I slumber

I flip and flop
Not so much a linger

Never a time I try
to get closer

I run
I slip

I walk
I trip

I stand
I tip

No more the nearer
It’s best I wait here

Yet even then
when I stop

I drop
‘Quite’ close...

Poetic Surgery, Copyright © 2018,  All rights reserved.
dinner Greenport-side, watching the shuffling ferries do
their sworn duty, a back ‘n forth wearisome toll,
while we sip a rose and a PBR, respectively and with respect

no enthusiasm afterward for anything but an early off to bed,
and slip into pj’s asap

me in my knackered wholly Hanes fundie knickers,
no thinking required
but she
retires, re-attires in a summery combo,
a gray sweat t-shirt and green and white
plaid pj pants

which she is unawares are my favorites
cause they lop off fifty years,
a teenage woman re-incarnate recreated
cause her figure now womanly full,
better than then

morning awake l, a disturbance of the peace,
recall a snuggling a wake up hug,
and her bottoms conspicuously
gone missing

over break fast I inquire
over yogurt and berries and a
smoked mozzarella omelette,
what happened to those plaid bottoms?
assuming I was innocent of any transgressions
as best I could recall

with a sheepish childlike grin,
that made look like she was twenty again,
to match the now yoga toned body,
she confesses:

forgot to tie the bowstrings
and they slipped down to my ankles

blessed and cursed I thought!

too much of a gentleman to take advantage,
AND my situational awareness was slipping badly,
but when a poem comes across,
ready and pre-writ,
I’m still young enough to grab aholt of it

and never let go


6/23/18
Oh sickly poisonous flame
Darting back and forth
I hear you call my name
It's not what they think, for what it's worth

One slip of the finger
And a tingling sensation
Smells of gas linger
Now for use of personification:

Its seems that you love me
For you never let me go
I feel pitiful in your embrace
And it seems that you know

You always take control
And oh how I'm fascinated by your flame
Skin swells and pain holds
In this endless torture game
AS 7d
/\
/    \
/        \
Hours,

days,

weeks,

months,

years and decades.

All the minutes which slip away.

Before you've learned to montage,

soaking in each day.

Weeks of sleep,

which could of been spent on

times to leap.

Surrounded by the guided months,

to do something you really want.

Years to learn,

that to never waste your turn.

Decades to grow,

taking the time to move on and let go.
\                        /
\                    /
\                /
\             /
\           /
All this time,

covered in rhyme.

Flying by,

whilst you remained shy.

No longer the time to waste.

The moment has come,

to live life,

to no longer let it drip by.

No longer to hide by silently,

it is a time to try

As drip,

drop,

inside I am alive.

Time to make a splash,

to prance,

taking a chance,

taking control of your own plot.
\                             /
\                          /
\                        /
\                    /
\                /
\            /
\        /
\    /
\ /
Now I am ready to shine!!!

© 2018
Abigail Sheard
This poem is about learning who you are, not letting any more time pass by.
With all the craziness in the world, it is so easy to let time drip by.
clara Jul 3
it’s the morning after the stars fell to the earth,
and i thought that only happened in the movies.
i love him, and i’ve all but told him that i do,
and that was act 1, scene 2 in the hotel room.
does he remember the first time he called me
baby, or the last time i kissed his devilish grin?
did my hand slip, or was that the last sip of
shame that i ever tipped onto his open lips?
i said, “i will grow for you.” or i thought it to myself.
he said, “you never have to.” now i do it for myself.
day 2 of 31 days of poetry.
AS 7d
I want more,
all I want to do is explore.
Not letting life slip by,
to take flight and not care about getting everything right.
To really live!
Not being the person just to give!
A vision,
just a dream no more,
now to embody which is truly in my core.
To live each mystery,
not reliving each history.
Life a dance floor,
ready to host the fire inside.
Finally I'm ready!
To take charge,
let loose a riot.
No longer afraid to open the moments of the unexplored.
No longer cleaning up anyone else chores and gore.
That power is no longer a sin,
that it's finally my time to win.
My drive is more than being alive,
not to standby to have a stereotypical life.


© 2018
Abigail Sheard
When your finally ready to take life by the horns, to embrace what you truly are.
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