"shaggy" poems
My dog has died.
I buried him in the garden
next to a rusted old machine.
Some day I'll join him right there,
but now he's gone with his shaggy coat,
his bad manners and his cold nose,
and I, the materialist, who never believed
in any promised heaven in the sky
for any human being,
I believe in a heaven I'll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom
where my dog waits for my arrival
waving his fan-like tail in friendship.
Ai, I'll not speak of sadness here on earth,
of having lost a companion
who was never servile.
His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine
withholding its authority,
was the friendship of a star, aloof,
with no more intimacy than was called for,
with no exaggerations:
he never climbed all over my clothes
filling me full of his hair or his mange,
he never rubbed up against my knee
like other dogs obsessed with ***
No, my dog used to gaze at me,
paying me the attention I need,
the attention required
to make a vain person like me understand
that, being a dog, he was wasting time,
but, with those eyes so much purer than mine,
he'd keep on gazing at me
with a look that reserved for me alone
all his sweet and shaggy life,
always near me, never troubling me,
and asking nothing.
Ai, how many times have I envied his tail
as we walked together on the shores of the sea
in the lonely winter of Isla Negra
where the wintering birds filled the sky
and my hairy dog was jumping about
full of the voltage of the sea's movement:
my wandering dog, sniffing away
with his golden tail held high,
face to face with the ocean's spray.
Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know how to be happy
with only the autonomy
of their shameless spirit.
There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,
and we don't now and never did lie to each other.
So now he's gone and I buried him,
and that's all there is to it.
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First there is the prep.
The roommate.
Wearing salmon colored pants.
He has Shaggy from Scooby Doo
On his left thigh.
The alcoholic.
She has a drinking problem.
She is in denial of her drinking problem.
She hangs out with the loners.
The loners.
Unkempt, unattractive and fat in all the wrong places.
The blond looks like Tom Petty.
The one with dark hair, glasses and braces
They live next door.
Living together but segregated.
Wild cards.
All of us.
©Gambit '13
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 9:10 AM UTC
An old grave hidden away at the foot of a deserted hill,
Overrun with rank weeds growing unchecked year after year;
There is no one left to tend the tomb,
And only an occasional woodcutter passes by.
Once I was his pupil, a youth with shaggy hair,
Learning deeply from him by the Narrow River.
One morning I set off on my solitary journey
And the years passed between us in silence.
Now I have returned to find him at rest here;
How can I honor his departed spirit?
I pour a dipper of pure water over his tombstone
And offer a silent prayer.
The sun suddenly disappears behind the hill
And I’m enveloped by the roar of the wind in the pines.
I try to pull myself away but cannot;
A flood of tears soaks my sleeves.
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Freezing dusk is closing
Like a slow trap of steel
On trees and roads and hills and all
That can no longer feel.
But the carp is in its depth
Like a planet in its heaven.
And the badger in its bedding
Like a loaf in the oven.
And the butterfly in its mummy
Like a viol in its case.
And the owl in its feathers
Like a doll in its lace.
Freezing dusk has tightened
Like a nut ******* tight
On the starry aeroplane
Of the soaring night.
But the trout is in its hole
Like a chuckle in a sleeper.
The hare strays down the highway
Like a root going deeper.
The snail is dry in the outhouse
Like a seed in a sunflower.
The owl is pale on the gatepost
Like a clock on its tower.
Moonlight freezes the shaggy world
Like a mammoth of ice -
The past and the future
Are the jaws of a steel vice.
But the cod is in the tide-rip
Like a key in a purse.
The deer are on the bare-blown hill
Like smiles on a nurse.
The flies are behind the plaster
Like the lost score of a jig.
Sparrows are in the ivy-clump
Like money in a pig.
Such a frost
The flimsy moon
Has lost her wits.
A star falls.
The sweating farmers
Turn in their sleep
Like oxen on spits.
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I tied together
a few slender reeds, cut
notches to breathe across and made
such music you stood
shock still and then
followed as I wandered growing
moment by moment
slant-eyes and shaggy, my feet
slamming over the rocks, growing
hard as horn, and there
you were behind me, drowning
in the music, letting
the silver clasps out of your hair,
hurrying, taking off
your clothes.
