"slo" poems
inthe,exquisite;
morning sure lyHer eye s exactly sit,ata little roundtable
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(slo wlythe wom an pa)ris her
flesh:wakes
in little streets
while exactlygir lisHlegs;play;ing;nake;D
and
chairs wait under the trees
Fields slowly Elysian in
a firmcool-Ness taxis,s.QuirM
and, b etw ee nch air st ott er s thesillyold
WomanSellingBalloonS
In theex qui site
morning,
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Her
.eyes
8.7k
an average human creature should such a mythical exist
in a lifetime will celebrate about 2,200,000,000 heartbeats,
billions of heartbeats per minute (I prefer moment)
but like everything so essence human there are
those very few heartbeat moments,
the ten or twenty maybe forty total in a lifetime
that you total truly remember,
recalling the cream and sauce,
swell and the hell,
of the pounding so slow so hard,
each one a volcano of
a moment until that day
you don't remember-anything
when she said yes and you're shaking and beating in a
honky-tonk rhythm cause you were heart undressed unsure
and truly afraid of a rejection that makes a heart stoppage
disallowing visions, to be exponentially happy future imagined
you're feeling your heartbeat
in your knees going weak,
when the doctor says:
congratulations healthy swell
and/or
some years later,
I'm so so truly sorry, hell
when they hand you a long handle shovel no instructions needed and that scoop of earth weighs two tons and the sound of slow reverb in your head hurts like hell and you lack the strength to move and they move you aside quiet gentle like
but inside the temple of the two headed hydra-heart,
it's the rock and roll of slo mo, the violin crying, the drumming of
heavy metal chords plucked so slowly, it's you froze screaming
a billionaire of heartbeats you are,
but only ten or twenty maybe forty total in a lifetime
you total truly remember with the perfect clarity and
forever renders into your own unique orchestral symphony,
your true net worth, the stripes you wear
upon your shoulders skin,
the tune when you hear it and melts you into rigidity
you fall to your knees wherever you are,
that is where you will find me,
just listen for the cars horns blaring
cursing the man lying in the street, re-listening to
ten or twenty maybe forty heartbeats total in a lifetime
you alone total truly that concert set recall and
the win-loss record inherent, inhiment,
in both of them, tears and the rents, all there in the tunes,
of forty beatings you took,
somehow it feels like here is, there was,
the answers to
where is shelter for the heart,
the answers that have gone and come and gone and someone says,
I don't feel a pulse
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 2:55 PM UTC
Ko Ko to Go Go
a prelude to a kiss
dance with Chubby Checker
lift a slo gin fizz
Head bobs to Be Bop
flip the B Side now
mellowtune in monotone
two ears for stereo wow!
Wonderment of Duke and Miles
swinging kool birthin boplicity
urban crush the hipsters rush
jazz joints cross the city
Firery sax emote a clash
strain ears of credulity
Lester leaps creative heat
nips harden on my *******
Max taps exotic wax
Django's quick pickin
finger snaps flip my lid
lips deliciously sippin
Eurozone a Zen zone
a blue infinitive smokin
big peeps dig don pink wigs
fat spliffs hot token
My new suede shoes
walks west end blues
Pop's cornet got me tippin
his open blast first to last
I like cornbread, barbecue
and fine home jazz cookin
jbm
Oakland
3/12/10
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 6:41 PM UTC
Mouth open wide, ripped, stitched up the side
Telling me to stop running, their tired
Tired of dirt, mud, **** things that transpired
from a ground level view
Screaming at me
"Imagine if it were you!
Imagine you saw yourself running
and each step smashed your brain in!
We are tired!
Just let us die, get some new
cronies, pick on some new guys."
Beat to death, then beaten again
SLO, Santa Cruz, beaches, streets,
parties, fight circles, thrown on the roof
Hoping they'll die soon and be reborn
as some brand new shoes
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 3:37 AM UTC
Iym onna mishon forra gerl
krossing China jus to si her
ona slo chrayn going west
krossing mouwntins in my kot.
