"leslie" poems
I remember it as if were yesterday
VE Day...well, not exactly
but, close enough for me
The actual surrender of Italy
May 2, 1945....but the **** Americans
Always the Americans wanted May 8
So, it's May 8th, but I'll always remember the second
We were in Milan...I love Milan
****** was dead, Mussolini was dead
I was alive, and in Milan
Rumours were out that the war in Europe was almost done
Nobody had told the Gerry's that though
Word came from Lubeck that they'd surrendered
I was twenty one years old, going on 50
War ages you...and not in a good way
I was in 6th Airborne and ready to go back
When the word came down
I remember kissing the waitress at our cafe
I kissed her hard, and with as much passion as a 21 yr. old can have
I didn't want to let her go
It was over
I kissed her for myself, and everyone in Milan
I kissed her for my folks in Clapham
I kissed her for her folks, wherever they were
I kissed her because we were free, they were free
I kissed her for my Uncle, who we lost early in 1941
Lost him during the blitz in London
England lost 430 people, we lost Uncle Cyril
That was enough, I was signing up
Now, it was over and I was moving on
I kissed her for everyone still waiting for the news
But, most of all, I kissed her for Leslie Testro, Rfn (18yrs)
Lance Cpl Thomas Wray (22 yrs), Lt. Dennis Edmonds (21 yrs)
and all the others attached to 6th Airborne
Who wouldn't know it was Victory in Italy
They were lost, not forgotten, never forgotten
Forever in our minds, our roll of honour
We celebrate them annualy
Few of us left now, but, those that are
go back to Italy every two or three years
back to Milan, and we toast them all
My waitress, Rosa Testrini
She was there as well, every year
Until five years back, we lost her
Now we toast her as well
We all have our honour roll
She was on mine
I found her again in 1950
We were on our second trip back
She met my wife, and I her husband
He's still there, and we talk
My Italian is better than his English
But, we talk as well as we can
I miss her, and the others
But that day, that glorious day in May
I've never kissed like that since
And my wife knows it
Sometimes she reminds me...
I laugh, and remind her....
What that day means...if it hadn't happened
We may not be kissing now
so, she'll never get that kiss
Only Rosa
Rest In Peace my waitress
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 11:24 PM UTC
The smell of swiss fondue
a chocolate fountain
moist strawberries
angel food cake.
The smell of brunch buffet
apple turnovers
honey sliced ham
bacon and eggs.
The smell of exhaust
as we walk
to the chapel
up Oliver Street.
The smell of flowers
rainbowed daises
heart shaped lilies
a single red rose
on the broach
of your six year old
brother.
The smell of family
friends neighbors.
The smell
of your six year old
sister
beautiful Easter dress
sky blue ribbons
silk bonnet
blonde hair
smooth skin embalmed
because leukemia
doesn't smell.
Today
we will all
believe in God
or pretend
at least
for you, her sister,
her mother,
her father,
her twin brother,
and for Ruthie,
her chest buried
in tear soaked flowers
in a four foot casket.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 9:23 PM UTC
I sometimes feel that I am like a seedling
Not fully formed to what I'm born to be
Growing in the air beneath the heavens
Just waiting for the day that I break free.
I've felt the force of wind and stormy weather.
I've felt at peace but not like I belong.
For I believe that life beyond is better,
Where after death my soul will carry on.
And when I bloom and burst through heaven's boundary
To take my place with those who bloomed before,
Surrounded by an Eden unimagined
I'll glorify the Lord forevermore.
(c) 2013 by Jeff Leslie
All rights reserved.
Non-profit use permitted.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 10:57 AM UTC
It goes back forty summers to a hot August night.
This cold case I’m working with no end in sight.
The girl, Leslie Zaret, was last seen alive
At the Pioneer tavern, she was standing outside.
Main Street runs North- South on Queensboro Hill.
She was ten blocks from home on that night she was killed.
She accepted a ride- was it someone she knew?
A Janitor found her- cold naked and dead
In a schoolyard in Bayside, the old reports said.
She was ***** with a hairbrush, no ***** was found.
The girl had been strangled, but hadn’t been bound..
If the killer was male- was he impotent too?
The victim was pretty, with long Brunette hair.
She never came home and her parents despaired.
My cops cleared the boyfriend, her ex- boyfriend too.
Still we always believed it was someone she knew.
She attended John Bowne, a high school nearby.
Was the killer a classmate? She was too young to die.
Her class graduated, now grown old and gray.
