"laughingly" poems
Impatience rode and passed me by,
I caught her looking down on me,
cuttingly,
with her gems for eyes.
scornfully,
sighting me
up
&
down.
Laughingly,
the sadistic mirth in her vision
spoke:
"Ha-ha,
Yes,
I've caught your attention,
how little you know;
a simple race with men
&
your limbs fail.
How then will you run with horses?"
I took wisdom from that evil look of thought.
In that moment,
I pulled
on
My Covering
much tighter,
that
Humble
but
Faith-full
Cloak,
I wrapped around me
firmly
averting my eyes
to the blazing
fire
before
me,
warming myself
in the comfort of its gaze,
patiently waiting...
…waiting
for horses.
© Qwey.ku
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 3:38 AM UTC
And when you give
Give like the widow would
Quietly and thoughtfully
Wholeheartedly and consciously
Like you know the value of costly
The value of giving til you laughingly
Really hurt in your fund for a holiday.
And when you give
Keep your other hand wondering
If it's sufficiently
Not knowing if it was slight of handedly
Or open handedly
So you're tempted into giving more
Than you intended previously.
And when you give
Give hilariously
Generously
Be gutsy til angels agree
On the degree
To which you plunge
The depths of your karki jeans
And if in doubt
Just focus on the tree
And the costly sacrifice
He willingly made
For you and me.
Give like the widow would -
Like it's just between you and God
And then you'll be free.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 5:14 PM UTC
At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An ****** vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies
(Her casement open to the skies)
Irene, with her Destinies!
Oh, lady bright! can it be right—
This window open to the night!
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice-drop—
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully—so fearfully—
Above the closed and fringed lid
’Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid,
That, o’er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all-solemn silentness!
The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
For ever with unopened eye,
While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!
My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep;
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold—
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
And winged panels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o’er the crested palls,
Of her grand family funerals—
Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown,
In childhood many an idle stone—
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne’er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.
4.3k
The Seashore Gathering
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
On the seashores of endless worlds, earth's children converge.
The infinite sky is motionless, the restless waters boisterous.
On the seashores of endless worlds earth's children gather to dance with joyous cries and pirouettes.
They build sand castles and play with hollow shells.
They weave boats out of withered leaves and laughingly float them out over the vast deep.
Earth's children play gaily on the seashores of endless worlds.
They do not know, yet, how to cast nets or swim.
Divers fish for pearls and merchants sail their ships, while earth's children skip, gather pebbles and scatter them again.
They are unaware of hidden treasures, nor do they know how to cast nets, yet.
The sea surges with laughter, smiling palely on the seashore.
Death-dealing waves sing the children meaningless songs, like a mother lullabying her baby's cradle.
The sea plays with the children, smiling palely on the seashore.
On the seashores of endless worlds earth's children meet.
Tempests roam pathless skies, ships lie wrecked in uncharted waters, death wanders abroad, and still the children play.
On the seashores of endless worlds there is a great gathering of earth's children.
Originally published by The Chained Muse. My translation is based on an untitled text in Bangla (Bengali) first published in 1912 and known as "60" due to its numerical placement. Tagore made history by becoming the first Asian to win the Nobel Prize for Literature the following year. Keywords/Tags: seashore, gathering, children, sky, sea, water, dance, sand castles, shells, boats, play, nets, swim, fish, pearls, ships, waves, songs, mother, lullaby, baby, cradle, tempests, death
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 11:03 PM UTC
whispers the stubbly face of the old grandpa,
or I'll blow fierce little airs all over your rigidly
pretending-to-be-asleeping cute little facey,
then tickle your kissable little
lips
and make farty noises
for the rest of the day
she, irresistibly, bursts out laughing
like the roaring lioness she be,
whose cubs might be threatened,
and laughingly squeals, oh poppy!
it's all your fault, you grumpy old poet,
you made me put the *** in my
peej's!
and how his son,
the father,
on permanent overwatch,
growls below annoyingly,
"great,
now we'll be late,"
and
threatens to tell the
attractive single second grade teacher,
upon whom
he has a semi-secret crushing,
to which
we two devils scream out,
"oh please, oh please"
knowing she will find it quite
charming, and maybe even him,
tooing,
the single attractive father-man
who, could be ripe for a
twoing
><
and poppy twinkles,
thinking that no
matter what you
call it,
that thing,
is all-around and
in~between us while
he changes the young lady's
sheeting
Sep 18, 2025
Sep 18, 2025 at 2:31 PM UTC
dying in your arms
I would accept laughingly
like being shipwrecked
on the coast of Venice
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 2:39 PM UTC
I
Who would be
A merman bold,
Sitting alone
Singing alone
Under the sea,
With a crown of gold,
On a throne?
