"retrieval" poems
Miscommunication
serendipity, anticipation,
blurred reality -
lost in the dialect
of a dream,
in pursuit
of Love
find callous irony;
subversion of desire
what's it all about?
to know and be known.
Mere seconds
of scrutiny
inferior,
I am shown.
Her appraisal
eviscerating
my warm flesh,
her tilted criteria
supplanting the interior,
voluble with
saccharine neologisms
and preferences
for the exterior.
(not mine)
Ironic was my
attraction to
her brain.
Lines, features
and symmetry,
image - the commodity,
aesthetics, the
currency
in this transaction,
cursory liaison,
incendiary,
collapse of the
insurgent ego -
there was no
us in the
the affair of
nothingness.
Bruised in
abasement,
I'm not the one -
I thought I was.
Hyperbole -
the center
of delusion,
a curious
diversion -
avoid my life.
The allure of
the illusion,
transference,
the ordinary to
the romantic,
the perfect other.
Searching, the
absorbing project -
aquiring wholeness,
did she reject me?
I rejected me.
The escape into
fraudulent
sadness,
to mourn,
is to displace,
the disowned heart
by self is tragic.
Should
I not mourn for
the one I'm
deferring?
Inside of me
It's safe,
to lament
the loss of
identity -
tension is agony
without resolve
sequestered,
in my pain,
self-imposed
familiar terrain,
upon retrieval,
awaking in
renewal,
mystery and destiny
providentially,
I am free.
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 8:08 PM UTC
A simple bottle,
Cheap chunky plastic,
Designer garbage.
Empty of its liquid energy.
Glossy label parrying the flash,
Glaring retrieval of light.
Sickly bold orange cap,
Impudently tight,
Defending the blanched carpet below.
Moment of fragility,
Suspended on the humid waves of air,
Eternity in an insubstantial moment.
It wafts away from his fingers,
Plastic given wings,
Fixed by his steely eyes,
A forced arc,
Stretching to the ceiling.
Focused intensity.
An infinite gap looms
Instants before the catch.
He didn’t notice the stray,
A camera pointed his way,
Capturing this moment,
Making it magical.
Clarity is threatened by obscurity,
People pressing in,
Bending the frame.
Time is lost,
Too much wasted on boredom,
And playing catch with yourself.
Spine lax, body slumped.
Interruptions and distractions surround.
His face vivid in the mix,
Lost in the wash of faces,
So much like his,
Flushed by the same blood.
His unwavering gaze
Holds the emptiness in shackles.
Second of silence in the crushing sound,
Relentless muttering rumble,
The voices of family,
So constantly buzzing.
Jumbled tumbling voices.
A peanut gallery seeking constant attention.
The camera congeals the moment,
Silencing the mass.
In the absence the bottle and the boy
Infinitely alone,
Endlessly still.
Oct 20, 2012
Oct 20, 2012 at 10:33 PM UTC
Verdant eyes, translucent pearls
speak in silent witness,
wounds unfurl
meaning revealed,
interrupted girl.
Safe in solidarity
prolific eccentricity,
the scandal of particularity.
Pouting mouth
grief - filled lips
alluring, set sail a thousand ships;
tempt me to leave harbor.
Arousing euphoria as such,
resistance, amity and distance
amour sans touch
her sense of humor transcends,
appeasing the mind’s thirst
a vogue sultana,
seasoned swagger
hair resplendent flame,
alternating cool, black
asymmetrical coiffure;
nonconforming demure
the renegade metaphor -
singular for sure, no cure.
Muted vanity, bathos piercing
the jaded circumference of banality;
pale protagonist servitude
the sapient palaver of the urbane,
covered patina of pretense,
induced coercion,
the commodity self
appearing abased
wearing lesions of lassitude.
Artistic chattel - eminent domain
preempting genius,
subsidiary of consuming narcissism
external locus of control;
surrender to the tentative,
fettered pendant, Venus in chains
arrested visionary bane
sterile savant, edifice of pain.
The soubrette, dubious incarnation
gravid ingénue of prevarication
imperceptible venue -
theatre of the absurd;
withdrawn siren,
solitude of necessity -
skin - slender veil of shame,
nearness loitering redemption;
moments envisage
the appointment with the soul;
ambiguity eschews clarity
awareness; ineluctable anxiety,
imago - centric confession
sacred pardon, seraphic venation
intravenous textures presume,
the tactile margins of liberty.
