"squatters" poems
I walk around my neighborhood with my sister
We wear white mask and black coats with hoods
There’s never anyone in the neighborhood
She said
"It's too quiet."
Yet you could hear the sink left on
From houses people forgot they had
Maybe they lost their house keys
"Did you know that before that house was bought, there were squatters ?"
"How do you know?"
"I know because they were teens like me, but they ran out of luck.”
“They had no money, did they?”
“No money for what? Oh, they had money, but not enough.”
“Enough for what?”
I said “Making dreams come true in reality.”
I remember telling my mom what I wanted to do for others in life
Once I got done she asked me
“But what do you want for yourself?”
I said
“To be known.”
She said
“What if your not known like singers, dancers and actors?”
See I hadn't thought that far.
Maybe that's why they became squatters
In a house with broken blinds
There was not a place for them
My sister said
“Maybe their dreams slipped through a crack in the floor of their old house.”
Of the house in which they prayed for things to get better.
Paid light and water bills
And barely made it
She asked if they were lovers
“If they were, I wouldn't know. I doubt it.”
We wipe the condensation from the insides of our mask
With the ends of our sleeves and adjust our hoods
As they adjust their blinds to the outside world.
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 1:52 PM UTC
a dark place,
dingy and cobwebbed:
the forlorn basement
below an unfinished house;
there is no hope
of an HGTV house-flip
or a makeover
or the sort of boring/heartwarming story
where some nice white family
—or conveniently diverse—
sets up shop,
smash-cuts through a renovation
and gets their dream home.
no,
the house will remain gloomy,
this basement filled with emptiness;
no one desires
to come through the door,
no one except the tweakers
and the vagabonds
and the runaways,
the ****** and the pimps,
the celebrities and psychiatrists,
the demons and the ghosts,
the preachers and their seething
congregations of judgmental ******
that live across the street,
and the ***** teenagers
hunting for a place to try out ***
no cleaning crew
or maid service
or organize-your-life guru
or even the most experienced
of all the world’s janitors
could enter this house and clean it
or beautify this basement
or disenfranchise the squatters within;
the neighbors just try
and demolish it
every chance they get,
to rid their sparkling, spotless community
of this disgusting eyesore.
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 10:15 AM UTC
From day one he was trouble
His parents knew on sight
Their bundle of pure joy and bliss
Was somehow, just not right
It wasn't in his nature
To be part of a gang
He like to be off by himself
He liked things that went bang
He was troubled in his school years
Never getting real good marks
He didn't get along with other
He was burning caps and making sparks
But when this boy found fire
Well, then....his world became real small
Never mind the big explosions
He would go and burn them all
Small fires set in dumpsters
Behind the shops, by where he ran
He'd set fire to the garbages
While he trapped a cat inside the can
He progressed on up to buildings
Made that jump, in one big way
He torched a crack house, all abandoned
Buy using gas and old, dry hay
But, the thrill was not a keeper
It wore off as fast as it arrived
He had to extend the feeling
That made his body feel alive
He knew to see his fires
He would have to volunteer
First he would go set them
Then, help put them out...I fear
It was a stroke of pyro genius
He'd set them and he'd put them out
He'd learn what gave them trouble
And he'd give them more without a doubt
He never killed another
Never burnt a persons home
He always set his fires
Where buildings always stood alone
They caught him late September
He'd burned a building late one night
It was supposed to be abandoned
But, was full of squatters, out of sight
The picture, it was famous
A hippie shaking someone's hand
It was on the front page of the paper
And it was shown through out the land
A fingerprint was lifted
A switch, that burned, not like it should
And from there, it was no problem
To lock this boy away for good
He was sent away to prison
He was gonna die there, bet on that
And on his first day in that prison
He saw an old man, who just sat
Sitting in the corner
by himself, no one around
Sat a man, all old and wrinkled
Lips were moving, but no sound
Came forth from this man's mouth,
his lips all cracked and dry,
You could stand right there and listen
And hear nothing if you tried...
