"sortie" poems
Black, Swiss cheese hulk on horizon
The James Longstreet
immobile old freighter of the bay
Towed to the ignominy
of its last commission
in the curled arm of The Cape
Tides flex their muscles against it
But The Longstreet is steadfast
in its dark purpose
Standing target for practice
A sortie if planes home in on its bulk
Honing their skills
on this “fish-in-a-barrel”
Thunderhead-etched pyrotechnics
Booming follows the miles over water
Against The Longstreet’s silhouette enduring
even God fixes sights
firing bolts across its bow
taking aim at our futures
Standing targets for practice
Vietnam? Cape Cod?
No difference to teens
before life’s ocean of conscription
Sand is cold beneath dunes
Beach grass rustles
to the pulsing surf
to the wind’s whispers
just below hearing
as if there’s a secret
that must be kept
We are targets for practice
We are meaningless din
Pulling our sweatshirts and blanket closer
The Supremes sing thinly
from transistor
“Stopped for a moment in the name of love—
Thinking it over”
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 2:14 PM UTC
<•>
BusBusNYC (A Live Love Bus App)
•<>•
if you made it this far, so fare one,
be undressed with thyself and impressed as well,
for thou joints me in holy matrimony upon a living map
where our presences can meet
in virtual real time as if eye new what that meant
but that blue dot is where this body possessed can be located by the nearest satellite finger snaking down from the heavens to Cain mark my foreheads location,
just like on Game of Thrones
don't you desire me, or rather,
the knowledge of mine
whereabouts?
the who of me, that very useful information, can best be
seen moving crosstown on the M72,
which is a mythological bus for in twenty years eye never
seen it come, go, though all its stops clearly marked
see me moving in fits and spurts of bursts of movement,
leaping streets and avenues in a single
unbounded, unstoppable superbus leap
in a city of anonymity where all who walk it streets,
ride the tides of its buses,
all ask a single Job-like question,
regardless of age,
"I am desirable, do you want me?"
eye say the ayes have it,
no,
this is not a great poem
but!
this live bus map app is the dating site ever created by
geeky human cells
alll this virtual meeting possibly leading to coitus
with a stranger while Pandora serenades
with perfect synchronicity, playing and plying us with
Romance for a Violin and Orchestra in F Minor,
a combination musical **** work of
Dvorak-Mehta-Midori
this bus app is
the social media's most immediate,
so meet me on the bus
at Broadway and 86 Street
where our metro cards can be
merged and we will be recognized
as a legal couple(ing)
in the eyes of MTA,
a multi-state agency and be bound in bustrimony
(legally married when riding on a city bus, only)
jeez, a crazy poem, not just, not a good one
but a true tale from the one who rides the buses and only
alights and delights with regaling tales and tellings
of love sortie sorrow maybe tomorrow the busbusNYC
app wil apply itself a smidgen better and
let me love you even with
a good under the hood
bus poem
but!
someday we will,
this, thy poet,
who does desire youalone,
will hijack you and a NYC bus,
and visit the poets from India and
the Great Northwest
won't that be a fabulous poem!
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 6:16 PM UTC
Lazy seems the sun today
helped aloft
by a flight of pelicans
in formation
like B-52s returning
to safe haven
after a sortie
Inland they go
with the gulls
during this calm
before the storm
The smell of a slowly swelling
angry sea awakened
drowning out the roses
by the garden path
soon to be scattered petals
across the village
The morning calm
belies the night
to come.
r ~ 7/3/14
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 7:27 AM UTC
On Monday I will wear my uniform -
A blazer from Goodwill, old khaki slacks -
Knot my made-in-China patriotic tie
And verify that my papers are in order
On Monday I will sortie through the candidates -
I’m important to them on this one day -
Then work around their signs all slogan-trapped
And rush the doors through a hail of cliches’
And watched by comrades with their helmets blue
Vote for a Merovingian or two
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 8:51 AM UTC
To those men who are always behind us, though sometimes we may not see them.
To those men who are too busy flying fighter jets to teach their daughters to make paper planes.
To those sons who will point at every aeroplane that skims the horizon to proudly claim, “that’s my father!”.
To those women whose hearts will return wrapped in the tricolour and chipped aluminium; Who will place dented helmets beside faded polaroids of days gone by.
To those youth who will break solemn promises- “I’ll come back soon.”
To those families that will stare out of windows, refusing to draw down curtains as they hope against hope.
