"riffle" poems
Its in these waters, when I was merely a Parr
Or as you might refer to me as a fry,
This wise but young Brook Trout cruised the slow water with my kinfolk fry.
Moving to and fro hiding among the biome vegetation
The sunlight supported my living space and warmed my growth rings.
I dart in and out of the oxygenated seams which help me flourish.
Some days, I had to use stealth to outwit the pine marten and warblers,
I shadowed the cattail and watched them fill their bellies with those around me.
But I felt fate had a purpose for me to be something special.
And When the time was right, I'd propel myself above the water into the night air.
The large circle of orange light filled my eyes and the night sky was filled with luminary.
I imagined what it must be like to live outside this riffle domain.
This morning, through my refractory vision I spot some floating objects,
And through an inherited sensory recall I can see these are hatching green Drakes.
I immediately shoot to the surface and fill my stomach, then swim back to the undercut for cover.
As the years pass by and maturity abounds, I find my self settling in behind a large boulder
Right at the tail out of the back eddy, providing me with an ample food supply.
And it's here I prefer to live my life in the slow current, content and peaceful.
And one day as I swam into the current seam, I spotted what appeared to be,
A different looking bug with yellow belly, so I make my move.
He's not moving much so I decide to raise my head above the water line and sip.
As I grab the hopper I start to slide back behind the boulder,
When I feel a pinch, as if someone try's to pull me towards the surface
I fight with all my might but this force proves to be stronger than I.
It's now I realize a human reels me towards the shore line, and I'm fearful.
This one called a human, grabs my tail and places his hand on my under belly.
Pulling me from my home, he dislodges the hook from my mouth. I gasp for oxygen.
He looks me over from nose to tail, smiles and says how beautiful I am.
He looks me in the eye And says " This was a wonderful fight my friend, enjoy the rest of your life,
He places me back in water, gently reviving me and finally lets me swim away.
I dare to turn and look back at him for a moment and as he continues to watch me,
I hear him say " I fish, knowing everyday on this stream is a gift."
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 3:59 PM UTC
Death, darkness, despair, that how I found you.
Stardust, gunpowder, riffle, nine, I’m glad I came in time
Loss, anger, no fear, no care, oh dear!
I stared deep in your eyes and wonder, wonder, wonder and wonder
Why oh why did I let you go
Why oh why did you tell me no
Time, ring, cell, nothing can keep it in
Tears, pain, emotions I wanted none
Gun, run, no fear, no fun, in a minute the bullet left the gun
Into the darkness you retreat, leaving no trace of light not even from the sun
Walls closing in, dark as night, that’s where I found you
Clinging tight to the pain, let me be your knight
You took my hands and we drifted, drifted out of sight
Mar 5, 2018
Mar 5, 2018 at 2:50 PM UTC
Moving again.
Packing and suffocating
just to hoard awhile.
Unleash and prop in the next chapter.
How many more times
will I have to revolve around the clock timer?
Displace my comfort.
Stir up and riffle my stability
just to watch for the final sunset.
Until the explanations to my pebble have to dust
out of my mouth again.
A gypsy life not for three.
So hard to handle for anyone but me.
Practice, practice, reset and stay.
It's a cycle I'm tired of.
Grown accustomed to delay and anxiety.
Longing for roots and more tomorrows.
Fly me away with wings of fire.
To disintegrate left behind memory
that's tying up my feet.
To ignite a blazed landing...
To grow from,
to be content on.
A place to be when my pebble wants to fly.
© NDHK
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 3:59 AM UTC
The thought of losing myself
to the point of a riffle
in both of my hands
are crazy enough to
make me break down
in my own mind.
No tornado circling
around this neighborhood
but I feel wasted around my head
while thinking about things I shouldn't have done.
I keep blaming people around
when the problem is actually me
and I keep flaming fire
and that's just a waste of time.
Grab your bags Azfar,
the problem is here,
it's time to run.