II
I would be a merman bold,
I would sit and sing the whole of the day;
I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of power;
But at night I would roam abroad and play
With the mermaids in and out of the rocks,
Dressing their hair with the white sea-flower;
And holding them back by their flowing locks
I would kiss them often under the sea,
And kiss them again till they kiss'd me
Laughingly, laughingly;
And then we would wander away, away,
To the pale-green sea-groves straight and high,
Chasing each other merrily.
III
There would be neither moon nor star;
But the wave would make music above us afar--
Low thunder and light in the magic night--
Neither moon nor star.
We would call aloud in the dreamy dells,
Call to each other and whoop and cry
All night, merrily, merrily.
They would pelt me with starry spangles and shells,
Laughing and clapping their hands between,
All night, merrily, merrily,
But I would throw to them back in mine
Turkis and agate and almondine;
Then leaping out upon them unseen
I would kiss them often under the sea,
And kiss them again till they kiss'd me
Laughingly, laughingly.
O, what a happy life where mine
Under the hollow-hung ocean green!
Soft are the moss-beds under the sea;
We would live merrily, merrily.
2.7k
IN YOUR lips moving fervently,
Your eyes hot with fire,
Life seems immortally young with desire,
Life seems impetuous,
Hungrily free,
Having no faith but its burning to be.
You could dance laughingly,
Draw where you move,
Hearts, hands and voices pouring you love.
Youth be a carnival,
Life be the queen,
You could go dancing and singing and seen!
Whence came that tenderness
Cruel and wild,
Arming with ****** the hand of a child?
Whence came that breaking fire,
Nursed and caressed
With passion's white fingers for tyranny's breast?
In your soul sacredly,
Deeper than fear,
Burns there a miracle dreadful to hear?
****** of ******
Was it God's breath,
Begetting a savior, that filled you with Death?
2.2k
Lined with age in faded denim
Squinted eyes and jaded smile
Sauntering through dusty courtyard
Remembering back here awhile.
Sadness tugs me back to recall
Recall of that young girl when,
Laughingly she stood in denim,
Clear blue eyes which sparkled then.
Tragic how the years have jaded,
Criminal how time applies
A caustic pall to all that’s lovely,
Attitude and tearsome lies.
Wish that I could haul me back there
Roll me back to young and pure,
Pluck the innocence from history
Transit back where truth endured.
Transit back uncomplicated
Back to where it all began
Happy kids in dusty courtyard
Faded denim, making plans.
M.
April 1963
Cairns, Nth. Queensland
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 11:26 PM UTC
somewhere between the
first date and the last date
Joni Mitchell,
she, me
encapsulates
I'm remembering well,
pounding the dashboard of a red Jag,
laughable now, mocking this fool's need
for a middle age conceit,
his heart to restart,
reactivate
in enthusiastic lockstep with the voice of the
Joni, the blonde goddess of his youth,
foot falling in love, with the accelerator,
speeding along
at a
joyous sixty five,
in places where the signs said,
"thirty five to stay alive"
this aged Rip Van Winkle teenager,
in reverse osmosis of Big,
an old buck, come back to antlered life,
singing along to the CD disc
set on
backdate
*I could drink case of you,
and still be on my feet*
and he could
rediscovering the champagne taste
of a great first date,
feeling the heated blood and fevered mind,
symptoms of the pleasures of a robust
anticipate
thinking she's the one
who will make him great,
happy greater, greater happy
than that one ever, ever,
he thought was roulette~wheel possible,
landing on the red of hopeful for a
floodgate
overture spilling
months, days, minute minute moments (tiny time intervals),
of the fated faded last date later, the next eve, next day
or the next of never,
comes the
deflate
but then,
Joni singing comfort words,
reminding him that he would be,
wisely, sadly seeing, feeling,
both sides now, and yet again,
getting his mind back to
straight
*I've looked at love that way,
but now it's just another show.
