"patent" poems
1392
Hope is a strange invention—
A Patent of the Heart—
In unremitting action
Yet never wearing out—
Of this electric Adjunct
Not anything is known
But its unique momentum
Embellish all we own—
12.4k
Blue Monday
BY DIANE WAKOSKI
Blue of the heaps of beads poured into her breasts
and clacking together in her elbows;
blue of the silk
that covers lily-town at night;
blue of her teeth
that bite cold toast
and shatter on the streets;
blue of the dyed flower petals with gold stamens
hanging like tongues
over the fence of her dress
at the opera/opals clasped under her lips
and the moon breaking over her head a
gush of blood-red lizards.
Blue Monday. Monday at 3:00 and
Monday at 5. Monday at 7:30 and
Monday at 10:00. Monday passed under the rippling
California fountain. Monday alone
a shark in the cold blue waters.
You are dead: wound round like a paisley shawl.
I cannot shake you out of the sheets. Your name
is still wedged in every corner of the sofa.
Monday is the first of the week,
and I think of you all week.
I beg Monday not to come
so that I will not think of you
all week.
You paint my body blue. On the balcony
in the softy muddy night, you paint me
with bat wings and the crystal
the crystal
the crystal
the crystal in your arm cuts away
the night, folds back ebony whale skin
and my face, the blue of new rifles,
and my neck, the blue of Egypt,
and my ******* the blue of sand,
and my arms, bass-blue,
and my stomach, arsenic;
there is electricity dripping from me like cream;
there is love dripping from me I cannot use—like acacia or
jacaranda—fallen blue and gold flowers, crushed into the street.
Love passed me in a blue business suit
and fedora.
His glass cane, hollow and filled with
sharks and whales ...
He wore black
patent leather shoes
and had a mustache. His hair was so black
it was almost blue.
“Love,” I said.
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
“Mr. Love,” I said.
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
So I saw there was no use bothering him on the street
Love passed me on the street in a blue
business suit. He was a banker
I could tell.
So blue trains rush by in my sleep.
Blue herons fly overhead.
Blue paint cracks in my
arteries and sends titanium
floating into my bones.
Blue liquid pours down
my poisoned throat and blue veins
rip open my breast. Blue daggers tip
and are juggled on my palms.
Blue death lives in my fingernails.
If I could sing one last song
with water bubbling through my lips
I would sing with my throat torn open,
the blue jugular spouting that black shadow pulse,
and on my lips
I would balance volcanic rock
emptied out of my veins. At last
my children strained out
of my body. At last my blood
solidified and tumbling into the ocean.
It is blue.
It is blue.
It is blue.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 7:31 AM UTC
If I were a teacher,
I'd teach plagiarism
Like a patent office.
I'd teach publication
Like plagiarism,
And I'll proofread
Any paper that properly
Cites their sources.
I'd teach every
Kid from age X to Y
That if I can't
Lift them as
High as they
Want to go
Than somebody
Else
Can.
I would be the man,
That teaches subjects
Like I'm their King,
And I'd spread
Knowledge to every
Acre of my empire
I'd teach anything.
See,
I'd teach chemistry
By making the reaction of
Why and How
Always synthesize
Wow.
I'd be a catalyst
For positive change
By keeping every
School-yard bully
and kid that's always picked last
Around after class
To teach them physics,
Like if you have mass
And you take up space
Then you ******* matter.
I'd put the cool
in Coulombs.
I'd be so electrostatic
About magnetic fields
You could feel my fluxin'
Energy in the hallway.
I'd say
His story,
And Her story,
And everyone in-between's story,
Is about the day their parents met.
I'd teach sex-ed
Like it's about the
Day their parents met.
And it wouldn't be weird
It'd be beautiful.
Because anybody falling
In love is beautiful.
And speaking of beautiful:
Mathemagics,
Would no longer
Be a bottomless hat
But a bird.
With feathers and wings
And things that always
Find their way home.
I'd transform
The Fourier of
Our foundations
With equations
Of equality
Like you,
And I are
Always equal to
Us.
It'll be cake
To be genius.
....Or pie
Or whatever else is rational
In this situation.
And I
Would measure intelligence
With the answer to the question
Of why we are alive.