Most stayed in town although some moved away.
Some have passed on and are taking their rest
But none died liked Leslie with her neck tightly pressed.
People will talk, surely some must suspect
I think someone knows something
about poor Leslie’s death.
Please come forth from the shadows, help me solve this crime.
Leslie’s waited for justice for a very long time.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC
she is definitely displeased profoundly disappointed in her latest literary efforts she dreams aches to create deeper discourse higher insight more thoughtful philosophical inquiries about life’s challenges beauty a better world overpowering love inspiration instead she writes paperback television trash stupid inadequate answers to solemn questions she wonders if she is too scratched dented to find love her ******* are definitely changing she is deeply disturbed not ready for menopause too young for menopause she wants to remain a fertile woman with smooth skin wet ******
2
her neighbor Leslie awoke to horrible morning Leslie’s 6 chickens were assaulted overnight precious Mabel dragged off feathers everywhere trail down the street other hens cowering slumped together with wilted necks 3 of them with puncture wounds Leslie carried them one by one inside washed their wounds hugged them cried who did this terrible act a neglected abusive neighborhood cat or some desert predator why didn’t Leslie wake to sounds of savage marauding now this creature knows hen’s whereabouts when will it return for more massacre what modifications need to be enforced to ensure their coup before nightfall
3
she wants to remain a hen keep producing eggs does not want is not ready to enter the next **** stage of this **** existence it was fun being pretty for men inspiring them to say do wacky things she wants to remain a hen she is definitely displeased profoundly disappointed in her latest literary efforts “tucson square dance” (self-referential) ****** bit about Americans came through here last night in “tucson 3-step” ****** perhaps the pinot noir lowered her standards everything is becoming nothing she cannot sleep tosses turns thrashes sheets in humid heat of her lonesome bed is she is too scratched dented to find love worries for Leslie
4
tomorrow is another day they say the rain will come last year’s monsoon never came the baking sun smothered her garden died one by one sleepless she will miss tomorrow’s pilates class the infrequent delightful breakfast afterwards she dreams aches of deeper discourse higher insight more thoughtful philosophical inquiries about life’s challenges beauty a better world overpowering love inspiration she crossed the line tonight her ******* are definitely changing
Jul 16, 2010
Jul 16, 2010 at 8:51 AM UTC
Life is unfair
The poor suffer
The rich don't care
Mama Africa is a trillionaire
Home of lion tigers and deer.
We have diamonds
We have gold
We have a paradise to uphold
So behold
True history has not been told.
By: Kevarie O. Leslie
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 5:56 PM UTC
Slashers Defined
In response to my piece, Slashers, it was requested that maybe I could
reveal at least which band or other info these great guitar players performed for to gain their claim to fame. I don't want to spend too much
time on this defintion, but will give what info I think is pertinent. If you do not know some of the names I have presented to you, and you are a blues,
rock, jazz, fusion guitar fan, I suggest you take the time to listen to some of their work. I have included some of my favorite incredible fusion players that do not have a super star following, but are renowned in their group of fans, probably mostly musicians to some degree.
If you are a frustrated guitar player like I am, do not listen to the likes of Holdsworth, Johnson, Gambale, or Morse unless you love being tortured.
Anyway on with the show.
Eric Clapton – Yardbirds, Cream, Blind Faith, Derek and the Dominos.
Jimmy Page – Yardbirds, Led Zeppe, The Honeydrippers, The Firm
Jimi Hendrix – not only what is, but, what could have been
Alan Holdsworth – Solo jazz fusion player – hot
Steve Howe – Yes, Asia - Progressive rock, jazz –
Bill Nelson – BeBop Deluxe, Solo
Terry Kath – Chicago (25 or 6 to 4) – another sad early departure
Ted Nugent – Amboy Dukes, **** Yankees – The madman
Jim Krueger – Dave Mason Band – solo progressive rock
Eddy Van Halen – Van Halen
Ritchie Blackmore – Deep Purple, Rainbow
Jerry Doucette – Doucette (Mama let him play)
Eric Johnson – Solo – New Age, jazz
Frank Gambale – Australian- Jazz, fusion, rock
Goerge Benson – Jazz
Larry Carlton – Jazz, new age rock
Marc Farner - Grand Funk Railroad
Peter Frampton – Humble Pie, solo
Joe Satriani - New age – solo
Johnny A. - jazz, new age – solo
Danny Gatton – jazz, rockabilly – solo
Chet Atkins – jazz, country
John Mayer – Pop, blues – solo
Neal Schon – Journey
Steve Lukather – Toto
Masyoshi Takanaka – New age, jazz – Japanese solo
Lee Ritnour – Jazz, new age – solo
Leslie West - Mountain, West Bruce & Laing
Monty Montgomery – jazz, blues (accoustic you have never heard)
Wes Montgomery – jazz 40's – 50's
Phil Keaggy – New age Christian
Robin Trower – Procul Harem
Brian May – Queen
Rick Derringer – Montrose, Edgar Winter Group, Steely Dan
Robin Ford – John Mayall, Chick Corea, solo jazz, fusion, blues
Carlos Santana – Santana
Ronnie Montrose – Montrose
Steve Morse – Dixie Dregs, Kansas, solo jazz, fusion
Trevor Rabin – Yes, solo new age
Gomer LePoet...
