"serge" poems
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
More than just mounds of muscle galore
A curiosity where one must experience in explore
A body composition from before to present
The use of weights in repetitions
These are the forces in bodybuilding’s condition
Bodybuilding is about construct
It is all about proportion if one decides to compete
You must be committed and not take shortcuts known as cheat
Yet one’s physique must be complete from the shoulders to the feet
Lifting heavy weights is like Hercules in a feat
Intensity will play being the determination all the way
However, one must understand how much intensity their body can take
Yet you must have good health conditions in exercise before attempting any heavy training you decide to make
Bodybuilding means having a goal and what you want to achieve
Never listen to anyone about enhancing drugs, as it is a deception for you to be deceived
Bodybuilding is about bringing and contouring all the muscles together
Being a true destined Bodybuilder like no other
The mystique will be one’s desired physique
I have met Bodybuilding champs in their day such as Arnold Schwarzenegger, Serge Nubret, Harold Poole, Leon Brown, Flex Wheeler, Kevin Levrone, Mike Ashley and many others
They had assurance and confidential in being determined to win
Mr. Schwarzenegger became the top ranking Mr. Olympia
Mr. Olympia being the highest honor throughout Bodybuilding
Those Bodybuilding champions mentioned had their plan from their beginning from when
The new breed of Bodybuilders are following in their footsteps and making their mark
Bodybuilders in general are thinking from their own fitness from then
They put determination in making it a can
Bodybuilding is truly about how your body can respond to certain exercises and how it can be shaped
The training principles come together in how they are relate
So you now know how Bodybuilding functions
A masterpiece constructed from sculptor with a posing stand
The array of applause under the spotlight
A determination in the Bodybuilder become the step out pose
The thinking of revelation I suppose
But Bodybuilding is about the flex and not become perplexed.
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 6:02 PM UTC
I stepped into the house and removed
my rain-soaked shoes on the grizzled entrance mat.
No one in the kitchen.
Though the aroma lingered, the coffee *** had turned itself off.
I touched the glass -- cool.
No one in the living room.
Half a pair of sequined flats were in the dog's mouth,
half a lady's pantsuit -- the black legs -- lied on the floor.
A soap opera on the screen, the volume low, the gold-tipped ceiling fan oscillating,
and Serge Gainsbourg's Histore de Melody Nelson played down the hall.
I followed the breathy vocals and wandering baseline to my room,
and there she sat.
The blinds open, veiny rain running along the pane,
on the beige carpeted floor, next to my unmade bed,
criss-crossed Jessica.
"Hey, sweetheart," I said.
Jessica smiled.
When she smiles, her cheeks go flush,
she lowers her head slowly, embarrassed,
but yet when she laughs,
she laughs loudly, boldly.
I've never understood that.
Jessica was wearing a white, spaghetti-strap undershirt
and blue cotton *******
Her brunette curls -- down, reaching past her shoulders.
Her toenails -- painted purple and chipped.
Newspapers lied strewn about her,
with puddles of acrylic paint atop them.
In her lap,
a white canvas stapled to a wooden backing frame.
She sang,
*"Princesse des ténèbres, archange maudit,
Amazone modern' style que le sculpteur,
En anglais, surnomma Spirit of Ecstasy."*
as she painted two lovers growing together
like curious oak trees.
I sat behind her on my bed. Pushed aside the tangled sheets.
She craned her neck to kiss my cheek sweetly.
"How was your day?" I asked.
"Oh, who cares," she responded.
Her eyebrows lifted, her fingertips traced my thigh,
"Tell me something beautiful."
"What?"
She dipped her paintbrush in red, in white and applied them
to the lovers' lips.
"Tell me something beautiful."
"I can't think of anything," I said.
"Try."
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 12:03 AM UTC
I love you,
Wildly, silently,
Imitating it's idly,
Displaying my affection quietly.
Timid, I am, of course.
Enjoying our discourse.
And everything you are,
I'm so heavenly immersed -
Yes, in your quirky quarks from quasars,
Running its benevolent course.
Still, inside, I thirst.