I'd standardize
Every test
By removing
Any box that
Takes us
Further apart
I would make art
Combining every
Color from East to West
In a masterpiece
That every child can draw
We'll call it "human"
I would solve
World hunger
And war,
And every other problem
That stems from greed
With answers to the
Questions that I still
Don't know
But I would show
Everyone whose ever
Made you hurt
That a broken heart
Has still got the
Courage to beat
Because it's their words
Where the heart breathes
Where the heart bleeds
Where the heart sleeps
And it's our dreams
That keep us awake
In the wake of our past
So I'd put every love letter
And box of their ****
On a bonfire, light a match,
And we would watch it burn.
Hell,
If I were a teacher
I'd say there's
So much left
That I've still got
To learn.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 1:31 AM UTC
Serendipities torrential deluge
Of dulcet applause reigning
In the divine dynasty of
Empiricisms arcane lore,
Heavens most high of heirachies
Beyond the veil
Drowning in altruistic
Reflexive salutations;
The regnant patent mutitioning
Of the waters Lethe from
Serpens poisened chalice of saints
Evoking the advent vigil of
Dusts chaldean dreams,
The sabbatical ordination
The fatal ravens annunciation
Heralding valediction
Convening betwixt and between
Gates of ivory and horn
Arraigning the apostolic conclave.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 9:35 AM UTC
433
Knows how to forget!
But could It teach it?
Easiest of Arts, they say
When one learn how
Dull Hearts have died
In the Acquisition
Sacrificed for Science
Is common, though, now—
I went to School
But was not wiser
Globe did not teach it
Nor Logarithm Show
“How to forget”!
Say—some—Philosopher!
Ah, to be erudite
Enough to know!
Is it in a Book?
So, I could buy it—
Is it like a Planet?
Telescopes would know—
If it be invention
It must have a Patent.
Rabbi of the Wise Book
Don’t you know?
4.6k
There was a small boy, in a little town,
Unknown to most people.
He was soaring, I remember,
As if running through to freedom.
He spread his arms between the crowds
In his navy blue pants and sweater,
His bright white polo
And his shiny shoes of patent leather.
The school bell rang
So he tucked his wings to grab his bag,
And he climbed up the steps
As fast as a little boy can
But the gate had just closed right in front of him.
He had his little hands
Gripped around the metal of the gate
And shook them wanting to get in;
He pushed his arm but only got his shoulder though.
There was a man
With no emotion in his face,
Watching him trying to find a way in,
But the man didn't move an inch.
The boy put his back against the fence
And I cried before walking back.
Nothing he said would change his mind.
That was me then but now I'm the man in the other side,
Having forgotten what it was like to spread my wings
And want to fly.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 10:19 AM UTC
No we're not learning about inventors.
No we're not learning about scientists.
If we were, that would be great,
But we're not,
Instead we're learning about lying thieves,
And overrated ones at that.
We should be learning about real inventors,
That didn't steal ideas from others,
And were lucky enough not to have ideas stolen from them,
Like George Westinghouse.
We should be learning about real inventors,
And real scientists,
That sadly went unrecognized,
Because their ideas were stolen,
By so called inventors,
That were in reality total jerks,
Like Nikola Tesla,
And Rosalind Franklin.
However, instead of learning about true inventors like them,
We're learning about the likes of Thomas Edison,
Guglielmo Marconi,
James Watson,
And Francis Crick.
Here's a "fun fact" about Thomas Edison,
He promised Nikola Tesla 50 grand,
In exchange for fixing his machines.
However, when Nikola Tesla was finished,
Several months later,
He not only didn't pay Tesla,
He mocked him for asking,
He said that he was joking,
And according to some, he was offered a raise of 10 dollars
According to others, he asked for a raise, and was denied it,
Either way, Tesla quit.
Here's a "fun fact" about Guglielmo Marconi,
He didn't invent the radio,
Nikola Tesla did.
However, Marconi pulled an Edison,
And stole Tesla's invention from him.
Luckily, although sadly too late,
Tesla was rewarded the patent.
Here's a "fun fact" about James Watson and Francis Crick,
They took credit for Franklin's discovery.
Why do we have to sit in social studies,
Listening to Youtube videos,
And reading books,
And doing plays,
That people created for school kids,
About so called inventors.
When instead,
We could be reading books,
Listening to Youtube videos,
And doing plays,
That we created ourselves,
About real inventors.
I want to get a real education.
I want to learn about the truth,
Instead of lies.