I can't remember
where this happened but I think
it was late summer when everything
is full of fire and rounding to fruition
and whatever doesn't,
or resists,
must lie like a field of dark water under
the pulling moon,
tossing and tossing.
In the brutal elegance of cities
I have walked down
the halls of hotels
and heard this music behind
shut doors.
Do you think the heart
is accountable? Do you think the body
any more than a branch
of the honey locust tree,
hunting water,
hunching toward the sun,
shivering, when it feels
that good, into
white blossoms?
Or do you think there is a kind
of music, a certain strand
that lights up the otherwise
blunt wilderness of the body -
a furious
and unaccountable selectivity?
Ah well, anyway, whether or not
it was late summer, or even
in our part of the world, it is all
only a dream, I did not
turn into the lithe goat god. Nor did you come running
like that.
Did you?
6.6k
i love you,
fresh from
the shower.
glistening and wet,
smelling of aftershave.
"coolwater" by davidoff. often aslo sandlewood,
goat soap, from the local
farmers markets.
i love you,
dressed up smart.
in a brook's brother's way
dress pants and shirt,
blue linen vest.
johnny walker silk bow tie,
untied is best. then your twist,
(not as original as you think)
converse skaties, no socks
and bone bleached cuffs,
turned up.
i love you,
in your work gear.
just come home,
you smell of sweat.
clean and healthy,
always wood shavings
caught up, in your
unruly shaggy hair.
cargo shorts and
t-shirts,
that have seen,
many days of worksite wear.
size elevens in your hands,
those big feet and freaky toes
bare, ******* in the air.
i love you,
in board shorts and rashie.
rushing into the surf,
hand in hand.
with the energetic bundle
of love,
to which we gave birth.
it is not as though,
clothes made this man,
but boyohboy, you, frame them well.
it s the heart, the chuckle
the hands, the philosphy,
the clever, erudite, caveman,
the downright,
man-dumb bloke.
that endears, your heart to
mine.
it is, that you really listen
and take the time,
to make me feel and be,
phenomenal, wise, sensual
and beautiful beside.
i love you,
best, in my bed.
moving slow and sure,
undressed, silk and velvet.
as we express,
the reality of our love
and whisper words,
well known,
and cry to heaven above.
i love you,
then, here, now and eons
on.
even after the worlds
memory of us,
is nothing,
dust upon the breeze
our love,
will carry, forth
stardust on heaven's winds
and cries of our love and ecstasy
will birth worlds anew
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 5:38 PM UTC
there was a girl
who loved me so
named me bestie
gifted me with seashells
and sometimes,
baked brownie
to unfrown me
there was a girl
who taught me braids
loved poking my cheeks
and took photos of me
secretly
there was a girl
who got her heart
into pieces by bestie
and all she did is
to give her love
but only to get
none in return
she was a bird flying above
the sky all alone for no one
loved her anymore
she flew so far away
that i never saw her
ever again
she was gone;
no more brownie
no more grins
and the seashells
turned navy
oddly
twenty-nine-june,
i sat in the coffee shop
with my warm white coffee
and a copy of
stephen chbosky
she flew back home and
she descried me there
came up to me with
a beauteous grin
i last seen in
december '11
we talked
we laughed
we cried
we story-telled
(i remember, she once said,
back when i still
have the name bestie,
that she loved when
we used the term story-tell
for it made the sun and moon
collide together)
i was told that
this lovely girl's wrist
was named demon
and she **** it every time
he tries to drown her
in a sea of darkness
this time,
i got my heart into pieces
told her the same
and pinky promise was made
(like they always said,
promises are meant to be
b/r/o/k/e/n
and it did)
there is a girl
who i love so
named her bestie
and i will hold her
when she is
f
a
l
l
i
n
g
apart
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 12:22 AM UTC
If I could be a cartoon character
Which one would I be
I thought about being Fred Flinstone
But he's too old-fashioned for me
And then there's maybe George Jetson
A man who knew electronics
Nothing like Yosemite Sam
Who needed to be hooked on phonics
And what about Shaggy and Scooby
You gotta love those scooby snacks
I've never really considered a Smurf
And their tiny little mushroom shacks
Or maybe I'd become a super hero
Who comes to save the day
Batman , Green Hornet or Underdog
Who puts the bad guys away
Maybe I'd live in Jellystone Park
Where Yogi is still the king
For "Hello Mr Ranger Sir"
Is just the funniest thing
© All Rights Reserved
Dec 7, 2010
Dec 7, 2010 at 2:11 AM UTC
A few years back,
I used to look like a hag,
Dark circles,
Plain cheeks,
Messy long hair,
No sleek,
Shaggy clothes,
All creased,
Now, penciled eyes,
Powdered face ( not literally ),
Short hair,
Neat ponytail ( I'm almost there ),
Branded clothes,
Gucci, Dior, Chanel and many more,
Red lips,
Ready to glaze,
Trendy clothes in my closet,
Still yearning for more,
Shoes of all kinds,
Heels, sneakers and boots,
How time passes,
Transforming into puberty.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 5:43 AM UTC
The honey in the lion sounds like a delicious thing––
a gentle balm capable of subduing
the cruellest of monsters.
