"prong" poems
Lovers entered a forbidden forest bower,
And as they stalked that range, with eyes glazed,
She offered up her hind. Now, with doe eyes,
Deep as his, deep in arousal's sleep, heels fell,
As he knocked and pulled her dark honey hair
And whispered, surrender, into wanting ears,
Softly he drove his hunting command, homing
To his huntress.
Her body braced, yet bade, with heat and vibrance.
Ruthlessly, he ****** his arrow deeper and then
Once more and then again. She bucked fiercely
And defiant, goading his prodding lance ever more
Ever longer, and parting the pink lines of her white
Rose, he was, and once again, Prince to the dark
Dominion of her quarters.
In the middle of this carnal match they paused.
And looking into the forest beyond they saw
A yearling fawn, a feral Goddess, grazing still,
Bathing in a vale, virginal, wholly unmoved
By their act of venery, lustfully playing, in the innocent
Leaves. It was as if they were among her kin, a gentle
Doe and a noble stag. From that moment on
The human hunters did not speak.
Falling, again, rolling eyes were deep in arousal's sleep.
Her back was a crescent moon pocked and wet with dew.
He could feel her heart beating in time with his piercing
Prong, her arching back glistened in the suns spittle
As it broke through the dark and vernal ceiling wood.
In the final shot her quivering buck lowered and broke
And a sound not heard, made a scene, a sweet murmuring
Shuddered and sank onto the floor of the forest leaves
With her tale, taken and told, her breathless breath,
Her nostrils cold and her heated and lanced openings
Dripping, draining; here was a New World’s beginning.
Sated, solemn and softly quaking, his woman sweetly laid,
And now, doomed with her doe eyes, two lovers, fated, made;
She glowed, divine, like the rolling brook that mellowed
Slow, in the vine-dark and golden forest stable,
In Artemis’s wood.
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 1:33 PM UTC
Mountains
Freshwater creeks
Coach Lambert
Dry Prong
Basketball bus rides
Old Music
Latch Disclosure
Orca whales
Spirit
Openly gay couples
Church songs
Windy plains
Grinding at school dances
Four wheelers
Mr Rodriguez
Cold weather
Snow skiing
Christmas
Fir trees
Canada
Planet Earth Movies
Fizzy Feelings
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 9:16 PM UTC
.
Lovers entered a forbidden forest bower,
And as they stalked that range, with eyes glazed,
She offered up her hind. Now, with doe eyes,
Deep as his, deep in arousal's sleep, heels fell,
As he knocked and pulled her dark honey hair
And whispered, surrender, into wanting ears,
Softly he drove his hunting command, homing
To his huntress.
Her body braced, yet bade, with heat and vibrance.
Ruthlessly, he ****** his arrow deeper and then
Once more and then again. She bucked fiercely
And defiant, goading his prodding lance ever more
Ever longer, and parting the pink lines of her white
Rose, he was, and once again, Prince to the dark
Dominion of her quarters.
In the middle of this carnal match they paused.
And looking into the forest beyond they saw
A yearling fawn, a feral Goddess, grazing still,
Bathing in a vale, virginal, wholly unmoved
By their act of venery, lustfully playing, in the innocent
Leaves. It was as if they were among her kin, a gentle
Doe and a noble stag. From that moment on
The human hunters did not speak.
Falling, again, rolling eyes were deep in arousal's sleep.
Her back was a crescent moon pocked and wet with dew.
He could feel her heart beating in time with his piercing
Prong, her arching back glistened in the suns spittle
As it broke through the dark and vernal ceiling wood.
In the final shot her quivering buck lowered and broke
And a sound not heard, made a scene, a sweet murmuring
Shuddered and sank onto the floor of the forest leaves
With her tale, taken and told, her breathless breath,
Her nostrils cold and her heated and lanced openings
Dripping, draining; here was a New World’s beginning.