So please teachers,
Principals,
Superintendents,
Common Core Professionals,
State Test Professionals,
Please let us learn about the truth,
Please don't make us learn about lies.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 4:46 PM UTC
What happened to the beautiful boisterous screaming queens of the 80's full of Gloria Gaynor dancing on bars & pianos & teasing & strutting & grabbing life by the *****
Every time I go to the Op Shop & see a pair of size 11 patent leather red pumps I think of you & put them on & walk around the shop just to remind me of the fabulous times.
Are you making lounges in the shape of Cadillacs or corsets or sculpting **** - tail glasses delicately gold leafed - centre table?
Back up x 30 in the Botanical Gardens at Mardi Gras & remember the good times, the sad times, the Carmen Miranda, feather boer, wig, **** & lipstick times my friends........
smooth jazz grand piano
.......
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 4:58 AM UTC
reverence in poetry. everything to every person.
reader claims they can a necessary skill for
uncover the reverence. successful hypothecating and
in the scripts that (buying)poetry-creation outta nothing,
life straight hands me, tell them what thy want to hear,
for collection & correction, and they’ll call you laureate,
secretarial transcribing, instead of good listener
binding, typo correction or just a keen observer-fakir
mundane are the tasks, just take what they give ya,
that’s all them muses ask, dress it like Joseph in a
don’t interfere, taken what’s given, coat of many colors,
bow, curtsy, show respect, don’t let on your plagiarism
treat its aspects/instincts correctly is all them, redressed legally
you’re just the pass through agent, true you, gotta be smart about it,
patient for no payment expected, variant spellings, swinging verbs,
be our adherent, not our truant, be discreet, they’ll call your script
we appoint don’t disappoint, a real keeper and give love or sun,
accept our patent, render legit mucho poem emojis accoladeya
as for this reverence thinge devil in a blue dress, walk the streets
if I do my job ok, on any day, grabbing snatches of overhearings,
any poem could save a life, pressed into a single tunic, you think,
if I get the commas placed, he a genius, knows my thinking,
just right, the periods period, exactly, what a great poet and
while obeying the speed limit con/hu-man par excellent
them muses so **** pleased even fool muses, too full themselves,
by this true confession released, muses who think we stink and
and self deprecation, couldn’t do it without them
they call me reverend, great pretenders by stealing
imagine them silly folk, everything in everybody and
calling a big fat liar. all thieves and cape riders,
reverend, duh, the end original liars, pants on fire
before midnight and after 3:20am April 7~8, two oh nineteen
any message you send becomes my intellectual property, fool....
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 5:24 AM UTC
861
Split the Lark—and you’ll find the Music—
Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled—
Scantilly dealt to the Summer Morning
Saved for your Ear when Lutes be old.
Loose the Flood—you shall find it patent—
Gush after Gush, reserved for you—
Scarlet Experiment! Sceptic Thomas!
Now, do you doubt that your Bird was true?
3.8k
Now then,(Clicks fingers and stretches out),,,I know you men out there will think i'm all cahoots,But i need to vent my feelings on the, ever, splendid, boot,There,s black boots white boots, really outta sight boots,Baby boots, Mummy boots, ever just so yummy boots,X boots, Y boots, black patent leather thigh boots,(MMMMMM)Flat boots, high boots, heels like a needles eye boots,Work boots, shopping boots, **** , real eye popping boots,Going to visit mum boots, feeling very glum boots,Welly boots, smelly boots," i'm just watching telly" boots,Car boots,"?" truck boots, "come on babe, let's **** boots,All these boots and more would make a woman want to swear,But guys, you haven't heard me go on about our underwear!!!
Feb 25, 2010
Feb 25, 2010 at 7:21 AM UTC
I’m singing the blues
Saying good bye to my shoes
The red patent high heels
With the shine that appeals
The shoes that made me feel hot
Whether I looked it or not
Made me walk with a wiggle
Made my back side jiggle
Gave me a **** demeanour
Made my legs feel leaner
Helped me walk tall
On the days I felt small
The same red shoes, so sweet
That are now tight on my feet
Which squash my big toe
And somehow, they know
That I’ve got dickie knees
So I’ll never wear skis
Not to mention arthritic hips
Which cause a total eclipse
When I bend over
And moreover
I walk just like I’ve got off my horse
So I’ve got to bid farewell, of course
Part company with my lovely red shoes
That is why I’m singing the blues
…..They should sell on ebay pretty quick
….. I’ll spend the money on a walking stick
©Nicki Tilston
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 9:13 PM UTC
I sat across from a man made of millions.
