"lazed" poems
Petty theft of pretty poetry so
taut like my buttocks when I was twenty
and did not appreciate the ripeness of my
flesh.
Or this – about an orange peel –
the white is bitter the spits of oil
not iridescent as oil might be
lazed
in a parking lot puddle.
Try for size the heavy fur of
winter cottages, blah except for
holiday wreaths and the silent exhalation of
smokes snaking from their
top.
Translate this grapefruit that is both
sour and sweet
and fulminates
loss.
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 8:11 AM UTC
hymn to Apollo
by Michael R. Burch
something of sunshine attracted my i
as it lazed on the afternoon sky,
golden, splashed on the easel of god;
what, i thought,
could this elfin stuff be,
to, phantomlike, flit
through tall trees
on fall days, such as these?
and the breeze
whispered a dirge
to the vanishing light;
enchoired with the evening, it sang;
its voice enchantedly rang
chanting “Night!” . . .
till all the bright light
retired,
expired.
This poem appeared in my high school literary journal, the Lantern, so it was written by age 18, but probably around age 16 or 17. That was my "cummings" period. Keywords/Tags: sun, god, sunshine, Apollo, elfin, phantom, ghostly, magical, enchanted, bright, light, brilliant, sky, golden
Moon Lake
by Michael R. Burch
Starlit recorder of summer nights,
what magic spell bewitches you?
They say that all lovers love first in the dark...
Is it true?
Is it true?
Is it true?
Starry-eyed seer of all that appears
and all that has appeared—
What sights have you seen?
What dreams have you dreamed?
What rhetoric have you heard?
Is love an oration,
or is it a word?
Have you heard?
Have you heard?
Have you heard?
I believe I wrote this poem in my late teens, during my “Romantic Period.”
Tomb Lake
by Michael R. Burch
Go down to the valley
where mockingbirds cry,
alone, ever lonely . . .
yes, go down to die.
And dream in your dying
you never shall wake.
Go down to the valley;
go down to Tomb Lake.
Tomb Lake is a cauldron
of souls such as yours —
mad souls without meaning,
frail souls without force.
Tomb Lake is a graveyard
reserved for the dead.
They lie in her shallows
and sleep in her bed.
I believe this poem and "Moon Lake" were companion poems, written around my senior year in high school, in 1976. In addition to having similar titles, they had similar "staircase" indention styles. According to my notes, I modified "Moon Lake" two years later in 1978, at which time the poem was substantially finished. I then modified "Tomb Lake" in 1981, but must have forgotten about it, because I don't show that I ever submitted the poem for publication or did anything with it for more than 40 years. Keywords/Tags: Moon, Lake, Lakes, Water, Reflection, Reflections, Image, Imagery, Mirror, Magic, Magician, Seer, Prophet, Shaman, Spell, Spells, Enchantment, Sorcery, Bewitchment, Bewilderment, Incantation, Rhapsody, Love Talk, Love Potion
Mar 29, 2020
Mar 29, 2020 at 4:20 AM UTC
Lazed beneath the sycamore,
we laid upon the forest floor
amidst the myriad hues of leaves,
so picturesque in reverie.
As we basked within the shade
we'd reminisce our latter days.
Our dream come true in years to come
with hope our threads of fate stay spun.
Kiss me here, oh darling dear;
that's what you'd whisper in my ear.
You'd draw me close into your soul;
not once could I resist your pull.
We'd traipse the earth between the trees;
forever yours I thought I'd be,
until the day that you weren't there...
until the day that you weren't there.
And just like you, the leaves were gone;
not one lone branch did they lay upon.
Our footsteps where we once had walked
now cloaked beneath a sheet of frost.
And from the sky poured shades of gray;
the sun will hide to mark this day.
I'll be right here, oh darling dear;
that's what you'd whisper in my ear.
Our dream come true had turned to naught,
just as our tree had fell to rot.
Now there's nothing left to find,
save for the memories left behind.
Razed beneath the sycamore,
I wrest my soul forevermore.