Shis onna mishon for tha boi
fly eirchina for to si mi
bundling legings inna bag
wot to bring and wot to not
bring your person bring your boots
spanix boots and spanix wyn
put your bodi in this plays
taiwan boox and qinese wyn
i wil sit heer lyk an ox
wayting unda shaydi tri
wayting hyuman wil tu find me
pat my **** and skweez my ni
qyneez wyn
qyneez wyn
wyn in qyneez
qyneez wyn
pump my rat and wyn qyneez
shaydi tri with pengyou lao
thingking hyuman tu gud tu mi
wy *** look for stinki kao
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 8:47 PM UTC
Snatched me up
From a bored volcano
Washed me down
Scrubbed my soul-hole
Of sincere shame,
Rejection and dejection
Knelt down to pray
Before me and the Almighty
Swirling down
Dirt spins in slo-mo
Went down the drain
Echoing choking gasps
Wrapped me warmly
With your eerie love
Filled me up!
As if you don't know
You've won again
Stitched my open heart
Smash a cup
On the floor behind me
Give me a breakdown
Cup of mo-jo
Hot seering pain
My selfish violations
Smelling so tidy
Like a lonesome clown
I give in
Time is so slow -
Ignoring blame,
I linger in consolation
Aug 11, 2012
Aug 11, 2012 at 9:56 AM UTC
My mind is a stuffed disease
through clouded eyes and
my face feels faint and shallow.
Quiet hands and drooling lids;
slo
bb
er.
Broken confidence
through months of solitude
hidden feelings that showed their presence
between self doubt.
The way she smiles
or the way she looks at you
how every girl wants a boy to look at her.
I know she wants
me
to stretch hands;
titillating.
I swallow
nerves and puke.
Disgorged in my throat,
she sat.
Smiling up at me,
her face so hopeful,
her hands stretched
like mine once stretched to him.
Away she walks beyond my mind
frisking her feet,
nuzzled in.
I want to keep her.
Hold her against my chest
and live like primary school kids.
In single beds
with christian hands
looking for God
in paper notebooks.
That extended grip,
and I don’t know how to touch her
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 4:24 AM UTC
Sunday morning lie-in,
she, ny times newspaper reading,
contentedly dress perusing-shopping,
in the bed both, but separated
by the distance of the electronic void
i am raven tapping poe poems on my diminutive IPhone,
twenty four inches distant from her lips
no notice taken of the man so overcome
writing his Sunday morn poems that are
drawn so deep from places
that make him so so so glad
good quality weeping
can be best performed silently
noticing that
- he writes best when writing of others, mostly, you
- he writes when the rented invisibility cloak covers his face
and
the wellspring offers him a choice;
write weep and tear
or
write weep and bawl
or just quit everything
whimsy laughs at his slo 'mo nonsense
his choices
this tough guy supporting a mountain of others,
the inversion of his inverted triangle,
him holding up the world
the worrisome grief that wears him down
best released in tears when writing about
you, go figger
and you notice stupid stuff
like why we use 'and' when it just ain't necesssry
how the core of 'believe' is lie
that ** ** ** rhymes with woe woe woe
and
that 24 inches is quite the distance when you are
** ** ** weeping and she don't notice
and how hard writing
only love poetry can be
even twenty four inches
from your nose
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 10:19 AM UTC
.
Even after visits to apartments in self-named cities to see soccer stars swathed in orange tuxes,
Swerving off country roads in berating fits of tenderness,
Sputtering 'i love yous' in ditches and river canals;
Even after chais with Ye Ye Elders,
Messenger powwows with ancestors, and
holding the hands of comforting Harmonies, I
Never got it right.
.
It was a pathetic attempt to join a traveling circus; a passive means for an escape. Who were the Elephant Man, the sword swallower, or the contorting twins?
****** if I know.
Buddy had his hands wrapped around my neck in a nihilist noose so tight that it bubbled up amaurotic visions within my retina.
I couldn't see or feel a ******* thing.
Lost consciousness on his cold bathroom tiles, sprinkled with ***** confetti, **** all up on my cheek.idonthavetimeforthis!sleeponthecouch!
Watching 'Teach Yourself Circus!' videos at circus camp, I learned to juggle,
albeit groggy and disoriented. Only brightly coloured ***** at this point but I was up to seven tosses! While the freaks and geeks headed to carousels in the big top tent, I headed back to my dilapidated den leased on a broken Concord.
getoutbitchgetoutbitch
Back at camp ( hazy lazy crazy ) rivets affixed so I could only stare forward at the wall.
