"rake" poems
These days have ebbed
as Love's swell was checked:
the waters in some places
- all but dammed!
But now at last
I sense the rising tide
and thank Temese
for the current's turn;
now following that great writhing snake
to where its pulsing head will rake;
over the mucky soiled watery beds
of Woolwich
Greenwich
Limehouse
- and under -
Tower Bridge
To that great gloating sight
A crown of a billion lights
Blazing day and night:
And somewhere within
In the slick oily warmth
Our flood tides mesh,
As over each other we wash.
Hard thrusts
wicked deep cuts
given and received
are recorded in that great mirror smoked!
where with a tug and a shove
on the banks
in the streets
through the loopy twists
everything prospers in the glow
as the decades decaying flow;
each ***** bud
red with new blood
one after t'other
flowers
before their purple petals scatter.
Let's on the luck o' the dice
(you 'n' me!)
ride out
on the flotsam and jetsom
that has carried us this far
and as pleases
merge.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 2:32 AM UTC
He has taken rake and shovel in hand,
Taking advantage of the light,
Rare in these climes this time of year,
Still welcomed, though rendered severe
By the sun's reluctant trudge above the horizon,
The type which, sauntering through a window pane
(Falling upon a crucifix anchored above a cradle
Or some ancient, gilded frame
Containing a photo of some grandparent's wedding day,
Exploding into full undifferentiated diffusion)
May possess a dram of warmth, albeit resigned, nostalgic
A bittersweet reminder of what has gone by
(And in the shade, the air is filled
With the portentous chill of what lies a few months hence)
But there nonetheless as he tends to those final farewells
From the trees bowing to December's inevitability,
The droppings not the Pollock-esque bursts of October
(Those having been collected and consigned
To the normal corner of the back lot)
But dreary brown-hued things, not welcomed by eye nor heart,
Simply corralled perfunctorily and dismissed.
One could contend that such activity is unnecessary,
The mere vanity of all endeavor,
As the snow will come soon, and steady as well,
Performing the seasonal, cyclical function in its own time,
But he soldiers on nonetheless, a unseen one-act nearly-farce,
Painstakingly raking and bending and scraping
To leave his patch of green uncovered for a little while
Until the locking time comes to seal the earth's secrets once more,
To be revealed to those
Who shall receive the teasing ministrations
Of the fickle, fitful March equinox.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 1:44 PM UTC
Of which I promised this Forthcoming Gift
That Low-Resolved Program you often play
Mine of Sum's Direct robbed my Basics shift
Could make my Allowance afford one day
Till then, master those Memes and Squarish Crew
And ask your Score teemed to accumulate
I know you can do it, Technocrat Blue
And rake those Creepers down confusticate
Or shall I, along the mean, Journal's Writ
Ask for more Hints over Direction rough
You, Controlling-E, fly Normal's out-of-it
Conclude my Patience to nearly enough.
I'll trust the Swede with his Awards advance
Then I'll Trust you; With those Talents enhance.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 3:13 AM UTC
Society has good intentions Bureaucracy is like a friend
5 years ago - other furies other losses -
America's
trying to control the uncontrollable Forest fires, Vice
The essential smile In the essential sleep Of the children Of the essential mind
I'm
all thru playing the American
Now I'm going to live a good quiet life
The
world should be built for foot walkers
Oily
rivers Of spiney Nevady
I
am Jake Cake
Rake
Write like Blake
The
horse is not pleased Sight of his
gorgeous finery
in the dust Its silken
nostrils
did disgust
Cats
arent kind Kiddies anent sweet
April
in Nevada - Investigating Dismal Cheyenne Where the war parties
In fields
of straw
Aimed over oxen At Indian Chiefs
In wild headdress Pouring thru
the gap
In Wyoming plain
To make the settlers
Eat more dust than dust
was eaten In the States From East at Seacoast Where wagons made up To dreadful
Plains
Of clazer vup
Saltry
settlers
Anxious to ********** The Mongol Sea (I'm too tired in Cheyenne -
No sleep in 4 nights now, & 2 to go)
9.1k
just a leaf left
on the pillow next to me
now, a whisper of smoke
vapor tracing your path
out the door
going back to the
limb I stole you from,
the place you must return
I rake my bed for more,
try to make
a place
for you to fall
again, next time.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 2:37 AM UTC
Gender ******
truth pretender
parents send her
life defender
he's a ******
slimy maggot
feeling ragged
bag and tag it
hurting words
spitting herds
cheezy curds
stupid nerds
mental case
dizzy space
ugly face
**** my race
Time to kneel
grab a feel
scary tweel
innocence steal
Eat a steak
garden rake
veggie snake
life forsake
Not pretend
we defend
savior send
the end
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 11:58 AM UTC
Some clichty folks
don't know the facts,
posin' and preenin'
and puttin' on acts,
stretchin' their backs.