Jun 10, 2010
Jun 10, 2010 at 1:19 PM UTC
Are we not brought up, in stories?
Stories of hero worship, dark fearful nights
Soft tender tears, hot red lips
Fairy Mothers, frightful demons
Realms where magic and realism
Locked us up for a perpetual inter-play
Growing up and ‘living’ a story
Is all about the Story teller
Fearful ‘Dracula’ who entered my teeny nights
Was made up this unpredictable predator
By the cousin Story teller, than
Bram Stoker, as I learned later
Much after ‘Leslie and Richard’
Went their own ways
I stayed with the Soul mate;
“Bridge across Forever”
It was the story that I lived in,
Faith blinded, in the Story teller!
Teller can make you up and pull you down
A hero today is villain tomorrow
Abandoned fury; Bereft emotions
Erratic desires; Impromptu positions
Mix and shake them well
Teller can rapt a discerning listener
Teller can also cast a spell with the story
With made-up faces and un-made-up minds
Hewing a profile with vicarious feelings
With deceitful facts and illusory events
Teller webs a story, you ‘live in’
‘Make believe’; but beautiful!
Then one day, listener grows out of the story
Magic fades and sanity sets in
Tears turn phony, Lies lay bare
“The Gift was kept by my parents”
Said the Kid, “not by Santa Clause”.
Let that ‘wake up’ not hurt forever
Stories are told by Story teller
Characters seldom given to testify
A beginning and end carefully crafted
A long route that can have ‘twists in the tale’
I am learning to listen to stories as ‘Stories’
Not life in essence, every time.
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 2:40 AM UTC
1st Stanza:
"When My Life Hath All But Lost, A Barren Fleet Of A Weeping Man"..."And The Moon Hath To My Eye Lost, With Several Journeys Of No Strand"
2nd Stanza:
"Within These Four Walls I Thus Tarried/ Hoping That Tis Gaze May Fetch A Glimpse Of Her/ And The Good Old Memories We Lived On Various Siege/ Were All But Gone By Wind's Chaff!"
3rd Stanza:
"Though The Winds May Frown/ a Soul Left To Die Hath No Loss/ Hath I Besieged Naught My Queen And Crown/ Words Need Not Say Much!// For This Sea Where Endless Hath But Drowned/ For What Awaits I'd Gladly Give With No Cost!"
4th Stanza:
"Alas! My Paddling Reached Me To The Shores/ And To Behold My Eyes/ A Figure Dressed In Red Top;// Could It Be She Whom My Soul Doth Lunged?/ Nor She That My Efforts Find?"
Last Stanza:
"Behold As I Heaved Slowly/ Ripping The Veils Off Her Head/ She Was Non Other Than My Leslie/ Her Beauty Which Hath For Years So Fair A Spotless Sheet/ Once Again Returned A New Leaf!"
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
He kinetically arrived
with 1973.
Night is the longest day,
here come the warm jets,
served on a cold plate.
Play it back at half-speed
and you've got auditory wallpaper,
it must be as ignorable
as it is interesting.
His own world spins within a device:
cacophony of sound
mixed in a blender
and xeroxed;
a little snake guitar,
a little Leslie piano
— music to resign you
to the possibility of death.
Then came 1983
and beyond just him.
Tamper tantrum hotline,
amplifiers on the balcony,
secretly taping Edge
and Adam Clayton
on a 4th of July.
The numbered streets
and desert rain
add soul to this heartland,
it's the gospel truth
he wiped the deck clean.
(sort of and maybe).
His device spins within its own world:
manageable hums,
danceable drones,
welded into night;
daytime variations
held together
no better (and no worse)
than a cloud.