Therapeutic retrieval,
Sanguine,
beneath the portico of
individuation;
Your smile I hear,
recovered autonomy
blessed emancipation,
The scandal of particularity;
peculiar treasure
ironically captured
film, canvas,
prose profundity.
Ciphering as an ambling book,
I peruse you,
rendered captive
hypnotic avant-garde fiction,
spectator of denuded opacity
analogous reflection, I Mirror you.
A modest proposal - pontificate the imperative,
forgo the disposal, adapt your narrative,
the scandal of particularity -
resonate the echo, cogitate our propinquity
Love, imagination and destiny.
©2008 & 2011 W.S Warner
Sep 9, 2011
Sep 9, 2011 at 1:20 AM UTC
~
not a fan of reality TV,
plenty of "unreal" episodes
of my own direction stored,
available for further review
in the storage units of
neuronic black and white prison brain cells
which is why I have free~will chosen
to enumerate my poem~videos;
for easy retreat retrieval resurrection
of the travelogue of mind own insurrections
*a garage of mobility devices,
car, rollerblades, cross country skis plus,
a potpourri of escape methodologies
that by definition are all round trippers,
returned to their storage unit after use
and I count them Noah~like,
two by two, as they come on board,
and when they disembark for days of
rest and recreation*
this one, #4,
is born
among headstones,
just anther memory storage unit
specialized,
flag decorated,
but different
This is a one-way,
no return,
unit
but
it can be viewed at anytime
by those who care to be users,
by speaking this:
*Read to me poem number four,
on a day we celebrate,
about free men of every color and persuasion,
who are calling out to
open the door to storage unit four,
so we to can perform
our once-a-year
Tour of Duty
to the those who called,
and answered with limb and love,
for by their glory,
we are
free too*
to remember in any way we choose
~
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 5:18 PM UTC
Which Is Greater?
I break a vow.
A serious vow.
In a place, in this site,
Where the fluid pain
Is the water of the world,
The element that is crux,
The amniotic liquor of creative flux,
The morning juice,
The afternoon caffe,
The first beer of the day,
The liquid that we rinse and spit out our every day,
I will write about pain,
Arrogantly, as if there is any unused combination of
Letters, vowels and consonants left unspoken, *****
Having sworn not to, for pain is cumulative.
Asking myself,
Which is greater?
The pain of creation, inception, origination and birth,
The pain of wreck and ruin, destruction and death.
Homework Self-Assignment: Compare and Contrast
Suddenly, I am expert.
Creating a poem a day is very painful.
A poem that is the sum of
Reflection, research, and purging.
Once I wrote:
*The poem is the afterbirth,
A conflicts resolution, an outcome,
Battlefield debris, the residue of
An exacting vision, a sentiment surging,
And your army of words, inadequate to the task,
Fighting to capture that insight flashed,
Each word a soldier, disheveled,
Crying, let me live, let me be saved,
Let me make a poem,
Let it be inscribed upon my victorious flag.
The poem is the sweat left upon the brow,
Having exercised the five senses,
The salt of struggle and debate,
It's completion, each word,
Both a victory and a defeat.*
Suddenly, I am expert.
My mother is dying.
It is a process. Days pass,
She neither eats or drinks,
Yet she lives on.
I watch each labored exhalation,
A subtraction, a countdown,
It is as if she was returning each singular day,
Every word e're spoke, every dream dreamt,
she ever possessed to the atmosphere,
One breath at a time.
Is that painful?
It is for me.
Now you complain. They're different, not to be compared, et cetera.
Pain is pain,
Whether it is in the service of creation, or
Creative destruction.
Once I wrote:
*With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poem's birth diminishes me.*
So, one and the same?
Nope. Yes. But. Cannot one be the greater?
Yes, one is greater.
When I lay on my deathbed,
I will exhale the answer
Into the atmosphere
For your retrieval.
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 7:06 PM UTC
Thunder in the stomp and lightning in the palms
Heavy and dense, the collision is coming on
Strong surges coursing through as the motions expand the mass
Intimidation in the fierce force of augmentation beyond grasp
Remaining in stance against the currents of evil
A Stone in the flow of truth's retrieval
Erosion spreading essence through the seasons of ice and fire
Smoothing into perfection's quest and desire
The master and student mindset sustaining technique's finesse
Following the steps into gathering change best
Replacing hollow space, the nothingness with breath
Then breaking through the base of still chakra's in the chest
Bring substance to the vortex, revolutionary spins
Balanced power, the coagulation over wounds begins
Leaping to light then back like a star to earth
Creating the weight that's needed for foundation and rebirth
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 2:50 PM UTC
By running to the past
Where the sun came in
Can there be a retrieval
Of the happiness rising
On blue Iris in its bloom.