They move into condos
up over the ranks,
pawn their souls
to the local banks.
Buying big cars
they can't afford,
ridin' around town
actin' bored.
If they want to learn how to live life right
they ought to study me on Saturday night.
My job at the plant
ain't the biggest bet,
but I pay my bills
and stay out of debt.
I get my hair done
for my own self's sake,
so I don't have to pick
and I don't have to rake.
Take the church money out
and head cross town
to my friend girl's house
where we plan our round.
We meet our men and go to a joint
where the music is blue
and to the point.
Folks write about me.
They just can't see
how I work all week
at the factory.
Then get spruced up
and laugh and dance
And turn away from worry
with sassy glance.
They accuse me of livin'
from day to day,
but who are they kiddin'?
So are they.
My life ain't heaven
but it sure ain't hell.
I'm not on top
but I call it swell
if I'm able to work
and get paid right
and have the luck to be Black
on a Saturday night.
7.2k
Value someone who values you not like silver and gold,
Value someone who values you in fact ten times fold.
Value someone who values your smile,
Value someone who in difficult times makes smiling worthwhile.
Value someone who has always been there through the thick and the thin,
Value someone who has held you through late nights and gin.
Value someone who may irritate you till you pull your hair out,
Value someone who would knockout anyone else who tried to in a single bout.
Value someone who catches your every precious tear drop,
Value someone who does everything in and out of the book to make those stop.
Value someone who assures you that not all is lost,
Value someone who inspires you at no cost.
Value someone who protects you from every scratch and rake,
Value someone who spends the worlds time with you putting everything else at stake.
Value someone who holds you when nothing is right,
Value someone who's always there all your worries to fight.
Value someone who stands up for you in every situation,
Value someone who never gives up on you and goes for a vacation.
Value someone who does not care what the world says about you,
Value someone who recognizes the real inner you and believes you are unique in your very own way too.
Value someone with whom you may have the biggest of a fight,
Value someone who still incessantly stands two steps behind you and for you with a smile whether day or night.
Value someone who values you for what you are,
Value someone who continues to value you every minute and every hour, whether you are close or whether you are far...
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
All winter the fire devoured everything --
tear-stained elegies, old letters, diaries, dead flowers.
When April finally arrived,
I opened the woodstove one last time
and shoveled the remains of those long cold nights
into a bucket, ash rising
through shafts of sunlight,
as swirling in bright, angelic eddies.
I shoveled out the charred end of an oak log,
black and pointed like a pencil;
half-burnt pages
sacrificed
in the making of poems;
old, square handmade nails
liberated from weathered planks
split for kindling.
I buried my hands in the bucket,
found the nails, lifted them,
the phoenix of my right hand
shielded with soot and tar,
my left hand shrouded in soft white ash --
nails in both fists like forged lightning.
I smeared black lines on my face,
drew crosses on my chest with the nails,
raised my arms and stomped my feet,
dancing in honor of spring
and rebirth, dancing
in honor of winter and death.