To let you know,
I'm yours.
Lost in a loving serge. . .
With quarks from the hottest starburst.
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 12:50 AM UTC
One man who stood among giants
Short in status
Mighty in endurance
It was the spotlight in posing
The man’s name was Ed Corney
Mr. Corney was a Master Poser
Amazement and determination throughout
Dazzle in muscle as they entertained
Ed Corney is a name that just remain
It all relates to the sport of Bodybuilding
Mr. Corney muscles were always ready and pumped
He trained with precision
Mr. Corney practiced posing with all the right moves
Posing with transition in elegance being smooth
Dramatics beyond any verbal script, but creativity being an art
Mr. Corney can be seen in the documentary of Bodybuilding being “PUMPING IRON “
Bodybuilding was Ed Corney’s heart
It was the fire burning within from the very start
One would often see Ed Corney among Arnold Schwarzzenger, Franco Columbu and Serge Nubret and other Bodybuilding champions
Mr. Corney trained lacking nothing, but everything to gain
Competition to win being the purpose
Yet Ed Corney was more than just Bodybuilding
It didn’t matter he won numerous bodybuilding titles, but ne never loss sight of devoted fans
It was Mr. Corney fans encouragement, and that is what caught Mr. Corney’s eyes on the prize of bodybuilding achievement
Mr. Corney was a humanitarian in every sense of the word
The weights in all gyms have dropped down on all floors
The loss of a Bodybuilding Champion
A long list of Bodybuilding competitions
A muscled hero will be posing in Heaven
Ed Corney’s final competition is won
He is in God’s Kingdom
God said, “I will give you rest and on Earth you did your best”
You have achieved awards on Earth
But Heaven will be your enriched birth
Ed Corney words he might would say, “Thank you fans, but my work in Bodybuilding is finished, and remember me in being distinguished. Train wise and achieve your own expectations, but always have the art of Bodybuilding in appreciation. Remember the greats who made Bodybuilding what it is today, and tomorrow being your heritage. It has been honor to share with you being one of the Bodybuilding stars. My journey has taken me beyond the Bodybuilding skies and planets. This is not a finale, but until we meet again.
Jan 3, 2019
Jan 3, 2019 at 6:37 PM UTC
What does Eunice bring
on these blustered, raging winds?
Busted fences put up in haste,
a forlorn balloon cut loose,
with a smiley face harking back to those
asymmetric aceeeed days
when polarity was frowned upon:
what’s your name where you from what you done?
A man cut from rich serge
can be employed to gaslight
blackened eyes to white,
but the **** in Kent’s hedges
don’t lie
Feb 18, 2022
Feb 18, 2022 at 6:50 AM UTC
Il dio è il miei testimone e guida, Sister Maria, the refectorian, had said, Sister Teresa remembered walking passed the refectory, touching the wall with her fingers. God is my witness and guide, she translated, feeling the rough brick beneath her fingers. She stood; turned to look at the cloister garth. Sunlight played on the grass. Flowers added colour to borders and eyes, she thought, letting go of Maria's words as if they were balloons. Ache in limbs; a slowness in her movements. Age, she muttered inaudibly. The war had taken her cousin's sons in death. Two of them. Peter and Paul. Burma and D-day. Three years or more since. She brought hands together beneath the black serge of her habit. Flesh on flesh. Sister Clare had touched. Not over much, not over much. Papa would lift her high in his arms as a child, she mused, her memory jogged by the sunlight on the flowers. Higher and higher. Poor Papa. The spidery writing unreadable in the end. She sniffed the air. Bell rang from church tower. Sext. She looked at the clock on the cloister-tower wall. Lowered her eyes to the grass. So many greens. Jude had lain with her once or was it more? She mused, turning away from cloister wall and the sight of grass and flowers. Thirty years since he died. Blown to pieces Papa had written. Black ink on white paper sheet. Flesh on flesh; kiss to lip and lip. She paused by church door; allowed younger nuns to pass; so young these days, she thought, bowing, nodding her head. Placing her stiff fingers in the stoup, she made cross from breast to breast. Smell of incense; scent of wood; bodies close; age and