Our cherished past runs 'cross my eyes,
and dies within my own demise.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 7:39 AM UTC
these feet, a rambler's. wanderlust
soles tied from genetics of the epi-
kind. his feet did ramble so as these
now do. his difference, he trek'd with
steel shunt in arm. he trek'd slums'
floors. grit-ingrain'd skin, pox'd wh-
olly and now pushing onlys. pushing
ash against the walls of Death's
container. body aged thru time,
more than doubled - more like
end'd - by that refined infusion.
these feet, a rambler's. walking forth
existences' hundred-mile wilderness.
his feet had also, and his feet defer'd
before sixty-six. these continuing
onward searching ancient trails. loo-
king to start another day, looking
for to never quit seeking another
day before the unlit walls of Death.
before the darkness consuming
of depths never known, always near.
these feet, a rambler's. of well-worn
leather. relinquish'd of cares, desire
or ambitions by brambles strangling.
blood running by access of natural
means. slate gash'd soles, crevices
open'd of the crust throwing chal-
lenges toward the sky. heights im-
aginable if only to forsake lazed
calves. heights set for disappearing,
where tracks never lead. no wrong
side in non-existence, no wrong
sight for the rambling feet worn lea-
ther.
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 7:40 AM UTC
Beneath the Golden moon,
The waves shimmer,
Like silver streaked with gold,
The beauty lies before me,
I dreamt of you stealing behind me..
Together we witnessed the serenity screened for us,
Sound of the sea orchestrated a wild Symphony,
Waves dancing on silver sand,
The salty peanuts you fed me there..
My tongue cleaning your fingers without a speck...
Content you continued to write from where you left.
I continued to type this song, continuous without a period...
This is just one evening of our lives...
There might be many,
There might be none,
But, Its easy I can reproduce you through my memory,
Another moonlit night and you stealing behind..
The winds might roar then,
The moon might disappear without trace,
We will stand and witness the waves roar,
A wild dance that threatens and we step back,
A hurricane may brew before our eyes,
But, my heart calm resting at your side...
A cold ice cream this time, rain washing your sticky fingers,
You nod at me and I followed,
A Spring morning, when the tides lazed and slept...
You held a tulip and ran on my cheeks,
I stood there closing my eyes...
It's time to reproduce you back,
The Scottish village idyllic before our eyes.
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 12:05 PM UTC
I heard it from the still-winged moth
As he lazed about in candlelight
I heard it from the star-drenched earth
Cradled in the silver night
Your lips in parting whispered it
Your eyes in passing sang
And as the Earth went round the Sun
The galaxies proclaimed
There is no thing that is not alive
No thing that ever was dead
No traveler left forgotten,
No permanent stain of red.
And as the demons at the gate
Shake their blood-soaked hands
And the tortured in the dark do scream
Across the burning lands
There is a still and quiet voice
That comes in the eyes of storms
A voice that's quieter than snow
Yet louder than the cannon booms
And if you listen close, my love,
You'll hear this small still voice
That is carried on the softest wind
And exists by more than choice.
The murderers at the back doors
And the monsters behind the walls
Do beat their war drums louder now
And seek to conquer all
O be not quick to anger, love,
O be not quick to flee
For if you stay and wait a while
And if you listen close to me
There might come a still small voice
Which at once you'll hear
And know the voice of God that says
There is nothing to fear.
The moths by silver candlelight
And stars in their courses exclaim
And the Earth in all its wonder
And o, in all your pain
You know the truth when it is spoken
You know there is no end
For all the stars and universe
For every lover, fighter, friend
There shall be no death that will do us part
There is nothing as can stop my heart.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 1:13 AM UTC
They all lie together now,
Those who hate and the ones they hated.
The short and tall, rich and poor
Ones who worked and those who lazed away their lives...
They all sleep together, equals here, even though some have massive
stones to mark their passing, others just flat bricks
with a weather worn name
And when they wake in some other place
this will have been a bad dream they shared.
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 12:06 PM UTC
When last I had seen merry England
It was tattered with midnight soot that beckoned the denouement of the human condition.
Begrudgingly, the people meandered with heads held low
And dreams held lower.
The simplest way to determine the societal standings of each and all was by their clothing; save that all of their dispositions were ones of the played out and spent.
Happiness lay mountains, valleys, oceans away.
Aboard this great ship,
This hulking bumberdun of wood and steel,
I felt at ease.
Even upon these hostile tides did I feel an unraveling away of the self imposed mummifications that I had attached to myself.
I arose when I pleased,
I dined when I pleased,
And I drank as I pleased.
And not one such "captain" ****** himself with the responsibility of slavedriving.
No one had to.
For the man that suaded the great ship was John Franklin,
A man who commanded as much respect as we could muster.
And who deserved more honor than existence could give.
Franklin was never seen out of form,
Perpetually at the fore and scanning the horizons
Seemingly as if he could see beyond what that of a mortal man could,
What that of a mortal man should.