Jul 17, 2019
Jul 17, 2019 at 7:02 AM UTC
I dream a million fireflies transporting me to this space
A Moon shadow casts a light upon my face.
A Young boy dreaming of tight lines on this Kinderhook NY stream,
Water droplets on frozen fly line, cast a prism sunbeam.
It's this time and special place that etches a constant memory,
Of Standing on that rock casting tight loops across the estuary.
Practice makes perfect as I make a presentation towards this riffle,
I can see a smile on my face, a moment in time that's purely transcendental.
With hope on the rise and a pheasant tail nymph tied to my tippet,
I make my way past the roily water to a calmer spot I'll inhibit.
Stripping line I load this feather chucker and place a nymph on the breezers nose
Zzzzzzz screams my reel and I scramble to fight this foe
As the snow begins to fall, I gaze upon this look of contentment in my eyes
And hover from above to watch myself learning to fly.
I whisper to myself, " Man life doesn't get any better than this",
As I kneel to release my catch, I watch him glide into the abyss.
And at day's end, I find myself walking beside the memory of Lou, Theodore, and Jack,
Three mentors who showed me the way, part of my Wulff pack.
Some Say "if I fished only to capture fish, my trips would have ended long ago",
And now I have something that money can't buy, the gift of learning to fly.
Sep 13, 2016
Sep 13, 2016 at 2:55 PM UTC
Trapped within this heat there’s an
Ocean of thoughts defeating me.
Suicide has come and gone even death
Is confused. I am awake yet the whole
Of ikasi is half-asleep.
Conflict between races: black, white, yellow,
I mix these colors and get red for bloodshed
Bombarding my mind as I choose my artillery:
Butcher’s knife or bread knife? Mxm **** it, I opt to
Load my machine gun as I take no prisoners.
I live only by one rule “spare not the feelings of those
Who have none.”
As my stu-stu-stu-stuttering riffle goes “tat’ i cover lova,”
They blaze to bushes with rampaging speed and seeing as my weight
Constitutes a majority of ten, I choose to be democratic and side with its
Vote, by not running but instead sending a hail of bullets.
Voetsek, Voetsek and Voetsek I say!!
As dusk breaks into dawn I am shattered into reality as prison introduces me to myself. I started shaking like the last shivering leaf on a dying tree and came to realize: The person whom I slaughtered was not only my neighbor, but was also my brother and if I have to suffer for my brother whom they call ikwerekere to survive, then I say “give me pain till I die!”.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 8:18 AM UTC
If Wishes were for fishes
All my dreams would come true
Thankfully I am fish, I know my sign
I know how to make my dream be the rewarding kind
I have dreamed
I swam upriver
I am here at the top of the United States
I am ready to plant my feet
Just about where the USA and Canada meet
I found my home, my ranch, my dream
Now let me move and fuffill my lifes' greatest dreams
The yards have gardens apples and pears
There is the sound of cows everywhere!
Miles surround us of land that we have rights to
At night the sky full of stars the only lights to look up to
Cougars and bears will be seen
But we are country women, we are keen
Montana born, country mean
Don't ya'all worry
I got this shit..all I need now is a riffle, an ax
and maybe a 4 wheeler machine ; )
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 12:04 AM UTC
Sly: The Duffle bag part 1:
His Days Were Not Like Most!
