"squeak" poems
In the digital l-and
We l-ive in
Mistakenly automatic
One pointing at a chest of tools
Eyes on i
No soul can tell a part a weakling metal
Robots robbing robbers rich
T-error terrifying t-errorists
Artist gods and goddesses
Sharing platform to unleashed gifts
Mint hue bubbles squeak
Fizzy dizzy violet haze
World head to toes spins
Any day it spins coins in change
A quiet girl is sinister
Siren of mystery or future
Robot is your mirror
Peach chin with teeth filter
No innocence and glitter litter
Guilty until proven the latter
A quiet girl a terrorist
Error mouths terror twist
Terrorist from the orient
They hide in between every end
Disguises they cover in
Racist as problem solving
Smile girl watch
A fake smile and eyes
Skin of steel so is her
Heart made alloy
How it blazes to the touch when heated
Oh it bites fingertips as it's cold
Hair resting on the curve of her spine
A woman's hair only breaks if it tries to grow
What she said
Tell me if you can tell us a part
Warning tears borne from her crooked eyes
Robot and soul
Terrorists from t-errorists
No soul knows either
Tattoos or memory shall identify you
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 4:21 AM UTC
You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
Daddy, I have had to **** you.
You died before I had time ----
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal
And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off the beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.
In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My ****** friend
Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.
It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene
An engine, an engine,
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.
I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You ----
Not God but a ********
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.
You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who
Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack and the *****
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.
If I've killed one man, I've killed two ----
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagersnever liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you ******* I'm through.
29.7k
Picasso
you give us things
which
bulge:grunting lungs pumped full of sharp thick mind
you make us shrill
presents always
shut in the sumptuous screech of
simplicity
(out of the
black unbunged
Something gushes vaguely a squeak of planes
or
between squeals of
Nothing grabbed with circular shrieking tightness
solid screams whispers.)
Lumberman of the Distinct
your brain’s
axe only chops hugest inherent
Trees of Ego,from
whose living and biggest
bodies lopped
of every
prettiness
you hew form truly
28.6k
Seagulls squeak and
As thunderclaps salute the laws of physics
I imagine they could speak
Sensory inputs of fresh strawberries become
A raging flood of summer sweetness that
Fuses with the hot electrified air
And I'm daydreaming that
Above this veil of angry clouds
Roams unseen ancient eyes
With tears braver than
What is boundless
Stronger and brighter than even
Endless darkness
They lie in wait
Their love
Their warmth
Bursting forth
Wombs of rainbows
And all that is precious
Yet still untold
Waiting to kiss the atoms of your skin
And once again
Paint your summer smile
Blink and you might forget that
They were you
Before you were even born
Sunset
Sunrise
Watch them never skip a beat
Wake up.
Kick ***
Repeat.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 2:42 PM UTC
Since Christmas they have lived with us,
Guileless and clear,
Oval soul-animals,
Taking up half the space,
Moving and rubbing on the silk
Invisible air drifts,
Giving a shriek and pop
When attacked, then scooting to rest, barely trembling.
Yellow cathead, blue fish ----
Such queer moons we live with
Instead of dead furniture!
Straw mats, white walls
And these traveling
Globes of thin air, red, green,
Delighting
The heart like wishes or free
Peacocks blessing
Old ground with a feather
Beaten in starry metals.
Your small
Brother is making
His balloon squeak like a cat.
Seeming to see
A funny pink world he might eat on the other side of it,
He bites,
Then sits
Back, fat jug
Contemplating a world clear as water.
A red
Shred in his little fist.
12.3k
Every death
I have felt, or known,
In silence, i mourn,
Within my breath...
No words come upfront
Just thoughts, preponderant...
I'd feel the freezing cold of an empty space
Feel the absence...clearly imagine a lost face
No smiles, spanning from cheek to cheek
Eyes, seek answers...
suddenly, I'm there by the shallow water of the creek
While some nearby creatures quietly chirp...and squeak
While I......... I could not even speak...