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 4:39 PM UTC
Derelict, decrepit,
Just a waste of space
A relic from a different age
One who'd run the race
An eyesore
Gives the place a name
Represents a time long past
It's no longer in the game
A stiff wind would take it down
It's not worth a single dime
Take it down, demolish it
It's enemy is time
A single pane of glass is left
Cracked from side to side
In fact it's cracked the whole way through
As tall as it is wide
The others are all boarded
Keeping out nothing at all
The only thing the wood does
Is act as canvas to them all
Graffiti covers every space
That is left standing here
It used to be a factory once
That made a local well known beer
BUT ON THE OTHER SIDE....
Inside the building squatters sit
Derelicts, wastes of space
The building is their home for now
Away from the rat race
Eyesores, hidden in plain sight
Humanity at it's worst
That is the image given them
Because of addictions thirst
A stiff wind would take them down
So thin and frail are they
Protected by a building that
A storm could blow away
One side thinks it awful
The other, thinks it's good
An eyesore and a fragile shell
Of old bricks and glass and wood
But...for one plain window
Separating worlds apart
A crack runs through the window
It is the buildings heart.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 9:54 PM UTC
Her eyes, his lips
His lips have the power to bring
Her to a knee-weakening ******
^
Her eyes have the power to stop traffic
In
Mid-town
^
Where
Straight men could only dream
About the sway of her hips
^
A glimpse
^
Of
His project runway walk
His Aussie slang,
Swaggers and squatters
^
A real man stands his ground
^
A woman
She wants him to know she
Can stand on her own two feet.
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 8:38 AM UTC
An unrequited love that still offers a seemingly patronizing hand of rapport
Is just another way to say "friend zone"
But you'll be dancing in the end zone
After you finally pay your student loan with money from the job you needed a degree to get which called for the loan in the first place
The salt has spilled off the Lazy Susan
Throw it over your right shoulder
Is this my alter ego?
Or do I have a split personality
Maybe this is my light skinned doppelganger
I've got to get these bats out of the belfry
I've got claustrophobic, roided-out butterflies in the pit of my stomach
Busted paper thin lips
A blood sport
Stop it from clotting
Vaccinate me
This vacuum is a rare find
The national demographic is going through culture shock
Assume a surname
Put on the gargantuan pennant
Go to the pulpit and beg for penance
Gridlock
The paleophone is cracked
Study the topography
And pay the bus fare
The squatters who are on borrowed time
Take a swig from the half empty bottle
After searching their whole lives for an even break
But are forced to cut ties and make a clean cut from society
All the lent hands and ears
Are lodged between ungratefulness and exclusive pity parties
Sweet nothings and forget-me-nots
Do a clean sweep
It's imperative to have a method to your madness
A portrayal of eccentric narcissist
Painting self-portraits
While on some kind of wonder drug
Longing for some moral support
Double-dealing
Double crossing
A hypocritical traitor
Who has the right away
I will watch your blood coagulate around the bullet holes
As your body goes into Rigor mortis
I will commit this picture to memory
I would have bet dollars to doughnuts that it wasn't you
But who wudda thunk it?
It's all just an impromptu turn on a dime
That encumbers you with cabin fever
When you're on display in a human zoo
Where unproductive bull sessions are a dime a dozen
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 4:01 PM UTC
little remains
of my grandfather's house:
raw rafters, warped planks with hints
my uncle invested in paint
the windows all gone, time
and twisters took them, and much
of the roof--what is left of that sags,
a silent submission to gravity
a woodstove survives, cold
to the touch, with no memory
of the fire it once birthed, the precious
prairie timber which fed it
now it knows only mourning
doves' song; winged squatters
unperturbed by my presence, as if
they know I lay no claim to now
the old boards have stories
I will never hear: the birth of babes,
reading the Word by kerosene lamps,
the last breaths of men
the songbirds may know,
but they woo the living in flight--a
future of nesting and fertile eggs; they
owe no belated dirge to long lost kin
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 1:53 AM UTC
My God, my God, my mothering God!
I cry to you from along this trackless waste,
Where humanity buried itself so long ago –
Scorched earth in place of garden sweet –
No water here to cool the parchĕd lips,
No sanctuary for the troubled, lonely soul.
My God, my God, my mothering God!
What did we do to make this barren land,
Where souls are turned to shadowy shades,
Eyes are empty and hearts grown cold?