An e.ch-o-y sound in my
left ear
voice reverberating down thru
t
h
e
w
e
l
l
past
t
h
e
b u c
k e t
I turned my head,
slo-mo tracers flashed in warp speed,
glacial stares softened into slushy moss.
A buttery soft cashmere reply,
i'm sorry? what did you say?
you seem nice...
.
Infrastructure collapsed.
****
Gone.
Crumbled in a heap of rubble.
Impaled by rebar and rebar erections.
Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab.
Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab.
in a black plastic sack
And....then....
Who's to say about the linear sequence of events, anyway?
.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
The city is windy,
today.
Certainly noisy, everyday,
Compared to my country life.
Tall buildings glimmer,
Streets boisterous with sounds of people and machines.
Excitement!
Opportunity!
Urgency!
Country life, by comparison, stiller,
Slo wer,
Ex pan sive.
Both are good
I tell myself.
I am still flexible,
I tell myself.
Then, verily it dawns on me,
with unfamiliar panic and relief,
that my stretching-bending days are over.
I want to ride
like the wind
to where my being has
despite itself,
taken root.
Where the nomad has
inadvertently pitched
A more permanent tent.
30 years after roaming
ill-suited ground
my Restless Soul
was cleverly tricked
to settle
where nature,
in all her glory
and quiet magnificence,
crowds the land.
Amen.
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 4:40 AM UTC
There is such peace in nature.
The absence of filling time
with words, emotions and opinions.
Just. Being. Still.
When I close my mouth and open my heart
to her fierce stillness,
I find a part of myself
so grounded and complete.
Just. As. I. Am.
FOMO has been driving
this bus for too long now.
I think I’ll turn the keys over
to SLO-MO for a while
instead.
Apr 24, 2018
Apr 24, 2018 at 3:14 PM UTC
When the words won't come
I feel numb, empty inside
On a slow ride
Wanting to go faster
I sit waiting, for stimulus, motivation
Any sign of animation
in this head of mine
Waiting for the literary spark
My mind drips like a tap, drip, drip
Everything in slo mo
Need the words to grow
Blossom, bloom
Then
It hits me
A seed, a kernel
I feel the infernal rattlings
Of cogs that begin to turn
I feel it, a flutter, a thought
Emerging like a butterfly
Words multiply
I write
The words spill like a waterfall
Soaking my senses, breaking down fences
I am hydrated again
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 7:26 AM UTC
Busy busy always on the go, in constant motion no time for slo mo. Stop in smell the rose's they always say, that's right I forgot I was supposed to plant them today. You tell me to look up and see the ocean blue sky, all the endless clouds that shift and move before my eyes. But I'll never know I don't have time to look up. Scared if I do so I'll run out of luck, trip over a crack and get stuck in a muck. I'm to caught up in the little thing's to find beauty in anything,
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 12:44 PM UTC
Found my slice of paradise on the southern coast today.
Although I felt ill prepared at first: cycling in my climbing shoes (the only shoes I found tossed in my car),
no helmet, and nothing but a large body of salt water at the end of the trail to quench my thirst for refreshment,
perhaps what I was most unprepared for was this small patch of sand I stumbled across at the edge of the lagoon, much unlike the pristine white sandy beaches with ******** clad women that embody San Diego County, this slice of shoreline is squeezed by a motel parking lot to the north and tightly packed condos to the south and seems rugged and uncombed, like an abandoned lot the city had intended to develop before the recession but instead left it to sit, collecting seaweed and mangy seagulls.
Slightly windy, home to an unwelcoming rip current, and the view of the freeway not far behind me, this was paradise. My unkempt paradise.
Although a few scattered families littered the sand, who somehow felt like intruders to a secret jewel I had just discovered, I still felt that this was my new patch of sanity. I felt a strong urge to keep it a protected secret matched with a sense of pride in finding it and the desire to share this hidden sense of serenity with all my friends on the central coast; bring them here to christen it with the free-spirited energy I had unwillingly left behind.
But instead I left that decision for another day, rolled out my yoga mat I had haphazardly strapped to my back, and started my Vinyasa flow with a view of the Pacific Ocean; a sputtering plane engine was my mental Sanskrit, the tide my metronome for breath.