Then there's sfumato:
music without lines or borders,
in the manner of smoke
— theatrical fog
— a different kind of blue.
Densely layered,
so impossible to track,
this being lost in
the magnetic hush
of airports and
other strange kiosks,
it all falls into a creative lull.
Guess it's time for
Oblique Strategies...
Jul 9, 2022
Jul 9, 2022 at 1:43 PM UTC
Barry and Ashley and Leslie
Performing on Jupiter moon
Singing waltzing Matilda waltzing Matilda you’ll come a waltzing Matilda with me
And flea, flea fly, flea fly flo
Vister, coolabah coolabah coolabah vista
Oh no no no not the vista
And we are the bad and mean green machine Ashley liked league and hated Aussie rules
He said why do you like Aussie rules league is much better
And Leslie one day organised a church play which I participated in despite me being a Buddhist
I found it fun though and I used to sit at the mall and Leslie talked to me there, making me feel like I have adult friends
Ashley said I had a good imagination when he was reading my poetry
The band played waltzing Matilda as the war was on back then
We still have a war like when people disagree with us
Yes that seems so bad
Barry joined my bowling league as another helper and Leslie came to my play in 2003 to watch it with the ladies from Vinnies and Ashley was a regular customer at the kaleen swimming pool when I went there each Wednesday and I always said hello to him and I joked with him and he joked with me it is sad that they all a no longer around because they each made me happy
Waltzing Matilda waltzing Matilda you’ll come a waltzing Matilda with me
We sang and we threw that jumbuck in that tucker bag
You’ll come a waltzing Matilda with me
And Barry gave me an Apple computer to get me up with the joneses and make me really enjoy the internet, ya know
I was hopeless at the computer once but now I know how to use it
Now we are singing all these numbers like world of our own
And Georgy girl and many many more death happens but it is great to know we come back to life performing at this cosmic concert stage on Jupiter showing that death can be fun and uplifting knowing we will come back
So Barry Ashley and Leslie
Thank you for making me feel like a normal person when I went out
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 7:27 AM UTC
Letting Go
What happen with us?
You told me we would be together,
but apparently we aren't.
Did I lie or was it something I said?
No, because you ignore me now!
That night me and you met,
was the greatest of my life yet.
But look at today,
you don't talk to me,
or even acknowledge me.
Its like you want to let go,
even though I don't.
I see your shadow everyday,
and as I see yours.
While all this happens,
I wonder if I could ever let go.
**Giving In
(featuring Leslie Foster)**
You look at me like I ruined you,
like I ruined us.
I wish I know how to tell you,
how to tell you how I care.
I can't bare looking at you,
because the pain shakes my very soul.
I love you.
But my love will never fulfill you,
I don't know how to stop feeling so empty.
I’m giving in to my demons,
and I'm dragging you down to hell with me.
I’m sorry,
You don’t deserve this.
I just need help.
Please tell me how to stop giving in.
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 10:28 PM UTC
Forgiving those who cause your heart to ache
That isn't such an easy mission to complete
It's like getting sting twice by the same snake
That's why the hearts of men is as concrete.
Whether it be your parents, a close friend,
A coworker, or a family member
Once your heart was broken it's hard to mend,
It's a scar you will always remember.
I once forgave someone who stained my heart,
It wasn't easy to grant them forgiveness,
But it wasn't too late for me to start.
Written by: Kevarie O. Leslie
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 5:08 PM UTC
Grew up in a separated house hold
Wit no father around 7years old soon as my feet touch the ground i had to figure things out I made a dedication to mother, myself and family an whos ever around, to do what ever it takes to hold us down ..Dreams of Harvard or Tuskegee university lookin up to the Obamas and Ryan Leslie's purely off the knowledge they received I could care less bout their image, and popularity. The world is limitless when you have persistence
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC
The sky rushed down to meet her
Embrace her slow decay
The roots of Terabithia
Wind round her to this day
The mountains she created
Shrink down to kiss her feet
And everywhere she ran
The soil tastes bittersweet
That day, she cracked her being
Against the sharpened slope
Her fingers gently spasming
Still stuck around the rope
And all the world was emerald
It watched her fade away
The birds could barely look and
The sunshine dropped a ray
While seeing this was frightening,
So grim it took my breath,
Who knew I could be jealous
Of Leslie's perfect death?
Feb 22, 2019
Feb 22, 2019 at 5:37 PM UTC
Has anyone seen Leslie Brown?
She went missing earlier today.