When we happened upon the mouth of the passage,
Naught but a slight smile escaped him
As the crew drank and shouted with jubilant glee that one might expect from a cathedral when the Lord Almighty had fell upon that place.
For this was Franklin's church
And this was his religion.
Had he believed himself to be God it would not have seemed so far fetched that others would not be led to believe.
But then a tear,
A small and just single tear,
Lazed from his eye
Leaving a trail that one might expect from a dove with no concrete destination.
A hush fell over the men.
All merry making ceased.
All stared in wild-eyed awe towards the regal, icy mountain ranges on the horizon.
Lush, full meadows blanketed the grounds along the mainland.
Whatever paths we had followed to this point were routes well cut.
The sadness,
Sorrow,
Joy,
And loss,
All things fell by the wayside.
Some men prayed,
Others began singing.
Regardless of religious preference,
Each man joined in,
Not so much singing as it were wailing and graciously weeping Amazing Grace
As Franklin led the choir.
God is a mountain in the farthest north of the Americas
And Heaven lay in his valley.
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 12:51 AM UTC
*The dullest of backgrounds
In the unimaginative shape of cheap and cheapened unpainted wallpaper
Gives even this, the palest of pale faces, a colour
Unfortunately, a blue and purple vein occasioned twinge,
Does little to flatter smooth foreheads and tight jaws
Fortunately, boundless space and air thick with smothered apprehension
Give plentiful reflection potential for the last lazed rays that have wandered,
waning, through a harsh window open to drain the space more than fill it
Until, upon finding wet blue upon dry white
A frivolous rainbow flickers in the classic tear
On the perfect cheek between this smooth forehead and tightish jaw
Below the eye, one tiny, flickering, frivolous rainbow
For no one to see*
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 3:44 PM UTC
I'll pinch-toss that lackey,
I'll drop-kick that knave,
Though lazed in his efforts,
He's little more than a slave.
A turn-key for hire.
I find my bile rise
At Hypocrites' dementia,
So I'll smile my good-byes.
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 7:13 PM UTC
A tattered flag dances on a rusty pole,
having forgotten what color it once bore.
It has forgotten that it is a flag,
and what flags are even for.
Was it a bed sheet caught by bad luck,
or a symbol of hubris since humbled?
None can tell, the reports say,
there are none left.
The rag flutters at full mast, saluting the death
of civil servants muttering below their breath.
Everyone's dead! scream the rotting newspapers
behind the cracked glass of their rusted dispensers.
This is a planet suffocated by an idiot race
that left a running car indoors,
stayed for tea, lazed and slept,
multiplied and made merry,
then burned the bodies to hide
their monumental stupidity.
Easier to remember faces than dig holes,
and if you can fit thirty five heads
into a two body boot,
just imagine what you can do
with a billion unused cars.
It looks like they built and they built
until there was simply no more room,
and they ate and lived and fathered
and sang and thought and wrote,
made love, war and many a treasure,
and used and churned and measured
and grew and burned and murdered
until there were no more brides or grooms,
just the long prophesied doom.
There are no more funerals,
no fun in this immortal ******
that is half clay, half undrinkable,
there are none left to sing elegies,
every ending should have eulogies
so silently final.
Under layers of dust and ash,
under this meaningless, floating rag
and beside the splintered corpses of trees leafless like discarded matchsticks,
every poem is posthumously ghost-written and never read,
the bricks have crumbled into desiccated bread,
but bone persists through the ages.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC
I love you, my sweet, little bug
We lazed this morning, cuddly snug
Hiding from a drizzly day
Warm and giggling as we lay
Hearting art, space and cats
Asking questions, having chats
Watching mag lev trains on screen
Learning magnetism for the keen
A picture couldn’t hold this bliss
Nor any words fully reminisce
The two of us, affectionately enspooned
Love, peace, curiousity, cocooned
NCL April 2019
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 3:13 PM UTC
You act as if I planned for this
but you don’t know the half of it,
you haven’t a single clue.
You could never understand
my love for rain;
how beautiful it is even after the wind subsides
bringing petrichor.
I wanted to dance beneath it--
you said people would stare
I did so anyways and
watched as you walked away.
You never bothered to decipher
my love for music
or the particular webs of notes
that made my heart strum like a six string
no--you never bothered looking for a pick.
Your only concern was how my preferred genre
contrasted from yours.
You never once fathomed
watching a full movie
without touching your lips
to mine
never truly grasped the scene
or fell in love with any of the characters
got offended when I forced you
to keep your eyes on the screen--
we were in a theater, for God’s sake.