For the past is safely lived
Untouchable, protected
And the wandering warm
The hawthorn prickles
Not a spray or blight.
Love Mary x
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 12:29 PM UTC
---
when every last vestige of
your humanity seems to be
a jigsaw puzzle game
strewn across the universe
with no possibility of
retrieval
of all pieces
KEEP YOUR MIND UPON THE LORD
when rage accosts the
very center of your heart
like a home invasion
taking with it
all the
milk of human kindness
KEEP YOUR MIND UPON THE LORD
when your flowers die
in a blight of ice
the very roots
frozen in the tundra
and spring becomes winter
in the space of an hour
KEEP YOUR MIND UPON THE LORD
when worry wrings your brain
like a fishwife with a towel
doubt lays a crooked wall
using your bones as a trowel
fear is a raven which
travels with the owl
KEEP YOUR MIND UPON THE LORD
when evil wells out
of every pore of your existence
like sludge drained from
the bottom of a
juggernaut
TANK
KEEP YOUR MIND UPON THE LORD!
for Jesus Christ is the
puzzle piece
which restores
the entire game
---
He's the peace which
passes all understanding
the joy which is our strength
---
He is the
Rose of Sharon
which has no time nor season
but blooms eternally
---
He is the mechanic
who made all destruction
and will
DESTROY THE WORKS OF DARKNESS
**KEEP
YOUR
MIND
UPON
♡ JESUS CHRIST ♡**
THE AUTHOR AND FINISHER
OF OUR
~~~< F • A • I • T • H >~~~
SoulSurvivor
(C) 7/16/2016
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 12:22 AM UTC
Seven New Poems For Seven Days #6 & 7: Live like you're dying
Perhaps you know the lyric, the song?
Live like your dying.
Dying caught my ear, my eye, can't imagine why.
Con-Textual emendation, Natalino style.
Live like your writing.
Yes, that makes sense...
Embrace with passion each new session
Charge every second stanza with ruminating rhythms,
Cut the wires to the air traffic control sensory tower, go solo,
Pulse each word, beat all into a plowshare, even the anger,
Even the hate, dressed to **** in words, forgivable...
Grant the mundane, the insane, even the pain of tragedy,
You refuse so hardily to glorify, grant it and
Record it all - a moment,
A royal audience with all
Your writing parts.
No fancy footing, keep it simple.
No jesters in rain puddles,
Let images of clouds of sand
Born and perish in other's eyes and sighs, let verbal games bedevil other
Wooden puppet princes drinking fairy ales.
Huh?
Write clean and clear,
Let the sheerest wonderment of a new combination,
Be the titillation of the tongue's alliteration,
No head scratching at oblique verbal gestation,
Let words clear speak, each letter a speck,
That gives and grants clarification, sensational.
You, afternoon quenching Coronas, white T shirts,
Sun glazes and later, a summer eve's Sancerre,
Wave gazing on the reality of rusted beach chairs,
Babies sandy naked, washed in waves of Chardonnay,
The traffic-filled word-way highways and bay ways,
Exiting at the Poet's Nook, for exegesis & retrieval.
Write of:
Body shakes and juices, skin-staining tongues,
Taking her, afternoon, unexpectedly, her noises your derring-do!
Broken tear ducts, the Off switch, so busted, write about
Real stuff.
Write not in fear of dying
Angels delivering bad news in vacuum tubes,
Write joyous, psalms of loving life,
Live like your writing,
Write like your living,
So you may die well.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 6:06 PM UTC
2 addicts in conversation
I've always said the act of love itself from unrequited to world wind is a drug that claims more addicts than all narcotics combine. From the rush to the withdrawals. tears and anticipation to the eruption of having it taken from you. This love drug leaves you a fiend even if you've never participated in its consumption, you pursue, hunt, track and lose your mind for the slimmest of chance in its acquisitions.
Let's take a hit together now and forever. As friends, lovers, partners, and unify.
I feel you! I hear you! Where siblings of the same needle in its lust and retrieval.
-xin-
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 11:18 PM UTC
This word does not require a dictionary definition. It does require a shoutout to AmandaFH, who commissioned this poem, and whose surging emotional haikus delight and inspired this poem.