I hauled the heavy bucket to the garden,
spread ashes over the ground,
asked the earth to be good.
I gave the earth everything
that pulled me through the lonely winter --
oak trees, barns, poems.
I picked up my shovel
and turned hard, gray dirt,
the blade splitting winter
from spring. With *** and rake,
I cultivated soil,
tilling row after row,
the earth now loose and black.
Tearing seed packets with my teeth,
I sowed spinach with my right hand,
planted petunias with my left.
Lifting clumps of dirt,
I crumbled them in my fists,
loving each dark letter that fell from my fingers.
And when I carried my empty bucket to the lake for water,
a few last ashes rose into spring-morning air,
ash drifting over fields
dew-covered
and lightly dusted green.
5.8k
Yes Spring has come to the land,
Mother Nature has shed her coat,
time to get off the couch and do what matters most. Live and have fun!
So I am out catching up on the chores and second duty, granddaughter watch,
prune here, rake there, now where has that little tike gone?
Perhapes if I give these little hands something to occupy,
why the best thing is a little water, yes that will bring a smile.
So here is the battle ground as the scene unfolds.
She has a little pail, I have the garden hose.
Her duty, quite simple,place some water on the plants,
end result however, water on PawPaw's pants!
So only to even the score, mind you no harm intended,
was to give the little tike a squirt and the battle would have ended.
Oh no, not today! This little tink has got some guts!
Why with every squirt I give that girl, I get a pail of slosh!
So of course, being the elder here and quite mature I say,
I give that girl her monies worth and let out a real good spray!
Soon the chores are all forgotten and the plants need water no more,
end of the day I can say she may have even tied the score!
Wow how much water do these pampers hold?!
Apr 3, 2012
Apr 3, 2012 at 7:28 PM UTC
August, the Red Line,
connected tanks
of bolted plastic vertebrae.
Every seat gone except
five rows up, where a sea lion
sprawls across two,
stuffed backpack, yellow jacket
spread out like caution tape.
His grunt a wet bark
at the glow of his screen.
Middle-school deer slip into the aisle,
chatter clipped when the sheriff drifts past,
their ears flicking, smiles bitten shut.
Not a predator- just a gelded ox,
chest puffed, badge sagging, glass-eyed,
chest rig clattering with blanks.
Two lemur-children cling to their tortoise elder,
her shell steady against the sway of the car.
She shepherds them from the surge of riders:
loud Dodger blue parrots in cholo socks,
moth-women with plumed lashes beating the stale air,
a stray dog, gutter musk dragging at its haunches.
And one gray bear
muttering alone,
arguing with her reflection.
Between Koreatown and MacArthur Park,
somewhere the sea begins to breathe again,
then, feathers forcing through my skin-
an alley gull knifing into this clamour,
scavenging inside its exhaust.
The car rattles, its ribs plated with blistered posters:
museum wings open to no one,
‘register to vote’ fading into graffiti script,
flu shots promised by smiling ghosts.
A bruised hatchling staring out beside the words
See something, say something.
The warning lights glow
like eyes hunting in the dark.
From its flanks the train
unfurls iron claws.
They rake
the tunnel walls,
the city’s bones,
the dark itself.
Sep 29, 2025
Sep 29, 2025 at 10:00 PM UTC
It's not that I’m hurt, it’s that I think I’ve been wounded.
If you wanted to be animals you should have done it outside.
I said you made me too sad and he sends his condolences in a get well soon card and he asks if he can sign the cast.
I KEEP PLAYING IT BACK:
HIS HANDS ARE BOTTLE OPENERS. SHE'S A RAKE IN HIS LAP. THIS FEELING IS LUKEWARM AND YOU DESERVE ALL THE BITTER IN THE ALCOHOL.
IF YOU WANTED TO BE ANIMALS YOU SHOULD HAVE DONE IT OUTSIDE.
