"lulu" poems
Fatima Latima
I had wished I had no gift of sight
That the worst I could endure is hear you speak
And not snapshot the footfall of your gradation
You may not be a thief
Nor **** daughter of the dayspring
But definitely my heart you stole
I speak of the daughter of Arabia
Aesthetically, she rocks
The queen of the pilgrim sands
And aeonian desert stones
Beyond the hijab
Artistically knead with consummate craft
Like the relics of Mecca
Blest by the prophet’s bones
The blessed
I see torches
Beaming with intelligence
Within those mascaras
Exquisitely trimmed and vibrant
A lulu class botany
She fixes a searching gaze
As she saunters close
And the stride and tread
Beats a drum entrancing
Soothed in her solacing spell
I give in, to her lullaby
She halts her perambulation
Stands magniloquent and stupefy
Like some pop diva magazine pose
Or Victorian secret shot
A tactical derangement of her gluteals
As she rests her palm in its cleft
I feel contractions, my dartos muscles
The blew of summertime
Gently beats her exceptional form
Her belt submerge her thigh crevice
Cleft by the sundered rift of fleshy fat
Built by the dainties and delicacies
Seasoned by the finest Arabian chef
As her silken dress slithers and gowns
Under the breeze bulging and blooming
Like a rose blossom or sunflower fore
As she bends down
To assuage the burlesque
The sun specula lilts her sensational
Her smile apologetic bids me stillness
I am caught staring
Guzzling down her scent and
Feasting on empty imaginations
Of What If that accentuate the mind and
Speed a hormone
And I pray I sin no more
Next time we meet and I see her again
For I am but a writer
Learning to use my pen and paper
And hope you but forgive
My linguistic impotence
When I make my confession
Employing too plain a language
When I say thus;
Her smile is classical
Her walk magical
Her beauty celestial
Her stride sensational
Her religion ethical
Her character spotless
And that leaves me breathless
And forgive if I step on broken toe
And try speak of the unspoken
Her ****** is sacred
Her being a type that dresses up
In the milliards of brutes dressing down
And shamelessly style it fashion
I must see a priest
One confession I ought to utter
And even vociferate abroad
For once I had fallen in love
With an Arabian Beautie
A ****** of Mecca.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 9:12 AM UTC
I am a dramatized china doll,
but I never rouge my knees.
The MC introduces me as Scarlett.
Lulu embraces me as we saunter
off the platform. Whistles follow my footsteps
digging into my brain, fermenting,
to strong wine.
Gentlemen enter the club to leer
at cabaret girls dancing in lace.
Some are drawn to the boys of the club,
the ones in the dark corners with kohl-rimmed
eyes and eager kisses.
From their seats in the dimness, the audience
fails to notice rips in my blouse, cigarette
butts smudged out in the wings. No one
sees the ***** face powder spread out
among the lighted mirrors, overused,
my own makeup dried out.
Their giggles and applause keep
the club alive, filled with dead
grins from dinner to dawn.
Drum roll—my turn.
We rid them of their troubles.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 9:40 PM UTC
When my mom was dying
We put a bed in the living room
Fresh from the hospital
In front of the piano
Behind the rocking chair
We still called it the "living room"
I didn't mention the cruel irony in that
And the living people
Who knew my mother
All came and sat around her
And we weren't allowed to touch her
Cause the morphine lost its memory
And every bit of her was falling down
Dozing in a straw house
When the weather man called for hurricanes
She was right there
But miles away from rescue efforts
And hand-holding daughters
Marilyn Monroe went the same way
In bed, I mean
Facedown
Her pill supply run out
And I imagine her room was a beautiful mess
Full of roses and tokens from insincere men
An icon deserves better than that
A pin up with no one
But ex-lovers and sheets to hold her
And a pillow stained with last lipstick kisses
All those little white beads of forgetfulness
Crawling on the floor
And happy birthday Mr. President
Billy woke up bawling the other night
In bed with a girl
Who was not my sister
And he called and told her he loved her still
She hugged my dog and cried into her fur
She finished the roll
Of toilet paper blowing her nose
There were three of us in bed that night
And two somewhere else
Continents, nations, states apart
The air in my room was like asphalt
And allergies weighing us down
Lulu barked at our crestfallen hearts
Under the supermoon
I turned into a twentysomethingwolf
Keen senses acute defenses
And all I could smell on my sheets
Was the kitchen I work in
I wanted to be human
Taste the fear and perfection
Of being a ******
In bed with a boy who is not family
A teenager whispering under sheets again
I stayed at home alone
Soothing, sighing, and howling sweet nothings
To my lonely bed
Telling mom and Marilyn Monroe
The fever dreams in my lone wolf head
Praying "please God, send us someone"
"Please God, let love burn us quick and strong"
"Please God, don't draw the blues out. We all buckle."