To those men who can truly say the sky is the limit.
To those men who fly above us yet are so rooted to the cause of their motherland.
Those brave hearts whose faces are lined with sweat and determination as they kiss the ground beneath their feet before they embrace the heavens for the last time.
To the men who take every sortie with a last salute.
To the white saris and navy-blue shirts stashed away and medals hung on rusted nails. To survival and martyrdom and the presence of absences. To commodores and flight lieutenants and wingmen. To parades and memoirs and sacrifices and soldiers in the sky.
The Eighth of October is for them.
To those men who are always behind us, though sometimes we may not see them.
To those men who are too busy flying fighter jets to teach their daughters to make paper planes.
To those sons who will point at every aeroplane that skims the horizon to proudly claim, “that’s my father!”.
To those women whose hearts will return wrapped in the tricolour and chipped aluminium; Who will place dented helmets beside faded polaroids of days gone by.
To those youth who will break solemn promises- “I’ll come back soon.”
To those families that will stare out of windows, refusing to draw down curtains as they hope against hope.
To those men who can truly say the sky is the limit.
To those men who fly above us yet are so rooted to the cause of their motherland.
Those brave hearts whose faces are lined with sweat and determination as they kiss the ground beneath their feet before they embrace the heavens for the last time.
To the men who take every sortie with a last salute.
To the white saris and navy-blue shirts stashed away and medals hung on rusted nails. To survival and martyrdom and the presence of absences. To commodores and flight lieutenants and wingmen. To parades and memoirs and sacrifices and soldiers in the sky.
The Eighth of October is for them.
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 11:24 AM UTC
It's here! It's here! One of the Best
And Brightest Days
Now's the Time to rev-up our Ways.
That Glazing Star, which spits the
Rays
Shone brightly through Helios, the
Highest Display.
Beaches un-roll their sleek-forming sands
As Pools de-frost their blue-tanned waves.
Swimmers do dive, and enjoy the Save
In Iberia's Coast rescue in Grand.
There are many Events in
This Hot-Baste Holiday
Worry not; For it will slowly
Pass Away
About a month-two - quill, quite awhilst
Just enough for me to produce
More Words in-rhyme.
Writing on Holidays must always be fun
For Experiences like these, pressed
Under the Sun
Tram-Tracked Thoughts, which does
Hurt to remember
Will be preserved - thanks to November.
Family, Friends, Extensions and Strangers
There the Bunch starts to get all blokey
Boring Concepts, birth these Megaphone Chaps
You world prefer to dance on their laps.
Maybe what I said meant something else
Those Words of mine touched Heart and felt
Such gradual boredom - in time I agree
For tunnelling Facts, with Evidence plead.
Nevertheless, let the Holidays sing
And let our Lives live that Full Extract.
Be Happy, Gay and Humble in Kind
For once the Headmaster whistles, you'll
Have a Sortie ahead.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 12:56 PM UTC
I've had enough
Life's too difficult,
A little too rough.
Trying to find a way out
Can't find an exit.
Where's the sortie?
Ausgang salida,
Выход uscita.
Help me find the utgang!
Feeling trapped,
As people worldwide do.
I've been told before
"This is no place for you!"
I've finally listened,
It's time leave.
Friends tried to warn me,
Oh I was so naive.
Don't tell me I'll be ok
Don't tell me it'll all work out
This isn't worth it all.
It'll be so much easier if I could find the exit.
I'm with my son right now,
He's trapped me in a ball pit,
And I can't find a way out!
What did you think I was talking about?
Cheer up everyone!
Yes I speak Russian
(A little)
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 8:10 AM UTC
O vraie et lamentable image de la vie !
La joie entre par où la douleur est sortie !
Le bonheur prend le lit d'où fuit le désespoir !
À ce qui naît le jour Dieu fait place le soir ;
La coupe de la vie a toujours même dose,
Mais une main la prend quand l'autre la dépose,
Hélas ! et si notre œil pouvait parfois sonder
Ces coupes de bonheur qui semblent déborder,
Ne trouverions-nous pas que chaque joie humaine
Des cendres et des pleurs d'un autre est toujours pleine ?
Du village de sa naissance, le 20 juillet 1800.
1.2k
ma voix s'étrangle.
les eus toujours,
les crayons de couleurs,
maladroite
en matière de dessin.
carrefour.
quelle sortie prendre?
la mer.
le silence m'apprivoise.
les cris des oiseaux de mer.
mes crayons de couleurs,
maladroits.