Regret
first, get a knife.
cut yourself
figuratively only,
in half.
take the Memory Part
that rises in the gorge,
poetry source,
that precedes that
awful word,
regrets,
with
me, I, and
My.
dump, flush it fast
down the drain, disposal,
someplace where there is
no retrieval, going back, second chance.
cause when that's done,
now there is no one
who cares
about your regrets.
that is the easy part.
you don't need to be a poet,
litany lilting a list so long
of loves lost, chances, shots
not taken, or worst,
those you didn't
love well enough
and can't go back.
gone, but hey, but yet,
body still weighed down.
incomplete, stop,
even with those
**** regrets banished,
empty spaces sore,
empty being a word
I don't really like.
but I having come to earth
to heal,
whole you in the places that need
soul filling,
Invitation:
we are gathered here today to remember
your future regrets,
long may they rest in
the land of things that never happened.
you are aware of
exactly
of what
you're avoiding,
today's "to do" list
that only gets added to,
that you never willingly pick up.
pick up the phone.
I will even accept texts.
heck, send them one of those there
Po-ems you write so well.
if there is one,
Then There Are Ten,
who need to hear from you,
right now, not later never,
that you love them.
it costs.
could even cost more later.
do it anyway.
cause today is the first day
of never having a regret
ever. again.
beg for forgiveness.
grant forgiveness.
pay that bill.
tear up the bill
you think is
owed you.
choose. pick. decide.
apologize.
let it go,
free the part of you
that will be now never be
regretted later.
here is where I quit this
Po-me-em.
gotta couple of
emails to send,
all starting with a
warm gracious hi!
followed by a couple of
missing thinking loving you
and it's been a while since...
p.s. it's been awhile since,
may have overlooked
acknowledging your
comments and likes,
not answered that message,
re my words that stirred,
so let me start here and
repair that error,
right, right now, here,
cross off that future regret,
I humbly,
thank you in a way
no words could ever
fully express.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 10:00 AM UTC
jealousy is the root of evil
once said, there is no retrieval
Mar 19, 2021
Mar 19, 2021 at 9:46 AM UTC
*he says:
I say,
seems my things were bequeathed
Without my knowledge!
Isn’t my heart already spoken for?*
(received in the post)
Dear Mr. Ledbetter
We thank you for having signed away your organs to us.
We appreciate your donation.
We hope you’ve, in turn, enjoyed the half-generous donations deposited into your account some time ago.
You’ve been living off the proceeds of organs we will inherit one day.
And we trust you’ve been looking after our organs, especially your heart.
Upon your final hour, we will reap the rest of you.
And we will offer the second half of a gift to your kin: a small donation and application forms.....
Have a continued happy life, Mr. Ledbetter.
Thanking you
Organ-Retrieval Team
*my heart, my heart
Oh, me heart*
S T, 18 July 2013
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 3:03 PM UTC
imagine;
peace, a place in space,
for noise,
for surrendered souls,
yet unwilling to admit,
wrongs,
misgivings, distrust,
slander, lust
thrusting pain,
disdain,
lying lame, dormant
inferiority complex(es),
transferred,
disturbed.
(thirteen)
ego, self-will,
willful ******
pertinacious
resistance,
unrelenting
tireless
forces,
evil, cunning
retrieval
of, emptied
hearts,
of hands,
tied.
(thirteen)
© Sia Jane
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 5:23 PM UTC
Limbo
Black hole quasar pulsar star meridians oblique oracle messages from beyond the lost between the bureau of the forgotten
Dreams images disjointed some admirably projected on the screen of the mind they tell you a mystery where is the key
Like being in a library books everywhere any subject any topic whatever your taste or fancy but without retrieval how rotten
Space fascinates holds men enthralled the searching of the cosmos the whole of life it has consumed the overly curious
What I’m talking about is if you could take a meteor shower put it in a black velvet bag capture true magic hold for your disposal
Take droplets of rain speak to them and they would obey your voice become for one hour that which you desire most from life
Find the passage to the center of the mountain a gapping cave where a true oracle is beheld divine utterance her real espousal
You take knowledge long hidden disperse it among the most troubled and confused and aura breaks and arches those of need
Life’s dilemmas and contrasts these intangible twisted knotted fields of gloom you touch bows unknown understanding blooms
Course contrary buffeted by unpleasant wind oh to know how to rescind make rays of hope grow in resplendent rows
The common coal fired and pressured over millennia does purist light ignite the mind soul and heart in excitement it consumes
Striation found in the cold glacier this natural marking take from it learn the soul has divine grooves that only play spiritual tunes
This might sound farfetched but one day it will be the norm for Gods family the unexpected the unbelievable your daily life
Now we are in neutral or the drive is mostly in the natural like you build the best house then someone sticks up an eye sore
There is the contrast the conflict your spiritual house shines then your enemy self wrecks and devalues ruination rife
The spirit oracle revealed that the devil wants you as a trophy in a case how nice God wants you but he wants you as family
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 8:43 PM UTC
Seven New Poems for Seven Days #2: Hover^
My Children:
Ancestral homes oft possess,
a unique scent, product of an atomizer, a memorizer
Musty time, the odor of
faded and shadow,
hollow, yet hallowed.