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 12:08 AM UTC
Sometime this spring, when all
the cobwebs have been dusted,
and all the cold and dampness
has gone away, I'll sit on my
front porch and watch the lazy
clouds go by.
Sometime this spring, when there
are no more dreary days, 0r long
and silent lingering nights,
I'll sweep my front porch and
sit so grand in my rocking chair
and stare and howl at the
sumptuous moon.
Sometime this spring, I'll hold
my child in my loving arms,
and will stroke her hair and whisper
to her about all the adventures to come,
and dream and fill her head and heart
with all the joy that nature brings.
Sometime this spring.
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Jan 8, 2011
Jan 8, 2011 at 1:06 AM UTC
her morning pleasure occasionally actually exercised,
a substituted delight for gym-going work with Lulu exercised,
no man can, will ever, understand
the nature/nurture debate over,
in my mind resolved, nature, hands up and hands down
RR's^ query, is god dead,
no longer rumbles around in my head cause when he speaks,
I can't get a word in edgewise
what i did in the sixties, lost to time in memoriam,
especially some really bad poetry
but this gender differentiation
a matter that Aristotle dutifully, so wisely, philosophically avoided
there is no Socratic method rationality in what is just crazy insanely meiosis,
there is no comprehension of the essence of elemental genetic division,
like the NY Mets,
ya just gotta believe, or just accept
but from the other side of the bed
comes a surly, dry rejoinder, a gelled spike
*thanks to modern science,
why don't you come over to the
right side, maybe then,
you'll understand the true meaning
of pleasure
transgend your self,
show your willingness per the bible,
to be god's new and improved version of a human being*
So,
a pretty little, light A-line,
with a summer floral pattern,
a size 12, (20? ***
I,
will wear with great
human pride,
come June
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 11:20 AM UTC
I'm Bored in Brighton
Can't you see?
I'm locked here in this mansion
with just my family.
I'm Bored in Brighton
Yes, I've traipsed the streets
From Church to Bay to Hampton
I've jogged along the beach!
I'm Bored of Brighton
The Daimler's in the drive
The staff? Well they've just up and gone
All this to stay alive?
I'm Bored of Brighton
The twins are going mad.
And Rupert? Rupert's all a-moan
It's just so terribly sad!
I'm Bored of Brighton
The cavoodle looks a fright!
O heck! O no! It can't be so!
My Lulu's ...they're slightly tight!
I'm Bored with Brighton
You people are the pitts!
Try Lockdown in a high rise
And don't give us the pip!
Jul 20, 2020
Jul 20, 2020 at 7:30 PM UTC
Hello, how are you?
I don’t care. My name’s Bruce.
Where’d you get your tattoo?
Now you’re smiling, aren’t you...
Oh you’re not? You’re so rude.
You’ve got a real ****** attitude!
Where’s your manager? Move!
I’m sorry sir-
What seems to be the issue?
Your cashier at register 2.
She doesn’t smile. She’s just rude.
I am so sorry about her. What can I do?
Fire her is what you need to do!
I’m sorry about the wait ma’am,
How can I help you?
Oh yes, hi, my names LuLu.
That last guy was nasty to you.
You deserve better, you do.
Oh it’s no problem-
Nice people like you make me love what I do.
What’s your date of birth, LuLu?
June 26th, 1972.
Nothing seems to be ready...
What were you expecting?
WHAT!? THERE’S NO WAY!
I CALLED IT IN YESTERDAY!
WHY DON’T YOU JUST LOOK IN THE COMPUTER!?
YOU KNOW WHAT- NEVERMIND! JUST STAY!
YOU’RE GOOD FOR NOTHING ANYWAY!
WHO KNOWS WHY YOU EVEN GET PAID?
JUST HAVE IT READY. I’LL BE BACK AT 8!