you leave 'em laughing when you go,
and if you care, don't let them know,
don't give yourself away*
a grown man punk'd, blasted,
dumb and dumber, dumped,
a feeling sorry sad sack self,
until he himself
reflates,
drink another case,
onto yet another
magical mystery first
date
pounding that dashboard once again,
believing it's not too late
that perfect roommate heart's to find and
captivate,
to attain, invade, acquaint and laughingly...
serenade
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
When questioned what was nature,
i laughingly said s&m;
ravishing red roses thorns were meant for torture
but some indulge in them
Misunderstood poison ivy is
for her dark and seductive touch
leaving her victims perturbed with the faintest brush
shunned by the hollies for her dark and twisted roots
she finds solace in clandestiny
where she indulges in sinful truths
But if the darker side of nature
is perceived as such a sin
and on one hot july night the forest shall ignite
i’ll let the fickle flames fade into me
because the smell of burning saffron can be quite alright
Nature is a playground
and we dabble in different mounds
often forgetting the vines
that are to hold us down
to submit or not to submit
let ivy tell you
for one
false
move
the
vines
will
bruise
you
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC
"Hey Arya, want to go see that new movie that JUST came out? Ya know the one about the *******
"Maybe tomorrow Melodric. I'm kinda tired right now, kay?", Arya replies
"oh...okay, Tomorrow then, i'll hold you to that you know!", Melodric replies teasingly
Arya laughs, "Yeah, Yeah, anyway, I'm headed home, night Mel"
"Night Arya, uh, hey, want me to walk you home? i heard that the crime rate has gone up in town recently, Ya never know their next target."
"I'll be fine Mel, go home dufus!"
"ok,ok...See ya Tomorrow"
"yeah, tomorrow"
****
"That the girl we after?"
"Sure is"
"like the rest?"
"yup."
"hehehehe...Lets get'r"
****
"Rain, Rain, go away, plaese don't come back another day!", Arya giggles then freezes as a black van suddnely pulls up beside her and she watches two men quickly hop out and start towards her.
Arya ran
She didn't get far...
The two men grab her as she tries to scream, but one places their hand over her mouth.
She feels the ***** of a needle in her neck.
Her last thought was, 'Mel..Help...Me.'
****
Melodric checked his watch, "it's 7:00, where is she?"
He had been waiting at the school courtyard for half an hour now for her.
"It's not like her to be late...maybe her alarm never went off?"
A fellow student noticed him sitting on the school steps and says, "Hey Melodric, class is about to start, why aren't you heading in?"
Melodric replies, " I'm waiting for Arya, she hasn't showed up yet...though that's the odd thing, she's never late, ya know anything about that?"
"you mean no one has told you yet?"
"told me what?"
"Arya was found dead laying in a pool of her own blood at 1:00 this morning."
"A...Arya's dead?"
"yeah...you never knew?"
"n-no...i...we where supposed to watch a movie today. The Newest release. he told me yesterday that Tomorrow was when she'd go with me...and i said...i said that i'd hold her to that."
"Melodric-"
"She always used to say, 'There's always Tomorrow'...but now...there wont BE a tomorrow..not for her...not anymore..."
"Melodric, hey...i'm...I'm sorry man. Sorry you found out like this, and about Arya, i knew you where close with her."
" 'There's always Tomorrow' I can go mourn tomorrow..right?"
"yeah, tomorrow."
***
"There's always Tomorrow Melodric!", Arya laughingly said in Melodrics mind
'But sometimes...There's not always a Tomorrow', Melodric replied, 'There'll never be a Tomorrow...Not anymore'
***
"Dude did you hear the news last night? that kid, uh, melo...dic? no Melodric! He apparently shot himself after leaving a note saying, 'I don't want to spend another Tomorrow without Arya.' how Pathetic is that?"