Living,
Is realizing...and accepting
At the right time, they turn brown, the weeds...and reeds,
But, under the water...waiting, growing...are their seeds
Brown ferns...are almost detached from a mossy concrete wall
With a strong current, and wind, they'd be carried...ready to fall
The driftwood lying by the shore...is always wet, but petrified
Brown fallen leaves, on the green grass...no more hold...crisp and dried,
The dead bark of a tree...in pieces...are crumbling...
Merging with the wet earth...in a process of fertilizing
Deep down under ....a fresh spark of life is starting.
All these, remind,
Life and death stand side by side,
That in the midst of death-
Something new is birthed...
When faced with death,
there is always someone's living breath
And, as long as the heart wills to beat
Then, life.....will still exist.
Hundreds, or a thousand times,
We all have died
In the high and low of life's tides,
Physically,
Emotionally.
We remember
Those who have left
Those who have survived..are still around
We think of those who are next to leave,
Waiting for their chests' final heave
---And then, we think of ourselves---
Worry not of our own time
Make each of our remaining days
Be golden, beaming, and bright
With good deeds, and straight pathways
The earth is a moving circle
It makes a round.......as it spins
We try to live outwards....and then, within
Any way we live it...life is an endless cycle.
Sally
Copyright March 23, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 8:32 AM UTC
Sit in a crowded gymnasium
on a Thursday.
Basketball is not the point.
Stare at the orange speck anyway.
Silence your phone and his voice from before,
Still inside your head,
words the color of the burnt orange ball.
Find music in the squeak of the rubber soles,
Notice the referee's slanting stripes, and how they blur
when you stare, until even pictures inside your head blur.
Nod to the man wearing the red cap beside you,
whose words dribble across your mind,
They imprinting a message:
travel
next year
last year
time
killing
foul
out
losses
hope.
Maybe you miss that last word,
Or maybe you see the message graffitied on the score board.
Maybe you close your eyes and open them again,
And notice the white jerseys gleaming in song with light,
The same light that slants up toward you,
Your shirt should also be white,
With the same light shining on those who travel
and on those who foul out.
Sit in the crowded gymnasium
on a Thursday,
and forget about what he told you last night.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 10:30 PM UTC
I'm trapped in her memory
Like a hamster
Still spinning the wheel,
Every step
Digging into my feet
Like every second
Consumes time
Oxygen In a fire
Slowly being depleted,
But I'm still going
Thinking I'll escape somehow
But the familiar squeak
At every full turn
Snaps me back
A misfired rubber band
And the sting
Startles me awake
Like I'm still on the same bus
And I'm never going to arrive
At my destination,
Every instance I catch my breath
I release my will
To be freed,
Her love like a carrot
Just within reach
Eternally...
APAD13 - 144 © okpoet
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 1:58 AM UTC
I've lost a battle
Within my soul
My mind is unsettle
Forgot about my goal
Now trying to revive
To recollect and recall
The medium to survive
Before another fall
The pressure is intense
From my own peers
My heart goes in pretense
Hiding all my fears
Night brings in dark thoughts
To harm myself again with pains
Destined to fight these lots
But my hands are soaked with stains
Blood, it is mixed with ink
As I write on these walls
Drawing up my insanity link
That's when I heard the calls
Ambu sirens squeak the street
Someone rushes in my room
Gives me anesthesia as a greet
But time kicked me to my doom...
©sim
Sep 8, 2017
Sep 8, 2017 at 7:04 PM UTC
Hey, past me from so close yet seeming long ago...