With tears in my eyes... I’ve cleared the line.
The phone’s still ringing, to no surprise.
Hello, Kaila speaking- how can I help you tonight?
I’VE BEEN ON HOLD FOR AN HOUR!
WHY!?
I apologize sir, we’re very busy Monday nights.
THAT’S NO EXCUSE. MY NAME IS MIKE.
YOU PEOPLE CALLED ABOUT MY GLIMEPERIDE.
I KNOW IT’S READY. I JUST NEED THE PRICE.
Actually, it’s not-
IT’S NOT READY!?
WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DIE!?
Of course not sir, I-
I sigh.
Another customer steps into line.
I’ll be right with you sir!
Make it quick! I’ve got a cab outside!
How can I be at your service tonight?
I hung up on this other girl. She just wanted to fight.
Maybe you can help me. My name is Mike.
I’m out of my Glimeperide.
Oh, you see sir, your doctor prescribed
Glimeperide-
One tablet daily as needed at night.
These directions can’t be right.
WHAT, DO YOU WANT ME TO DIE?!
No, I-
Kaila, go on break, I will help Mike.
I just got off the phone with Dr. Brennan.
She clarified those directions.
Oh! So you can fill it then?
I’m glad someone knows what they’re doing man.
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 4:59 AM UTC
moo moo moo
a dozen milky cows squirt
it all over the fields
while the silly earthworms shake their heads
and see round the corner
comes Lulu
eating vindaloo
boo boo boo
the hot-air ghosts
float at ATMs
while the recorded message goes:
*more more more
more easy cash for you*
and see round the corner
comes Lulu
eating vindaloo
baa baa baa
forty sheep
each eat the fields bald;
oink oink oink
the pigs wait for it to rain
and see round the corner
comes Lulu
eating vindaloo
Oct 13, 2010
Oct 13, 2010 at 5:24 PM UTC
You laugh at the girl
With the ****** up clothes
And books on voodoo
Yes you do
And you know
Her mom's on shrooms
And her father's a deadbeat
But what you don't know
Is you don't wanna **** with this little lulu
Oh she knows tricks
You'll never know
Like how to shoot fire
Out her nose!
And how to turn your ****
Into a fire hose
Whoo
Watch it fall from the sky
And fly
As she puts her knife back in her pocket,
Locks her lips
And laughs from this little blue dummy
Yummy
Well ain't that funny?
You thought I was lieing
But now your **** is flying
And you'll probably never
See it again
Watch your lips
And don't talk smack
To a voodoo lulu
When you don't know ****
About the voodoo of a lunatic!
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 3:03 AM UTC
She seemed like a nice, pretty girl, so I had invited her to dinner in a small Italian restaurant. Over aperitifs (spritzer for her, scotch for me) she told me about herself. She was twenty years old, she came from Baltimore, her name was Lucinda, but her family called her Lulu. She had a passion for poetry, in fact she had just finished writing a poem, that very day: would I like to hear it?
In the circumstances, only one answer was possible.
I tried to look suitably impressed, and when eventually it was over, I applauded. "What imagination," I said, "What talent!" She smiled, reached inside her handbag and brought out a sheaf of dog-eared manuscripts. "Dear God," I thought, "There's more!" Oh well; there was still the possibility that after the liqueurs she might ask me back to her place, for *** (Or, as she would probably pronounce it, "coffee".)
So on, and on, she went. The little lady had a talent all right: she could recite and eat simultaneously. Neither the pasta puttanesca nor the saltimbocca di vitello could slow down her almost-rhyming couplets. At last, the papers were all returned to the handbag. She looked at me expectantly. "So, do you think I could get my poetry published?" I paused, to consider my answer. But the pause was too long: she looked right into my eyes, sensed my mood, and in that moment knew what the answer had to be.
During the dessert she crumpled; large, heavy tears fell silently into her zabaglione. Poor lamb! I'd never wanted to hurt her. She didn't deserve the destruction of her dreams.
Who does?
