aren't I happy, body?
I'll tell you.
Because delusory images drafted from incomplete,
tainted, sensory data, diluted of any real, exciting experience
are all that make up my world; my life!
It's as boring as drinking a ladle full of water Jesus made
out of what was once wine and then added fluoride to.
I'm like your shut in grandmother you write home to
in brief, lying notes about your travels abroad.
"Amsterdam was nice STOP"
So, body, excuse me for taking pleasure in unhappy things
such as smoking, or hating.
Excuse me for my spite.
But, for me and my experience these are the things
I find tickling my quote unquote toes.
And...I'm all too mad to say,
are the closest I'll ever come to 'feel'.
Because, you see,
The world isn't real to me,
it's outside a thick skull.
And it's my muted screams you hear
coming from inside
this bone brazen bull.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 2:03 AM UTC
Said I was, then I wasn’t
Tossed my photo id
99 on the interstate
Forgot my home address
This or last years birthdays
Cerebral teasing, electrical wheezing
Coughing up candy colored viscous mixtures
Pain pills, strange ills, black tar rapt
Plastics wax kid cradle doping until fatal
Sipping succulent sups from yang’s ladle
Freak streaks bisect mind-framed societies
Claim lives and blind young eyes
Perhaps its an exaggerated fable
More able however an argument for contrast
Long-lived mobile monument smoke stacks
Toothless twelve year old flashing crack caps
Slow know elapse forgotten hats blown home
Always sixty seconds to go, cool clock interlock
Alleyway temple made meek street ever bleak
Folly is an empty spoon, children’s cartoons
Wall starter, void walker, treble swelled neurotic
Creeps dream witchcraft borderline hypnotic
Say it was before it wasn’t
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 7:54 PM UTC
making pancakes tonight.
i know it’s not morning
but it kind of feels right.
i’m making pancakes tonight
do you want some
i know you want some
maybe if i smile i could
get some
you win some
and you lose some
as he always used to say
but the smell of pancakes
eyes melting like butter
you win some
and you lose some
but you can’t help but want some
i’m making pancakes tonight.
come over, it’s like old times
dry eyes
and syrups no way to start a fight.
i’ll cook
you clean
let’s enjoy some pancakes
no kitchen brights just butter
moonlight
cause they’re fluffy
they’re sweet
make you weak in the knees
they hit the spot just right
so come on.
my treat
like i said
i’ll cook
you clean
the griddle, the ladle,
like your eyes shine and gleam
just put it in the sink
time flies by
stomachs filled and riding a high
let it soak
cause we’re eating pancakes tonight
feast your eyes
cause it’s not so attractive to have eyes bigger than your stomach
the memory of breakfast
wanton, happy , an image redacted
you win some
and you lose some
and you can’t help but get some
pancakes? pancakes ?
i know you want some
Jan 8, 2019
Jan 8, 2019 at 9:02 PM UTC
I like the days, when I just sit
Staring vacantly at the ceiling
With a book of Bukowski upon my head
Serious Osmosis going on.
I go back, to days
Days when we would just steal a traffic cone
For the Hell of it –
When being young was just doing
What you could
Because you could.
I remember eating Nachos and apple crumble
At 2am.
Then watching a friend of mine
Eating icecream one night with a ladle
The next night screaming in the shower
Out of apparent ‘excitement’.
I remember when we would sit,
You and I,
Drinking and if the atmosphere wasn’t more
Frosty than the arctic wind
Then Dave the drunk added his two penceworth.
When I had to fight off Dave and his Bovverboy.
That was rather humerous
Particularly by the fact that you nearly crapped yourself
It was a good laugh
I wish there could have been more times like that
Ah well...
Unlike most great works of art, this has no theme
That holds it all together.
I guess, like most undiscovered artists
I just thought I’d write **** down
And see where it went.
Clearly, not very far.
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 3:07 PM UTC
I have fallen in love
with my newest piece
of kitchen equipment
it came in the 9 am mail shipment
with much zeal
I opened the package
and my eyes
were so pleasantly surprised
the metal shone
like the sun beams
in a summer sky
the handles
were so comfortable
on the finger tips
and there was plenty of room on them
to securely grip
it surely lived up
to all my expectations
considering
I wasn't the person
who paid for this wonderful thing
a stew I shall make in it
for my dinner tonight
and as I ladle
the stew from this piece of cookware
I'll be thinking
of the person
who didn't receive
this fabulous gift
she'll be ever wondering
what happened
to her stainless steel ***
which never made it
to her mailbox
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 9:00 PM UTC
sometimes, late at night
i lie awake, or sit, or even dance
i do not "sleep"
i might drowse, or snooze,
but only temporary reprive-
The Dark
holds its monsters and
pattering, clawed steps
outside of my candlelit chambers
and beyond the fragile makebelieve walls
of my lurking consciousness-
light a candle.
burn the Night.