Sated, solemn and softly quaking, his woman sweetly laid,
And now, doomed with her doe eyes, two lovers, fated, made;
She glowed, divine, like the rolling brook that mellowed
Slow, in the vine-dark and golden forest stable,
In Artemis’s wood.
.
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 2:50 PM UTC
There is a consumer product demon
in the trash underneath my sink.
The other day, I tossed in a wrapper
from a Quest 20-protein-gram nutrition bar
and a hand reached up to grab it.
Thinking I was daydreaming
I pulled out the white plastic Rubbermaid trash basket;
no hand, but the ¼ cup of Kraft Fast Mac
tossed in yesterday was moving, undulating.
It made a distinct voice-y sound
like “You’ll like Mac-a-lot, so eat me!”
Thinking this was just my overactive poetic imagination
I turned to the sink.
My JetZScrubber had wrapped around a spoon
dancing in circles around the In-Sink-Erator drain
while the Ajax Easy-Hands Dishwashing Liquid spewed bubbles
in unison.
Now convinced I took too much acid in college
I ran upstairs where my dog Mr. Brown sleeps
on his 44” x 36” leopard-print GoodDogBed.
“Howdy, partner,” Brown chimed.
“Sure is a fine day to go for a walk
using that Halti multi-loop leader and Sprenger prong collar.
Yes, I love ‘em.”
I took Mr. Brown to the dog park.
the one with the Safe-Steel chain link fence
and the pine trees without labels.
He pooped in the sawdust and vocalized
in his hound voice.
I could have sworn he said,
“Glad I didn’t do that on the L.L.Bean Woven Nylon Area Rug,”
but I wasn’t sure.
Nothing moved
except the wind in the trees.
and I wondered what to call it.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 7:09 AM UTC
Luke was such a dreadful fidget
He couldn't sit still for a minute
He'd toss and turn all lesson long
Like a caterpillar crawling on a cattle prong
He'd flick his rulers, click his pens
Cluck and fuss like a headless hen.
His tutor, a tall and sombre man
Was struggling with his teaching plan
He'd taken three days to prepare
But Luke was more than he could bare.
"Right! That's it! I've had enough!
If you don't stop I'll call your mum.
Unless you're really in fact quite ill
I'd advise you to stop it. Oh do keep still!
I'm just about to lose my mind, oh Luke
You're being quite unkind!"
But Luke was on a sugar high
"I can't stop!" He said, "I don't know why!"
And with that he jumped up, began to dance
He leaped and swung and swooped and pranced
Till all the neighbours gathered round
To gaze and gawk at this unsightly sound...
Mar 4, 2011
Mar 4, 2011 at 1:13 AM UTC
I'm only lukewarm, marginally mediocre.
Not quite laid-back enough to be considered cool
Nor adequately exciting for red hot.
Just going by, average, as a rule.
I'm much too old to be reckless and immature,
Yet not as old as wisdom and a good war story.
Not so rich to live out luxurious abandon
but far too rich to be tragically sorry.
I'm unremarkable, uneventful, uninteresting,
Uncool and unattractive, unfit and unaware.
I assume I'm just not- I'm everything 'un' already,
A stale glass of water, gone oddly warm in stagnant air
I am lukewarm, at best.
Perhaps some day I'll be blast frozen
Or I had once been boiled hot.
For now though, there are no cubes of ice
That I can swallow and be more than not.
I am the everyday masses, lost in the throng,
The not-particularly-bright, non-slacker, no-name brands
That believe they're not good enough- or quite the sharpest prong.
We, the herd lost in the middle bench lands-
We're wild and we're sober,
Frightened and unafraid.
We're nothing like you, but we're just the same.
But we, the ones who spend our lives
In the middle bench,
will be alright.