We long for your mercy, better than life,
Gentle rain of grace, light in the darkness.
My God, my God, my mothering God!
I search this desert haunt, one broken man,
Where my brother is stripped of all dignity,
My sister is sold into slavery for pleasure;
Men **** your world for vanishing profit,
And crush your children for fleeting gain.
My God, my God, my mothering God!
Here in the wasteland we make our home
With tears and curses and all our fears –
We lost the war we began in ages past –
Now here we subsist, hostīle squatters,
Breath the air of the world we poisoned.
My God, my God, my mothering God!
This scorchĕd breeze carries the wailing,
Cries of the millions of the sick and poor,
Widows and orphans and lonely souls –
We blinded ourselves; we are deaf now –
Agony and angst, anxiety and final death.
My God, my God, my mothering God!
Is there some sanctuary in this desert land?
To lay down this self-borne cross, to rest –
Water to refresh, to cool the burning brow –
Some sweet promise of the garden again,
An oasis of hope amid our suffering shame?
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 10:28 AM UTC
"Buy a Star!
Own a Star!"
The sales are brisk,
For cross-eyed lovers,
Cross-hearted, lost,
Beneath the spinning constellations
Burning immortal exhalations,
Desiring forever oxytoxic bliss,
Burning ******* and hearts
Yearn longevity of stars....
PT Barnum saw his opportunity:
Sold cotton candy,
Hawked elephants,
Gawked dwarves,
Hid the razors from
Fierce bearded ladies,
Even sold the elephants' dung,
Provender to exotic gardens....
Barnum's packing up
The Pachyderms,
So Hawkers have us
Gazing on the stars....
"Step right up! See the stars!"
Purchase your fire in the sky!
Your lover's name,
Fixed in the firmament
A million years!
At least the cotton candy
And the elephant dung
Served some earthy, earthly good,
Paid dentists' children's college,
Fertilized the family food.
So now go claim a distant star,
A million, billion miles away,
Its light must make its journey
A thousand years or more
To greet your eyes, and yet,
Your lover's sighs predict
A hundred dollars' better spent
Than on a good Chablis,
Cementing mortal love in
Distant stars so permanent,
Visited through telescopic glass
Atop our rented tenements.
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 9:02 PM UTC
I pulled out a scarf and pretended to be a fortune teller;
thick insense, marijuana. Lottery smile.
I'd never lie about my lucky document shredder, my broken down motorcycle.
Not like cheap wine poured over cellulite; a hog dripping blood; she hunter fed on leaves.
Should the basketball hoop fall at a different angle and spare your clavicle, you would
see smoke signals from the squatters place- their fruitcake is delicious.
Can't be sure about their dog though, their dog had rabies and a collar that says FREELANCE.
I put too much hot sauce in the hashbrowns. I was still drunk.
I told my boyfriend his fortune was insincere,
that I am [today] a dead pilot and a stripper and a jilted florist all before noon.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 8:39 AM UTC
Fox Fidelis
for Hazel
So, she said,
what do you want?
*Somewhere warm
to sleep inside,*
said the fox in the snow.
There’s only the bike shed,
she said, and only at night.
Right,
said the fox in the snow
*If you let me in,
and you let me out,
I’ll be a good fox.*
You’d better be, she said,
No squatters here,
even at Christmas.
Verstehen Sie?
Etiam,
said the fox in the snow,
*Semper ergo sum
vulpes fidelis.*
Fox in a blizzard
For Joe
Looks serious
this blizzard of snowflakes.
A proper ice storm perhaps?
All the same yet different
the microscope shows.
Who knows?
Just hearsay it’s said,
and cold on the nose,
said the fox in a blizzard.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 2:45 PM UTC
there’s a living reality of
fallibly hopeful distraction—
sheltered squatters—
residing above a room where
everything important is angry,
not easily suffocated.
the warm polyester of a busy mind
is sick with monotonous fear
that the residents below
will expand their decay,
raging in a panic until the walls collapse
and the nails in the floorboards are
upturned and weaponized;
a clever, persistent enemy.
this unbearably,
infallibly hopeless
struggle.
there are paintings on the walls
and books on the shelf,
plants on the windowsill in the late afternoon.
i’m worried these will die too.