It was a typical summer night, not a single cloud to gloom the gloomy sky. The sidewalks reeked of a smell that most would consider disgusting, the smell of prostitution eclipsed by drug infested buildings highlighted by the scent of ***** made for a fun night out on the town. Sly was the type to take advantage, and he did. His rough external features were perfectly matched his all black outfit and black trench coat. He was a man of few words, few emotions, and few delights. Each step he took that night echoed through the streets so loud the wind it self would stop. His eyes were red, drained, tired, he had been up all night thinking, wondering, but now he was ready for action. The old warehouse downtown had been abandoned for sometime now. Its cold and unfriendly, a place Sly could call a home, an urban retreat of sorts for him and his duffle bag. His red duffle bag, that duffle bag housed an arsenal, an arsenal of weapons so treacherous, it had intent to inflict immeasurable amounts of misery for a common denominator. Sly was Hungry, angry; his scope was set at the top of the old warehouse. Sly had climbed the catwalk with precious percussion. He set the red duffle bag down next to him. Sly sat down on a beam that barley supported his weight. A large window 45 degrees to the right of him, made a great position. He opened his red duffle bag! A ****** riffle laid cold and dormant waiting and wanting the touch of existence. The energy felt by his emotional bond to his riffle was indescribable. He loaded the piece. Each bullet loaded the clip as if tenors were in harmony with the alto. The voices that sang revenge sang with an unholy cry, yet the confidence in his faith would serve him as he uttered the symbol of his determination. Slowly he made love to his weapon, cleaning and feeling it’s every corner. Across the road no more than a mile, stood a house. House where political propaganda represented it’s housing guests. Senators of Satin! See Sly was in a very particular business; a business most don’t even know exist…Sly was in the business of killing Demons!
.
Aug 5, 2010
Aug 5, 2010 at 11:29 AM UTC
I remember summers ago with a boy, who wasn’t so sweet but could read aloud like a gypsy and read your hand lines like a priest. I’d kick off my shoes and we’d spread a huge blue sun-bleached towel on the sand and prop up a chair. The metal grew hot in the sun. I remember a cooler full of Coke cans and plastic cartons of strawberries; we lived off those for days at a time (along with the occasional Hot Pocket) because we were too lazy to bike out to town, and it was too hot to leave the wooden floorboards and ice towels of our house. The windows let in the evening lights from a few miles away and the distant sounds of Spanish street guitarists. Sometimes we clambered up on the roof to hear them better, and you memorized one of the songs they’d play every night, spinning out a rough version on your guitar. But you couldn’t pronounce the words as well.
When we went out on the beach, you hated the waves so you stayed high from shore while I waded out until the water reached my belly, feeling the coolness seep through my shirt and the sand riffle between my toes. I’d always wanted you to join me. I wish you didn’t hate the waves, but you did so I just stood there alone, taking in salt from the breeze and the laughter of two sisters dragging buckets of water they could barely carry from the ocean to their sand castle. Again and again they came and went so that they could fill up the moat, because you couldn't have invaders from the next kingdom over to be able to kidnap the princess so easily.
May 7, 2011
May 7, 2011 at 9:16 PM UTC
a good bullet never saw a good war
a good bullet never felt the hammer strike
a good bullet never heard the thunder
never felt the heat of the explosion
that sent it like lightning
flying from the chamber of a gun
the barrel of a riffle
a good bullet never tore a hole through flesh
a good bullet never shattered bone
a good bullet never bite into a heart
and held it in its teeth
until it stopped beating
a good bullet was never made
was never made
was never made to steal a child’s smile away
not your sons
not your daughters
not at any age
a good bullet was never made
a good bullet was never made
a good bullet was never made
to turn a playground into a graveyard
where a mothers eyes drained
of all their colors but grey
fill with storm clouds
that endless pour down
tears of grief over the dug open earth
a good bullet was never made
to turn a school into a war zone
where a fathers chest is emptied
of everything but the pains of loss
for his daughters smile
that he will only see
in photographs of memories
and haunted dreams
a good bullet was never made
to turn a traffic stop into an obituary
where blind hate and fear
flows from heart to hand
to trigger and hammer and...
****** will somehow
not be considered ******
when the hand of the killer
wears a badge
and the training manual
says shoot to ****
as it is more cost effective
and the deceased
will become just another name
to be lined up behind a hashtag
and a slogan...
a good bullet was never made
was never made
to feel the hammer strike
to leave the chamber off a gun
to steal a life away
A good bullet was never...