According to the stars and tattooed,
you fancied yourself king of the jungle––
lazy in hot African afternoons.
Golden and tawn with sleepy sun-gold eyes,
shaggy mane, muzzle red with
the blood of a gazelle.
Did you think me such easy prey?
Or was I so much fermented honey,
only a sweet intoxicant.
Sun warmth seeps from jungles of cold concrete.
I mistook your gargoyle wings
for those of a guardian angel’s.
I overlooked your rough skin, your
crooked hawk nose and your skinny ribs,
and assigned fine things in you that didn’t exist.
So duped, I acquiesced to your slimy kiss.
Your mouth a neglected cemetery,
teeth a row of mossy tombstones.
Vampire. Incubus. Your seduction like grotesque death.
You named me tempest in a teacup,
but I was the eye of the storm.
Until the night the eye was eradicated,
and the storm blew in,
striking me dumb with your sound and fury.
But no spattered blood and no spreading bruise
to be found in the pattern of the kaleidoscope.
No cause for alarm.
Today I am lost in a picture show,
a beautiful world coloured by nostalgic past.
Women’s lips the vivid red print of a velvet valentine.
Head in the Clouds, I fantasize about a certain scene.
Because you think violence is ****
retaliation – ********** in my dream.
Give me an eye for my eye,
for all the eyes you plucked, from women and breadwinners.
Give me blood running down your back, sweet as honey.
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 5:37 PM UTC
Living in this yellow box filled with aging trinkets
A lonely guy trying to get by just hasn't sealed the link yet
Bout a cup of milk left in the fridge and God forbid I drink it
A shaggy dog; that ***** hog, why can't they smell the stink yet?
The junk comes barreling through the door so fast that you can blink it
There's no more room for gloom and doom, but let's fit one more inkjet
They just got rid of dinnerware, a silver and a pink set
So now to hoard an ancient sword, a blender and a mink set
Five garbage bags of someone's clothes, the sixth one's in the sink, wet
With lots of cans and pots and pans, we'll reach the jagged brink yet
They're trying to let go, said there ain't no space to think yet
They're workin hard to raise the bar, ain't worked out all the kinks yet
Pressed for time and low on space
****** I need to get out of this place...
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 12:10 PM UTC
Take a peak inside that stormy dome,
see if you can't find yourself
a semi-peaceful slice of mind that you can call your own
Tie a leash around its neck,
try to walk that creature home,
Show it to your mom and pops
“look guys, look what I found roaming around my teenage mind?
This is the friend I was telling you about
I know he’s kind of ugly, shaggy and unkempt.
His looks are mildly incestual
But I love him all the same
Do you mind if I sit him right there next to you?
Maybe the three of you could exchange some words
He knows the same ones I do
Even those nasty slurs
I don’t exactly understand him
No one else does either
Everyone knows him,
But few seem to remember
Don’t go looking for him on your own
He tends to get real shy, sometimes reclusive
He’ll dive down deep into his subconscious home,
Forged of past memories, images and emotions
The ones that I dare not touch like the middle of the ocean
I wait by the shoreline, drifting in and out of consciousness
Anxiously awaiting,
the lumber that he’s plundered
from my stormy subconscious.