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 2:56 PM UTC
Lulu pulls me down the
Sidewalks, keeping me
Dangling a leash length away
She's in training for the
Iditarod and she's
Breathing hard with her valentine tongue
Lolling about
Across the street she
Spots a squirrel and
Climbing the tree after it
She bends the trunk
Arched like a trebuchet
"Should I?" she
Asks me with her chloroform
Eyes "sure, " I say
"Why not give the neighborhood
A new sport,"
Lulu's snowshoes flex and
Let go and
Before we know it
The whole district is
Placing bets on how far the
Coconuts will coast
Before falling back to earth
In flames like
Vacation-scented rockets
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 10:09 PM UTC
Tried to focus
But you invaded my head
Memories flooding in my mind
So I wrote this poem instead
Because you are my love
And you deserve the best
Begging through forceful lunches and dinners
Longing for the back breaking beds
Sun pouring through dusty windows
Sneaking out when they never let
Elevated on high roof tops
You are more than what they said
Daily visits to the Lulu market
There wasn't a thing I didn't get
Warm nights at the Khalifa park
Watching the joyful kids scream
The illuminating soccer stadium
Glowing on the faces of a determined team
The sun blazing on my skin
The stray cats with pleading eyes
The dust dancing with the wind
Twisting and turning in the blue sky
Suitcases filled with memories
As I stepped onto the plane
Hoping for another visit
My precious Bahrain.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 1:13 AM UTC
Holy Saturday. Lulu softly rubs her
Black rosary held between fingers.
The church cold and dark. Waiting
For the light. The candle brought by
The priest and others of his ilk to bring
Light to the darkness. Rudandoff stands
Still silent in shadows watching her
Outline in candlelight’s glow. Lulu feels
Smooth wood on fingers and thumb
Mutters her pure prayers watching
The candle light up the darkness.
Rudandoff smells her the scent
Touching him the shine of her hair
Caught by passing light her profile
Moves him her moving fingers stirs
His dark embers stiffen his manhood.
The holy candle brings light to the
Church. The priest and others chant
Out the long prayers. Lulu’s soft lips
Kiss the crucified Christ on her crucifix
Warm lips on smooth wood. Rudandoff
Wishes those were his kisses his manhood
Between her moving fingers her tender
Body beneath his hot frame. Lulu closes
Eyes imagines her Christ blue bruised
And beaten hammered and battered
Gazing through eye slits bringing her true
Love never forsaken. Rudanoff’s hot lust
Swells in the darkness his sausage fingers
Want to reach and touch to squeeze and
****** to greedily **** her female juices.
Holy Saturday. She finds her love’s light.
He loses lust’s kiss and burns in darkness.
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 3:03 PM UTC
The other day we played here
Better days been here
You could reach in your pocket
For a bucket of fine dears
This all excitement is driving me to fear
Well, all I need is a gold bit drive in my ear
I need a Lulu
To beat four of a kind
I need a Lulu
She sure is fine
Find me a Lulu
She's one of a kind
I'd like to dine with a Lulu
She's buying diamonds
She's buying gasoline
She's driving, always driving me
She keeps her shirt on
She's really kind of mean
She keeps me feeling that I'm so unclean
I need a Lulu
Beats four of a kind
I need a Lulu
But, what a find
Find me a Lulu
She sure is fine
I'd like to dine with a Lulu
Lulu I still love you
And I always did
That certain kind of feeling
That just drives me with a kick
I need a Lulu
Beats four of a kind
I need a Lulu
But, what a find
Find me a Lulu
She sure is fine
I'd like to dine with a Lulu
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 3:20 PM UTC
*she Saturday early rises,
water crossing all on her own,
upon the all-white Menantic ferry,
departing from her small isle of paradise,
for it is the sabbath,
she must worship
with David,
her Yogi *** rabbi
muscles stretched and strained,
forgotten was the
degree of difficulty,
attending to this yogi master's instruction,
the hardship of obtaining
body and mind,
spiritual synchronization
90 minutes of serious mantras
serially and seriously chanted,
is tiring in ways I ken from
the safety of my observation deck
on the counter couch facing
she keeps me company,
after breakfast,
amidst the white lace curtains
sunroom surrounding the home on the bay
succumbing to mine own chant,
for with right hand cunning,
I drug here with
violin concertos in minor chords,
one after another, pill she ingests
before me now sleeps, she,
her Lulu arms and hands enwrap
her deep-sleep-bound eyes-in-her-head,
fading in and out of semi-consciousness
all-the-while
I compose
poem~mantras of my own,
which she cannot hear
so far away she has flown
my mantras of love and affection,
however do not dissipate,
my chants forever repeating,
for when she awakens,
she will read this and many others,
in her email inbox*
so who is the yogi master now?