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 12:48 PM UTC
Sometimes, I cannot help but sigh
and wonder--
wonder deep inside of me
whether I could ever be like you.
I riffle through the pages of my soul
and find a lot of them empty
Unlike yours, which seem to be bursting, blinding,
bursting, and still continuing to burst with brilliance...
So much so,
that your soul's light
has spread far and wide,
very much like sunlight's fingers
opening the morning sky curtains,
touching and warming
those who need it.
Tanglaw
each step that you take,
each breath that you exhale,
each prayer that you whisper,
each beat of your heart
Tanglaw
I receive a smile,
and chat
with that man
who you've helped change...
Because of you,
the silent man now speaks, smiles.
You sit down to rest,
I see you talking to someone,
and I am almost fooled,
since you seem like old friends.
Because of you,
the lonely strangers become kindred.
It mystifies me sometimes,
of how you never seem to get tired.
It seems like I am the one who gets tired for you,
who gets worried for your own strength...
Then I see that glow from all around,
and I am reminded how you glean from this glow.
I see you as this beautiful ball of energy--
Never static,
bouncing from soul to soul,
illuminating parts of themselves
that even they never knew existed.
It is so amazing seeing this at work,
since the next thing I know,
the place is lit up,
Alive.
...and it is all because of you.
It makes me feel unworthy at times,
but oh how it also makes me feel so proud,
that I am a part of you,
and you are a part of me.
I have a lot of catching up to do,
since it seems I am lightyears from where you are
But I will try.
I will catch the tail end of your light,
clutch to it with my life, winding it around me,
let it embrace me--tight, so tight.
And I will never let it go. Never.
Until I also begin to glow.
Until I too, become that ball of light.
Hopefully when someone
riffles through the pages of my soul,
they will not find it blank,
but filled with gilt pages of light.
Just like yours.
Bursting and brilliant just like yours.
Jul 12, 2012
Jul 12, 2012 at 12:59 PM UTC
Oh, pull me from the shelf
And riffle through my pages
Read my words
Caress my spine
I haven't been touched in ages
Oh, pull me from the shelf
And take me out for tea
Sip your cup
Forget the world
It'll be cozy, just you and me
Oh, pull me from the shelf
And let's go to the beach
Set me down
Bask in the sun
Just keep me in arm's reach
Oh, pull me from the shelf
And take me up to bed
Close your eyes
I'll tell a tale
And let dreams dance through your head
Oct 21, 2010
Oct 21, 2010 at 8:33 AM UTC
I hear the crash of the avalanche. Some keep time to its rhythm, there's a lot to do before it hits. I catch the swaying of snowflakes. I can hear the roar of the wind. Before they found benzene rings in the well, I could say who had broken a whole in the oil rig. Some found themselves staring at their faces, picking their destinies away, smoking themselves into a methamphetamine oblivion, until they cleaned the skin off of their faces. I hear the submarines starting in the South Fork, God's Riffle is under, so don't try to join them. Some speak until their lips are the color of bruises, some never speak because they're afraid of finding bruises trapped in their hair. America is spending in darkness. Knowing in foul tradition. Burning at the testicles, and calling in sick. Go home to Wyoming, drink your nuclear family into a white courtroom with a fickle jury of out-of-towners. Be on your best most calm behavior. The denim is up in the air, the snow is coming in shingles, the grizzlies and black bears are choosing which young they ought to hide.
I hear the cruelness of amphetamine users, through and through. You don't want to know them, I don't- I doctor up my circumstances so I don't drive ourselves crazy observing and swerving up and down and off the road. I am the Prince of Bell-Air. I keep my pockets oozing with four colors of black and nothing darker. Something is sharpening the beats of a generation, and no one is calling. Where are my friends in the darkness? I can hear their sides when they cough, but there is nothing like laughing in glitter, aside from the wildness and toil of this dusk.