time. She walked to her place in the choir stall, bowed to Crucified tabernacled. Kneeled. Closed eyes. Murmured prayer. Heard the rustle of habits; clicking of rosaries; breathing close. Opened eyes. Sister Clare across the way. A nod and a smile, almost indiscernible to others, she thought, returning the same. Mother Abbess tapped wood on wood; chant began; fingers moved; sign of cross; mumbled words. Forty years of prayer and chant; same such of fingered rosaries; hard beds; dark night of soul and such. She sensed Papa lifting her high in thought at least; Mama's touch on cheek and head. Jude's kiss. Embrace of limbs and face. Il dio è il miei testimone e guida, she recalled: God my witness and guide. Closed eyes. Sighed. Sister Clare had cried; had whispered; witness and guide; witness this and guide, she murmured between chant, prayer, and the scent of incense on the air.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 1:23 PM UTC
Those marble plaques in the cemetery
hold no dead beneath them
yet in the rising mists of winter evenings
when night like loose dark pebbles
fall from the sky
can be heard hooves of trotting horses
from the rows of cold white stones
and on nights favored by moon
is visible cavalry in scarlet serge
with pith helmets and carbine rifles
piercing the terror paused wind
with cries of vengeance
mirthful in washing blood with blood
on the fields of Cawnpore
dissolving into marble white stones
steeped in the peace of moonlight.
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 10:06 AM UTC
Rough hands used to hold my own,
And still the small bird sings,
They shared my bed and shared my home,
The golden bird death brings,
The shadows seemed so far away ,
Attached to moonlight skin,
Who’d bring it back to where he stay,
And choke the song within,
A golden ray of light there lies,
Within a dreary hell,
Among translucent smog it dies,
A death toll time will tell,
The siren sobs its mournful cry,
Where gentle hands won’t tread,
I pray the little bird may fly,
I unravel like a thread,
I trip and fall a dozen times,
I sob a sirens mournful wail,
A feeling not expressed in rhymes,
I know m mind it will not fail,
A little bird within a cage,
The golden light it now does fade,
Fall to my knees so false is rage,
The bird like me a shade.
I whip myself towards them,
The shadows fall around,
********* forsaken graveyard town,
I scream without a sound.
Through blackened dust he does emerge,
Eyes wide shut like broken glass,
My mind and heart within me serge,
I turn to lips where rhyme would pass.
And at my feet lies a broken rose,
Not long without its stem,
Once in sweet compose,
Now in black condemn.
My head upon his coal filled chest,
Feels like my hearts undone,
The lullaby has paused to rest,
And now his song is sung.
Jan 16, 2010
Jan 16, 2010 at 2:35 PM UTC
Pedophiles in Westminster
All nicely covered up
Now it's the royal family
Will it ever stop
The thin blue line is broken
It's more like dot to dot
Then insult to injury
They give one of them a gong!
We earned the right to wear blue serge
With blood sweat and tears
It isn't cosplay for us
The uniform is real.
You say crime is falling
Your figures aren't real!!
So lament the passing of Dixon of Dock Green
You sold out to the Joker
there's no laughing here.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 2:48 PM UTC
You sit in the Common Room
of the guest house
in the abbey.
The room is silent
except for the chime
of the clock
in the clock tower
every seven and a half minutes.
You look about the room
at the old battered sofas
and the odd chair here and there
and the bookcases stuffed
with Catholic books written
by abbots and priests
about prayer or God
or words of Christ.
You had read one
about the Lord’s Prayer.
Line by line. The meaning.
There’s a knock at the door.
Father Joe enters
and puts his head around
the door and smiles.
He enters the room
and closes the door
after him quietly.
He says
Father Abbot says
you can come
next September
to try your vocation
and he hugs you
and you almost drown
in the black serge
of his stained habit
and you mutter
Thank you thank God
and Oh that’s good news
and he holds you back
to get a good look at you.
Yes he says it’s the will of God.
I knew you had that something
the first time I saw you.
And you smile and feel
as if your feet are off the ground
as if you’d grown wings and could fly.