From his shiny black patent shoes to his dolphin patterned socks,
and his slicked back gray blonde hair, a color so elusive
Midas himself would find fault with designating blame,
I saw treachery.
If character were based on dress I would assign worth every time.
But people don't work that way: you must listen to what they say.
When he mentioned God and fate in the same breath as commissions and unlimited potential financially,
I went back to the socks.
Imagining the dolphins desperately trying to find someone else's socks,
someone less driven by green pieces of paper easily set aflame by
a deranged individual, someone like me,
who would not be so ludicrous, but entertained the notion,
would have more idealistic pure thought framing.
While the world runs in bounding strides to freedom from debt, from loans, from taxes, and money....stuff,
so that every "thing" materializes as a personal possession
and retirement happens at the unseemly age of 35,
but who will provide a home for the dolphins?
I would not throw my socks away as soon as the threads began to bare.
I would find some cerulean blue thread and weave in the ocean.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
The rear axles hold the kick of twenty Missouri *********
It is in the records of the patent office and the ads there is twenty horse power pull here.
The farm boy says hello to you instead of twenty mules-he sings to you instead of ten span of mules.
A bucket of oil and a can of grease is your hay and oats.
Rain proof and fool proof they stable you anywhere in the fields with the stars for a roof.
I carve a team of long ear mules on the steering wheel-it's good-by now to leather reins and the songs of the old mule skinners.
3k
boy coils in the lawn
& early air.
grass touching him wet,
smoke crawls from his lips,
into the blue awoken,
or sky before his face.
there it dances like wild life lived
& falls away with breezy.
dearly herb to glossy reds,
he purses, thus to inhale.
sparked ember, spark clench, fist to fist.
life given to life encapsulated.
the sense of it goes steady,
goes patent cool.
he exhales, and looks to the south,
where his legs once were.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 12:05 AM UTC
An airplane crashes into an uncharted island and hundreds of people die in the burning debris, and somewhere a group of boys and girls are taking selfies as they stand next to a burning office building.
Thousands of teenagers sit on the couch and eat ice cream until the buttons on their pants explode off.
Kids light themselves on fires as if they were monks from the Tiananmen Square, trying to gain acceptance, their dreams of stardom translated through a series of YouTube comments.
We can't afford books for college because the tuition is ridiculous, but these glossy tabloid magazines are only a few bucks; pick one to set the course of your life.
Middle-aged people spend their lives indoors, away from the thirsty, hungry, withering children, and check how many likes did their photos receive on their smartphones.
Pornographic images in front of our tired faces, our eyes locked to the screen and we do not blink as our memories become embedded with objectification.
So we don't look up and see the chaos transpiring.
Cat memes and colorful gifs hold our attention while our parents slave away at their boomerang-shaped desks, trapped in clustered cubicles.
I saw a post on Facebook of a girl who was sexually assaulted at a house party and now her name was being hashtagged and kids were posing in photographs, laying on the floor, legs and arms sprawled out, left and right, trying to mimic the injustice.
We swipe right to find our future hookups, but what if our future husbands and wives were on the left?
Society spends millions of dollars on drinks to numb our conscience, until our brain cells are wretched like the homeless guy on the street corner drinking liquor from a coffee mug.
Israel and Palestine battle each other day after day while our generation gossips about Solange Knowles beating up Jay-Z with her patent leather purse as if that news conquers every other bit of information out there.
The world will always be corrupt, but it suffers more from the apathy that belongs to us.
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 7:56 PM UTC
You ought to know Mr. Mistoffelees!
The Original Conjuring Cat—
(There can be no doubt about that).
Please listen to me and don’t scoff. All his
Inventions are off his own bat.
There’s no such Cat in the metropolis;
He holds all the patent monopolies
For performing suprising illusions
And creating eccentric confusions.
At prestidigitation
And at legerdemain
He’ll defy examination
And deceive you again.
The greatest magicians have something to learn
From Mr. Mistoffelees’ Conjuring Turn.
Presto!
Away we go!
And we all say: OH!
Well I never!