Somewhere along the road,
a residence transforms from home to
shrine-storage unit-hospital room-tomb-records depository.
Dust, expired perfumes,
the sweet odor of crumbling, yellowing books, disinfectant,
stale medicine chests, years of furniture polish, sabbath candles.
It is my smell -
the parfumerie of my history, a customized blend,
a commissioned work in 1964, entitled, more accurately, emitted,
"Her-Story."
Photographs, memories, and paper scraps
my very own Preservation Hall Jazz Band.
Yet the most potent firing pin for historical retrieval,
the molecules of scent.
Soon all will be dismantled, discarded,
just plain dis'ed.
Confused and disenchanted,
my departure orderly but, in a disordered fashion.
unable to seed one last kiss upon your forehead,
nonetheless, surreptitiously enter your neurons
though my entity, away, across the miles-wide Hudson River.
For three days, I will hover invisible,
implanting myself once more,
slapping your mucous membranes,
transversing this pathway, an additive to your cells, nuclei,
where my markers always reside.
Adding one more ingredient to your inner vision,
strengthening the formless structure, my altered state.
This odor, keep close, fresh, no becoming musty too, my scent,
the last of your senses knowing me, a true keepsake.
*Hold me close and hold me fast.
This one last magic spell I cast.
This one last magic smell I set fast.
You cannot hold it, but it will cradle you.
You cannot see or touch it, but when contact comes,
You will see me, hold me, as in the days of your youth,
When you loved me best,
And I, you.*
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
Just what is it that I am discovering?
I feel like I'm blubbering
Idly hovering over something
Something so bright I am blinded
And if my hunch is right I'll sign it
While kissing in the sky
There's a place deep down
In the bottom of the sack
Where the weakened drown
And the warriors attack
Where the heart pounds
And glory turns to *****
Into gory sheets
Categorically pieced
Through out a dream state
In a feast of upheaval
Under the peaking sun
In a leash of retrieval
Over the space of one
All waking to wonder
In the slumber of none
My bitter bones tumbling
To the drums thump
My slithered poems humming
To the stumps
My withered homes crumbling
To the months
Turned years
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 10:52 PM UTC
this time different,
the crafting, the words knitted,
care taken, no quips or easy rhymes,
metaphors few, but the stitching is yet
rhythmic, disciplined,
beholden to its construct
~~~
yesterday,
spoke of the more and the ever less,
and the alpha seas restorative,
today,
*the ****** quick and the ever still*
the beating of jumpsuit orange fabric, wind-whipped,
musical homage to the terrifying
silence of a battlefield,
your utility belt,
body parts and soul silences,
a composition of what was
and what will now never be
you were there
you are there
witness-combatant,
no denying the voyeured carnage
of a human self destructing,
or being destructed in a way
**********turned you on,
worse, temptingly familiar
the horror meets you, it recognizes, locates
its place within that is stored close by,
where you keep it just close enough to surface
for quick retrieval
you postulate, pose, clap hands to heads,
make groanings awful, rethinking fearful pictures
I don't believe in free will
I don't believe in free
I don't believe in will
there is good and there is no good
there is the quick and the still
the still comes fast and stays longer,
the quick lasts longer, the obvious now
always seconds of too long,
all implausibly undenied and factually reversed
I hang myself crudely,
my throat slit quick,
and the still images that follows
everlasting and unerasable,
no matter how quickly,
how often temples hard squeezed
I see the images,
the quick and the still
they won't let go of me
text me that you know,
exactly what I mean,
know what I know
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 11:27 PM UTC
She's sitting on the edge of stone
looking across the blue
a white rose in her hand
rememberance of a tune
a song of angels
playing in the air
over and over she turns the rose
his voice is everywhere
Her dress is all wet
tears falling down
she does'nt really care
another drop to the ground
Empty porcelin
with a pretty face
a soul entwined
to his heavenly space
she laughs a whisper
and drops the rose
looks up to the heaven
a stairway flows
she sees her image
lost out there
then she takes
to the clouded stairs
she embraces herself
her soul with tears
and now a smile
love in the mirror
down she goes
back to the stone
angels singing
no more alone
Nov 15, 2009
Nov 15, 2009 at 6:00 AM UTC
A flicker of sapphire gems,
A flash of pearls,
The gleaming ivory beckons me near.