A knot from my sweater's bow I regret tying despite how unkempt the ribbons look hanging by my sides because now it's digging into my back
The hair I can't decide if I want out where it's pretty and makes me look less like a generic nerd yet gets in my face and food and life
The jeans I insist upon wearing without a belt even though their slipping down my **** may actually outweigh the pain of loosening the belt
The tennis shoes I'm too attached to give up that emit a constant squeak, squeak, squeaking through the hallways whether it's caused by residual rain from outside or not
The glasses, fond of slipping down my nose at frequent intervals, covered in smudges I rarely notice till they get out of hand
The phone whose screen happened to crack at the most inopportune moment and takes forever to read my finger print
The jacket that should be a highlighter blue but rather presents itself as a canvas of the week's tomato stains
The face covered in acne-
The stomach with fat instead of muscle-
The arms lacking muscle-
The legs with too much hair-
I've always acknowledged that perfection is not possible, yet I have to at least try to strive
I think, as I sit at my desk, fingers typing fragmented sentences, attempting to convey thoughts speeding too fast to grasp
Yet, just a simple poem of reflection brings to light these numerous deficiencies, many of which I COULD fix were it not the invisible fiend upon whom I stamp the label-laziness
These deficiencies, many of which aren't even noticed by those around me, some of whom are better some are worse
But it's not as simple as that, I've known I can't just be "one of the people", I need to find something, some identity, some way out of my seemingly impossible to escape label of "just above average"
In academics, in extracurricular activities, EVERYTHING, I seem to be at a stagnant
I've done bad, I've done "just above average", but never above. What is the point if you get plenty of losses and plenty of "fine" but no victories?
It's something about me though, somehow I believe, subconsciously, I'm impeding myself. I'm holding myself back.
...
Why?
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 3:50 PM UTC
Why do they say knitting needles go 'click'?
It's more of a 'squeak', 'shuffle', 'tap', 'shuffle'.
Is it the same way that rain doesn't 'splash'?
It goes 'drop', 'plop', 'thud'.
These are the thoughts that rise to the top as I sit
And knit.
Thoughts aren't threads to be woven
They are patches to be stitched together- each one a new colour.
Grey is when my brain won't stop- the colour of school uniform.
White is when I'm scared and alone- an ethereal mist.
These are the thoughts that rise to the top as I sit
And knit.
Recently there's been a lot of green- warm and swirling like a gemstone.
It is like marble in its pattern, layers of shades overlapping.
That's what your patches are. And here I'm
Trying to not think of you but you rise to the top as I sit
And knit.
I notice a burnt orange- like lava bubbling over a cool skin.
That is quiet anger. Not at you.
Not at me for thinking of you.
At the one who thought I could stop.
It is impossible, especially when I don't want to stop as I sit
And knit.
Even as I tried to write a poem withought you.
I couldn't.
You're here again- and these are just the ones I wrote down.
All these thoughts of you rise to the top as i sit
And knit.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
This Day, two Biped Ponies each of you ride,
Strolling along the lane Lovers enjoy
To watch this Sweet Scene from way far behind,
A Cheque I'd like to cash-in this Friday
Yes, for Pence-Tales of Romance and Success
Thinking to Follow is easy enough
How many, do those Squirrels squeak at-less
The Time which Currency states on the Rough
I guess Luck's Fair in Friendship does depend
On a Brisket-List sorted in custom
To where each of you in Common does spend,
Well, better than sulk out of sheer boredom.
The Bullseye's paid, admitting my Defeat,
Licking my own Fab's whilst hugging the Street.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 9:14 PM UTC
Money melting in a spoon,
let's shoot it into our veins.
Flashing Kardashian lights,
streaming into our brains.
Donald Trump! He's our man!
Mark Muslims is the plan!
All-you-can-eat-
Pile. It. The. **** High.
When you walk or
When you talk,
let the words squeak out
like they're between
Your thighs.
Thighs. American thighs,
Dreaming next to our Calvins.
Our slacktivism, our regurgitated ideas
spitballing out of our McDonald's mouths
into our peers' ears, distilled by years
And years of "almost-knowledge"
that we quasi-ascertained,
if we knew what that meant --
but we've been left behind!
No child left the **** behind!