I COULDN'T SLEEP IN MY BED
MY ROOM WASN'T MINE
I WANTED TO THROW MYSELF FROM THE BALCONY
I WANTED TO SEE
JUST HOW MANY BONES
I COULD GET AWAY WITH BREAKING
...
That night left a bruise.
And I'm
Still reeling.
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 4:02 PM UTC
Sweeping past the lineroom yards
With a long hand held broomstick
Malayandi was a daily sight,
A hard and indelible insight
His quiet mouth a taco
Betel leaf and tobacco
The sweet red rose scent
Animate his hands to accent
Rhythms in the dirt puddle
strokes of savage broom
Frolic along sewage groom
Gargle alongside marbles
Rake up ripple giggles
Babbling bubbles fling
Driving mild stink flakes
To spread morning
Knit into a dead neat serenity.
On festival seasons vacations
Instead of grooming the vassal
comes blooming with big vessels
Collects cooked food in measures
From each and every homestead
People pour in quiet leisure
Rice in a *** of metal
Curry in another kettle
Filled with reverence and pleasure
His heart is brimming sure
All different kitchen meals
In a single container appeals
All children of the same ranch
With many a range
of community
A bonehomie of unity
The children heard
from their friend his daughter
They'd preserved
All those food in cold water
And all the while
They'd eat from it too
This collected meal
for a week or two
This made the children to
look up at them
With same respect due to
a national anthem
Are they more advanced?
With knowledge enhanced
In matters of life and cleanliness?
Malayandi was unaware
That his humble duty covered
Sweeping as well grooming
The children's hearts
With arts of rare sensibility.
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 2:52 PM UTC
Opening a book,
page one opens and I now reawake.
Leaving for adventures sake,
where fantastical creatures awake.
Legendary battles they will partake,
epic stories, they will make.
A great king will rise to power, yet he will fake,
now the lives of his people, he will forsake.
Their furies and frustrations, will oscillate, like a rattlesnake,
As the king sits upon his throne, realizing his mistake.
Oh, now he will leave behind a terrible wake,
as he will be cooked upon the stake.
Along with the witch he turned into a hotcake.
Oh, what a fate,
the king surely must hate.
As he burns to a flake,
falling to be scooped by a rake.
I must now put on the brake,
as it is getting late,
and into another day this story I must take.
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 10:14 PM UTC
*** for me
baby girl
moan
with pleasure
rake
your nails
across
my chest
make it
hurt
prove
your love
for me
in blood
Jul 4, 2021
Jul 4, 2021 at 11:21 PM UTC
On Fridays, I cannot have you.
Though the faraway look combs through the glances, the heads lowering and longing
On Fridays, I cannot have you.
The icicle street of perturbing yellow parallel lines and molasses traffic that seems to rake the people across pavement into curvatures of avoidance keep me running.
On Fridays, I cannot have you.
I repeat it, a gesturing phrase, recurring, as I watch the transcendent glow, a denouement to a one-sentence story.
On Fridays, I cannot have you.
Could have: (What will save the moment in untickable preservation?)
On Fridays, I cannot have you.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 1:09 PM UTC
"I'm sorry if your dad left you .
I'm sorry if your dad hit you .
I'm sorry if your dad passed away .
I'm sorry if your mom left you .
I'm sorry if your mom hit you or got hit by your dad .
I'm sorry if your mom passed away .
I'm sorry if you get bullied .
I'm sorry if you cut your wrists .
I'm sorry if you can never get sleep at night .
I'm sorry if you throw up after you eat because you don't want to gain weight .
I'm sorry if you cry in your room for hours .
I'm sorry if you get called a ****** for being gay .
I'm sorry if your boyfriend or girlfriend hits you .
I'm sorry if you feel like you're not good enough .
I'm sorry if someone broke your heart .
I'm sorry if you got cheated on .
I'm sorry if you're in foster care .
I'm sorry if you're homeless .
I'm sorry if you would rather be homeless because being at home is torture .
I'm sorry if you rake your nails down your arms .