Well says Father Joe
I must be off
I have others to see
and talk to but I‘ll see you
tomorrow after mass.
And he’s gone
and the room is silent again.
You sit and feel the history
of the room embrace you.
The clock chimes the hour.
The ghosts have gone now.
The monk’s cemetery
is full of them.
You’d seen their graves
and tombstones earlier
in the day. The familiar names.
And amongst them
beneath the leaf
covered ground
Father Joe
lays silent and still now
making no sound.
Apr 15, 2012
Apr 15, 2012 at 4:06 AM UTC
Give me something. What is this? **** me up.
White as the powder filling the void of your nostrils.
Light, light, light it up. A serge of energy KERRPLOP!!! let's ****
With water I came, with water I will flood back out. This is a flow, stop and go.
Back to pre-school. All circles, circles, circles...
There goes, there goes, there goes denial. There goes regret.
Miss Acceptance sitting on my door step, giving me the wink, shaking off her heals, offering a brownie, begging for a quick one while Mr. Wakeuptime is away, spreading the bleak truth.
When he comes back I'll burn one down. Maybe he digs.
If not, then I'll walk up them invisible stairs until that little hatch in the clouds reveals itself and opens for me to ********* on Elvis Presley!
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 12:17 PM UTC
As fog covered my outside landscape I sat,
relaxing and aligning with poetic ideas
to scribe at later date.
The air was warm, as a faint scent of lavender entered nostrils. My human eyes couldn't make out anything more than a shadow but; my inner senses knew I wasn’t alone.
The being whispered adding fog to the room. With deepen breath it now made sense of my visitor recalling my art background. Remembering, my prayer just days earlier how I longed for a great maters of art to flow through me.
As moments passed, the blur became more distinct. There he stood before me adorned with painters hat and smock. With a smile as he held up a brush and made like he was painting my form.
I giggled with air of breeze. My third eye exploded with an image of Monet. He began to fill my mind with picturesque visions.
Flowers entered my eyes as I felt a creative power serge.
Fields of afternoon strollers adorned with paroles entered mind. And birds rustled in trees, as a flowing brook traveled within.
More scenes manifested. I could almost taste the sweet air running down my throat. When I was filled to capacity, he stopped and I understood. He was providing me with fuel for thought. Scenes to transcribe into poetic jargon.
As he bowed, and I whispered gratitude, he disappeared. I was again alone with my keyboard, dancing hands and vivid imagination tweaked with his talented light.
I now was ready to create on canvas screen and of course my new curator of verse, Monet.
Apr 14, 2019
Apr 14, 2019 at 7:44 PM UTC
YOU ARE THE ONE
BY SADDAM HUSEN
You are my first breeze of autumn
After cold long night, the sparkling sun
A mid-summer night’s sweet dream-
Which stays in heart forever
First rain with awaiting relish
Coral eve with soft drift
You are the one for me
My heart-beat and its music
Can’t live without one another.
Come along to make it large
To serge the heart
My core and your beat
My step by your feet
Yours eyes and my tears
We’ll made love pure and immortal.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 1:11 PM UTC
Spring is coming here real soon,
but the snow it came here late,
for the tiny buds in early boon,
it's a shame they'll have to wait,
Confusing is the forecast,
so some may never bloom,
as a crystal blanket now lasts,
and the skies are colored gloom,
covered still in white- all glassed,
an still such dangers loom,
Yet as the waiting blossoms urge,
I see a hopeful lil little sprout,
I see a poking head- up serge,
relieving me of any doubt,
As the Winter Snowdrops splurge,
an the tallest one to shout,
"get up and grow"
"I mean c'mon
c'mon you must know-
it's our time to let it out!"
"C'mon Winter Aconite,
and crocuses,
remember what-
Robin Williams said?"
"Spring is Nature's way
of saying let's party!!!"
So come on then,
let's go up now an make
a lovely little bed,
they'll be plenty time to sleep again,
come Wintertime,
when we are all so slyly,
playing dead!