Was there ever
A Cat so clever
As Magical Mr. Mistoffelees!
He is quiet and small, he is black
From his ears to the tip of his tail;
He can creep through the tiniest crack,
He can walk on the narrowest rail.
He can pick any card from a pack,
He is equally cunning with dice;
He is always deceiving you into believing
That he’s only hunting for mice.
He can play any trick with a cork
Or a spoon and a bit of fish-paste;
If you look for a knife or a fork
And you think it is merely misplaced—
You have seen it one moment, and then it is gawn!
But you’ll find it next week lying out on the lawn.
And we all say: OH!
Well I never!
Was there ever
A Cat so clever
As Magical Mr. Mistoffelees!
His manner is vague and aloof,
You would think there was nobody shyer—
But his voice has been heard on the roof
When he was curled up by the fire.
And he’s sometimes been heard by the fire
When he was about on the roof—
(At least we all heard that somebody purred)
Which is incontestable proof
Of his singular magical powers:
And I have known the family to call
Him in from the garden for hours,
While he was asleep in the hall.
And not long ago this phenomenal Cat
Produced seven kittens right out of a hat!
And we all said: OH!
Well I never!
Did you ever
Know a Cat so clever
As Magical Mr. Mistoffelees!
2.5k
Inspired by George Ella Lyon's poem Where I am From
I am from cul-de-sacs
From skinned knees and seven speed bikes
I am from the bewitching perfume of the osmanthus bloom mingling with freshly mown grass
I am from the familiar music of the bubbling creek and the cardinals song
the swish of a golf club and the thud of a soccer ball
I am from hot pavement on bare feet, the taste of honeysuckles, and reaching pine tree forests whose invisible trails and clearings became my secret empire
I am from airplanes and home cooking
From Mary and Mark
northern accents and southern hospitality
I am from "use your manners" and "Not enough month left at the end if the money"
I am from sunday school and patent leather shoes that pinch my toes
from a prayer before dinner that is carved into my brain
I am from poland
from poppyseed kuchen and kielbasa
I am from my grandmother forgetting baking soda in the bread
and then... years later, forgetting me too.
I am from my grandfather's sense of humor
and his unwavering stubbornness.
I am from too many cousins to count
from pinched cheeks and "How you've grown!"
I am from piles of unfinished photo albums
brimming with new adventures, frozen faces, and old memories
I am from the path I carved for myself with tools that my parents bestowed upon me.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 1:14 PM UTC
The Mother Angels of Einstein's Eve heard
her shaking completely curly tresses, waiting
for the waves of the mountains' magical
colors, and beginning to undress, said,
understanding his limitations, and he retreated
to the desert, Marcus trafficking in ashes.
:- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - :
Asked for memory devices,
journalists look to the magazine
ISISToo like an angelic angel,
who has a solid table's tablet
that John describes in the water
that John describes as a hungry
Christian mother in the south,
Christian Christian light cuts into
bed and hatred, and in the shade
of the first wedding, John writes
Bettie sold out to the enemies of
the people because he planted in
Greece against angels angel Einstein
by a mother one who heard Eve fill
in the upper part of the corner,
waiting for the Hills Hills to get
water into the skin when these
magic-colored shades began to dress,
she answered, as measured by the
limitations until the reading was to
spread themselves into the ground
and report Jack's ashes scattered
throughout the desert. It depends
on the face of the world, and that
it literally means shadow shadow
shadow shadow. I think all the
wordless words are kissing: the
molecular is the girls with the dark
splinters and the calves, beginning
from the dark to light on the loaf of
**** for Satan launches the beans
placed on the socks before the Asian
Secrets that are in the patent to produce
data to meet with Lovers, and iron that
is important, and women who are soon
weeping, seat seats like Unfortunately,
for some other reason the costly assaults
over the years, the number of socks,
so long in the winter he was praying
for a streaming stream that closed
the glass glass inside the interior of the
interior, he received a 'meditation' gift,
the dreams, the, the thoughts, the singers;
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 11:16 PM UTC
Jonathan Anderson's collections walk a confounding tightrope between naïveté and decadence. Much of his new menswear looked like clothes for a futuristic, spiritual retreat (Anderson himself said he wanted something "laid-back, Zen-like"), but the buckled patent shoes were purest dancehall honky-tonk. The fitted leather jackets were pretty flashy, too, especially when contrasted with multi-pleated pants in plainest calico or denim.