I'm sorry if you feel like nobody cares .
I'm sorry if you feel invisible .
I'm sorry if you feel you won't be as " pretty " or " handsome " as someone else . But guess what ? You are beautiful .
I'm sorry if you don't want to be saved .
I'm sorry if you do want to be saved , but nobody is around to help you .
I'm sorry if you lost a loved one .
I'm sorry if your brother or sister has a mental illness .
I'm sorry if I've hurt you .
I'm sorry if you've been sexually harassed .
I'm sorry I've not always been there when you've needed me .
I'm sorry if you have to sell drugs or do them because you hate reality .
I'm sorry for all the pain you kept inside for so long .
I'm sorry if your heart is broken .
I'm sorry if you feel this way .
But I know that with everything that is going wrong , one day it will go right .
I care about you , I want to give my all to show you how worth it you are .
I want you to live , I want you to fight this .
I need you here .
All your pain is something that probably followed you everywhere .
I know that things are hard , and nobody understands what you're going through .
You fake a smile , but I can see it .
You think you're unloved , but I love you so much . I promise you're loved .
If you think it's time for you to go , it's honestly not , this isn't worth it.
I know you want to die , nobody would miss you right ? Those thoughts are all a lie , those demons in your head are lying to you . All those people telling you to **** yourself aren't there when you need a hug , they aren't there when you're punching walls .
They assume you won't do anything, they aren't there when you're breaking down , and crying , but I promise you'll feel better soon , don't do this .
Don't leave me .
I need you .
You're worth it .
I know you're enough .
I love you .
I'm always just a message away .
Stay strong ."
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 12:34 AM UTC
Who knows what stops the heart of a song
I take note
of tiny thud—
robin in the wheel well of my car
the limp head
of a cat’s prey
sigh of wings
defrocked by power lines
baby starling’s fledgling flight
falling short of a pond’s edge
The slate morsel unearthed
by the tines of my rake
…and the world is vacant for a moment
Grief ***** a womb of air
but how it lives— I cannot say
Upended creature of us
Stops the throbs that herald life
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 3:24 PM UTC
Leaves are a little bit like girls
When I see a really crunchy looking leaf
I want to march up to it and step on it
Hear that sweet sound of spring’s death
Bringing way to autumn's beauty
With all her vivid colors
The changing trees swaying
In the chilling breeze
Leaves are a little bit like girls
When I see a really pretty girl
I want to march up to her and say something catchy
Something smooth
Something groovy, like,
“Hey darling.”
“Congratulations on your face. It’s beautiful.”
Caught off guard by such forward bravery
She’d be taken aback by my chivalry
Opening the door to opportunity
Although leaves are a little bit like girls
There are distinct differences
And I know you can all be my witnesses
A leaf is waiting to be crushed
Like a back waiting to be popped into place
Girls aren’t so fond of ginger boys
Or even ginger men
To come straight up and lift them on the pedestal of admiration
Girls are shy too; it's not just me
I simply want to say
Something to make her smile
Like, “I want to talk with you a while”
Leaves are a little bit like girls
No matter how hard you try to rake them in
They blow away in something
As light as the wind
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 3:07 AM UTC
How sweet and pleasant grows the way
Through summer time again
While Landrails call from day to day
Amid the grass and grain
We hear it in the weeding time
When knee deep waves the corn
We hear it in the summers prime
Through meadows night and morn
And now I hear it in the grass
That grows as sweet again
And let a minutes notice pass
And now tis in the grain
Tis like a fancy everywhere
A sort of living doubt
We know tis something but it neer
Will blab the secret out
If heard in close or meadow plots
It flies if we pursue
But follows if we notice not
The close and meadow through
Boys know the note of many a bird
In their birdnesting bounds
But when the landrails noise is heard
They wonder at the sounds
They look in every tuft of grass
Thats in their rambles met
They peep in every bush they pass
And none the wiser get
And still they hear the craiking sound
And still they wonder why
It surely cant be under ground
Nor is it in the sky
And yet tis heard in every vale
An undiscovered song
And makes a pleasant wonder tale
For all the summer long
The shepherd whistles through his hands
And starts with many a whoop
His busy dog across the lands
In hopes to fright it up
Tis still a minutes length or more
Till dogs are off and gone
Then sings and louder than before
But keeps the secret on
Yet accident will often meet
The nest within its way
And weeders when they **** the wheat
Discover where they lay
And mowers on the meadow lea
Chance on their noisy guest
And wonder what the bird can be
That lays without a nest
In simple holes that birds will rake
When dusting on the ground
They drop their eggs of curious make
Deep blotched and nearly round
A mystery still to men and boys
Who know not where they lay
And guess it but a summer noise
Among the meadow hay
3.3k
Pet was never mourned as you,
Purrer of the spotless hue,
Plumy tail, and wistful gaze
While you humoured our queer ways,
Or outshrilled your morning call
Up the stairs and through the hall—
Foot suspended in its fall—
While, expectant, you would stand
Arched, to meet the stroking hand;
Till your way you chose to wend
Yonder, to your tragic end.