We can persevere, we can.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 1:12 PM UTC
the trollometer
is a reliable
apparatus
how well it gauges
the trolling
status
of great accuracy
the needle it
employs
which locates
any untoward
ploys
trolls can pop up
wearing a plethora of
faces
theirs is the playing
of copious
aces
the trollometer
never gets its readings
wrong
the inventor's guarantee
is of a precise
prong
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 8:02 PM UTC
Buttermilk pancakes, fresh off the pan
Returning from the barn, eggs in hand
Nostrils burning, the airs so pure
Pine trees, trails, they're the perfect cure
Woods resembling the appalachian country
Leaves all orange, no, golden like honey
Ancient wooden or old brick homes
Miles of national forest to roam
Trails worn thin by generations of family
I swear, the sun shines brighter, seemingly
Preacher is always dropping by to eat
Lance is out hunting fresh deer meat
And we... we are here to enjoy it all
And occasionally have a trampoline brawl
The point is, this place never feels wrong
Dry Prong, where I feel I truly belong
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 10:25 PM UTC
You ask me what I'd wish for if
I knew it would come true. I knew
it was true: you left me
to sleep out in the cold, dawn
hours and half a globe away.
If it meant I would receive frostbite,
shiver uncontrollably and turn cyanotic,
suffer hypothermia underneath the window
with the blinds closed and you
behind them shedding tears I cannot catch,
I would suffer. I did.
It reminded me of the Thanksgiving
my uncle had me grab the prong of a wishbone,
my best friend on the other side.
We made a wish and the horseshoe of ivory
cracked, and splintered into two pieces.
He got the larger half. I still kept my wish
hidden, hoping, that one day I'd meet you.
I would suckle the sorrow from your fingers,
wipe the tears and mascara with my cheek,
and croon to you I will change. I can change.
But, I must do that; and not for you.
Our love is like that wishbone. Every time
it breaks, we wish but do not work to see it through.
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 7:00 PM UTC
Lovers entered a forbidden forest bower,
And as they stalked that range, with eyes glazed,
She offered up her hind. Now, with doe eyes,
Deep as his, deep in arousal's sleep, heels fell,
As he knocked and pulled her dark honey hair
And whispered, surrender, into wanting ears,
Softly he drove his hunting command, homing
To his huntress.
Her body braced, yet bade, with heat and vibrance.
Ruthlessly, he ****** his arrow deeper and then
Once more and then again. She bucked fiercely
And defiant, goading his prodding lance ever more
Ever longer, and parting the pink lines of her white
Rose, he was, and once again, Prince to the dark
Dominion of her quarters.
In the middle of this carnal match they paused.
And looking into the forest beyond they saw
A yearling fawn, a feral Goddess, grazing still,
Bathing in a vale, virginal, wholly unmoved
By their act of venery, lustfully playing, in the innocent
Leaves. It was as if they were among her kin, a gentle
Doe and a noble stag. From that moment on
The human hunters did not speak.
Falling, again, rolling eyes were deep in arousal's sleep.
Her back was a crescent moon pocked and wet with dew.
He could feel her heart beating in time with his piercing
Prong, her arching back glistened in the suns spittle
As it broke through the dark and vernal ceiling wood.
In the final shot her quivering buck lowered and broke
And a sound not heard, made a scene, a sweet murmuring
Shuddered and sank onto the floor of the forest leaves
With her tale, taken and told, her breathless breath,
Her nostrils cold and her heated and lanced openings
Dripping, draining; here was a New World’s beginning.
Sated, solemn and softly quaking, his woman sweetly laid,
And now, doomed with her doe eyes, two lovers, fated, made;
She glowed, divine, like the rolling brook that mellowed
Slow, in the vine-dark and golden forest stable,
In Artemis’s wood.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 12:46 PM UTC
.
Lovers entered a forbidden forest bower,
And as they stalked that range, with eyes glazed,
She offered up her hind. Now, with doe eyes,
Deep as his, deep in arousal's sleep, heels fell,
As he knocked and pulled her dark honey hair
And whispered, surrender, into wanting ears,
Softly he drove his hunting command, homing
To his huntress.
Her body braced, yet bade, with heat and vibrance.