Even the stares of my fellow beach-dwellers wouldn’t deter me from this spot. I had left my mark near the lifeguard tower, a skinny path from my tires and a rectangular imprint of my mat that said: I'll be back. Perhaps what sealed the deal was the sign I passed as I pedaled away: Bicycle Friendly Community. Yep, maybe this could be a home away from SLO.
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 2:05 AM UTC
Sweetheart--singles' night
Slick fake leather dream.
The long pink cigarette choked between
Passion-fire red top
And hell bent bottom lip
Delicious breath--
A car crash in your eyes.
The spike-heeled goddess who never loved roses.
You show your eye teeth in that
Slo gin smile.
Those thighs of yours speak to me
In another illegal language
A freight train made of flesh.
Oct 30, 2011
Oct 30, 2011 at 12:46 PM UTC
Here’s to scrumptious nights.
cats and boots and cats and boots
We went clubbing last night, to recalibrate
ourselves on the dance floor, where magic happens.
cats and boots and cats and boots and cats and boots
To focus on sensory experiences, the beat,
and share in the fun and tangible sense of freedom.
cats and boots and cats and boots
Feel the wave, show your energy, be the wave
cats and boots and cats and boots
be disheveled, swing your hair like a weapon
abandon, silly, self-protecting vanities
cats and boots and cats and boots
flashing lights on dancing figures
make it all seem slo-mo and extreme.
cats and boots and cats and boots
It’s been too long since we’ve done it like this.
Work-worn, I’d lost my lucidity and stumbled badly on a quiz.
Lisa pushed my books onto the floor, declaring, “Get UP, we’re grabbing some bliss.”
cats and boots and cats and boots and cats and boots and cats and boots
failure has a reality, a gravity and pull all the more shocking in relief.
I’d started out the evening gloomy and ashamed - a figure of regret -
but I’m better now, buoyed and recharged and soon I’ll have a plan - hopefully.
cats and boots and cats and boots and cats and boots and cats and boots
There was a guy there, on the dance floor, who looked like a young Leonardo DiCaprio.
We made eye contact, nodding and smiling at each other in motion.
We gyrated, together, sort of, for a second, in our separate orbits - no conversation
I just watched him for a moment or two, sexualizing him like eye candy.
Just seeing him was sensual fun and I wondered what he smelled like.
He had a gritty, sweaty, idealized beauty, like a dancing ‘David’
that no Michelangelo could ever capture in stiff granite sculpture.
The music ended - momentarily - we knew it would start up again
and we were there for it - til 1 or 2 am anyway - then it recranked.
cats and boots and cats and boots and cats and boots and..
Lisa grabbed my hand, jerking me onto the dance floor almost
before I could set down my drink. Eeek! “Slow Down!” I yelled,
but my complaint was lost in the din and my involuntary laugh.
cats and boots and cats and boots and cats and boots and..
.
.
Songs for this:
Dance To This (feat. Ariana Grande) by Troye Sivan
Good Time Girl (feat. Charlie Barker) by Sofi Tukker
Sep 28, 2024
Sep 28, 2024 at 8:14 AM UTC
Thanksgiving Menu Planning for Gaining and Losing
~~~
having shed thirty pounds plus,
another X more yet required,
to be forever properly de-cored,
a happy subtracted scoring
part too,
brought the curtain going down
on a seven year insanity,
paid off the forever divorcing *****
that weight worth more than a Venetian
pound of flesh
now finding myself
in a re-entry orbit,
though hardly gliding,
encased in a capsule,
friction glowing gold
the now never~ending
calorie counting and exercise rituals,
in every aspect of life,
all friendly devils of relentless,
demanding utter devotions,
all watching, wondering, watering, endlessly,
a new perennial flowering of a leaf,
all watchdogs of the truth serum called
what if?
what if
had I lived my prior
lazy loose life,
with the current rigor
of daily barefaced truth
I would never have made
choices that have redline scarred,
some made back in 1975,
into a forty year losing war,
spiral declination that permitted the
insidious, slo-mo of decay,
that could be, would be,
reversed only
by this recent heart
and soul surgery
*nowadays, menu plan my life's
every actionable choice,
limiting the sugared foolishness
from the decay
one can coat themselves in,
survival lies and refrigerator drugs,
until sleep~rest intervenes
what shall I eat,
what shall I choose,
what will be this day's life choices from the menu,
answering daily inquiries from
Oliver and Siri (1),
acknowledging that more-than-occasional slippage will occur,
but taking no true satisfaction
from the periodicself-cheating,
always
daily weigh myself
twice,
first my body,
then, my soul,
upon the rising,
upon the setting*
***to see quantifiable
what I have,
thankfully
yet to gain
by losing***
~~~
Thanksgiving Day
2015
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 3:14 PM UTC
I left you very long ago
To you, my baby, I said no.