We were left behind and there's no
possible way we slacked off, that we're dumb,
that we aren't the movie stars destined for
Lamborghini cars, five-star bars, designer bodies
for designer you and designer me:
the most special of the unique, the
Pearls that have been made in the
darkest parts of the sea, the darkest parts of
origin. Origin. ****** ****
American **** virginal ideals sliding around
the muck of a marketable **** fuckfest,
******* of the American mind, the
congratulations of the American ego,
the proud mother and father tears associated with
buying and lying, "trying" and frying our food,
our ideas, our friends, our neo-impressionistic
children in Jordans, skinny jeans, on tumblr:
the unknowing cousin of Fox News, surprised
by its own wit and wisdom: they're ******* twins.
Carbon copies, unknowing, unwilling, un-un-un.
The romanticism of mental illness.
The close-up of reality-tv emotion.
The manipulation taught to servers
from managers.
The manipulation taught to customers
from society.
All we care about is **** image, and ***
Self-preservation: **** Donald Trump
and **** you.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 12:39 AM UTC
Dear you,
I want you to come closer
Although I try to push you away
I am awkward
And the awkwardness only keeps growing
The more I have, the more you loose
But the more you have, the more I get
The equation is complicated
I don’t expect you to understand
After all
You never understood me either.
I am there
Beside you and behind you
All you have to do is turn
turn stealthily enough
So I don’t have time to run
I told you
I am awkward
And the awkwardness only grows
I slouch, I ******* I squeak
just like your bedroom door I creak
unopened for centuries
Unheard for decades
Unseen for years
Not because I’m weak but because
I am awkward
And the awkwardness only grows
i live in a pineapple under the sea
or you could say I hide
Hide from you, hide from me
Hide from the rest of the reality
but I am always there
I always will
For I have to be
Don’t acknowledge me
Validation is not my need
But don’t forget me either
For I have this hidden greed
Never leave your own side
I need to follow
Never leave my side either
But know
To me,
Ignorance is a bliss
For I am awkward
And the awkwardness only grows
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 1:43 AM UTC
Another morning in the life
Of a P.T.D, I slurped my
Juice back all 400 ml, then
Stretched up, fingers
Wiggling as mother picked
Me up.
Snuggles in the morning
Nothing better, to show I'm
Loved. But back to business,
As I turned my dummy to
The opposite side, the taste
Is better every time its turned
Soothing with each ****
It was nearly breakfast time
A belly is never wrong,
MMmmm...
Toast and jam, I smile
At mummy with my
Cheshire Jam smiled face.
"Silly little man"
As she wipes the smudges
From all over my face.
A case to solve, was my plan,
The missing statue of
SANDMAN BOB tm.
It was here before, but now
Gone, the prized possession
Of hairy dog, as I pat his head
And he licks my face
Yuckkkk....
Doggy that was yuck, he wags
His tail and then he is off.
What a morning so much done,
Time for a nap then detective
Work to be done. I wake to
Dads voice,
"Morning little man"
"How was your nap"
As i give my answer with a
Yawn and a smile, he gives
A cuddle then off to work for
Hours of fun and playing games.
The clues to be seen the trail
To be found, for I'm
***** Trained Detective"*
And no case is to far, as
Long as I can have a nap
And a cuddle, maybe a
Little sip and a gulp, here
On look out of what is to
Be found.
Hairy dog is sleeping in his
bed, I hear a noise I hear a
Sound??
What a strange noise,
"Snoring"
"NO"
"Bottom belches"
"No funny smells"
As I lift up his blanky
Softly so not to wake doggy's sleep,
And their he is safe and sound.
"SANDMAN BOB"
"Playing hide and go seek"
Under hairy dogs nose and bottom,
As he sleeps it does squeak, it
Does beep, I lift it up and under
His paw, to surprise him when
He awakens. A tail shall wiggle
And flop around, but the case was
Solved and a happy smile found.
***** Trained Detective* does it
Again, but for now it is nap time,
A new case, a new thing to be
Found. I will see you all again
Soon, But now its snuggles
Time with mummy in bed.