A stranger in
A strange town,
Who probably just lost her way.
I’ve quizzed, enquired and questioned,
Almost everyone I know.
To be greeted by
A shaking of heads,
Puzzled expressions that say, ‘sorry, but no’.
Has anyone seen Leslie Brown?
I was meeting her at three.
She’s an Internet friend
Paying a visit,
I just can’t think where she might be.
In despair I checked with the police.
“Leslie Brown! Why yes: come when you can.”
When I arrived my
Cyber-space sweetheart,
Is not a lady, but a cross-dressed, *********** man!
© Paul Chafer 2014
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 8:21 AM UTC
Leslie Gore, sung you don't own me in the sixties.
But the words contains a powerful message.
Dionne Warwrick, stated don't make me over.
And the message is just as strong with truth.
We, are who we are?
And lovers, friends knows our imperfection.
But when you enters into a romantic affair.
We find them trying to mold us to suit them.
We might change a little.
We might change a lot.
Except always watch what you ask for?
We know why we selected them to be the one we love?
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 10:50 AM UTC
I see where David Berkowitz got Jesus in prison
like they always do.
Now he runs a ministry, adept as he always was
at delivering
succinct
sermonettes
delivering people to God.
He was a postal clerk, always involved
with the Message.
Such converts have a carnival of explanations--
the devil
the neighbor's dog
and other invented booshwah.
Susan Atkins got Jesus in prison too
and wrote a memoir
about her redemption, her will turned over
from Charlie
to Christ
but it could have been Moonies or Ekankar.
There is a rat who lives in my garage.
He hasn't heard the Good News
but he never
hurts anyone.
He has published no book, leads no prayers.
He likes to hang out behind the shovel
that has never dug a grave.
The authorities let Leslie Van Houton, Caril Ann Fugate,
and Nathan Leopold out.
Karla Homolka changed her name and might be anywhere,
at services maybe,
holding a bible and smiling.
_________
Aug 15, 2025
Aug 15, 2025 at 3:46 PM UTC
by Leslie Thomson
One night late after midnight,
A poet sat with pen in hand,
Surrounded by crumpled up paper,
No words came to his command.
In his house there crept a poem,
Full of smarm and beguiling;
Just out of reach of the poet,
It stood there, sardonically smiling.
“Do I elude you, poet?”
Said the poem with mocking tone,
“Do I keep you awake at night,
And won’t ever leave you alone?”
The poet snatched at the poem,
Which stayed outwith his grasp.
He cursed at the elusive creature,
Who laughed with a throaty rasp.
“Poem how did you get in here?
And why won’t you give me peace?”
Asked the poet of the poem,
“I am tired and need release.”
“Why do you evade my clutches?
And keep me awake so very disturbed?
After all, I am a poet;
I am King of the written word.”
“Oh such grand conceit,” mocked the poem,
“To think this is your life to choose.
You are the king of NOTHING;
You are but servant to the muse.”
“You know your mind is not your own,
And words are beyond your control.
You merely scribble what is dictated;
You will write what you are told.”
“It is true,” bemoaned the poet,
“I asked not to be entranced.
To spend time with words evading me,
And leading me in merry dance.”
“Yet I would never want to escape it,
For I love the written word so.
The muse has me in her clutches,
And I never want her to let go.”
“So you tell me poem,” said the poet,
Just what is a poor poet to do,
When I’m distracted day and night,
And haunted by creatures like you?”
“You try too hard at times,” said the poem,
“That is why we lead you on this chase.
Each poem is like a lover;
We must be ready to embrace.”
And the poem slipped into the poet’s clutch,
And only then did he understand,
That he would never be king or master,
The muse is always in command.
His mind at once was inspired
And he continued the work he planned;
Contented and filled with love,
For the poem in his hand.
So when you look for inspiring verse,
To enlighten your life or fulfil,
Remember a poem will not be forced;
It must come of its own free will.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 3:02 PM UTC
Leslie Howard
as the Scarlet Pimpernel
is a pure joy
to watch,
all big-collared foppish
tight-trousered dandy
& dainty eyeglass
peering,
& there’s scheming
from the glum & slightly
hunch-backed Robespierre,
weeping aristocrats,
in tumbrils,
& innocent playing
children,
oh so-tailored families
all huge-coiffured hair,
cravats & handkerchiefs
& cocky young jackanapes
playing chess,
the cheering crowds
all coarse & ugly,
with knitting bonneted-crones
anticipating as the drums roll,
& the blade falls,
to a mighty
cheer,
we can see
our own bewitching
Marie Antoinette,
our own sly & whispering
Rasputin,
our gold-folly Sun King,
but I cannot say
I want Madame
La Guillotine
to be set up,
in the square
this time,
no …
no that,
but a victorious
cheering mob,
does sometimes
haunt my dreams,
I confess
to say.