"C'mon man, chill out. Those two where always hanging around one another, doesn't surprise me he wanted ta be with her. who wouldn't?"
"ya, you're right, hey wanna go see that new movie that came out?"
"Maybe Tomorrow. I'm kinda tired."
"Ok, Tomorrow then. Don't forget!"
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC
THE DANGERS OF READING FLAUBERT....AL FRESCO!
( for Ray )
"Souvent la chaleur d’un beau jour..."
he reads, stops:
kisses her.
" ...Fait rêver fillette à l’amour."
she completes the words
kisses...kisses him.
Dining al fresco
feeling somewhat frisky
they throw caution
to the wind
soon all too soon
Flaubert forgotten
Madame Bovary
discarded on the grass
soon all too soon
even the food forgotten
clothing of both
male and female attire
discarded on the grass
now nothing but gasps
they each
the other's feast
the wind idly turning
Bovary's pages
skipping to the end then
beginning again
until one last ***** gusty
breeze interrupts their play
chasing their clothes
that run away
his boxers hang now
upon the bough
her pink camiknickers..pale pink bra
making a run for it
laughingly they chase
their clothes
this Adam and his Eve
bra floating tits-up
in a pond
the camiknickers never
alas to be found.
And here now on their
50th
they share the same smile
when asked how it was
they came together
remembering their love making
in windy weather
shyly slyly blame
Flaubert
" Il souffla bien fort ce jour-là,
Et le jupon court s’envola."
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 12:22 PM UTC
No picturesque ruins will remain for us
To wander through with our sketchbooks and pens
For drawing pictures or writing blank verse
About bare ruin’d 2 air-conditioning ducts
The baptismal font will be repurposed
As a bird-bath (with a plastic Saint Elvis)
And the stained-glass windows will be sold off
As fashionable bathroom accessories
The crucifix of deplorable design 3
Will be stored in the back of someone’s garage
Until the girls carry it off to the woods
And laughingly use it for target practice
A rubbly field will serve as a soccer pitch
Until seventy years 4 have passed away
1 Wordsworth’s “Tintern Abbey”
2 Shakespeare’s Sonnet 73
3 Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited
4 Daniel 9:1-2
Jun 2, 2019
Jun 2, 2019 at 3:06 PM UTC
The door is shut. She leaves the curtained office,
And down the grey-walled stairs comes trembling slowly
Towards the dazzling street.
Her withered hand clings tightly to the railing.
The long stairs rise and fall beneath her feet.
Here in the brilliant sun we jostle, waiting
To tear her secret out . . . We laugh, we hurry,
We go our way, revolving, sinister, slow.
She blinks in the sun, and then steps faintly downward.
We whirl her away, we shout, we spin, we flow.
Where have you been, old lady? We know your secret!--
Voices jangle about her, jeers, and laughter. . . .
She trembles, tries to hurry, averts her eyes.
Tell us the truth, old lady! where have you been?
She turns and turns, her brain grows dark with cries.
Look at the old fool tremble! She's been paying,--
Paying good money, too,--to talk to spirits. . . .
She thinks she's heard a message from one dead!
What did he tell you? Is he well and happy?
Don't lie to us--we all know what he said.
He said the one he murdered once still loves him;
He said the wheels in wheels of time are broken;
And dust and storm forgotten; and all forgiven. . . .
But what you asked he wouldn't tell you, though,--
Ha ha! there's one thing you will never know!
That's what you get for meddling so with heaven!
Where have you been, old lady? Where are you going?
We know, we know! She's been to gab with spirits.
Look at the old fool! getting ready to cry!
What have you got in an envelope, old lady?
A lock of hair? An eyelash from his eye?
How do you know the medium didn't fool you?
Perhaps he had no spirit--perhaps he killed it.
Here she comes! the old fool's lost her son.
What did he have--blue eyes and golden hair?
We know your secret! what's done is done.
Look out, you'll fall--and fall, if you're not careful,
Right into an open grave. . . but what's the hurry?
You don't think you will find him when you're dead?
Cry! Cry! Look at her mouth all twisted,--
Look at her eyes all red!
We know you--know your name and all about you,
All you remember and think, and all you scheme for.