As I close my eyes night, night
I turn my dummy once more,
As sheep float quietly over my head.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 10:26 PM UTC
Dusk!
With a creepy, tingling sensation you hear the fluttering of leathery wings!
Bats!
Glowing red eyes and glistening fangs,
These unspeakable giant bugs drop into view.*
Fibrous wings furred like a moth,
Big ears are just a membranous extension of antennae.
Flying in search of a flower’s pollen laden froth,
Silent except for the hum and squeak of echolocation.
Trap bats in attics, butterflies in nets.
No rabies feared, no bedbug bites to itch.
Clawed feet ****** and grab like praying mantis pincers;
Bloated stomach slopes like a pudgy beetle.
Jaws manipulate like an ant, excise like scissors;
Soft hair rustles like a wooly caterpillar.
They live in darkness, centipedes do too,
Come out at night like cockroaches tend to.
Skittering through the night like daddy long-legs,
Noses snubbed like bumble bee faces.
Wind turbines endanger bats,
Like fans endanger lightning bugs.
Only one percent of bats are vampiric,
Like only a small percentage of spiders are poisonous.
Dawn!
With a creepy, tingling sensation you hear the fluttering of leathery wings!
Bats!
Bats are bugs, aren’t they?
May 4, 2010
May 4, 2010 at 5:04 PM UTC
Don't look.
The world's about to break.
Don't look.
The world's about to chuck out all its light
and stuff us in the chokepit of its dark,
That black and fat suffocated place
Where we will **** or die or dance or weep
Or scream of whine or squeak like mice
To renegotiate our starting price.
4.6k
What in these symbols has power?
None of my letters could build you a tower,
But something within the screen of my phone
Has mass, has inertia, has song, has tone.
Where are the electric lines?
Neither hither nor thither, whichever one signs
But for some reason, I can't help but feel
That my electric lines are something more real.
What are the squiggles that wave from afar?
A symbolic cookie from an imagined jar?
Or are they a prize for forming a speak
That, through my squiggles, may squeak?
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 10:22 AM UTC
Windex mice squeak through the windows,
biting newspaper as it scrapes across.
Soap from a new age fills the kitchen,
sheeps' fat long forgotten,
the sod-house of Laura Ingalls Wilder left behind
with its crumbling Lincoln logs,
the ceiling that drops dirt crumbs like a gritty pastry.
Our world is shiny,
so blinding that even the cough of newsprint makes it brighter.
A bottle sneezes across the counter, spurts those
bubbles of ammonia, gathers with the
rivers and tides that surge with ethanol,
it bursts the air with a neon smell and erases
everything that has come before.
Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 1:01 AM UTC
Cock-a-doodle doo.
Pigs snorting and grunt.
Bleat baa the sheep.
Hidden in the trees squeak the squirrels.
Gobble gobble gobbling turkeys.
Low oxen moo the cows.
Hohi-a-hohhle hi
Bray donkeys so similar.
Rolling on the red dust.
The village.
A swallow-tailed bee-eater.
Calling and singing.
A green barbet, dark brown head.
Answers the call.
A red-capped lark, black bill.
Entertains the morning.
An emerald-spotted wood dove.
Seated lonely somewhere.
Coos to the extravaganza.
The village.
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 5:20 AM UTC
I adore women
I refuse to apologize for it
I like the way their voices squeak in the upper registers
I like the fashions
I like the makeup
I like the aromas
Not the silly runway catwalk Biz that relegates them as awkward mannequins
adorns them in the impractical
and cloaks them in the absurd overreaching of the tired clamoring for something
new and unique
that which exploits their lithesome anorexic perplexing job requirement
I like the way they can shape shift, alter and assume new identities
I like the fact that some have mood swings and ***
I marvel that they can give birth
I like being aware that their 'water-weight' make's them grumpy
I'm astonished that they innately ovulate with the cycles of the moon
and that the Huntress Diana inherently acquired her namesake
Doesn't bother me a bit that "it's a lady's prerogative to be late"
or that opening a door for them is considered 'sexist'
I was raised with a sister and a mother
with lace and dainty frilly things
I caused them a lot of aggravation and consternation
I think they enjoyed it - nonetheless
somewhat
I refuse to apologize for it
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 12:00 AM UTC
Spring comes
as grasses leap forth
and emerald hues are added to the landscape,
with wildflowers peeking up from the
dewy roadside.