Jun 29, 2023
Jun 29, 2023 at 8:23 PM UTC
Ragged clothes on the sidewalk, toddlers murmur and cry
cold morning air where abandoned row houses
smell of whiskey, sage, and molded cotton
diesel exhaust belches into light breezes
forests of burning coffee beans mingle
into their hearth, the children, this is their nostalgia
everywhere leavings of life scatter driven by wind
cover unhoused, distressed, makeshift families
they stand shoeless as fortunate people drive past
Glut of humanity smells of wet newspaper
grey gulls picking at grimy cellophane
cardboard litters muddy sidewalks
above the billboard the wealthy jeer at them
sitting by a liquor store with bars on the windows
shut out of row houses with black wrought iron gates
basement stairwells filled with trash
men in alligator boots ready to lunge
into the lives of slick, bright, vacant women
this is the fate of feminine mother love
Thriving in dead landscapes
growing lost opportunity
under skyscrapers where it is always
almost dusk
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 12:05 PM UTC
Porcelain teeth flashing with that unnatural hue.
Pandering your **** in an alleyway
for two squatters and a proper *** to see.
Knees bent,
hips gyrate.
Throwing **** like caution to the wind.
Moldy pull-tabs torn limb by limb.
Manual fixation (or so I've been told).
Peel a label.
Phone a friend.
Flip the switch on this ******* shitshow.
Ripe with intentions spilling on the carpet.
Red like the drink,
the drink that got me here.
Slow ascension followed by the free fall ...
as is life.
Appreciate the absurdity
of a swan dive
straight into the asphalt.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
Dean Roberts had two homes
One was in port Adelaide and the other was in rhw Adelaide hills and he lived in the adelaide hills but he had paranoid mates living 3 doors down from his Port Adelaide home
You see there were squatters living there making everyone living around there scared to leave their homes and this usually happened every night from 4pm till dawn and then it appeared to be early but nobody went near the hooise except for dean Roberts who was hermless but the residents
Of the nearby homes barocsded themselves in their homes and there were psychiatrists around for anyone who becomes too scared to cross the main road and making sure no vunerable person was struggling getting to where they wanted to go or where they lived and dean Roberts was unaware of all this because there was no sign of people living there and dean's best friend Toni was the target in some way, you see she lived in the house opposite that house
And she called the police numerous times which forced cars to follow her making her look very scared but she still wanted to help the police remove them so she used herself as bait to catch them
But this was easy for them but Toni was in danger of losing her life making her scream so loud
But while Toni was with them dean was trapped inside his port Adelaide home but he broke the window and iinstead of going home to the hills he slept in his car waiting for the
Squatters to come back and When they did dean grabbed a broom and came in there saying come on get out of my house and then while that was going on Toni was panicking crossing the road making it half way across and then going back especially after they took her from her place of work and dumped her at the lights making her scared to hold someone even the police
Cause she watches the news where people dress up as police to take advantage of ladies like Toni and after dean got rid of the squatters for bow
He drove home with people yelling out to him hi mr hero
With people bipping their horn
Saying you are port Adelaide's
Hero but Toni was still struggling to get home and this forced the police to grab her and take her home
To take her medication and go to bed and one of the squatters returned and was caught and shoved in Ron coopers psych ward where he was put on eppelim and he was forced to one day tell them why he lived in dean Roberts property and squatter said his name was ken
Psrtley and Ron gave ken an injection of abilify to calm
Him down and Ron went back home and had pizza and coke
While ken was stuck in a Place he hated and Toni was still paranoid about crossing that road and dean helped her get through this like a friend would
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 6:10 PM UTC
jump in the passenger
you can hold the shotgun
and we'll take the tour
in my temple
god's house
I've lost the keys
in the same place I think
as my mental
the cops are just here
restraining order
the limits of my Love
have boarders
who pay no rent
in my heart
they've got squatters rights
I can't kick em out
but I can let you in
a small fee of your time
but in the end
I will pay the price
constantly in life
first stop a cottage
too small for
all my baggage
with her the closest
I came to marriage
she loved every part of me
my biggest supporter
emotionally
saw my damage
I put her in
all my insecurities
became her most
treasured critic
she buried my memory
in the attic and
threatened I'd be arrested
when I demanded passage
I didn't do her justice then
and I can't do it now
she's a stranger
whose last act
threw me out
she's the only one
I'm sure
Loved me back
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 4:26 PM UTC
Revolt from the cold of the wind,
She spares know waste of energy
Under diluted skies and foreign stars,
The mask comes off
Reveling the reflection of flawed
Simply dark
Indulged in silence,, for words cannot capture everything
She exfoliates a still heart
However in her stillness,
Everything fluctuates
Leaping and bouncing and ******* around
In silence there is no stillness,
For stillness is a state of mind
Just as imperfection is perfect,
So is she
Adversed to love or not,
Embrace your footprint I say
Mankind's impeccabilities remain flawless
Disastrous and miraculous art formed off original memories and emotions.