T’was like a movie in slo-mo,
I just stood there, and I watched you go.
Now have none to watch my back
No one to fill that which I lack
No one to make me lose all track
Of time. Oh, silence doth attack.
I thought I didn’t need you
I need to clearly see through
The lies, but they were true.
I’m back to old, and broken new.
Just go. You don’t deserve me,
Though I scream, forever empty.
Never good enough. Never shall I see:
You’re my water; I’m a tree.
I draw this X upon my chest
With knife and blood and gory rest
To show what’s there: naught but void.
Your heart’s not here, and mine’s destroyed.
Don’t care if you were right or not,
My heart’s not even here to rot.
Don’t preserve it; throw away.
I don’t deserve it. Dead I stay.
Cut it out? I can no more.
You did already, blood and gore.
In madness, shoved you to the floor.
For all the ravings, I’m the *****
No longer have angelic wings
Of yours to sooth me, nor any rings
Of promise. None of this can sing
Because I don’t have anything.
Nothing but this X upon my chest
With knife and blood and gory rest
To show what’s there: naught but void.
Your heart’s not here, and mine’s destroyed.
Don’t care if you are right or not,
My heart’s not here to rot.
Don’t preserve it; throw away.
I don’t deserve it. Dead I stay.
Yes, it really is still there.
Staring from its angry glare
Red eyes burning like a flare
It cloaks my breast, when even bare.
Funny, I didn’t feel at all,
When I cut the four-side, evil stall.
Empty spaces: chambers missing.
When skin tore, ne’er did this sting.
I rip an X upon my chest!
Forever more I’ll do this test
To show no longer have I my best
I lost it all, and gory rest.
Yes, I care that you were right
But it’s too late to save that night.
I began and ended stupid fight,
And live forever with my plight.
Stir, stir, filthy cur.
Mix it well, to be sure.
Drink it down to make all blur,
To curse me hard for losing her.
Slice, slash, petty trash.
Mark a symbol with a lash.
An X to signal monstrous crash
Infect it for eternal rash.
Jab, stab, to feel some pain
Maybe I will feel again.
Harder, faster! Make it rain!
Blood my sins and errors stain.
Mark this X upon my breast,
Deeply, cutting, hard I press.
Slicing through my dirtied chest
‘Til in the shadows I find rest.
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 10:51 PM UTC
ol' factory swirling of disinfectant and decay
and the arising sliding vision that brings me to my knees,
presence like you...and you...and
...you....again.
( ( ( ( ( (scope) ) ) ) ) )
( ( ( ( ( ( (like) ) ) ) ) ) )
a paralysis of fear
that grips an exhale
...like, serious,
for real, for real.
DJs spinnin' tunes like yarns,
blanketed cocoons
and scoring golden booties.
Divert into another duality,
- split -
( ( ( ( ( (scope) ) ) ) ) )
( ( ( ( ( ( (like) ) ) ) ) ) )
a past, present, and future
>>>>>>>>>>shakin' it, shakin' it<<<<<<<<<<
like an Oxford comma weekend.
A love like, < >
and a tsk like, < >
for who sells integrity on a dime?
Slo-mo tracers.....
diss....appointment.