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 12:28 PM UTC
You put more effort into your job.
Think about this.
Let it sink in.
You don't love your job.
Often you don't even like it.
You don't look forward to it.
You don't write happy status updates regarding it.
But you do put more effort into it.
You dress nicer.
You're often kinder and quicker with a compliment for your colleagues.
You're nearly always on time and considerate of others needs and wants.
You do your hair, put on a suit, paint on some face.
Imagine if you did that for your family and loved ones.
Imagine getting up in the morning and making the effort to look your best; no lulu lemons or tank tops and shorts.
Imagine putting on a pressed shirt or dress just so the person you love can see you looking great.
Imagine showing up on time for friends events with a small gift in hand.
Imagine caring as much about the people you love.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 9:29 PM UTC
Road Runner is my all-time favorite- I like the song by Junior Walker too.
He, Road Runner, that is , reminds me of mentally ******** friends of mine who always strut around in a huff.
"It"'s a scream.
Bugs Bunny and Mel Blanc (Mel, one of Jack Benny's sidekicks) voice for him - Bugs was frothy with my kind of sarcasm.
Mickey Mouse I thought of as a kind of a put-on for guys that look like that a little who were always cutting up.
I used to get that song Hey Mickie by Toni Basil read piped in loud in my mind, it seemed when it played on the jukebox at that sports bar I used to hang out at.
Yosemite Sam is like some of the severely mentally ill guys on my geriatric psych ward who are really abrupt, loud, and whose bark is bigger than their bite.
McGruff - I wrote a piece about him - he's not of course from a cartoon - but from my yesteryear, who was under the weather, hence the crime wave.
Just like Smokey the Bear, he was a lovable character.
I like King of the Hill and Family Guy at night for yukks.
On Sat morn back in the day I guess when I had enough time I used to get a bit of a kick out of Fat Albert cartoons and the Jackson Five stuff on lonely, for me, Saturday morning to perk me up for the rest of the day.
Back in the old days, they reminded me of figures I knew like them in real life.
Sylvester the Cat, Felix the Cat, Hekyll and Jekyll, Daffty Duck, and Might Mouse tickled my little boy sense of humor.
In comic Books, I was impressed with the sense of humor of Little LuLu.
In the newspaper, Hagar the Barbarian and Beetle Bailey tickled my funny bone a little.
That's all, Folks.
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 9:09 AM UTC
Bath times as a child were
a mixture of joy and fear,
Lulu remembers, rubbing
her neck dry after her bath,
holding her long hair out of
the way with her spare hand.
You must wash under the arms
and your neck and between
your legs, her mother said to
her as a child, leaning over her,
pouring hot water over her head,
feeling she was drowning, she
remembers, sitting on the edge
of the bathtub, almost seeing
her mother standing there with
her usual critique and that wet
hand slapping her legs or hand
if she missed an area of skin.
Lulu rubs under her arms, raises
her hand upward as if reaching
for the moon or stars. As she
leans forward to rub her feet,
pushing the towel between toes,
she recalls her putting her feet
into her mother’s lap as she dried
them with harsh rubs, pushed
the towel between toes roughly,
causing wittingly or unwittingly
the long after remembered pain.
Her mother, hard as granite,
with reddened hands and stern
stare, cursed in the bed of her final
days, glared at Lulu as she blanket
washed her mother in the last weeks
before death came for her and carried
her off with her foul words filling the air.
Lulu lays the towel over her lap, sitting
still she leans her elbows on her legs
and hides her face in her palms, wishing
her mother could have gone out not
with curses or swear words, but psalms.
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 2:22 PM UTC
Thanks to that velveteen tone he
saves for me
And his turpentine diction,
The cliches that made my eyes roll
Now make my heart rush
Nonetheless, my thoughts riot as follows...
(When urged to call him something cheery
something no smile can wane at
like that fleck of gold in his left iris)
Well, "sunshine" should suffice
And Latin for that equals
"Apricitas"
Which phoneticized equals
"Opry cheetahs"
So the obvious endearment here is
Opry
(When urged to call him something pure
perhaps upon watching him blink
or blush
or blow
cigarette ringlets away from babies)
"Snowflake"?