We never spent a single day alone
at your house, nor mine,
never lazed around
watching the day go by around us
while baking fatty desserts,
not watching our favorite movies
playing stupid board games
I would have loved it
but no--when we weren’t with our friends
you were begging on your knees
for me to be in the same position
wouldn’t take no for an answer.
You once asked the medical
definition of depression,
never inquired for more.
Never unraveled the ribbons that tumbled
out of the dusty corners of my brain
late at night
when I couldn’t wipe the tears away
fast enough.
Never respected the days
where I woke up
wishing I didn’t wake up
I just wanted to be left alone
*quit trying to hold my hand
you’re just ******* me off*.
No--all you ever said
when those days came and went
was, “I’m sorry”.
Parts of this were my fault too--
I could’ve tried harder
to make you understand--
but the more I distanced myself
the more comfortable I felt.
You never claimed to be a poet, Dear,
but I did;
I claim it each and every day.
You never read the words
I asked you to
but the one good thing
I’ve held on to from our time together
are all the poems I’ve written of you,
all of the words that have collected themselves
to form the patchwork essence of
who you are
and I have finally come to understand
even though you probably haven’t
perhaps you never will
but for this,
I thank you kindly.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 8:52 AM UTC
i never understood why people decided to couple such symbols into images esp. in fictional narratives rather than see the sound in lipstick smooched for symphony; how hard you try, the a to z will not provide you with a mental cinema image of a giraffe; more like a gaff, and what's a gaff in photo? leopard on giraffe or a giraffe on a leopard, because it's all very fine telling the narrative of traffic coordination evolution coming back from africa with the zebra to suit pitchfork stoppages in hay on the redneck lazed walk. the sole reason why it's understood: fiction is the use of lettering for the creation of images, poetry is the use of lettering a bit like a waterfall for a bored emperor apprehensive of the sound of thinking; and philosophy is the reverse of all that, strike two flints together, and enter the realm of ideas with the onomatopoeia of the image - given that onomatopoeias act like surgical scalpels, or a miscarriage of ideas bundled up for something else by kandinsky; actually, saying that, onomatopoeias are images in motion, prior to the movies, when all you had was a painting embraced by a fancy rim - still life of decay of the royal flotilla on the thames with a mouth moving: chatty chatty boor of a bloke who talked.
i see the dead sea when i cry,
and i wager
a salmon with other sea fish cropping up flying
into a butterfly net:
before the assemblage of bacon
into the mouth watering eye.
i see the dead sea when i cry,
and i wager
to have seen a thousand flamingos
strut invoking tide -
on a boneless march into marsh of
a bubbled gill of fish popped for whatever name alive,
or dead in the disco crescendo for a nixon:
tears of a robot had always the glory of man laughing akin;
since annexed was the dualistic ambiguity
of the theatrically mistaken two masked.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
It was a Monday in November 1971
A cloudy afternoon
When the school sent me and another kid out to find work
As part of our vocational-ed class
My companion said, Hey, let's go to Louie's
So we wandered way down near downtown
And I was happy to find myself in an apartment rented by two kids
The first time I had been in a place emancipated from adult suzerainty
We didn't do much
Just listened to albums
Until the evening finally lazed in
And I had to get back on the highway and hitchhike back alone
(I was surprised to learn my companion lived in that far-flung area where we had wandered)
A grim thirtyish woman picked me up
Told me she was going to a job interview
Then she said, "Nah, I'm not going to that interview.
I don't want that job."
So she dropped me off
And made a U-turn
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 3:01 PM UTC
Winter morning won’t you stay
Won’t you stay with me
All my life, I just lazed
Now I’m cold and cozy
Nov 27, 2018
Nov 27, 2018 at 11:08 PM UTC
One night after work
A bunch of the guys in the call center
Invited me out for drinks/ice cream/book group
Or something
And though I was sure it was a set up
To get back at me
For having squishy shoes and a dry wit
I went along
First we went to a tiger-kitten fight
I advised betting on the tiger
But they bet on the hundred kittens
ranged against the representative of Siberia
But the kittens lazed where they were
And the tiger fell asleep
No fight
We all got our money back
I said I bet we can win at something
And so we went to a horse race
Lined up was a cayuse, an appaloosa, a Claybank Dun, a Tennessee walking horse, even a Przewalski's horse (aka a Dzungarian)
But the equine competitors just stood in their places
And we were told:
"The race isn't to see which one is fastest. It's to see which one is most long-lived."