Dec 11, 2016
Dec 11, 2016 at 9:40 AM UTC
Every night I load my riffle
take my post
and wait
The waiting is the worst part
it's like fishing
you have too much time
to think about ****
I usually think about my life
and how much of a loser I was
living under my brother's perfect family home
like a troll under a bridge
distracting myself with Call of Duty
and beer
But then the world ended
and it was the best thing that could have happened
for me, that is
Not so much for my brother
who met his demise while on an evening jog
on an otherwise insignificant Saturday
I didn't know any of this until two days later
coming out of my cave to get more beer
to realize that the only one still there
was my brother's beautiful inconsolable wife
she thought I'd been dead
like everyone else
and awkwardly hugged me
She had just gotten word about her two missing children
the ******* little boy was found
gnawing on his little sister's arm
the rest of her was motionless, on a street a mile away
Killing them is too easy
way easier than I thought it would be
you just follow the rules laid out for us in the folklore
aim for the head
keep your distance
don't second guess yourself
double tap
I'm not a religious man
I have no particular thoughts about the soul
I leave those questions for the priests and philosophers
I don't care
I do my job
and I do it well
I've won
I've taken my prize
I spend my days with the woman I've always loved
but could never have
and my nights doing what I do best
playing a game
I pull the trigger
it's head explodes
in a gust of red mist
...just like in the movies
Aug 25, 2010
Aug 25, 2010 at 12:37 AM UTC
I kicked an ant today.
It was coming right for my bare foot, so I kicked it. The thought of its tiny feet tickling my giant feet made me feel ill.
Generally insects don't bother me, but ants. Ants, with their underground tunnels and their abilities to carry a zillion times their body weight, with their appearance in my kitchen every spring from seemingly nowhere even though my kitchen is clean and inhospitable to them - I hate ants.
I was outside, the ant's domain, on my back patio enjoying the beautiful weather and the newness of spring. It wasn't fair of me to kick him like that in his own domain, and yet.
I wonder what I would do if I was kicked by a giant. I would probably die, land in a heap and break all my bones and die. That ant almost certainly didn't die, but I wonder if it hurt. Do ants have very many nerve endings? A question for the ages.
Before I kicked that ant, I was reading some old poetry and letting the sun warm me and the light breeze riffle through my hair, avoiding work and thinking about my life and the big question marks that punctuate my waking moments with their soft severity. ******* this brain and it's forever worrying.
The worrying is the problem. I should spend more time doing.
But I don't. Instead I write poems and kick ants and daydream about finding a home where I can begin my Real Life.
Because this isn't it, is it?
Is it?
Kicking things out of my way that make me uncomfortable? Finding the sunshine and basking like a lizard? Reading poetry?
Actually, I think I can live with that.
That, and fewer ants.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 7:21 PM UTC
Unfamiliar furniture trims the parlor room
embellished with odd relics
of histories past.
Their eerie faces haunt me
incriminating
this momentous hour
my mother’s voice fades away to gray
Be strong, be strong . . .
It has begun
Are there telephones in heaven?
Maybe it’s a one-way call.
My cryptic eyes dart a heavy daze
hiccupping on salty streams that overflow composure
But he is the essence of grace,
a beautiful surrender.
Step forward into the light
that shines upon infallible judgment,
my turn to wager peace
with this glorious king,
this King of May!
Blooming virtues in my ears.
I am still the apple of your eye.
I riffle through timely prayers
that floats aloof to I don’t know who?
I say old man forgive me
for you are right:
I will forget what you have said.
Nor will I remember things you’ve done.
But I will
never forget how you
have made me
Feel…
Sep 23, 2010
Sep 23, 2010 at 1:50 PM UTC
tea-cream earth underoak
lying drenched in sun gleam
streams, a sky in between
the green sheets laid upon
and the beamyblues
breezes blew past
our post-modern monument,
and I shuddered like the towers,
as i was amply leafed.
strong winds knocked
branches loose, falling from
seventy-four inches up in the air.
a logjam tore a hole
inside my artesian mouth.
still, fresh spring water
found a way out,
taking a ride in a turnstile
cycling through
riffle and pool
all the way to its end.
clothes soaked, made holey,
by rain no righteous men know;
I tried my hand with a needle and thread
still trying to forgive,
a soft fabric to sow.