Unconscious tallies of an inhale or exhale
that arises with the all
unfiltered
now hesitant
but, yet,
here
we
are
in absolute wanderings.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 9:18 PM UTC
be gin and it seems there is so much time left / pro ceed ing and speed ing much fast er a gain / craw ling and march ing the mo ments count down / the tick ing grows loud er the se cond hand 's shou ting and fas ter yet slo wly i'm fro zen a sleep / i'm thin king in slo mo time's spee ding and surg ing a round de com pos ing and what do i mean ? what can i show for the min utes i'm was ting ? i need to be mov ing like there 's no time left / can i get some where make some thing be fore the end ? move me to trust you build some thing be cause I can 't / ev er y se cond i'm dying i need your breath /
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 5:16 PM UTC
First, Tom Cochran, and next, Rascal Flatts,
sang that
Life is a Highway
and that's partially true if
you're willing to consider that
coasting is not an option
that you rarely have the opportunity
to drive hundreds of miles without
rubberneckers or blue Q-Tips driving
forty in a sixty-five
to drive from Napa to San Diego without
stopping for mixed nuts and a frozen coffee
and Smartfood
to drive with movie-like abandon without
the Thelma & Louise slo-mo sending you
careening toward the crevasse
Life is a highway riddled, web-like, with
unexpected off-ramps and
unforeseen on-ramps and
inconvenient detours that take you places
you never dreamed you'd go
you never thought you'd end up
but there are
rest stops and
diners and
fruit stands offering organic sunshine
and there are
flat tires and
empty tanks and
road crews repaving your path in 104 degree heat
and there are
national parks and
natural wonders and
the world's largest frying pan
the world's largest ball of twine
the world's crookedest road
the world's newest you
Your life is a highway that is made of
choices
which lead you on your own
Choose-Your-Own-Adventure
with epic battles for good and evil and
pots of gold at the end of sprinkler-rainbows and
endless hints that
YOU MAY ALREADY BE A WINNER!!!
Your life is a highway and
if you miss your off-ramp
accept your new path
. . . because there's no going back and
if you miss your on-ramp
enjoy the scenery and the cows and the Texas Stop-Signs
. . . because you never know when you'll
see them again
Your life is a highway and
this is your off-ramp, so
take it with
your eyes open to wonder
your heart open to magic
your life open to change
because that is you evolving
Honor the view in your rearview mirror as you
keep your eyes on the horizon and
with joy
with fear
with electric anticipation
Take your exit!
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 1:52 PM UTC
More wiry weeds than hair, they grow
coarse black and at a heightened clip
from ear-top follicles suddenly fertile
after decades of smooth-flesh dormancy.
Add to that a stubborn snout intent
on lengthening and willful fingers bent
on becoming gnarled claws. The horror
signs indicate a slo-mo transition
from man to wolf, but don't let that put
you off your supper. We're all made to fall
apart. Creep on over. I'll take a little
nibble, and we'll howl at forever's moon
together.
Jun 8, 2010
Jun 8, 2010 at 11:38 AM UTC
amidst cavorting delightfully, enjoying thorough
frolicking gingerly, foreign hick hating slo
hip-hopping insouciantly sustaining row
biological status quo
kvetching lamely moreso mother became pro
naturally physically rumbling,
heard all the way in Oslo
supposedly twerking, undulating vivaciously
wantonly x2c wisely yielded – nada no
zona pellucida anchored byte size ******
potent embryonic fetal moe
newlweds nocturnal merriment
moma's ****** marked march 1959
lovingly joyusly, insemination happened ha low
bullseye clenched diploid fertilization
guaranteed germinating heiress
while squaqking lichen Apache at Diablo
ma late mother did should know
upon awakening upon tautly stretched exertion
during dilating ****** which jiggled like jello
three score orbitz round el sol, warmed cockles
and muscled away brutally cold degrees
tab billed an igloo,
or circa six decades
drafted exuberant ho...ho...ho...
cuz, i.e. thencee at 362nd day
baby in belly did fully grow
December first nineteen fifty seven
sanctioned newly minted papa
to sing a capella for he's a jolly good fellow
quintessential nascent
kickstarter heady everflow
though wintry dark,
a “hi” beam illuminated
newborn girl with dayglow
sans, mechanical engine ear
papa (an honorably discharged army vet)
all spit and shine groom,
who wed a bride somewhat callow
first time parents with giddiness did saul fully bellow
Boyce and Harriet Harriet countenance
twas (like an elf on Christmas eve) all aglow.
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Dear Sis – I knew not what else to do
thus, this poem crafted fur ewe
a doe ting maternal gal – whose time on Earth flew
Nov 10, 2017
Nov 10, 2017 at 1:09 AM UTC