Expect the unexpected for it drips of meaning.
A comfort to all wanderers and squatters I hope.
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 7:25 PM UTC
self righteous, self published
sought out and backlash
sick of black and white
pictures of **** women
and being taboo
and the only thing left in the house that’s interesting to see
is the moon through the window
but you came along
smashing my head against a windshield,
and the moment of collision
a weightless jolt
voices echoing through the cracks in the asphalt
gas leaks making me light heading and I’m hearing
little melodies in light bass tones
a gust of wind down the hill blows cracked leaves
between my boots and I feel as if I
was falling from a tree myself.
And you hit me again
thrusting over and over
pulling my skin off
in a delirium, where
I numb my mind and try to read
the story of your wall before you open your eyes again
or I watch your chest, wondering how quickly
your heart must be beating and how
my legs are soaked
wreaking of *** for the rest of the afternoon
before wandering back to my bed
sleepwalking to the beach, with images,
rapids, sediment ashtrays covered
in squatters,
voyagers trying to stay the night without
freezing to death because the residents
across the boardwalk wouldn’t trust a
tattered traveler with only enough possessions
to fit on his back.
reveries, savages, vagrants,
in dreams follow me in the woods
syndicating ****** schemes
to keep me on edge
the moon plays these motion pictures
and I consume myself every night
before the sun light.
May 21, 2011
May 21, 2011 at 11:52 PM UTC
The colour of my blood
And the colour of your blood
Ain't they just the same?,
Red.
The blood that runs in both our veins
Is the same colour, Red.
The colour of my skin
And the colour of your skin
Ain't they just the same?,
Black
Yes I am from the Equatorial
And maybe I am darker than you
Blacker than you.
Yes I am from the East,
the west, the north or the south of Africa
But still we all black.
You might be lighter
You might be blackish
But still we are Africans
We are Blacks.
When the Whites come to your countries
You call them tourists.
But when us Blacks come to you
You call us terrorists
You call us refugees.
We more than just squatters in your land,
But we come seeking a helping hand from a brother.
Why welcome outsiders
Yet you oust you own.
Why burn our shops?
Why burn our shacks?
Why let our souls weep?
Brothers and sisters of Africa
Why the violence?
Why the killings?
Why the brutality?
Why the cruelity?
What happened to humanity?
What happened to Ubuntu?
Violence has never solved a thing.
Will killing a man with 5 children and a wife back at
home,
Bring food to your table?
What will burning a man down to ashes bring you?
What will stoning a man to death bring you?
Can it pay your bills?
Can it bring food to your table?
Can it pay your your children's school fees?
Brothers and sisters of Africa
I plead with you
Our, Black nation
If we come together with mutual hearts and minds
We can bring back love and peace
We can fight poverty
Just stop the hate!
Our the violence!
Stop the killings!
It's enough!!
Say NO TO XENOPHOBIA.
# Treeweezy_d_poet ©2018
I am the voice of the voiceless.
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 9:17 AM UTC
O
You
Queen of Carthage!
Kiss me dearly
Through the violent storms
Mediterranean warrants
And be over me a watch
Like a lion and her cubs from the Atlas
O
You
Treasures of Masaesyli!
Bid me whole a glamour
Like colourful radiant orchids
Baked to bask
In the light sunset sheds
And price me golden amongst there is
O
You
Sweet olives Massyli begets
Feed me reverence the drops you hold
And lay me affectionate a sack
In the mild winters
With my soul a serene-calm
O
You Tripolitania!