The world smells
fresh like worms and earth,
while birds drift down to finish last year’s
seeds.
Yellow rain boots hop
out of shelves and into the puddles,
while mud gathers and plays in the road,
gurgling with mirth at passers by.
The badminton net is resurrected,
regally looming over the lawn,
as the swings squeak joyfully in the breeze.
The fireplace gives a sooty yawn
and falls to sleep.
And in the kitchen, fiddleheads unfurl upon
a hot pan
as the old and sour scent of the earth
settles upon our plates,
spring steps lightly
onto the world.
~Yuka Oiwa
May 6, 2008
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 7:38 PM UTC
I am The Shoes of Shoes,
which are Solomon’s. Let him polish
me with the oil from his brow, for his gloss
is better than sunshine.
Because of the fragrance of thy ointment buffed
upon me, thy name
is Scent Shine, therefore do the ****** shoes
love thy feet. Stretch me,
with your Shoe-Tree, and I will run
& rejoice with thy feet through
gardens & woods, and across mountains alike.
I am leather, but comely, O ye Daughters
of Shoeshopingham, as The Pile Beneath
the Prophesised Viaduct, and as in the abundant
bottom of The Wardrobe of Solomon.
Look not upon me, because I am leather,
but put me upon thy feet for I
am thy soles.
I am the Rose of Shoe, and the Lilly of The Laces.
As the strong shoes among thorns, so
is my love among The Shod.
As the tongue that tightens to the fruit of the foot, so is
my beloved among The Shod.
His left foot is in my left purse, and his right
foot is my right, tight.
The Polish of My Beloved, behold, cometh
glinting off llyns, he cometh leaping upon
the mountains, with both of me tight on his feet.
Looketh fourth through The Round Window
of Wisdom, through The Lattice see
him shoeing himself with my flesh.
Take us the socked foxes, the little foxes that chew & spoil,
for our shodding is tender.
My Loved Shod’s feet are mine and my leather is his.
Until the day break, and the unshod shadows flee, turn
my Loved Shod, and be thou like the shoe young on the mountains.
Behold, thou art fair, my shoes, behold thou art shoes as fast
as a flock of goats over the Mountain of Shoedon.
Thy laces are like soft strands of moss, which have been spun
& woven in the Workshops of Acorns by The Grubs of Oak.
Thy eyelets are like the sweet slots in which nestle
the seeds of the pomegranate.
Thy tongues are like scarlet leaves fallen from speaking
trees, and thy squeak as I walk in thee is comely.
Thy heal is like the shield that should’ve been
fashioned for Achilles.
Thy two toe caps are as sleek & pert as the twin otters
that fish among the lilies.
How beautiful are thee, shoes for feet, O Goddess’s daughters,
the joints of thy soft foot-slot smooth as the gleam
of jewels, the work of the hands of a cunning cobbler.
O Solomon set me twin shoes as seals
upon thy feet, for Love is as strong
as The Road to Dead we must follow. O
my Loved Shod! for every one
of thy steps you make
in me is my bliss.
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 8:25 AM UTC
Balloons are round,
They make my day.
Up in the sky
They bounce and sway.
Balloons are bouncy,
and they squeak loud,
But if you pop them
You draw a crowd.
Some don't like balloons.
I think that that's sad.
But to each his own,
So said my dad.
But look, now I ramble.
So here I'll sign off.
Enjoy this crummy poem.
Or don't. Whatever.
... Rhyme? Nah...
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 8:27 AM UTC