We tear your secret out, we leave you, go
Laughingly down the street. . . Die, if you want to!
Die, then, if you're in such a hurry to know!--
. . . She falls. We lift her head. The wasted body
Weighs nothing in our hands. Does no one know her?
Was no one with her when she fell? . . .
We eddy about her, move away in silence.
We hear slow tollings of a bell.
1.6k
~
<>
*nearby distant,
the soft thrash of warm waves
lapping interlocking,
happily wet tongue kissing,
sun-oven precision-crisping
the Long Island striped bass
and porgies, at a surreal cooling
77 degrees
Pandora synced to his eyes,
shuffling freely,
by saying
we too see!!
playing for him,
Stairway to Heaven (Led Zeppelin)
poor, poor poet,
strains to brain drain one more time,
conducting an ogling googling word search
for those combinatory storied ones that
sailboat glide
all the while
wildly bursting with Pellegrino effervescence
compromising sounds sights,
to present
properly the balance,
to preserve
properly this moment,
peaceful alive for all times,
as poet has tried,
and failed so many times before...
the caw caw caw of the crow mocks the illiterate human,
for the bird calls it, in single sound perfect and
the human a laughingstock,
for not in his possess,
to capture this perfect moment
of human sabbath.
a Roman Saturn day of rest,
on this day that itself,
is perfection,
perfect for celebrating our common creation,
on a day that our
almost-all-agreed-upon calendar
is marked for us to
forte rest,
from an existence of just laborious
the chubby checkered cheeked squirrels
laughingly pauses,
watching, enjoying a poet's struggle,
mind boggle,
the poet's chubby cheeks
stuffed with discarded words,
all insufficient to capture
the absolution of
absolute beauty
bathing in the noisiest of nature's sounds,
all that contravene the silence of living things,
breathing prayerful thoughts that all
summary end,
with a common gesture of
forefinger upon the lips
a human acknowledgment of
utter obeisance to the forces
calling out by example
listen, see!
silently presenting,
this,
this!!*
a day that demanded perfection
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 5:27 PM UTC
the world is adorned with a million windows
the bleakest night has a thousand eyes
daylight shines into the globes darkest corners
truth will ultimately expose all lies
NASA’s satellites circle
Tropic of Cancer latitudes
cameras pinpoint the disease
metastasizing in the body of Homs
from stratospheric limits
sensitive lenses read the names
magic markers have scrawled
onto white sheets covering the dead
YouTube gets Oscar consideration
for grisly cinematography
a real-time visceral docudrama
of panting fascists gleefully tramping
through the desecrated streets
coolly administering a coup de gras
to a city on its knees, pleading release
from an **** of incessant bloodletting
twitter records desperate tweets
the batting wings of endangered flocks
furiously thumbing into the blogosphere
calls for UN intervention that falls on blind eyes
BBC reportage,
the global gold standard
for journalistic excellence
scoops the stories
of London based FSA partisans
awaiting repatriation to scatter
Bashar’s Kodachrome killers
Has the All Seeing Eye
who has graced us with sight
laughingly curse us with vision?
Does the
One Caring Eye of the Universe
bless us with perception
to haunt us with images?
Has
The One Thats Sees Everything
blinked closed the eye of compassion?
Has the horror of Homs
become too much even for
The Universal Eye of Love?
the opened eyes
of a dead child
reflects our
cold winter
of indifference
demoralizing
dehumanizing
a watching world
Music Selection
Grateful Dead Eyes of the World
Oakland
3/2/12
jbm
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 12:04 PM UTC
PROSTITUTE’S DREAM
Ayad Gharbawi
A helping hand waves in distant appeals
While realities projected by liars
Transpire in hatred waxed and refined
The conversationalists’ hollowness laughingly
Excused the wars individuals fight
While a ********** yells
To godless martyrs
Who preached of Gods
As the dwarfs compared themselves
To the beauties of loneliness
The hungry painted ships of adventure
In their mysterious journeys, they asked:
“Where are we to go?”