~~~
(Translation...)
strangled voice, mine.
always had them,
the colouring pencils,
unskilful
in drawing.
crossroads.
wich way to follow?
the sea.
silence takes hold of me.
the seagulls cry.
my colouring pencils,
unskilful.
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 4:02 AM UTC
*I hope there's a place, way up in the sky
For old aviators, when they say good bye!
A place where a fella’ can get a chilled beer
‘Chug-a-lug’ for a mate, whose memory was dear
A place where no doctor or lawyer can be a threat
Just an aircrew rest room, reserved for the very best.
A quaint little bar, kinda’ dark and full of smoke
Where they sing loud, and guffaw at a good joke
The kind of place where a lady could bravely go
Feel safe amongst gentlemen she would know
There must be a place where thoughts fly like an arrow
When the sortie is over, for landing airspeed gets low.
Where the whiskey is old, great are the ***** and ***
The songs are about group combat and one versus one,
Where you'd meet all fellows who'd flown the coop before
They'd call out your name, welcoming you through the door
Who would buy you a drink should your throat be parched
And tell others, "Here comes a new lad, lookie ye! all starched!"
Then through the mist, you'd spot a grand old guy
The one missed for years, he taught you how to fly
He'd nod his old head, and grin ear to ear,
Saying, "Welcome, my son, I'm pleased that you're here
I forgive you; you botched up the last landing
But you led a life that was by far, outstanding”.
"Guys, he has come here to let his spirits fly and not groan
Skip the earthlings who lived lives like miserable clones
Politicians, lawyers, the Feds, the guys with little poise
Here, where it is ‘happy hours’ for our good ol' boys
Pass on that glass of rye, for he deserves a well earned rest
Cheers! This is ‘Heaven, my son’; this is your future nest!"*
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 5:45 AM UTC
joy is transient
but its brief journey is golden to the
hearts eyes
in this place that must suffice for a reason
to remain
some come to bind themselves
to some inglorious fate
so that they may have that one moment
in free fall where they may open up golden wings
held quietly since childhood in hopes one day to shine once again
may once more soar among the clouds
light and free
they come here to sing with the angels of a better nature
or battle with the demons of a dark past
she walks with slow care
placing each step tenderly gathers her voice
and mutters the words in guttural whispers
to the soundtrack of her mad mind
where the ashes of burned cities settle like snow
on the image of a broken landscape she painted in dark watercolours
i came to build temples
out of the streets driftwood faces
the nameless who wash up on distant mystery shores
and leave intricate carvings in the minds scrapbook
that show like a roadmap to one souls journey
my coming to this tropical Christmas
and cardboard cut-out hero sortie into your world
if i could rescue you
i would be there on a sterling english steed
with a loud proclamation
that only the prettiest damsels get fine young dandies
she smiles for my soft approach
as i glide in under her eyes
joy is transient
but its brief journey is golden to the
hearts eyes
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 5:43 PM UTC
L'amour fut de tout temps un bien rude Ananké.
Si l'on ne veut pas être à la porte flanqué,
Dès qu'on aime une belle, on s'observe, on se scrute ;
On met le naturel de côté ; bête brute,
On se fait ange ; on est le nain Micromégas ;
Surtout on ne fait point chez elle de dégâts ;
On se tait, on attend, jamais on ne s'ennuie,
On trouve bon le givre et la bise et la pluie,
On n'a ni faim, ni soif, on est de droit transi ;
Un coup de dent de trop vous perd. Oyez ceci :
Un brave ogre des bois, natif de Moscovie,
Etait fort amoureux d'une fée, et l'envie
Qu'il avait d'épouser cette dame s'accrut
Au point de rendre fou ce pauvre coeur tout brut :
L'ogre, un beau jour d'hiver, peigne sa peau velue,
Se présente au palais de la fée, et salue,
Et s'annonce à l'huissier comme prince Ogrousky.
La fée avait un fils, on ne sait pas de qui.
Elle était ce jour-là sortie, et quant au mioche,
Bel enfant blond nourri de crème et de brioche,
Don fait par quelque Ulysse à cette Calypso,
Il était sous la porte et jouait au cerceau.
On laissa l'ogre et lui tout seuls dans l'antichambre.
Comment passer le temps quand il neige en décembre.
Et quand on n'a personne avec qui dire un mot ?