Ruthlessly, he ****** his arrow deeper and then
Once more and then again. She bucked fiercely
And defiant, goading his prodding lance ever more
Ever longer, and parting the pink lines of her white
Rose, he was, and once again, Prince to the dark
Dominion of her quarters.
In the middle of this carnal match they paused.
And looking into the forest beyond they saw
A yearling fawn, a feral Goddess, grazing still,
Bathing in a vale, virginal, wholly unmoved
By their act of venery, lustfully playing, in the innocent
Leaves. It was as if they were among her kin, a gentle
Doe and a noble stag. From that moment on
The human hunters did not speak.
Falling, again, rolling eyes were deep in arousal's sleep.
Her back was a crescent moon pocked and wet with dew.
He could feel her heart beating in time with his piercing
Prong, her arching back glistened in the suns spittle
As it broke through the dark and vernal ceiling wood.
In the final shot her quivering buck lowered and broke
And a sound not heard, made a scene, a sweet murmuring
Shuddered and sank onto the floor of the forest leaves
With her tale, taken and told, her breathless breath,
Her nostrils cold and her heated and lanced openings
Dripping, draining; here was a New World’s beginning.
Sated, solemn and softly quaking, his woman sweetly laid,
And now, doomed with her doe eyes, two lovers, fated, made;
She glowed, divine, like the rolling brook that mellowed
Slow, in the vine-dark and golden forest stable,
In Artemis’s wood.
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 7:25 PM UTC
Lovers entered a forbidden forest bower,
And as they stalked that range, with eyes glazed,
She offered up her hind. Now, with doe eyes,
Deep as his, deep in arousal's sleep, heels fell,
As he knocked and pulled her dark honey hair
And whispered, surrender, into wanting ears,
Softly he drove his hunting command, homing
To his huntress.
Her body braced, yet bade, with heat and vibrance.
Ruthlessly, he ****** his arrow deeper and then
Once more and then again. She bucked fiercely
And defiant, goading his prodding lance ever more
Ever longer, and parting the pink lines of her white
Rose, he was, and once again, Prince to the dark
Dominion of her quarters.
In the middle of this carnal match they paused.
And looking into the forest beyond they saw
A yearling fawn, a feral Goddess, grazing still,
Bathing in a vale, virginal, wholly unmoved
By their act of venery, lustfully playing, in the innocent
Leaves. It was as if they were among her kin, a gentle
Doe and a noble stag. From that moment on
The human hunters did not speak.
Falling, again, rolling eyes were deep in arousal's sleep.
Her back was a crescent moon pocked and wet with dew.
He could feel her heart beating in time with his piercing
Prong, her arching back glistened in the suns spittle
As it broke through the dark and vernal ceiling wood.
In the final shot her quivering buck lowered and broke
And a sound not heard, made a scene, a sweet murmuring
Shuddered and sank onto the floor of the forest leaves
With her tale, taken and told, her breathless breath,
Her nostrils cold and her heated and lanced openings
Dripping, draining; here was a New World’s beginning.
Sated, solemn and softly quaking, his woman sweetly laid,
And now, doomed with her doe eyes, two lovers, fated, made;
She glowed, divine, like the rolling brook that mellowed
Slow, in the vine-dark and golden forest stable,
In Artemis’s wood.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 1:26 PM UTC
Lovers entered a forbidden forest bower,
And as they stalked that range, with eyes glazed,
She offered up her hind. Now, with doe eyes,
Deep as his, deep in arousal's sleep, heels fell,
As he knocked and pulled her dark honey hair
And whispered, surrender, into wanting ears,
Softly he drove his hunting command, homing
To his huntress.
Her body braced, yet bade, with heat and vibrance.
Ruthlessly, he ****** his arrow deeper and then
Once more and then again. She bucked fiercely
And defiant, goading his prodding lance ever more
Ever longer, and parting the pink lines of her white
Rose, he was, and once again, Prince to the dark
Dominion of her quarters.
In the middle of this carnal match they paused.