Then again,
maybe this time will be just like the rest.
Maybe this time all I get,
Is that hollowed out feeling in my chest
Suddenly,
He surfaces for air
And there he is
Speaking to me of sufferings and joys
My very own melodrama and vanity
He even touches on insecurity.
Things I never knew I tried so hard to hide
How did he find it all?
In that underwater den,
Where all these things reside.
“If you don’t come home with me, all this beauty may be forever lost”
I told him.
So that’s why I brought him home
I call him creativity
Could you watch him,
I need to be alone?
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 11:40 PM UTC
The barber asked "what would you like?
Quiff?
bun?
Mohawk?
slicked back?
side parting?
centre parting?
greased?
permed?
straightened?
skin head?
bald head?
spiky?
A comb over?
pony tail?
pig tails?
curly?
frizzy?
dyed?
mop top?
French crop?
blue rinse?
purple rinse?
step?
undercut?
shaggy?
dreadlocks?"
"No thanks" I replied
"I'll have a short back and sides and make it messy on top please"
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 7:20 AM UTC
On Lolham Brigs in wild and lonely mood
I’ve seen the winter floods their gambols play
Through each old arch that trembled while I stood
Bent o’er its wall to watch the dashing spray
As their old stations would be washed away
Crash came the ice against the jambs and then
A shudder jarred the arches—yet once more
It breasted raving waves and stood agen
To wait the shock as stubborn as before
—White foam brown crested with the russet soil
As washed from new plough lands would dart beneath
Then round and round a thousand eddies boil
On tother side—then pause as if for breath
One minute—and engulphed—like life in death
Whose wrecky stains dart on the floods away
More swift than shadows in a stormy day
Straws trail and turn and steady—all in vain
The engulfing arches shoot them quickly through
The feather dances flutters and again
Darts through the deepest dangers still afloat
Seeming as faireys whisked it from the view
And danced it o’er the waves as pleasures boat
Light hearted as a thought in May—
Trays—uptorn bushes—fence demolished rails
Loaded with weeds in sluggish motions stray
Like water monsters lost each winds and trails
Till near the arches—then as in affright
It plunges—reels—and shudders out of sight
Waves trough—rebound—and fury boil again
Like plunging monsters rising underneath
Who at the top curl up a shaggy main
A moment catching at a surer breath
Then plunging headlong down and down—and on
Each following boil the shadow of the last
And other monsters rise when those are gone
Crest their fringed waves—plunge onward and are past
—The chill air comes around me ocean blea
From bank to bank the waterstrife is spread
Strange birds like snow spots o’er the huzzing sea
Hang where the wild duck hurried past and fled
On roars the flood—all restless to be free
Like trouble wandering to eternity
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The old man sat somewhere twix bemused and bewildered,
Staring out at the mist that lay upon the puse horizon of twilight.
Horace, the brown and white dog with the shaggy coat,
came and curled himself around his masters feet,
The old mans hand fell upon the dogs faithful head,
gently he stroked the dog, yet without sentiment,
but rather with a sense of habit, formed by years of ritual.
and so each day he sits and awaits the coming twilight.
21st December 2010
Dec 25, 2010
Dec 25, 2010 at 3:35 AM UTC
He was known as the local Mycophagist
In the dales, the woods and the hills,
What happened was sad, for he wasn’t so bad
Just a tad underdone, Toby Gills,
They say that the cord was around his neck,
He was born with a carroty mop,
And a pale white head, he was almost dead
When the doctor had called out ‘Stop!’
They cut the cord and they let him breathe,
The damage was already done,
The blood had been stopped to his carroty top
So they said that he’d always be dumb.
But he found a niche where the fungi creeps
And went out collecting the spore,
In a year or two he knew more than you
And the college Professor next door.
He studied his mushrooms with loving intent,
He knew about hen of the woods,
He knew about bracket and shaggy manes, magic
And paddy straw, they were the goods;
He fostered his lobster and hedgehog and oyster
And coral fungi and stinkhorns,
But didn’t discern between fly agarics
And toadstools that grew in the lawn.
