"parky" poems
Dim sunlight coming through the curtains of my window this morning,
the ambiance feels just a little parky…
I stretch my arm to the opposite side of the bed,
nothing…
I believe I went back to sleep…
Woke up again moved by the sense of my obligations, half awake revolving…
My body longing for a touch of her calid smooth skin at daybreak,
coldness...
As of to reach her my eyes search for her,
my hearts looks for her, but she is not with me.
Did she get out of bed before me?
maybe she's in the family room (like she calls it),
drinking a coffee and reading her book.
I feel a smile drawing in my face accompanied by a warm feeling of content.
I want to go join her, my nymph.
Perhaps she's just laying there unclothed on the ****
or perambulating through the apartment doing her thing,
my muse,
that beautiful body of hers, seductive and alluring yet innocent and tender,
physique of a greek goddess.
My cellphone rings, it is her…
confused I hasten to get out the covers and sit in my bed,
then I glance at the picture of that hypnotizing graceful smile on my desk,
her farewell gift.
She's gone, I drove her to the airport yesterday…
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 4:58 AM UTC
Where to hide? Where to conceal?
I fail to understand this famine.
They have robbed my merry zeal
and now prevails the devil’s time.
Taciturnly they have eloped from my sight,
Bricks of blue is what they have left.
This is the lost treasure that has clanged to life in the night
Yet this parky night has failed to freeze my breath.
I agree to sign the fatal bond with the supreme
And still be sure of my inevitable victory
For I have made sagacious plans in the afternoon green
The rebels will soon begin to continue this story
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 1:38 PM UTC
The parky told me
don't step on the grass man
I remember now his words
now its to late
skid marks under both feet
and you must feed that grass to
for in your mind it feed you
so don't be such an **** man
just don't step on the grass man.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 3:15 PM UTC
Maybe there are a few more drops
Of blood that we have not yet ******
From each other,
until we are
See-through skeletons
under ripped red umbrellas,
Bone dry
in our tailor-made threshold.
And maybe there are
Blacker bruises
we could paint each other in.
Deeper scratches you could give me.
And maybe we are not done
******* up our love through straws,
like it is a pink parky milkshake,
that will soon sour,
Maybe we should pour it away,
Maybe we should drink it down,
By the mouthful,
And just let it hurt.
-Jamie F. Nugent
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 5:24 PM UTC