Posit me shields
And hearten me as not afraid
The swords squatters lift
To jealously pierce the beautys I own
O
You
Tender night breeze of Cyrenica!
Solace my melting lips
When the dessert roars
And gentle my hand with seven kisses each
O
You
The pleasing of the heavens!
Idolize me like the Maghreb
Make Me Idol
©Historian E.Lexano
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 5:36 AM UTC
Time goes so slow when waiting for the dawn.
These early mornings that ****** me from my
haven that is unconsciousness.
Where nothing can touch me, gnaw at me,
remind me that all is not well.
These uninvited guests that thrive in the darkness,
they **** and poke around in my mind,
Evoking all my negativity, my grief, my pain.
They remind me of where I am now,
and of where I used to be.
Delivering each morn the same shock again and again.
They cling to this darkness like squatters, refusing to leave.
I wait for the morning light, for sunrise, for respite.
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 3:27 AM UTC
Where God's colors renew the horizon's edge, Salvation Soldiers
aren't to be found.
And while prairie dogs find themselves squatters on their own land,
upper crust artists show us where the day old bread is.
This is a good place to clear your head if ever there was one.
Where dusty markets lead down dusty roads, which lead right into
the middle of where I want to be.
Free and Alone on the side of a mountain, where the sun don't
apologize to me, and I don't have to explain myself to anyone else.
Some go ahead and call this God's Country.
But I call this place New Mexico.
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 2:03 AM UTC
*it’s not perfect... but **** me... there’s a life to be lived... even if it’s just defined as walking the dog, or drinking a pint! let’s just rearrange the solar system spheres with a game of snooker to make summer random with winter of the least expected follow-up.*
you catch me playing with my fox / cat
purring his ***** slingshot
arousal
just where the spinal cord in music begins
and the evolutionary testament ends...
you catch me there in the drift of night...
and i’ll bet you 5 quid to have found quantum physics...
a particular instance in a universe of innumerable
stasis plurals of decipherable energy
to pluck and theorise, like autumnal flowers readily drifting
from the tsunami of green of summer to brown mahogany of autumn.
here’s one for the puppet engineered to dance
tugged at with its tail the solitary cursor;
paw print dot dot dot? i had my two thumbs on it,
squeezing out the hallucinatory juice of neglect,
with scoffer ready bouncers of peeled wallpaper about to
tattoo me in political conversation of slime slogans to shout!
i heard squatters were about... i didn’t hear anything from newcastle,
i guess the second mongolian invasion / investiture
came from the north... rather than east anglia / saudi arabia.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 6:33 PM UTC
Unremitting tears in dry eyes
and halted flow of blood in nerves
What lies just behind my pectus
is a heart
or a muscle
filled with
igneous unwanted emotions
Let’s just hold our breathe
for a moment
and see
moments of eternal attachments
are becoming breathless
with our detest
Is it really necessary
to search answers for all the unsolved questions
and find reasons for all the incidents/accidents
and bruise
equanimity of sun soaked day
calm attraction of loneliness
Is it really necessary
to drag
all dead souls from their graves
and **** them again
I know
restricted sensations are
hitting my heart
to be expressed
to be showed
to be felt and filled
But is it really necessary
to plead for the need
to rest and cry over your chest
to face the silence
that will come after your departure
Silence has its own words
Darkness has its own color
How does it matter
whether all the squatters
know this or not
Its enough for me
If I could let you know
I and mightiness of my feeling
started with you
and will end with you
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 12:03 PM UTC
My windows point East
The first touch of soft light
Heavy darkness
Caressing me while still ******
Mist sways in ghost like swirls
Across the scythed field edging the yard
I am thankful
Deer play, eating the harvest lost by machine
Tie dye Tuesday with assorted colors
Stains on cement
Waiting
A robin's nest squatters are ready for flight
New wings shake nervous feathers
I am healing
As the leaves unfurl
Warm breezes skate through every crack
Soaking up the sun with sable pelt
Side by side
Both hearts radiating love
Her gentle purrs reassuring
All is well
Summer reinforcing my frame
I am
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 9:29 AM UTC