Ma Cherie © 2017
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 6:36 AM UTC
i am a detective a bit
like
harry lime
looking for a beetle
blackened ; crusty with a smart serge suit from
foster brothers
went missing a week or so ago
the full moon following
reported by a family in the
cellar concerned
by its legs waving wildly ; sock dangling
backed on flagged floor
missing person
crisp printed poster
denoting
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 1:13 AM UTC
i was unable to sleep last night
everything was too loud
clocks ticked
fans whirred
these noises were
amplified
by the night
though the noises were pounding
loud
obnoxious
they weren't loud enough
to quieten the thoughts in my head.
they spun
dancers are beautiful by themselves
but together
with no obvious rhythm
and with so many
they crash
bump
and disturb
the dancers surrounding them
they spun uncontrollably fast
chaos playing their part too
only stopping a short time to catch their breath
hours later they begin to tire
become stif and jerky in their movements
a wind begins to blow
softly and swiftly moving past the dancers
with a sudden serge of power
it speeds up
whips around
the dancers get carried along with it
turning and swirling faster and faster
their rough grace returns
the dancers spin away faster with the wind on their back
whirring like little spin tops
in and around each other
in no time
a wind storm has been created
powerful and ruthless
destroying everything
but those dancing
thoughts
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
I want to be the arms that hold you in the middle of the night.
The ones that you never expected to feel so good but offer you comfort you only could find
When there's a pen in your hand.
Or a bottle
Which ever would make you feel better I want to be the hand that reaches out and passes you a life jackets
but never let's you sink into it alone.
Because I know what it's like to be left in an ocean with out any thing to float you to shore.
Let me be the raft the guides you to land and let you know that not all of us are alike.
Some people need patch work in order to support you.
You've been grabbing pieces that never knew what it means to be a part of a whole.
See I used to be a tree.
An entity of life feeding others the oxygen they needed to thrive.
So it's in my nature to be life support.
The kind that doesn't need to be given credit for being the only ear with in whispering distance.
Applaud me with thousands of kisses.
Shower me in acceptance and I'll photosynthesize it into love.
Deeper than the roots I dug before
I adore you the way the lady bug adores it's wings when they lift her up
I want to lift you out of storm serge.
So the waves of insecurity won't bang against your head
Those levees you built to keep the water out of your heart were only meant to say it for me.
It's ok to tear down those walls
I'll be there to help you pull them down.
And when you start to plant your first tree
I'll dig the hole and nurse it
Into something more than you ever expected.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 3:25 PM UTC
One day I'll take you on a trip
Across the stars and moons eclipse
We'll fly across the universe
Until we finally find the Sun
We'll circle round the only One
Then maybe then you'd see
You really are in love with me
One day I'll take you on a ride
Across the sea with waves so high
We'll float the oceans seas
We'd swim together just you & me
No tidal serge could set us free
One day we’ll journey too
My everlasting love for you
Our hearts forever surrendered close
No more breaks or sad goodbyes
Maybe then you'll love me most
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 9:59 PM UTC
Violently torn from a rare blissful dream
By the sound of my name swathed by a stentorian scream
Shivering against a sudden chill; room now dense with a effluvium stench
An immense fear now rendering my body into a painful clench
Skeletal face set in a sepulchral mask draws eerily near
Momentarily muted as I taste the bitterness of a lone salted tear
Dead lidless eyeballs boring deep into my soul bones rotting and bent
Motionless mouth oozing ferocious whispers through an ancient accent
Your time here is at it's end, I've blessed you with a long, painful death!
Announced the hideous eidolon words pushed forth by a decaying breath
Extending out a ***** finger it touched my skin which scorched
An instant infestation; A serge of agonizing pain blistering and torched
Now marks the beginning of your end....
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 4:55 AM UTC
There’s many legends told of those who tended to the nets
Whose talents brought grown men to tears, made bookies hedge their bets.
One man’s special gift was to make the goal lamp glow
Therein begins the woeful tale of Red Light Racicot.
The story starts at Granby in Quebec’s junior ranks,
Where pimply youths have slapshots which seem fired from tanks,
And flashy cat-quick goaltenders will often steal the show;
Alas, no such heroics came from Red Light Racicot.