The smooth touch sings sweet melodies,
softly whispering sweet nothings
as I am overtaken with adornment.
The crisp blue shines bright onto ***** skin,
teasing and prodding emotions,
pulling them from deep murky waters.
The pearls have disappeared now,
enclosed behind a faux cave,
trapped in darkness.
A tear dampens her cheek,
mistaken words had been uttered
with no way of retrieval.
All I do, I do for
the glistening of sapphires,
the glint of pearls, and to feel the immaculate ivory.
If I besmirch these precious gems,
If I cause them to be tarnished,
why live at all?
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 11:41 PM UTC
Like an hour glass tipped on its side
She waits
Time. Stands. Still.
tick tock
tick tock
Dreams shelved
Indefinitely
Filed in an alphabetical index
allowing quick retrieval
for when she is free
to dream again.
ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOP
QRSTUVWXYZ
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 2:31 PM UTC
An unsuspecting, little, field mouse
committed a simple mistake one day;
it unwittingly entered my rented house,
not knowing my cats wanted to play.
My feline buddies, Hijinx and Mischief,
decided to live up to their spirited names;
sadly, the field mouse was offered no relief –
for the boys had a live prize to claim.
By its tail, my cats had live entertainment;
although they’re allowed to have their fun,
from this one deed, my cats will never repent;
for they again had disobeyed - rule number one.
Since their English is not very good,
their one restriction they tend to forget;
so it’s not surprising they misunderstood,
my rule of: “Pets are not allowed to have pets!”
So now it was time for me to intervene;
performing an unexpected “Animal Rescue”,
I now became a mouse catching machine
and watched him scamper away from my view.
A new retrieval approach, I had to posit;
with the boys closely monitoring my work,
I quickly chased him into a nearby closet,
hoping my cats wouldn’t impatiently go berserk.
Removing items from the closet’s floor,
and contending with this fuzzy foreigner,
I eyed the boys – to keep him from being gored.
Eventually, I trapped him in the corner.
By the time I reached him, he had died –
traumatized until his last heart’s rush.
Unlike my curious pets, I became teary eyed,
as this escapade ended… with a toilet’s flush.
Author Notes:
P.S. This based on a real event, that occurred when I was renting a small home in New Jersey.
-Joe Breunig
January/February 2012
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 7:38 AM UTC
I wonder what it takes to go full circle
and find my way back home to You?
Although I might be as slow as a turtle
Your love will guide me when I am true.
I’ll finish up then as I began being a child of Yours
having knocked on so many of life’s secret doors.
But even though I have yet to find all the right answers
at this stage of my life there have been some advances.
My feelings towards You now seem to have changed
but this shouldn’t be a reason for us to feel estranged.
Love’s the universal magnet that draws everything close together
we shouldn’t mind too much if we pass through stormy weather.
In a world of constant change there are many upheavals
but love often does get stronger when there’s a retrieval.
It’s something of a realisation by which we come to know
that as love completes a full circle perfection it will show.
How long will it take to go full circle
to find my way back home with You?
It seems I'm just as slow as a turtle
But is Love guiding me and am I true?
_____________________
Nov 9, 2010
Nov 9, 2010 at 7:17 PM UTC
A dark cavern
Yawns wide
Cobwebbed
With corpses of storage
Of prehistoric age,
Went in long time
Put stay
Without again
Seeing light of day,
Untouched by squall
on the wall
In hibernation
An archive
Beyond retrieval,
A black square hole
Without a role
In my living room,
I’ll never take a ladder
to hold me aloft
and peep inside the loft
but let continue
its slumberous mystery
date prehistory
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 7:41 AM UTC
Acrostic
Assimilation of mind to further the agenda of the few
Certification that retrieval of private information is not all they do
Relying on sources that can never live up to expectations
Obligations heavily burdened the shoulders of all nations
Senseless removal of alternate energy generation
Thoughtless caring of blight of character destrucion
Improbabilites of reaching goals of the faithful
Clinging desperately for the return of the saviour
Gomer LePoet...
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 3:52 AM UTC