And looking into the forest beyond they saw
A yearling fawn, a feral Goddess, grazing still,
Bathing in a vale, virginal, wholly unmoved
By their act of venery, lustfully playing, in the innocent
Leaves. It was as if they were among her kin, a gentle
Doe and a noble stag. From that moment on
The human hunters did not speak.
Falling, again, rolling eyes were deep in arousal's sleep.
Her back was a crescent moon pocked and wet with dew.
He could feel her heart beating in time with his piercing
Prong, her arching back glistened in the suns spittle
As it broke through the dark and vernal ceiling wood.
In the final shot her quivering buck lowered and broke
And a sound not heard, made a scene, a sweet murmuring
Shuddered and sank onto the floor of the forest leaves
With her tale, taken and told, her breathless breath,
Her nostrils cold and her heated and lanced openings
Dripping, draining; here was a New World’s beginning.
Sated, solemn and softly quaking, his woman sweetly laid,
And now, doomed with her doe eyes, two lovers, fated, made;
She glowed, divine, like the rolling brook that mellowed
Slow, in the vine-dark and golden forest stable,
In Artemis’s wood.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 2:53 AM UTC
Lovers entered a forbidden forest bower,
And as they stalked that range, with eyes glazed,
She offered up her hind. Now, with doe eyes,
Deep as his, deep in arousal's sleep, heels fell,
As he knocked and pulled her dark honey hair
And whispered, surrender, into wanting ears,
Softly he drove his hunting command, homing
To his huntress.
Her body braced, yet bade, with heat and vibrance.
Ruthlessly, he ****** his arrow deeper and then
Once more and then again. She bucked fiercely
And defiant, goading his prodding lance ever more
Ever longer, and parting the pink lines of her white
Rose, he was, and once again, Prince to the dark
Dominion of her quarters.
In the middle of this carnal match they paused.
And looking into the forest beyond they saw
A yearling fawn, a feral Goddess, grazing still,
Bathing in a vale, virginal, wholly unmoved
By their act of venery, lustfully playing, in the innocent
Leaves. It was as if they were among her kin, a gentle
Doe and a noble stag. From that moment on
The human hunters did not speak.
Falling, again, rolling eyes were deep in arousal's sleep.
Her back was a crescent moon pocked and wet with dew.
He could feel her heart beating in time with his piercing
Prong, her arching back glistened in the suns spittle
As it broke through the dark and vernal ceiling wood.
In the final shot her quivering buck lowered and broke
And a sound not heard, made a scene, a sweet murmuring
Shuddered and sank onto the floor of the forest leaves
With her tale, taken and told, her breathless breath,
Her nostrils cold and her heated and lanced openings
Dripping, draining; here was a New World’s beginning.
Sated, solemn and softly quaking, his woman sweetly laid,
And now, doomed with her doe eyes, two lovers, fated, made;
She glowed, divine, like the rolling brook that mellowed
Slow, in the vine-dark and golden forest stable,
In Artemis’s wood.
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 1:20 PM UTC
Lovers entered a forbidden forest bower,
And as they stalked that range, with eyes glazed,
She offered up her hind. Now, with doe eyes,
Deep as his, deep in arousal's sleep, heels fell,
As he knocked and pulled her dark honey hair
And whispered, surrender, into wanting ears,
Softly he drove his hunting command, homing
To his huntress.
Her body braced, yet bade, with heat and vibrance.
Ruthlessly, he ****** his arrow deeper and then
Once more and then again. She bucked fiercely
And defiant, goading his prodding lance ever more
Ever longer, and parting the pink lines of her white
Rose, he was, and once again, Prince to the dark
Dominion of her quarters.
In the middle of this carnal match they paused.
And looking into the forest beyond they saw
A yearling fawn, a feral Goddess, grazing still,
Bathing in a vale, virginal, wholly unmoved
By their act of venery, lustfully playing, in the innocent
Leaves. It was as if they were among her kin, a gentle
Doe and a noble stag. From that moment on
The human hunters did not speak.