The ease he was beat stick-side left his goalie coaches dumb.
Granby supporters prayed as one that they would trade the ***
They called him “Ancient Mariner” (stopping one in three or so),
Surely Les Habitants would not sign Red Light Racicot.
But indeed, Les Canadiens dragooned him in the draft,
Fully convincing one and all that Serge Savard was daft.
Children throughout the province prayed *Dear merciful God, No!
Don’t let our Forum bear the taint of Red Light Racicot.*
But then came a stretch where Patrick Roy’s work had been poor,
And Hayward and Vinny Riendeau had each been shown the door.
And Montreal fans heard the saddest words they’d ever know:
…Starting in goal this evening is Red Light Racicot.
He flailed at wobbly wristers and wound up on his ****
And gave up much more five-hole than any village ****
Even cross-check befogged Savard knew it was time to go
And mercifully, he released poor Red Light Racicot
In Heaven there’s a glowing rink where gods of hockey skate:
Maurice Richard, Howie Lorenz, all of the truly great.
In one net, Georges Vezina makes saves with stick and toe
But someday they’ll all float soft goals past Red Light Racicot.
May 25, 2018
May 25, 2018 at 10:01 AM UTC
A French monk wipes
the shell of an egg
on the serge of black.
He walks slowly
in sandaled feet
across the cloister,
his shadow following
close behind.
I pick apples
from the apple trees
in the abbey orchard,
my fingers twisting
as I'd be shown
-she mouthed
my fingers
one by one,
******* them
to a strawberry ripeness-
Dom Leo takes
the breviary
from the shelf
beside his hip,
opens to the right page,
eyes scanning
the script
- I watched her
as she slowly stripped.
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 4:31 PM UTC
Dom James sent George and I
to clean out the guttering
on the back of the abbey
a view of the Solent
from where we stood,
Deus videt omnia,
dropped leaves
and bird's feather
clogged the black guttering
made water overflow,
Hugh rang the bells
of the abbey tower
we saw his thin shape enter
no Quasimodo was he,
make love to me
she said make me feel
and feel so I did,
pray as though everything
depended on God
work as though everything
depended on you
Augustine said,
le travail est notre prière
the French monk said
showing me how
to sow seeds
in the abbey garden
summery heat
on black serge,
George swept the refectory
he said sunshine poured in
through the coloured
glass windows
onto the tables
and benches
making patterns on the floor
as an art work,
the Austrain monk sat
by the cloister wall with me
and said
die Heilige Dreifaltigkeit
ist ein Geheimnis,
Mary has a special relationship
with the Trinity
Dom Charles said
daughter of the Father
mother of the Son
and spouse
of the Holy Spirit,
the abbot walked the cloister
black robed
head lowered
in thought or prayer
hands hidden in the pockets
of his black habit,
you must finger here
she said
and placed my finger
where she meant,
qui Dio ci parla
the Italian monk said
as we brought vegetables
in from the gardens
to the abbey kitchen
where Dom Patrick cooked,
I don't know why
we are here
but I'm pretty sure
that it is not in order
to enjoy ourselves
Gareth said
quoting Wittgenstein
as we sat on the beach
after lunch
casting stones in the sea
just us
him and me.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 3:16 AM UTC
Your black,
heavy overcoat,
hangs from a hook
on the door.
It looks
haunted now,
a black phantom
of serge, with arms,
without hands,
unbuttoned,
holding a memory
of you inside its hold,
snuggled up within,
safe from the cold.
Your youngest brother
has inherited,
your black coat now,
he wears it higher,
being taller,
but it does not fit
so snug or hold him
so tight as it did you,
a short while ago.
He wore it
to your funeral,
buttoned up neat,
your heavy overcoat,
serge of black;
but he would gladly
have given to you,
if he could have
had you back.
I finger the sleeves,
smooth along
the black serge,
sense you there still,
in my mind's eye,
with black hat and tie
and black shades,
that Blues Brother gaze,
back in the good times,
my son, in your
good young days.
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 4:06 PM UTC