The woman was betrayed
By the quick-tongued lover
Her eyes chased different circumstances
Forgetting that circumstances change
Therein lies the equation of human beings
Humans who care not
While the dying one
Strums
Her brittle
Guitar
Made of tender wood
Where the hollow tunes soon died
Her voice squeaked in No-Man’s-Land
Her eyes, a sunset they revered
Her eyes that followed her lover’s path.
Somewhere in a dark distance
Eyes rigid and fixed
Even though the winds sway you with pain
Your Protectors are dead, I declare!
Your Protector is no more
Understand that;
And understand your enemy
The one within you
Then shall you feel so much more
For alone you walk in this life
You breathe in.
Dec 27, 2009
Dec 27, 2009 at 8:08 AM UTC
Excuse me, if you must,
as the spinning causes seasickness.
Open the clouds as you continue on
in an aeronautical sarcophagus,
thirty-thousand feet
above broken land.
Grab your lover’s hair,
last resort to prepare for
the emergency crash landing
into mother earth’s disease,
or are they simply parting the seas,
causing darkness to spread
from the unfilled hole in their chest?
Stomachs turn as the
broken wings and sails
fall upon the shores.
An ocean of rage delivers
waves of hatred embraced.
The surf clears, exposing pain
and the premonition
of a cleansing blood red rain.
Shrieks of the banshee
and the howls of the hurt rise
to meet the clouds seeking
to brighten the days afar.
As thousands flee in terror
we make a toast in the French Quarter.
The chariots gain speed
and the wake gains mirth,
laughingly applauding
the approaching dark comedy.
The newly arrived antagonist
has forced the hero’s hand
and now she births forth
a wave of healing epidemics.
The wake’s in the wind
and the funeral’s imminent.
Its population’s been soothed
into a sedated slumber,
but our character has issued
too many warning,
and strikes deep at the heart
of this sinful city,
breaking apart the basin’s barrier,
and lulls its children back to sleep
with bloodstained lullabyes.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 1:13 PM UTC
Once upon a time
in the Great Hall
of the Metropolitan Museum,
my woman wan~pale,
doozy, woozy, about to grace
the floor marble, with an
undesirably inelegant fall.
Steadied her, a quick diagnose,
Low Blood Sugar + Dehydration,
her condition I pronounced.
The antidote in my possession!
From my pocket left,
withdrew my emergency tangerine.
She looked, quizzically, upon me,
even a bit weirdly,
marveling and marvelous,
as I fed her bite-sized orange curvatures.
*Who walks around with a
tangerine in their coat pocket?*
I replied, doesn't everyone?
besides, that juicy tangerine looked
mighty good, so I took from
pocket right, another one,
laughingly, which we shared.
Henceforth she has called me,
a partial mocking homage to a former actor,
who should have stayed that way,
the one who was thinking you can always start over,
The Anticipator.
If you ask me what is the secret
to keeping love alive, my answer permanent.
Get thee a coat of many pockets,
like the one Joseph had,
fill them up with with the things
that will shelter her from the storm...^
No longer the season of the tangerine,
In my pocket in the fall,
a Fuji apple and a box of
raisin~poems
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 2:54 AM UTC
Benedict watched
as Mrs Fairweather
hushed her mutt
and told him to get back
in its box
under the table
and ushered Benedict
into the lounge
and to take a seat
on the blue sofa
recently bought
she said her husband
was away
on a long haul
(truck driver
of some sort)
and that she’d like
to know more
about Benedict
than she knew already
he sat there listening
to her voice
coming through
from the kitchen
tea or coffee?
she asked
or something stronger?
coffee’d be fine
he said
looking at
the landscape prints
upon the walls
after a short while
she came in
carrying two cups
and set them down
and sat beside him
her red skirt rising
as she put one leg
over the other
tell me more
about yourself
she said
looking at him
sideways on
one hand resting
on her cheek
the other
on her thigh
what’s to tell?
he said
and she told him
what she wanted to know
how long since
his last kiss?
who with
and how
was his pecker?