"He took himself seriously," said the voice-over that launched Michel Gaubert's stirring soundtrack (a journey all in itself), but that felt like Anderson poking a little fun at his own expense—or at least anticipating reactions to his quirky rationale. He insisted his collection was actually like an imaginary world that a child might create for himself, akin to the tree houses he and his brother used to build. The preciousness that such a boy would bestow on things that are essentially valueless was reflected in the ordinary objects—keys, tools—that were transmuted into jewelry, the board game that mutated into a constructivist jacquard, and the calico or denim artfully constructed into the pants that made up the foundation of the collection. Some of the models were carrying a small metal frame on which curious little things were suspended, almost like charms to ward off who knows what.
That subtly occult tinge has become something of an Anderson signature, the way he disturbs the refined with the raw, for instance—a thin strand of bamboo or a bandage of calico nipping the waist, or a crude smear of paint across a tulle top so fine it is barely there, or even a white feather stuck to a shoulder. Such touches feel last-minute spontaneous, but also off-kilter, which is exactly where Anderson wants to keep us. But his work is now so consistent that off-kilter is proving a rather pleasant place to be.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 2:01 AM UTC
It was well said of him,
“The clothes bespoke the man”.
Yes, he stumbled in the mud.
Yes, his reputation soon was stuck within the stinking sludge
and, granted, it was all of his own making.
But surely you remember how he'd been so impressive.
Once I said, “You're spotless as a manikin”
and shared a hearty laugh with him.
Be we also had some serious conversations,
discussing what he meant by “loveliness”.
That was all before the storm that hit us
with the force of filth from continents and generations.
It reminded us, again:
not every love is innocent;
the finest gentlemen are capable of
(some say inclined to) monstrous crimes.
After, no one spoke of him.
He tried to hide behind his usual accoutrements:
the matching tie and handkerchief;
silk shirts;
his feathered hat and crimson mackintosh;
the smell of musk.
But he was tainted, spotted once the news was out.
As the headlines had it:
“Gilded Lily Withers – Roots Exposed”;
“If clothes have made this man, they're now irreparably torn.”
“Patent leather ******* now well scuffed.”
God knows what his publishers had to put upon his jacket
to sell off the remainders.
Yet even from the darkness of his prison,
he seemed to think he could rely upon
the persuasiveness of beautiful adornments
- “Always envied; often copied; never matched” (his line) -
trusting it would make him seem attractive once again, even clean.
He died the 23rd of May, 2007.
They say that night he'd tied his shirt a special way,
with a feminine flamboyance,
but it failed to impress as he intended.
In some dark hall (we don't know how) they caught him,
stripped him to the bare essentials,
leaving him undressed and cut, an ochre ugliness.
What were his final thoughts,
when all that he had left was soiled and bleeding?
What we he really needing?
Still, I'm glad I knew him,
Still call him friend, and miss him.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 5:26 PM UTC
Take a look at a flower that we adore
And observe this precious creation to the core.
Those tiny petals free themselves from the bud
And bend towards the ray of light
Workshipping sun to stay on sight
Though sunlight is absent at night.
Day by day this flower blooms
Revealing its beauty even in gloom
The production of honey sweet scent
Introduces us of its own patent
Attracting those diligent bees
Flirting with vibrant butterflies
To generously share its honey product
Cause life is all about giving without doubt!
A blooming flower; a genuine wonder
Asking us to thoroughly ponder
How significant its existence in nature
Teaching us not to stop hoping for the future
As this flower will not stop blooming
Until its growth has fully matured.
Feb 14, 2019
Feb 14, 2019 at 11:07 PM UTC
Bumblebees making love or war
On an Easter Sunday morn'
Spritely fairies in pinkish frills
Wearing their patent leather buckles
Little boy blues in powder blue suits
Running amok in the chapel belfry
Sanctuary dressed in lavender hues
As the ***** sounds the call to worship
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 11:25 AM UTC
340
Is Bliss then, such Abyss,
I must not put my foot amiss
For fear I spoil my shoe?
I’d rather suit my foot
Than save my Boot—
For yet to buy another Pair
Is possible,
At any store—
But Bliss, is sold just once.
The Patent lost
None buy it any more—
Say, Foot, decide the point—
The Lady cross, or not?
Verdict for Boot!
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