He grew his spore in a deep, dark cellar
And sold to the folk who came by,
And never would judge between Widow Weller
And the ordinary witches of Rye,
He’d sell death caps, and pigskin puffballs
Not thinking to question them why,
Or who would be eating his laughing Jim’s
And whether they knew they would die.
The air was thick and the air was damp
And he fell in the dark one day,
Scattering toadstools into the air
And their spores had floated away,
He breathed the spores right into his lungs
For he hadn’t been wearing a mask,
But ****** them in right over his tongue
And they came to his lungs, at last.
I happened to see him out in the street
He was finding it hard to breathe,
He could only take a couple of steps
Then sit on the kerb, to heave,
I tried to help but he waved me away
And his eyes were yellow and cruel,
Then I saw what he’d thrown up on the kerb
Some yellow and red toadstools.
The man was a walking toadstool spore
They were popping up out of his hair,
Pushing their way though his carroty top
In a bid to get to the air,
And his skin was blotched like a puffball, he
Looked up at me, and he cried,
As a giant toadstool grew from his throat
And he lay on his side, and died.
David Lewis Paget
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 5:22 AM UTC
Muck bit her ivory nightgown, as if earth hungering
after her...the delicate collapse of a napkin,she.
Hours poured atop her head, her shaggy, silvery
mane suspended--its reluctant bounce captured
at midpoint...as a spiderweb under ultraviolet light.
Desert sands lost in contemplation, reminiscent of
her flesh--divulge her core as she sleeps in a
fetal position.
Her body spasms awkwardly...its will visibly slowed
from initial motion.
As the paralysis experienced by prey amid the astral
annals of nightmares.
She'll rise into that shine, wonder at the nightmare's
symbology...talk to her garden--whilst thinking of her
time to come.
Silkworm breached the parcel
of time, its cocooned inertia
coarsed through the opalescent
eye of God to Godhood.
Of time's ruination redeemed
in a solitary work...cupped
airless the unbridled form of
a trapezist spent itself.
Opened and closed somersaults
atripped a piece of said space...
nothingness regenerated to
move, to take step of itself.
A self-argumentative abstraction
glowed...undid its silken flag--
firmly planted in an undiscovered
region...her time come.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 7:45 PM UTC
I feel the weight on my shoulders.
So I hide under the table.
Let the wood take the crushing world.
And allow me time to sleep.
Lie down on the shaggy floor.
While the makeshift roof is cracking.
Melt into the floor for once.
Becoming something new.
No longer am I human
But a part of something bigger.
My body has disappeared
From the harmful world.
There is no more crushing
The world cannot find me anymore.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 8:55 PM UTC
Goose bumps on your legs, muted thyroid
Dulled emotions to suppress memories of the abuse,
And yet, your spirit explodes!
Under the curtain you are an open book
Red letters wanting to be read, and then…
The fear slams the covers shut.
Tired avatar,
both liberated shell and mirror of inner shadows
covered by a black cloth.
Surreal midnight dinner,
Like high fever hallucination,
Dry food,
Dead couples staring at each other,
And a milkshake.
The plus and minus collide,
Keep spinning out of control
Until the curse stops it….
Your eyes betray your lying lips.
Feline face, furrowed eyebrows
Forehead Blackfoot square,
Pictures of the shaggy hair,
Are you just a face in the deck of cards
brought to life by my imagination?
The dealer makes it real:
First tears, then the joker fear.
Bows bounce in my imagination
There’s no space between art and life creation
From silence we can generate vibration,
Of the heart.