Smolder your eyes upon the smoke
banish my fears, faint light-
but do not destroy my peace-
morning Light, cast not your hands over
this black scry-stone!
Look but so gently into the Dark's swirling
and staring stars
down upon a ritual laid bare-
agate eyes upon the crown
upon the head of the young Oracle
a story for another time, a
prayer for a beating heart
in another place,
another darkened midnight womb
or perhaps an obsidian tomb--.
fill a chalice and not a mind
tip the contents to then find
a wandering flame spread to the wind
devouring those violent souls that have sinned
as such, topics change like Gaia
dear, as such my mind roams when
I cower in fear--.
in the imaginary arms of a
man I love, the one who can't be near.
Night sings a quiet song of insane
love and gentle terror, a soft-soft
sound that rings eternal
and lulls its listener not to sleep
but into a spell that gathers deep
within the core of the mind
behind the third,
before the eye,
but loud and deafening guilt
that keeps the shade-drawn witch
awake, and the quivering fear
racing in their youthful heart--.
Ladle the light of the stars above
into the cupped hands tonight
and sing the damnation back
to the groping clouds
on the black horizon, the violet and
blue and grey and white
swirling in cohesion and roaring into a wave of
conscious nightmares
i cannot deal with these thoughts
on my mind, resting upon
my heart
my eyes
my mind
my very soul.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 2:34 PM UTC
Oh Glenda (Miz Gee gee)
years elapsed since, I didst hawk
verboten fruit adrip
from yar verdant bough,
thy strong craven raven
doth still twitter and flip
sans thy testosterone switch,
where woody pecker missus grip
ping re: egret ting prospective
relationship nixed thee
as gull friend material, hip
mistress, though heron eye did pay lip
service verily orgasmically quip
yes...wren doer ring
more'n commit Freudian slip
which peeping cardinal tip
towing thru nested tulip trip
gave balled oriole peck whip
ping lil *** pistol be
friending chirping ***** riot
inserting thingmabob
after pants sigh did un zip.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Egg gad unlike rob bin duck cradle
yar mature red breast all aswirl
asper a stationary dreidel
mammary ducts mine mouth pursed
yar ******* mine gums did ladle.
Only in memory, aye
hungrily thirst and thirstily hunger
fort deux aureole dye
still affecting this gab
bird, who didst deign
as milquetoast guy.
Whenever this birdman alone
his thoughts metaphorically drone
worm wayward toward
***** thatch, where
hello kitty doth purr and groan
of quintessentially
***** coiled hair moan
ning softly as thee
bared naked lady lies prone
admiring pinkish puckered
def flesh tone.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 2:44 AM UTC
.
Laundry detergent
and love, broken hearted
Dark nights and witches
and dearly departed
Death in the front yard
with bright flowers blooming
Winter and summer,
all seasons are looming
Fireflies, evergreens,
balloons colored yellow
A beautiful woman,
an old grouchy fellow
The sun and the moon
and the stars that are shining
Laughter and teardrops,
occasional whining
Sunrises, sunsets,
the beach and the ocean
A walk in the park
or a magical potion
A bird on a fence
or a babe in a cradle
The dish and the spoon
ran away with a ladle?
*** that is sensual,
pain that is hurting
Humor and drama,
some things I am blurting
Long ones and shorts ones
and some in between
A king in a castle
defending his queen
Rhyming and free verse,
it’s endless and mounting
Ten words or haiku
and syllable counting
Written out stanzas
of how we are feeling
Even an orange
that someone is peeling
Riding a horse
or just crossing a river
Feathers and leaves
and all things that do quiver
So many thoughts
I have found that are waiting
Here on this site
there is no hesitating
To all the poets
with pens always bleeding
Thank you so much
for the poems I’m reading
For all of you
that I get to call friend
Here is a poem for you
I have penned
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 10:42 AM UTC