L'ogre se mit alors à croquer le marmot.
C'est très simple. Pourtant c'est aller un peu vite,
Même lorsqu'on est ogre et qu'on est moscovite,
Que de gober ainsi les mioches du prochain.
Le bâillement d'un ogre est frère de la faim.
Quand la dame rentra, plus d'enfant. On s'informe.
La fée avise l'ogre avec sa bouche énorme.
As-tu vu, cria-t-elle, un bel enfant que j'ai ?
Le bon ogre naïf lui dit : Je l'ai mangé.
Or, c'était maladroit. Vous qui cherchez à plaire,
Jugez ce que devint l'ogre devant la mère
Furieuse qu'il eût soupé de son dauphin.
Que l'exemple vous serve ; aimez, mais soyez fin ;
Adorez votre belle, et soyez plein d'astuce ;
N'allez pas lui manger, comme cet ogre russe,
Son enfant, ou marcher sur la patte à son chien.
813
Vous a-t-on parlé déjà
D’un temple sans nom -
Sans mémoire et sans nom?
Il fût oublié et pourtant
Quelques-un croient encore
Que le temple existe bel et bien;
Qu’il se trouve juste ici,
Entre le jour et la nuit,
Entre le soleil et la pluie,
Entre le silence et le bruit;
Et que lorsqu’on s’y rend,
Lorsque l’on ouvre,
Lorsque l’on entre,
On y entre toujours;
Et que l’on vienne de ****
Que l’on vienne d’ailleurs,
Que l’on prenne son temps,
On y est toujours à l’heure;
Et quand enfin l'on s’y trouve,
Quand enfin l'on y est,
Entre et parmis ses infinis murs,
On n’en sort jamais;
Si l'on ose y discuter,
Que l'on ne prononce qu’un mot,
Celui-ci devient discours,
Interminable fardeau;
Et l'en son sein une seule pensée
Bien que plutôt éphémère,
Se transforme en grand brasier,
En immense calvaire;
Et que si l'on regarde,
L'on peut voir très bien
Que ce que l'on observe
N’est à peu près rien;
Et si l'on prête oreille, que l'on écoute,
Qu’un seul son enfin résonne,
Ce bruit sourd que l'on espionne
N'est nul autre que l'écho du doute;
Et quand finalement l'on oublie,
Qu'à tout jamais l'on s’y perd,
Lorsqu'enfin l'on s'y abandonne,
Se trace béante le contour d'une sortie;
Et que cela exige de souffrir,
De s'y faire saint, s'y faire martyre,
Qu’il nous faille le supplice d'y périr,
Finira-t-on au moins par en finir;
Et lorsqu'un jour l'on en sort,
Lorsque que le voudra enfin notre sort,
Ce n'est qu'alors, seulement qu'alors
Que sauront coexister vie et mort.
Et ce jour-là, cette nuit-là, dira-t-on,
Que l'existence fût un temple -
Un temple sans nom.
Dec 16, 2019
Dec 16, 2019 at 5:45 AM UTC
Légèreté
Léger, léger, le papillon,
Posant ses ailes de velours.
Léger, léger, le cerf-volant,
Que l'enfant lance dans l’air.
Léger, léger, l'écureuil roux,
Qui sautille d'arbres en arbres.
Léger, léger le joueur de piano,
Qui nous enchante par ses notes.
Léger, léger les chevelures des belles,
Qui nous donnent gratis, leurs sourires.
Léger, léger, les feuilles d'automne.
Qui tournoient dans le vent.
Léger, léger les rossignols,
Au temps des amours et des cerises
Léger, léger celle ou celui,
Qui a su garder son cœur neuf,
Et conserver intact en lui,
Les idéaux de ses vingt-ans.
Léger, léger, ces champs de blés,
A peine ridés par le vent.
Léger, léger cette sortie en mer
Qui nous donne à voir cette palette de bleus,
Léger, celle et celui, qui gardent le goût de connaître,
Les lieux nouveaux, surtout les êtres.
Paul Arrighi
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 5:33 PM UTC
An unkindness of Ravens circle in,
Few attend this sordid sortie of crime,
An unholy ceremony of sin,
Her love lost and left with too little time,
She lays still as Snow white, tale beyond Grimm,
Encircled by loved ones in black fabric,
One by one the Ravens march to the rim,
Crowding and caging-in the small casket,
And I in my soil bed laugh at a glance,
As I look back and watch my razor dance.