Falling, again, rolling eyes were deep in arousal's sleep.
Her back was a crescent moon pocked and wet with dew.
He could feel her heart beating in time with his piercing
Prong, her arching back glistened in the suns spittle
As it broke through the dark and vernal ceiling wood.
In the final shot her quivering buck lowered and broke
And a sound not heard, made a scene, a sweet murmuring
Shuddered and sank onto the floor of the forest leaves
With her tale, taken and told, her breathless breath,
Her nostrils cold and her heated and lanced openings
Dripping, draining; here was a New World’s beginning.
Sated, solemn and softly quaking, his woman sweetly laid,
And now, doomed with her doe eyes, two lovers, fated, made;
She glowed, divine, like the rolling brook that mellowed
Slow, in the vine-dark and golden forest stable,
In Artemis’s wood.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 5:36 PM UTC
Conscience tingles
Fingers wiggle
Sun shines and no one dies
Forgotten seagulls glide toward self-cancellation
Predestined adolescents forge three prong
doubts and fears
Parents watch the past bloom on their dark clouded
offspring
Girls clench their butts
Boys leave their chins untouched
Unfruitful attempts of self sprung self improvement
Read other's stories
You never will learn that lesson from within
Failure rises again
Climbing up into the brain
luring acids to melt the ambition of the
politically slain
Fingers tingle
conscience wiggles
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
Nothing’s wrong.
Please go away.
Same old song.
Their words prong.
Pain will stay.
Nothing’s wrong.
I don't belong.
Just a bad day.
Same old song.
I'll play along.
I'm fine okay?
Nothing’s wrong.
My pain's lifelong.
My mind won't obey.
Same old song.
Dark thoughts throng.
What should I say?
Nothing’s wrong.
Same old song.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 5:16 PM UTC
a complement of three legs
kept the realm in a wobbly
modality
to have had a fourth one
would give an upright
totality
as this important limb
was missing in a forgotten
land
the locale disintegrated
like a pan of moving
sand
the domain being beset by
ills too many to
mention
hence the citizens cried out
for another pole's
attention
a trio of pegs weren't
stable nor
strong
they did violently
shake minus the quads firm
prong
sometime in the future
the whole thing might just
brace
if a solid pin is attached
onto the
place
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 5:40 AM UTC
One Son of God kills
another Son of God,
and the bombs explode inside of the Blog.
Let me tell you people
I can feel it in my groin,
there are strange goings on
wherever there is coin.
We're ringing in freedom
says the fighting man---
Mr/Mrs/Ms politician gonna put you in a can,
immerse you in boiling water,
till you look like boiled ham.
Mr/Mrs/Ms soldier person you better go to bed
and wake up in the morning
with a hole in your head.
Mr/Mrs/Ms preacher person babbling the lies of your "god",
it doesn't even have the morals of a dog,
instead of living life with a smile and a song,
your gonna end up roasted
at the end of a prong.
Mr/Mrs/Ms oligarch with blood soaked hands,
selling off the world for filthy demands,
youre going to the gallows wrapped in iron bands.
We're ringing in freedom says the fighting man/woman
gonna **** all of those who don't conform to our "gods"
vain and bloodthirsty edicts and commands,
or our politically filthy evil plans.
Equivalency in EVIL..
Proportionality in deaths?
Like scoring in a sports match?.
I wish EVERY military person of whatever country
were whisked off and whisked into a ****** froth
and emptied down the drains
into the sewers where they really belong.