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 3:36 AM UTC
WARTHEMATICS
The road to war a reserved grave. The beginning of it, a hell aforementioned. Household goes to firm with the best anticipation of celestial ascension above. Pick three to make two, bury wit, never to mar chew.
Beat from the heart
The very voice to define Riffle’s
**** can’t be so dumb !
Not to be mistaken as a strong explosion on the Sahara
Whining of the Babies send a gravy message
All is read in silence, even in seconds
Paths, so crowdy like no Adam was ever made
Pests, Lizards overthrow the market around,
Roads are best ridden by goats
Scary heartbeats dominate the atmosphere
Ever befitting chorus,
Remains the sweet songs from Guns.
Eye above lost counts of Donts
Does seem scarce like the touch of Saint in Gommorah
If it lasts more than months,
You will miss the look of your Edifices to bulldozed yards
The bests you cherish now lay in pieces,
If not far gone become a story
If you still tell the stories,
Let’s meet on the alter next Sunday
All !
In the Art of War.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 10:29 AM UTC
The deer lies dead in snowdrops,
Naked and gored before the Copse,
Webbed innards, cradled by ghost petals,
Stewed infancy held close by Lamium nettles,
A gutted riffle wallows nearby,
An empty barrel, gunpowder palpable upon the sky,
Coughed up bullets, lain out in velvet grass,
Reeking of ripe saline, flesh and bloodied brass,
Rotted fawn rests, asleep in the forest,
Dried tears bleach her coat in premature rest,
Supple life bitterly sprawled in a crimson cruel quilting,
Embraced by lapping bellflowers, Hugged by only the wilting.
Dec 12, 2024
Dec 12, 2024 at 12:03 PM UTC
I have been walking this long dark road for a while
Waiting for the sun to show up, so I can find my home some sunny day
All my friends are gone they didn’t see the goal ahead
Even my baby has left me, I got no women to hold my hand
One day there stood a man with a riffle in his hand
He said; give me your money or I shoot you dead right where you stand
I took my gun out, to show the man I won´t be bullied around
But as I pulled the trigger all my bullets were gone
So now I lie dead on this cold dark road
The sun is about to show up but I will never find my home
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 4:22 PM UTC
~
awakened river ripples, all that tells
the world above
life beneath the surface teems;
its ever current washes clean thousand
year-old scars,
granite faces polishing;
mossy garden fingers gentle fluttering,
alive in watery breeze;
and rainbows flashing from the deep their
momentary smiles,
their call to join in hide and peek;
riffle's laughter,
rising from her depths calls as if to speak,
i offer peace, come dip your
harried soul in me;
the tranquility you seek, flows not in
current's rushing stream,
but in living here, in still release.
~
*post script.
a much-needed, hard-earned getaway,
coming in days with a few nights
by the sea...
this perhaps my harried soul’s pre-release.*
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 10:09 AM UTC
Kurt Carman May 1985
A Rise on Neversink
NOTE: It's important for the reader to know that Theodore Gordon was an American writer who fished the Catskill region of New York State in the late 19th century through the early 20th century. Though he never published a book, Gordon is often called the "father of the American school of dry fly fishing. The poem " A Rise on Neversink" is about a boy and his Grandfather fishing on this famous river called Neversink. The spirit of Gordon, who now lives through nature, encourages and speaks to the boy through wind and water.
A RISE ON NEVERSINK
We head upstream past fallen Hemlocks,
Crawling recumbent through advancing grass.
Wetness prevails from the night before,
And seeing us, the Groundhog shakes his head in disbelief.