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 1:55 PM UTC
Oxblood lips. A slit in the center. A distraught film. Shattered pieces that mimic her wounds. She cries for sorrow and weeps in the name of agony. Flashback. High voltage. Dawn's dew left a Seoul night in the hands of mischief. He watched her golden legs in his dingy shirt. She danced in a tunnel of head lights. His eyes. Oh, God, his realm of roses. A spectrum so broad- no force could obtain. 70s misfit. Shaggy rugs. A cheap bottle of Merlot. Kaleidoscope kisses. Craved like a hieroglyphic. He was her warrior. Plummeting grains of virtue into a dust oriented cushion...seven dollars and thirty one cents. I saw the light bulb touch the birch-wood floral. I could feel a thick metallic wind roar. Breaking the depths. A rugged man with a festive beard. His cheeks of stained silicone lipstick. He had shipped off his soul. He was a white man with a grip of steel. "Who put cookies in the watering bucket?" A naive response. "A wicked man with a lustful cavity." Erosion.Despair.Angst. Thin braids housed a blooming mind. Paint chips splattered the table top, plastering it. Morning.Good morning to luxury. What a splendid contrast. A lantern lit van took the highway by 65 miles. And all the while he never looked back.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 9:13 AM UTC
Uncle Sam sometimes whispers a little bit too close.
I’ve felt so many scraps scraping against my cheek-
those numerous numberless things he carries in his
beard by ‘accident’. So many things get stuck there
and I feel them all, whenever he dares, and he dares
often, to whisper alittlebittooclose. One time the grey
beard leaned in and touched me in my sleep and
planted in me strange dreams of faraway gothic towers
passing off as libraries: Harvard dreams, Princeton
dreams, Yale dreams: I haven’t quite slept since. The
shaggy scraps stuck to the forest of strands on his face
would never let me. They scratch away at me often
even in the brightness of day, and claw jaggedly in the
darkness of night. Little heart of mine has lost its own
beat. It beats to the beat of a beat on a beat from a beat
with a beat by a beat which beats those beats and beats
beats that beat not of my beat. Little heart of mine, when
did you lose your own pulse? Why won’t you tell your family
that Uncle Sam’s whispers are more than whispers? Why
won’t you tell your family what Uncle Sam does to you
in the brightness of day when everyone is smiling as Uncle
Sam pats your shoulder? Little heart of mine, why doesn’t
your family know what Uncle Sam does in the darkness
of night as he whispers whispers under your whispers and
what he does beneath your skin? Didn’t you know, little heart?
They have laws that say that greybeards shouldn’t be digging
into little boys’ insides, don’t they.
(Uncle Sam has travelled
far and wide, far and wide to tell me lies.
Recall that this is not the first time…)
But little heart you know why. This is not the first time.
It is the natural progression for a Coconut like you:
darkness of night on outside and brightness of day on inside.
Your skin doesn’t matter; you all taste the same.
Cut you off the homeland-tree and cart you all away.
Then, in this way we can say and say the homeland is “Rising”-
Uncle Sam tells the world of his diversity in selection
of little boys to touch with strange dreams.
And I like the feel of the scraps in his beard. Maybe
I can become one of them. One with them.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 10:58 PM UTC
I like you best when you're wrecked and gorgeous.
When your eyes are bright with excitement and half-lidded from drink.
When you're writing hot checks with all the words you'd never say otherwise.
I like you best when your cheeks are flushed and your bottom lip looks like I've just bitten it.
When the words that fall from it are fantastical and outlandish.
When you ask me things like "Will you be my post-apocalypse bride?!" and tell me with slurred and hurried speech that I have the best taste in music.
I like you best when it looks like touching your skin would burn the prints from my fingers.
When you introduce me to the people you call family with liquid pride and wildly exaggerated tales of my heroic deeds.
When I'm not just a nod of your shaggy locks and a tilt of your glass.
These are the times when I can forget the awful nagging voice in my head,
the one that says "Never, never, never"
Because everything about you is tinged with "It could happen any moment now."
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 2:59 AM UTC
Strolling along
By the teeming docks,
I watch the ships put out.
Black ships that heave and lunge
And move like mastodons
Arising from lethargic sleep.
The fathomed harbor
Calls them not nor dares
Them to a strain of action,
But outward, on and outward,
Sounding low-reverberating calls,
Shaggy in the half-lit distance,
They pass the pointed headland,
View the wide, far-lifting wilderness
And leap with cumulative speed
To test the challenge of the sea.
Plunging,
Doggedly onward plunging,
Into salt and mist and foam and sun.
2.4k
I saw a man on the bus
With a shaggy beard
And a shaggy dog
His eyes twinkled before they closed
Then he burped
May 9, 2021
May 9, 2021 at 11:49 PM UTC