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 3:56 PM UTC
¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
please
bear with me through
these turns,
for I believe it gets
much better..
i need help.
..much better than this
winding Caltrop
Way
please help me mind
these twists
no..
"not the TWISTS!
the twists betwixt
the ends gone
listing on
a list of modes or
measures—
lest my brooding
BOOM.
So vast,
and so cosmic,
so chasmic..
circumstasmic?
Could any of this be
happening?
Happenstance?
Perhaps a
dance—
a DANCE!
of eloquence enlisting—
of parables b'twixting
between..
..or was it betwixt?
betwixt!
the twist is
a'mix the
boundaries amidst
the sounding
absentees amiss
and all their revelries
gone missing,
they're so lost
among this misting lee."
**i came upon this sanity.
alas!
this simple explanation,
what has brought me
to my knees
at last—**
for
this hope so fixed
to kiss me,
as would bangles
on the wrist be,
then went
"begging and
dredging and
picking and *******
through grand affair in
blissful beds
of rose and posey petals
pushing hedgerows!!
more and more
a bushless exposé
as days count down—
a maze a'drowned
in *thornful
sortie*!!
scornful,
hastily adorned and full of
fate-encrusted memories
of a trustless
misgiving.
My sin has shone its boldness
and has left me living cold.
**please, god,
don't let me
die this way!"
this heart,
o lord,
it yearns
away..**
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 10:21 AM UTC
The warthog is terribly warty.
It has a million and forty.
You might think it would seem
A dermatologist's dream
To catch one while out on a sortie.
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 2:26 PM UTC
Moi qui ne suis qu'un brin d'hysope dans la main
Du Seigneur tout-puissant qui m'octroya la grâce,
Je puis, si mon dessein est pur devant Sa face,
Purifier autrui passant sur mon chemin.
Je puis, si ma prière est de celles qu'allège
L'Humilité du poids d'un désir languissant,
Comme un païen peut baptiser en cas pressant,
Laver mon prochain, le blanchir plus que la neige.
Prenez pitié de moi, Seigneur, suivant l'effet
Miséricordieux de Vos mansuétudes,
Veuillez bander mon coeur, coeur aux épreuves rudes,
Que le zèle pour Votre maison soulevait.
Faites-moi prospérer dans mes voeux charitables
Et pour cela, suivant le rite respecté,
Gloire à la Trinité durant l'éternité,
Gloire à Dieu dans les cieux les plus inabordables,
Gloire au Père, fauteur et gouverneur de tout,
Au Fils, créateur et sauveur, juge et partie,
Au Saint-Esprit, de Qui la lumière est sortie,
Par Quel ainsi qu'une eau lustrale mon sang bout,
Moi qui ne suis qu'un brin d'hysope dans la main.
490
(when living nightmare pierced real time
thus engendering the following rhyme)
adrenaline powered stealth bomb blast
with the noggin of this, ah... ur... bane chap,
which debilitating anxiety doth outlast
means to cope (thunder and dumb struck)
with stranger mental things
at expressed vertigo, nausea, racing heartbeat
ogres recreated tormented, torpedoed, tortured
most decades from my yesteryear,
which aye presumed long passed.
now, within my head "guerilla"
warring faction
lobs a grenade followed by "bombs away"
broadside finding this body electric doing
a kamikaze nosedive into sick bay
where major organs suffer direct hit
analogous to a giant fist
smashing pumpkins,
sans thine flesh as if clay,
which psychic sortie plagues my ability
to function reduced
tub bing bedridden one day
approximately one week ago
from this thirtieth of April
tooth house sand ate teen gray
ting, grinding, and grounding with figurative
threshing blades employed
to winnow chaff from hay
literally crushing willpower,
where invisible jaws
of sharpened steel interlay
atop pulling stalwart garrison strafed,
(akin to a crash test dummy) named Jay
Walking to become blindsided
obliterating every last trace to stay alive
hence, this emergency transmission,
viz this bloke communicating
desperate plaintive wail,
that I haint okay
with plea PLEASE HELP
this tortured soul on verge pray
begging tubby rescued before drowning
like a panicky gull clay pigeon,
and buoy albatross
strangling me far distant from any quay
quickly sinking spirits,
abducted via fiendish runaway!
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 5:42 PM UTC
Oh Lordy need a forty
Going in the city on this sortie
Making menace while speaking witty
We're dead inside but make merry corpses dancing in the darkness between streetlights.