Sun perched on Doubletop Mountain,
Shown the rising Brown sip his prey.
I wait, another rise boils the riffle.
My eyes question when, Grandpa gives the nod.
The shooting line breaks the winds path,
Invisible leader curls resisting gravity.
The Skater finds its mark, spinning without authority,
Setting a course through the waters force.
Emerald moss, dripping wet jewels,
Deepens the blue-green pool,
Theodore Gordon's reflection shown now,
He smiles, the breeze whispers "tight lines".
Scrambling from my knees I find
the Brown makes his approach, only to show his back.
My heart pounds and only my gut tightens.
Disappointment whelms over, an encouraging nudge prods from behind.
Gordon's voice once again calls,
Performed by the spruce needles murmur,
Patience s s s s s s
My hands begin to steady, premise clear.
Double hauling as if my life depended.
As beautiful an object of lavish nature produces,
From underneath the Brown assaults, Skater devoured, groping,
Grasped with bent snout, outmaneuvering his prey.
Tippet strained, reel whining fervent praise,
Moving for swift water, he surfaces briefly
Seeking the currents leverage.
He educates his pupil with the magical ploy.
A broken fly rod hangs down in contempt, against the tender Payne rod.
The evening hatch finds sanctuary,
And only the Catskills angling legend lingers in the air.
This lesson complete, the boy dreams.
And Theodore awaits the mourning encore.
Jun 22, 2020
Jun 22, 2020 at 12:18 PM UTC
____Going back
and forth >>
The dark
pool jaw shark
Darth____(War)teared
Her drink feared
The moon split
Two people
Crook/Brook-Streams
Spilled water-soul
words
the Grecian river
Thorn Rose
birds
Will I return?
Devil dug
Deep- thought
Millionaire swamps
2B streamed
Suddenly
Forestal sweetness
FLipping homes
Hopscotch jump
Flipper Gumps
Mister brook the
measles
Water spots
How her foot met
Sunny-side
Eggbeaters
Morning 2 B Sure?
Turning-star
Cornered-shore
A sure pleaser
Cheater's foot
The river of
no return
(Monroe)
She is so perpetual
returning
in his
fantasy
everything
Misery
loves cooks
Baked tan
brooks
company
Poetical downright
mystical rivers
Joan of Ark
All bricks to blow her
home down dark
He's the Adonis
Superlative
most bodeful
The bridge over
***** war of
her laundry
In Cahoots,
Tired torrential rain
Tranquil water
Streaming air
Glorious shape
Her brook
But he is
never by
her shore
Not even once
to stare or look
Water Wands
of faires
So many
***** men
Drinking the
Holiest
water
Mrs, clean
Cult life
Stepford Wifes
Her cheeks like petals
Estee Lauder eyes of
Blue velvet
Lady Brook the banks
of the channel;
No contamination
water
Channeling
Like finest truffles
By the water riffle
So Shallow
Abdominal water
Hurricane shakey
Speaking
words
of wisdom wishing well
Streams overloved
Still, Diana Wales
running reliving
Lucky charms
they're married
Orange segments
Water the juiciest
Be calm
Nick the Knickpoints
Mister and Mrs. beds
The high tide
of turbulence
Poems are
all a stream
Our oasis
Deer Creek
came to
Love her more
than he
could ever seek
May 20, 2018
May 20, 2018 at 7:57 AM UTC
What is the difference between—
A double-edged sword;
A loaded riffle and;
A sharp tongue?
Sep 26, 2020
Sep 26, 2020 at 5:05 AM UTC
The boy who cried wolf
No begged for one to appear
Dangerous and disgusting
With eyes that cut through the night
With teeth bloodthirsty
Rip his clothes and skin to shreads
Reminding the boy
Of everything he wished to forget
Oh dear wolf
Prove that I can be your worthy victim
Share this life with me
And swallow the punishment
At the end of my riffle
So I can be legitimately
Disappointed
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 7:55 PM UTC