A crowd stood around
Waiting to see which one would drop first
But we got tired
And went to a football game
Between the El Paso Patrones
And the Gun Barrel City Daggers
Somehow the ball got lost somewhere
Disappeared into the ground
At least some went digging for it
Or floated up in the sky
Some went jumping for it
But a man who wore a size 15 volunteered his left shoe as replacement
And the game resumed
The El Paso Patrones winning by one-fourth of a point
I then bid my workmates good-bye
Surprised I hadn't been set up for some sort of humiliation
And went sauntering somewhere
Until I found size 15 footprints of a man hopping on one foot in the mud
I idly followed them until I came to
the ravine that separates
misers who hoard silver
from seekers who sift through Coke bottles
And figured that if he could jump across
Hopping on one shod foot
I could do the same
Hoping with two
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 10:13 PM UTC
Did you see the
balloons for your birthday?
I painted them
by hand, I knew you'd say
how cool, how nice, or
whatever. Man- they took forever.
How about your day out?
When we lazed and dazed the day away.
The night spent, ourselves sent a sway
over the sofa.
Your bed was too far,
and mine wouldn't miss me if it was
for a good cause.
This was better than a good cause
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 8:57 AM UTC
My springtime's never ending suns
I carry sunglow from window to bed,
planning, when the next day has come,
just as soon as the pets are fed,
and I've tidied up my empty head,
walked the dog, give cat the cream,
to run and jump and skip and play
not laze around and sleep and dream...
Too late! my pet's wet chomping jaws
send my dreams to damp moist earthy days
of screaming pterodactyls & dinosaurs...
My summer sun's they always shone
so brightly that they hurt my eyes,
and I hid and wished it, Begone!
with my false exasperated sighs...
I lazed around and fantasied,
conjured darkness for my needs,
and willed self toy for troglodytes
so dreamily these beasts use my hands on me
on dark cave floor's breed in me, such dreams...
Of Hekate's hounds entering... in my mind
behind the private door's of my eyes.
Now my Autumn comes crashing down
there's earlier settings of darker suns,
troglodytes and hell's hounds keep me bound
on stiff stalking legs ***** one-eyed proud
as creeping winters begin to run...
My pale face mirrored as I count my sum,
of my omniverse to find it finally means,
of my dreams this whole world wide,
dream leads to this... Whereof? I cannot dream...
Nov 11, 2022
Nov 11, 2022 at 7:05 AM UTC
and they couldn’t afford fifteen
dollars. they couldn’t afford the
news. neither could i, and the reali-
zation that feeling alone is not being.
when comments on survival, i see
only a frozen bridge and man wrap’d
in tatter’d seat cover. he stuff’d new-
spaper from feet to neck. using
others’ trash to survive, staying warm
thru mans’ attrocities document’d.
by the news we couldn’t afford. and
i see all the faces i used to recognize.
i remember now of the familiar faces
but don’t have the time to justify
their lies. nor do i have the mind. it’s
been a minute, and lions flood a
room advanced from normality.
regain control.
and my name is
Ziun,
and my words are
**** it,
and my thoughts
cryptic,
and my body
homeless again.
found in transition, runoff from
times of scavenging and foregoing
shame. found in transition from times
of the blood-flood’d valleys of dest-
roy’d lips. found in transition,
head’d from reliance to other
persons. to other substances. found
in transitions and the wind has rav-
aged my body. and i’d wail, wail in
spite of lazed vibrating chords.
his vocalizing:
– don’t forget to sneak off and
get rid of it. just show up with
wine, then we're *******
and this cat knew my first girl after
she was no longer; and this cat knew
my first girl of regret after i pass’d
her up.
– calling sister midnight
a first time thru, palms face opposite
as we extend right. to feel in diffe-
rent tones as this train of thought is
derailing, digressing, regressing to
swastikas.
(lemme redact that)
and please think no less of my words
based on the words chosen,
based on these infinite love-affairs.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 8:55 AM UTC
There was once a boy
A boy that resembled a toy.
A boy who wore oversized shoes,
Baggy pants and unusual spectacles.
A short stub,
That lazed clumsily around the room,
A boy whose appearance was hardly noticeable,
And presence engulfed.
The poor boy was constantly annoyed,
Teased and bothered.
Thrown around the room
Like the rag he seemed to be.
There seemed no escape,
From terrifying bullies,
That roamed around the school,
Waiting patiently to crush him.