(laughingly put)
and she said she’d seen
a photo of him
some where
and all the time
her hand went up
and down her thigh
(which caught his eye)
what is that aftershave
you’re wearing?
nice and kind of ****
she said smiling
he told her what it was
some stuff his mother’d
bought for him
from the superstore
he could smell her scent
as she neared him
musky overpowering
and laid on thick
his mother
would have said
he sipped his coffee
and she sipped hers
then she put on a record
of the Kinks
and danced
on her way back
to the sofa
wiggling her backside
and **** as she moved
and Benedict wondered
if he’d made a mistake
coming over
at that time of day
or any time at all
then she kissed him
and touched him
and it was suddenly
in the deep end of the pool
wondering if he’d not got
out of his depth
her lips pressing
in on him
her hands searching
for his pecker
her words uttered
in a low voice
as if drowning
but what if?
o don’t mind him
he won’t be back
for days yet
but what if?
but the but ifs
were drowned
in her kisses
and her hand
had plunge into cloth
and sought out
the pecker
and Benedict imagined
Mr Fairweather
hot tempered
from a long haul
unhappy with
this kissing
and hugging
and all
entering the room
just as his shy pecker
had been exposed
and in the hands
of his wife
but it was all
in his mind
no Fairweather came
or saw or spoke
just she and Benedict
and the mutt moaning
from the other room
and the new blue sofa
beneath them
and the Kinks singing
and sunlight filtering
through the half closed shutters
blueness of sky
and Benedict
sensing her
and wondering why.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 2:16 AM UTC
i had this friend once...see
he was a talkative sort of a guy as if the babes gave a ****
he walked up and down the street.....babbling, babbling, babbling!
i sometimes tried to listen or to hear his mind but his words seemed to come not from his head but from a donkey's behind!
and walking in the brightest sunshine he never left a shadow that i could see
babbling brookskie was the name we placed upon him so fittingly
AND THEN ONE DAY!
I HEARD!
and a door was opened and a sign was seen sayin "come on in boy and be free"
a saw a brook flowing unto a golden stream where children were bathing and laughingly at play
and.........
....................babbling brookskie was his name
he is a friend of mine
even in the brightest sunshine........he never tried to over-shadow anyone......
......................he always gave himself for free
Jul 17, 2010
Jul 17, 2010 at 11:20 AM UTC
I string up my hammock for two,
and lay in it alone,
listening to the trees whisper to one another.
How I long to hear their songs
and giggle to their stories
of centuries past and times forgotten.
The wind rocks me close to her *****
while the sun shines down on the children
hoping from flower to flower and between blades of grass.
But my eyes grow heavy, and I struggle to stay.
Then I hear them,
laughingly say,
rest now child;
all is well.
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 4:49 PM UTC
(I am woken up by her honey-sweet voice in the morning.)
She: Good morning honey!
Me: Good morning baby!
(I yawn my mouth wide as I say that.)
(She smiles & replies tauntingly as she pulls my ear lovingly.)
She: Seems you had a laborious night!
Me: Yeah, a really laborious one indeed.
(Even I smile as I remember the last night; full of spice.)
(Now she bends towards the side-table and fetches coffee.)
She: Hmmm... I've prepared coffee for you darling, you were asleep.
Me: Oh dear, should I say thanks or kiss you again!?
(I move my body forward from the sheets craning my neck - the cutlery makes tinkling noise.)
(She cackles and barely maintains her balance as she retracts herself.)
She: Seems you're still undone, my naughty boy!
Me: Ah! How truer could you be, kiss me again!
(I offer my lips as I take the cup offered by her.)
(She smiles and just gives a brief peck on my lips with hers.)
She: *Now we should get our day started, otherwise we'd get late.*
Me: *What did you just say!? We'd get laid? Oh I'd love to!*
(I muster an apt piece of laughter for both of us.)
(She looks even more angelic as she laughingly pulls both my ears & cheeks.)
She: Get out of the bed, you naughty boy!
Me: Aye-aye madam! And I'll be hungry soon after getting done with my morning duties.
(I say greedily to invite another sweet smile from my angel-faced woman.)
(She seems to be ready for that and says in a learned manner.)
She: So my dear hubby, what would you have for breakfast?
Me: I'd have you with cheese & salt, milk & sugar and lots of love!
(I say that cheekily hoping to make her blush.)
(She blushes and turns towards the kitchen, I follow to help her.)
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 4:59 AM UTC