Never another pet for me!
Let your place all vacant be;
Better blankness day by day
Than companion torn away.
Better bid his memory fade,
Better blot each mark he made,
Selfishly escape distress
By contrived forgetfulness,
Than preserve his prints to make
Every morn and eve an ache.
From the chair whereon he sat
Sweep his fur, nor wince thereat;
Rake his little pathways out
Mid the bushes roundabout;
Smooth away his talons’ mark
From the claw-worn pine-tree bark,
Where he climbed as dusk embrowned,
Waiting us who loitered round.
Strange it is this speechless thing,
Subject to our mastering,
Subject for his life and food
To our gift, and time, and mood;
Timid pensioner of us Powers,
His existence ruled by ours,
Should - by crossing at a breath
Into safe and shielded death,
By the merely taking hence
Of his insignificance—
Loom as largened to the sense,
Shape as part, above man’s will,
Of the Imperturbable.
As a prisoner, flight debarred,
Exercising in a yard,
Still retain I, troubled, shaken,
Mean estate, by him forsaken;
And this home, which scarcely took
Impress from his little look,
By his faring to the Dim
Grows all eloquent of him.
Housemate, I can think you still
Bounding to the window-sill,
Over which I vaguely see
Your small mound beneath the tree,
Showing in the autumn shade
That you moulder where you played.
3.4k
Come and hear the tale of a falling
This failure of a king, his story appalling
Come and hear of his last moment's calling
This man whom we once called our king.
A mad king anointed with power in mind
Crowned by desperation, crowned by the blind
A tyrannical king; No worse will you find
For this man is a servant of Hell.
He comes and he swears in God's holy name
To cater the people and lands that they tame
But it's I who knows of his little game
The political regime that he runs.
He sits on his throne and barks at his men
Demanding the whys and demanding the when
Slowly but surely he wears the string thin;
For the people may tolerate so much.
He works through the town, donning his crown
A hat that is envied by all in the town;
For the man is rich, the man is renowned!
This man whom all call their king.
Beneath him men die, but criminals don't pay
Put them to death, that's what I say!
This kings way is in no way the right way
But we the people can do naught but pray.
But good men exist, whom jail the unjust
Good men who work to earn the town's trust
And these good men speak out, shaking out the dust
And speak out against their king
The king starts to fear, his gate is now closed
And he starts to regret the options he chose
And now by good men this king is deposed
By good men this king is denied.
Now we call him a tyrant, we call him a fake
We spit on his image, his throne we forsake
We take up our arms, pitchfork and rake
And march to his door to knock.
Some killed by guards, but good men prevail
And blood rains down like late Summer hail
And in the end we hear the king wail
His death is announced the next morning.
Good men cheer and king's men glance back
Wondering what it was the mad king lacked
Though who didn't expect his castle ransacked
For was not the king of the wicked?