The helpless boy waited,
For the Bully to take him,
Grab him by the shoulders,
And smother his dreams in pain.
One day, however, the boy waited.
He waited patiently
For the bullies to take command,
But they never did, they just walked past.
The lonely boy discovered,
That he pertained an unknown power,
One that left him nameless,
And devoid of appearance.
He knew he was not vitreous,
See-through or transparent.
But he could roam through a room,
Unnoticed, overlooked.
He could run through a clear field,
And go unperceived.
He was able to devour a thousand meals,
And never be blamed.
Such abilities brought wonderful joys,
And grand pleasures,
However such leisure brought
Terrible solitude in return.
The assurance of his safety warmed him,
Knowing he’d be free of harm.
But the gawky boy was lonely,
Devoid of company or charm.
He roamed the halls alone,
He sat absently in his desk.
And slowly his loneliness
Began to consume him.
He was overcome
by the colorlessness of his pale skin,
The crookedness of his misshapen brow.
He slowly fainted, into a mirrored glass.
The boy had become,
That he had always been;
Another shadow,
Another gust of wind.
His pale skin disintegrated.
The oversized shoes sank.
His spectacles shattered.
The smirk evanesced.
The boy became,
That which cannot be named.
A light breeze,
A faint whisper.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC
Waiting ever so
Patiently
To remind them.
With deep conviction
In their eyes
Wanting to
Tell them softly,
I did the best I could.
The best I could
Gazing up at them
As they motioned toward
The hallway.
The tension was clinging.
The best I could
Trying to bypass it
With a lazed shrug.
They started to get
Antsy
Picking at their pocket.
They focused
On the worn floor.
The best I could
A cough stifled the air.
Turning attention away
As it was becoming
Unbearable.
The best I could
Taking one last,
Lingering look at them.
Watching,
As they gathered up the bags
Proceeded to walk
Determinedly
Through the door
And...
Out of my life.
© NDHK
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 1:59 AM UTC
Before…
Before I came to know you
Oh, how I longed for you,
Longed for your touch,
Longed for your companionship,
Longed to savour your flavour.
I yearned to taste your
Sweet and sultry beauty.
I craved for you.
During…
During the season of Susan
Oh, how I relished your essence,
Each drop, precious, priceless,
Unique.
The experience took me
Above and beyond the clouds.
There I lazed in blissful tranquillity
Satisfied…I was high.
Then suddenly…
Suddenly.
You vanished!
Like a prey from its hunter.
My ecstasy ripped from beneath me.
After…
Now I am back to where I began
Longing…
Yearning…
Craving…
Wanting…
Remembering…
The Seasons of Susan.
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 10:44 PM UTC
Inside at times she felt
so crazed and on the
pulpit remained
unfazed
in about the house
she lazed
with figure shining
bright as light
the men who witnessed
bore the sight
with the darkness she'd take them
through the night
chilling souls
and
leaving blight
always with a smile
never a worry or
care
she cared
nothing for these
jaded lovers
unless they were
under her covers
she played a ***** game
but,
when you look at the rest
it's all the same
heartbreak
and
love
are similar strains
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 1:36 PM UTC
We knew T-Rex from its tiny claws
Its hungry mouth, its toothy jaws.
But how can we assess T-Rump
When all our data’s from a stump
And weekly polls that flinch and jump?
The answer’s lying deep below
Perhaps with Edgar Allen Poe
Whose poetry is dark and slow.
A creature walking o’er the earth
In privilege stretching back to birth
That claims ascendance overall
And loves to brag and boast and brawl
And sometimes recoils, sometimes howls
(One sometimes wonders at its bowels—
When watching active ****** scowls.)
T-Rump is marching to consume
What’s going on in the newsroom
And feeds on minor predators,
(Ignoring its own creditors).
It likes to crouch and dance and pose
While speaking in a broken prose
And often wrinkling up its nose
At anything that might oppose
Or even worse, that might expose,
Its streak of show-and-tell sideshows.
Alas when sizing up T-Rump
One hits a show-and-tell speed bump
That’s not about its topmost clump
Or its eternal ****** frump.
We know, somehow, we’re each a chump
In thinking that there was an ump
Who’d put things on the ump and ump
And so we lazed, and scrimped and scrumped
Instead of what we’d need to do—
To find what’s cleanly new and true,
And redirect our Waterloo
Away from its own cancerous lump
And toward a far less spurious zoo.
In other words, to dump T-Rump!
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 9:16 AM UTC