No, that's a slang for ***** these days
So, "raindrop"
Yes
If Latin is dead,
It sure knows how to haunt me
"Gutta imbrium"
Ember
My little ember
The only glow in all this charcoal
(When urged to call him something pretty
when he's brushing his hair
or allowing me to arrange red clovers
in his sideburns)
Hm, let's testdrive "moonlight"
Let's shift into Latin, "luna lumen"
Thus the nickname I bite back is
Lulu
/Lulu/
While I hear darlings and dearies
on the daily
Why must I fail to mirror him?
(When urged to call him something sweet
like the butterscotch kisses he whispers
into my knuckles)
Like a honeycomb
Or as Ceasar would say, "cera mel"
Close enough?
Caramel?
Carousel?
Dizzy, then
We spin
In silence
(When urged to call him something cute
with his cap on sideways
and his head in my lap
and the world at my heels)
Kitten
Catalus
Catapult
Half of that backwards might as well be
Tulip
Two lips
Two tongues
Too much, yet never enough of his
Smoke bomb pomegranate mouth
For heaven's sake, see?
That's why I kiss instead of speak
Aug 5, 2019
Aug 5, 2019 at 9:08 PM UTC
and can I write today
all that (perhaps and maybe)
heart deep
I discovered as my fears uncovered
can I write today
what (if I feel) that which distance belies and time denies
can I write
the
you I have not met
(hopes dream notioned with real)
can I write wishful today myself exposed(bone deep)
your waiting
(yes fire)that possible new complete
Jun 6, 2010
Jun 6, 2010 at 11:56 PM UTC
**To all my readers, my second poetry book has now been published called Life, Love and Lessons Learned. It is available on
Amazon, Kindle and Lulu
By typing in Carl Joseph Roberts Life Love And Lessons Learned.
My first book,
Through My Eyes, By Carl Joseph Roberts
was a success and because of many of you, even without a book signing it was profitable. And I hope many of you will support this my second book as well and additionally forward this to as many other readers in hope they will support also. Again, thank you all so very much for your support over these last sever years. From winning several contests to all your comments I have appreciated each kind word said. So please find and buy a book and support the cause if possible. Thank you all again. Always writing... Carl Joseph Roberts (Joe)**
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 11:39 AM UTC
Sister Paul
walked across
the green lawn
her flowing
black habit
billowing
behind her
then she stopped
right in front
of the white
steel table
where Anne
and the Kid
were sitting
eating tea
(sandwiches
cut into
triangles
and pieces
of iced cake)
I've been told
the nun said
that you two
have said things
to Lulu
and young Colm
that were rude
and unkind
is that right?
when was this?
Anne asked
after the
afternoon
siesta
the nun said
don't recall
anything
Anne said
do you Kid?
Benedict
shook his head
Sister Paul
looked at him
it's a sin
to tell lies
Benedict
the nun said
are you sure
you recall
nothing of
what I've said?
but sister
are all lies
said sinful?
Anne asked
yes they are
the nun said
so if I
said you were
beautiful
would that be
sinful too?
Anne said
Sister Paul
tut-tutted
you are not
so clever
as you think
the nun said
so you too
can tell lies
Anne said
the nun stood
taking in
the young girl
sitting
her one leg
poking out
of a red
patterned skirt
her leg stump
visible
where the skirt
had ridden
up the thigh
don't be cruel
to other
children here
with your words
the nun said
Anne stared
at the nun
then picked up
a sandwich
and ate it
as noisy
as she could
Benedict
sipped his tea
as the nun
walked away
and wondered
how easy
it would be
for the nun
to pull up
all that gear
(the habit)
to go ***
that's a good
example
Skinny Kid
of Christian
love and such
did you see
her hard face?
what love there?
where God's grace?
Benedict
said nothing
just sipped tea
(warm and sweet)
recalling
Sister Paul's
long and white
naked feet.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 1:57 AM UTC
It’s raining on the South side and I’m outside
watching the flowers with a mouth wide open.
I was soaking up the rays just a few days ago
Now I’m asking myself where’d the sun go?
You stood on the corner in a yellow raincoat.
Weathering the storm and chasing rainbows.
Reclaim those colors, they suit you well.
Be true to yourself like Lulu Belle.
© Matthew Harlovic
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 7:23 PM UTC