It matters not in the end, you will find
Good men un-knotted this terrible bind
They laugh and jest at history behind
And cast themselves to a new king.
But this ballad of history will soon be repeated
For in the halls of recurrence it is seated
This tragic comedy of rulers so heated
This tragic tale of a king.
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
God ******
mercenaries
vipers
hypocrites
The Lamb of God
sold into the marketplace
led into the slaughter
The Love and Heart of God
now a harlot
for the desires and pleasures of perverse men
--honestly, I have more respect for a Lady of the Night, than religious ****** who traffic in holiness
The Spirit of God
miracles transformed
into entertainment and to rake in filthy lucre
The Banner of God
leads an army of hate
The Pastor of God
exiles a member of Christ’s body
The sacred Writings of God
twisted into a message of
judgement, guilt, intolerance
I am dismayed
disturbed
disappointed
disgusted
… I have seen too much
The Heart of God bleeds, tears fall from His eyes
How long will this go on?
Is there vengeance and a special place of punishment reserved for those who commit such travesty?
For those who trample on the Blood of the Savior?
--Serge Banderet
Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 3:48 AM UTC
On the platform rolled the morning train,
I arched into position like a predator on the prowl,
I jumped into the rake and sustained a sprain,
and like a wounded dog began to howl.
I bought myself to stand and staggered towards an empty seat,
as hundreds rushed through the compartment door,
I dint get a seat, but space enough for my feet,
and that's when my phone clattered onto the floor.
I dived into the mammoth crowd,
and began to ***** unsuspecting toes,
Several people yelped out loud,
and i sustained a few hard blows.
Wounded and abashed i almost gave up the search,
when the phone came into my hand,
with relief i grabbed it amidst a jolt and lurch,
but soon realized I couldn't bring myself to stand.
I sat crouched on my fours,
and soon developed knee sores,
The crowd was so large, I couldn't squeeze through them all,
and to my horror, other phones began to fall.
Soon, we were quite a gathering, all perched on our knees,
merrily discussing the Lokpal bill and the Cricket match in West Indies,
We were soon forced to balance on a single toe,
as the crowd began to grow even more.
After an uncomfortable half an hour,I brought myself to stand,
with delicate ease on the platform I managed to land.
Fighting against the oncoming crowd i pushed through with a shove and ****
dusting myself here and there I made my way to work.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 7:08 AM UTC
In the great scheme of life, many choices you make,
Where to work, who to date, your yard when to rake.
The game of hearts is not quite the same,
Who you love and end up with, is all based on aim.
Yes Cupids aim, is sometimes not good,
Dam arrow it lands, in many a strange hood.
Once per chance the target is hit,
They may be charming, attractive and full of wit.
Only the lucky lovers get this type of win,
The arrow is known to bring pain, shame and sin.
Never knowing what's in store for you,
Loving arms and a partner that’s true,
Or an unfaithful idiot, to make you feel blue.
You may think you scored, they look smokin' hot,
Having *** day and night, you love them a lot.
This sounds pretty awesome, is there a down side?
Not unless you count secrets, and the lovers he hides.
The girl that finds sales, and will spend all your cash,
She goes out on black Friday, doing the fifty yard dash.
Coming home the next day, a smile on her face,
I saved money here, and there, and this place!
What she fails to tell you, is your fresh out of money,
Say something about it, she'll resign as your honey.
The men are no better, their tempers get hot,
Slobs and the lazy, and the ones that smoke ***
One time in the game, Cupid seemed to shoot straight,
He gave me a lover, to see I couldn’t wait.
We had some good times, but the end is the same,
Bad excuses, feelings hurt, another to tame.
Please freakin' Cupid, have a talk with William Tell,
Take an archery lesson, or your bow I will sell.
You keep making me fall, for the wrong type of mate,
Just want a good friend, not a women to hate.
Visit poemsbypaul.com
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 11:15 AM UTC