“I send them to the guillotine for the future happiness of the human race, but I do not allow torture.”
Robespierre
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 3:22 PM UTC
On May the twelfth of nineteen forty-two,
A project was started by Franklin D.
A plan was penned to make the bombs we threw,
On Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
The bombs were named after a boy and man,
One of them little and one of them fat.
Both of them made by project, Manhattan,
No one can guess why they named them like that.
The project was held in three locations,
Hanford, Los Al’mos, Oak Ridge, Tennessee.
And with sci’ntists from three diff’rent nations,
The US, Great Britain, and Canad-ee.
The bombs that ended the second world war,
Began as the scientists’ idea.
They didn’t see then the fam’lies they tore,
They didn’t hear the “Ave Maria.”
The project was kept top secret for fear,
Of Germans, Japan, and all the Russians.
That all those countries’ spies would steal and hear
Their newfound ideas and discussions.
The morning of August six, forty-five,
The Japanese city, Hiroshima.
People awoke with no thought to their lives,
Just after battle in Iwo Jima.
Little Boy fell, over nine thousand pounds,
Plopped from B-29 Enola Gay.
Pilot Paul Tibbets in far above bounds,
Dropped Little Boy to heed orders that day.
The Fat Man fell just a few days later,
August ninth on city, Nagasaki.
A bomb of this force, made by traitor,
Not so, it’s made by those from Milwaukee.
Thousands of pounds of explosive power,
Tens times efficiency of one before.
Dropped on a village within an hour,
Explosion, explosion upon the shore.
By Robert Oppenheimer it was led,
With help from General Leslie R. Groves.
They felt great regret for all that were dead,
Those people they killed in shadowy droves.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 11:39 PM UTC
Don't call me Shirley (tribute to Leslie Nielson 11/28/2010)
sometimes you made me laugh so hard I cried
and a tear did fall when I learned that you died
a doctor with a growing nose in that crazy Airplane
we have to get this person to a hospital in words so plain
what is it a passenger inquires so sincere
a building with patients you made it clear
and when Priscilla climbed that ladder in the study
without even sneaking an up skirt glance
nice ****** was your comment nearly killed me buddy
one could only imagine she wasn't wearing pants
thanks I just had it stuffed was her retort
had to hit the pause and then restart
and the blinded detective with the Naked Gun
back when OJ was still a media prince
you and George kept those bad guys on the run
hasn't been a comic duo that good since
you left us all behind way way too early
just one more time "Dont call me Shirley"
Gomer LePoet...
Aug 30, 2011
Aug 30, 2011 at 10:12 PM UTC
Don't call me Shirley
(tribute to Leslie Nielson 11/28/2010)
sometimes you made me laugh so hard I cried
and a tear did fall when I learned that you died
a doctor with a growing nose in that crazy Airplane
we have to get this person to a hospital in words so plain
what is it a passenger inquires so sincere
a building with patients you made it clear
and when Priscilla climbed that ladder in the study
without even sneaking an up skirt glance
nice ****** was your comment nearly killed me buddy
one could only imagine she wasn't wearing pants
thanks I just had it stuffed was her retort
had to hit the pause and then restart
and the blinded detective with the Naked Gun
back when OJ was still a media prince
you and George kept those bad guys on the run
hasn't been a comic duo that good since
you left us all behind way way too early
just one more time "Dont call me Shirley"
Gomer LePoet...
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 11:06 PM UTC
Maximilian
From the first time your eyes met mine
I knew it was the real thing.
Your moist cheek on my pounding heart
My soul awakened to pure joy.
Six years later, you still touch my heart
Now just by standing tall, your blonde head
Full of intelligence, curiosity, wonder.
Maximilian-an amazing boy!
The future before you...be strong!
You know a lot for your years.
Loved ones die, baby brothers born
Fathers unhappy, then gone.
Illusions of perfection done,
We gaze within, eyes connect as one
Green on green,we sometimes see pain,yet
Remember: here there is only love, my Son.
Leslie Ann Benson
Copyright ©2008 Leslie Ann Benson
Jul 28, 2012
Jul 28, 2012 at 12:15 AM UTC