Thou shalt NOT **** under any circumstances.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 1:45 AM UTC
and here is the half ring
to honor our half engagement
here is the half birthday
that i half arrived at
here's half the money to give you a ride home
here's half the water bill
half this salad
half the bottle
half a fork
half a napkin to wipe off half your face
half the equation
half the notes on the passion
half the poetry cluttering the desk half the time spent looking
half the strings you need to play
and here's the cake to honor that half birthday
here's the half car
you half use to work half way
but what can i do with half a ring i cant put it on my finger, i cant have it to display
and whats the point of a half cake when my family is invited to dinner,
and a salad almost gone to be eaten with an only two prong fork
only one sided story doesn't make for much a tale and you could be poor and give more
ask willie, who roams 55th street, ask him about having nothing, but his name and he remembers it
some they forget, but he remembers what others forget and he's still living
and he hasn't quit.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 7:34 PM UTC
*I was there within a lil tropic dale,
Marrow of one lil 'ol stealthy vale,
I hearkened of a grand titanic tale
'Midst two Midnighters loud speil.
The spat was pitiless & oh! strong;
Faint 1st was their spoken old song,
Then harsh as each bird had swelled,
To rage the strife away which dwelled.
The warbler led the great speech,
Easeful in a nook of a wide beech;
Perched on a pulchritudinous bough,
About her were burgeons florid now,
Utterly in a downy, substantial hedge,
Intertwisted with buds and new sedge.
Happier she was for having the sprays,
Sing she did for gladness in many ways.
Yet was there an old prong lying beside,
Wherefrom an old owl came and cried;
The branch w/ climbing vine overgrown,
And here this owl sojourned quite alone.
The warbler did after not so long espied,
And looked upon her w/ confuted pride.
Many were her scoffings 2 the jejune owl,
For to the warbler was she loath'd & fowl.
The owl stayed in her place till eventide,
Not a moment more did she there abide,
So thrived her ***** with flowing wrath
That she could hardly even regain breath;
Say that I grasped thee in my sharp claw,-
Would that I may do so here in this shaw!
And thou wert torn from off your spray,
Then we shall see who sings a nights lay.
And with that... the warbler stole away.
To hang her shingle and head in shame.*
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 10:29 PM UTC
Two lovers.
Distance.
Lost.
Found?
Recovered.
A throb, a tick.
A beat, a prong.
Familiar *****
Their hearts.
Longing and needing.
Simultaneously.
Realistic?
It can't be.
Forever?
It is.
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 2:42 PM UTC
Lovers entered a forbidden forest bower,
And as they stalked that range, with eyes glazed,
She offered up her hind. Now, with doe eyes,
Deep as his, deep in arousal's sleep, heels fell,
As he knocked and pulled her dark honey hair
And whispered, surrender, into wanting ears,
Softly he drove his hunting command, homing
To his huntress.
Her body braced, yet bade, with heat and vibrance.
Ruthlessly, he ****** his arrow deeper and then
Once more and then again. She bucked fiercely
And defiant, goading his prodding lance ever more
Ever longer, and parting the pink lines of her white
Rose, he was, and once again, Prince to the dark
Dominion of her quarters.
In the middle of this carnal match they paused.
And looking into the forest beyond they saw
A yearling fawn, a feral Goddess, grazing still,
Bathing in a vale, virginal, wholly unmoved
By their act of venery, lustfully playing, in the innocent
Leaves. It was as if they were among her kin, a gentle
Doe and a noble stag. From that moment on
The human hunters did not speak.
Falling, again, rolling eyes were deep in arousal's sleep.
Her back was a crescent moon pocked and wet with dew.
He could feel her heart beating in time with his piercing
Prong, her arching back glistened in the suns spittle
As it broke through the dark and vernal ceiling wood.
In the final shot her quivering buck lowered and broke
And a sound not heard, made a scene, a sweet murmuring
Shuddered and sank onto the floor of the forest leaves
With her tale, taken and told, her breathless breath,
Her nostrils cold and her heated and lanced openings
Dripping, draining; here was a New World’s beginning.
Sated, solemn and softly quaking, his woman sweetly laid,
And now, doomed with her doe eyes, two lovers, fated, made;
She glowed, divine, like the rolling brook that mellowed
Slow, in the vine-dark and golden forest stable,
In Artemis’s wood.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 12:19 PM UTC