The lights flicker fail and we gain new territory.
Wolves in the night we cast long shadows stretching distortions of our inner demons. They claw and scrape over concrete to rake across dismayed faces.
The sun rises too soon a cleansing fire that burns away the umbras but not our memories. We know the time after dusk and revel in it.
Oct 29, 2017
Oct 29, 2017 at 10:45 AM UTC
Gray blur in my periphery
Imagination or something real?
Mystery solved within the hour
2nd gray form traveling far
Home no longer sacrosanct refuge
Peace and relaxation a distant concept
Startled shrieks upon their bold forays
Pervasive worry over their next sortie
Fearful defense setting full of trepidation
Will my fingers or their necks be snapped?
Is electrocution—more humane?
Or are they too obese to fit in the tunnel?
How long will this battle perpetuate?
Will the small hordes or large singularity win?
Will peaceful repose ever be possible again?
Or always interrupted by rustling, shrieks, and blurs?
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 1:59 PM UTC
chattering like youths in undulating flight
that looping the loop was an awesome sight
your peers eat mostly worms and insect fayre
yet you catch Damsels as they fly through the air!
Then returning to patient stones in the loch
to plan your next sortie and feed your young stock
cataracts of grey in yellow cascade
I appoint you Queen of the fashion parade.
Nov 2, 2019
Nov 2, 2019 at 5:10 PM UTC
J'ai vu dans l'air passer deux ailes blanches :
Est-ce pour moi que ce présage a lui ?
J'entends chanter tout un nid dans les branches :
Trop de bonheur me menace aujourd'hui !
Pour le braver je suis trop faible encore.
Arrêtez-vous, ambassadeurs des cieux !
L'épi fléchit, que trop de soleil dore :
Bonheur, bonheur, ne venez pas encore ;
Éclairez-moi, ne brûlez pas mes yeux !
Tournée au nord une cage est si sombre !
Dieu l'ouvre-t-il aux plaintes de l'oiseau,
L'aile incertaine, avant de quitter l'ombre,
Hésite et plane au-dessus du réseau.
La liberté cause un brillant vertige,
L'anneau tombé gêne encor pour courir.
Survivra-t-on si ce n'est qu'un prestige ?
L'âme recule à l'aspect du prodige :
Fût-ce de joie, on a peur de mourir !
Mais ce bouquet apparu sur ma porte
Dit-il assez ce que j'entends tout bas ?
Dernier rayon d'une âme presque morte,
Premier amour, vous ne mourez donc pas ?
Ces fleurs toujours m'annonçaient sa présence,
C'était son nom quand il allait venir.
Comme on s'aimait dans ce temps d'innocence !
Comme un rameau rouvre toute l'absence !
Que de parfums sortent du souvenir !
Je ne sais pas d'où souffle l'espérance,
Mais je l'entends rire au fond de mes pleurs.
Dieu ! Qu'elle est fraîche où brûlait la souffrance !
Que son haleine étanche de douleurs !
Passante ailée au coin du toit blottie,
Y rattachant ses fils longs et dorés,
Grâce à son vol, ma force est avertie :
Bonheur ! Bonheur ! Je ne suis pas sortie ;
J'attends le ciel ; c'est vous, bonheur : entrez !
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She watches me with absolute curiosity,
wiggling around without generosity.
She acts like if she doesn't care
but who knows her inner shares.
Always ready to get around the place,
with her weeks seem like tiny days.
She's attracted by little things,
walking around with grainy links.
Laziness is all around her body,
Just as if nothingness taking some sortie.
She's like rain in famine drought,
every time I look her I'm out of words.
She's sometimes more human than us,
expressing feelings in such a burst.
She manages goals with utmost care,
for us humans it's not fair.
I think she has secret crush on rat,
Oh how much I love this pretty little cat.
Jul 5, 2020
Jul 5, 2020 at 7:13 AM UTC
A mission in law
let a Quaker inside this forrest trough's gold
where bold exhale made milk with insight
while our community shone but austerity captured the bones
that this lust was on the beat with fame
and dilatorily wept till obverse set the tone
even a sortie in the rain that kept this stony pillage
with her tide close to home:
still brimming in the wind
and Goan was spattered and stave our fold
though sudden a burst of incredulous
sin made her beckon in the wings.
Sep 10, 2017
Sep 10, 2017 at 9:57 AM UTC