"stacking" poems
Yogurt.
"I begin the day buying yogurt in a small favorite grocery store."
Not pizza, nor gatorade.
Bananas
although they are imported from afar and grown in monocultures.
Attract fruit flies in August.
Peaches
locally grown with rainwater. I ate all the farmer's peaches alone
stacking them by the railroad tracks.
Water --
rainwater, tap water, distilled water, carbonated water, spring water --
deep gulps, infinite sips.
Nuts
in moderation, or not, unsalted, raw, replacing chips. His bowl
of filberts, almonds, walnuts quiet weekday mornings.
Edible plant parts --
roots, leaves, stems, flowers, fruit, buds. In olive oil
or butter.
Potatoes --
look online how best to prepare. Baked or fried. With a little
fish or meat.
Tea and honey,
play and prayer. Swimming and running,
talking quietly.
Bread?
Bread's possible as the Bible. Each is liable
to bloat us.
Wine and dandelions.
Dandelion wine's Ray Bradbury's story. Cans in a pantry, books on a
shelf
to the end of time.
Pasta
we used to call spaghetti, never noodles. I wonder if I can remember
how to make
grandma's sauce.
Tomatoes --
cherry, grape. Grab God's eye
going by.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 11:34 AM UTC
Thats all you are,
From your hair to your hips
It makes me want to do flips
These demons make me not care
These demons make me...
want to tear your clothes apart
Something about your smile
Something about your legs
Its like your stacking pegs
Getting no where
because caring is something
that isn't their
I love the way you look at me when were done
I love the way your body looks when your on top
I love the way you look
I love the way
I love the
I love
No!
I lust
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
I can tell he wants me
to show him around,
take him out and show
how him how I get down.
He wants me to smile but
my face is stuck in a frown.
Boy didn’t you notice
when I tried taking you out on the town?
When we rode with my girl C,
you brought your boy V
Then the time I got into a fight that
nobody even got to see
My girl didn’t like you
I wonder, how could that be??
Once upon a time
you were down
to do anything.
Rain or shine.
Doesn’t matter what we do
as long as youre mine.
Lately it feels like youre
wasting my time.
Feels like a one way street.
All of a sudden you
don’t make me feel like a treat
You see I’ve
Taken you out
You know the
life I’m about.
Yet we still
scream and shout
cause now we never
seem to get out
At least not enough
I know at the moment
Life feels a bit rough
But we can’t be consumed
Part of us died
Let it be exhumed
Dust off our shoulders
and hit resume
Let’s start living
& forgiving
Then start stacking up it
to the ceiling
I thought you were my back up
But it’s me that you’re killing
We don’t need to go hard
or spend money at the bar
We don’t even need to go far
Let’s go to guitar center
and pretend to be stars
Im sorry for my ****** mood
But if you don’t try
We’re *******
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 4:44 PM UTC
Your advice
Is my vice
And you continue to add vices
And you swim like mad pisces
Through my stream of thoughts
With all the lessons you taught
From all the advice you brought
So I avoid your glance
To not give you the chance
To see the results of our fishdance
Or how much my life has been enhanced
Until I begin to flounder
As those pisces become piranha
Feeding on other considerations
And growing colossal
Until your kraken is in my mind
Cracking up my mind
Stacking up the time
It takes to get out of bed
As I trust the tentacles that tie me down
To a life floating on the surface
Of an ocean
Where the fish burn like a furnace
And I watch the water evaporate
Like the advice on which you elaborate
As the advice that was once there
Is currently water vapor in the air
As I start to think of us as a pair
From inside my secret underwater lair
That is the cavern of my mind
Where a school of fish
Teach me how to live and die
Aug 4, 2017
Aug 4, 2017 at 7:49 AM UTC
As a uniform, he always wore
the grey ironmonger's coat
immaculately pressed and bore
clipped hair neat as well as a
close shave.
Mr. Cornthwaite (all of us
minions called him only Mr.)
was no "Do It 'Cos I Say So" boss
but with patience would teach
and preach retail folklore:
Cooks' staples stored well inside
our mini-market shop advanced
for its 50s' existence; shelf-stacking
to re-arrange for early use-by at the
front; fast-moving lines checked
hourly if not sooner; trusted staff
becoming the Tasting Squad for
new fresh produce being considered
for supply - The Cornflake (never
uttered in his hearing) circulating
to ensure not only that his ever-clear
commands were reflected in full shelves
but also that staff were coping not
rushed or overwhelmed.
The best Warrant Officer cares
just as much commands as
my de-mobbed Warrant Officer
father used to tell me when I asked.
(c) C J Heyworth
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 7:49 AM UTC
Fat;
Bubbly lipids gathering and stacking in a fashioned order.
Fat;
It was not so "fashionista" when she gained and gained.
Skinny;
She was lost, had no where to run but to the pantry.
Skinny;
Bones showing, skin glimmering in the sunlight.
Fat;
Sticking to her bones as paper sticks to glue.
Fat;
Poking and Prodding at the blubbery material that sits upon her femurs.
Unhappy;
She will always be.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 2:18 AM UTC
Slipping and sliding
Back into the past
Foolishly buying
All the foolishness they've said
Stacking me against you
Pitting you against me
Does it hurt to stretch the truth
If the lie is so easy
Keeping us under lock and key
Mental Slavery
Under their thumbs
We're being kept
Simple pawns
In their game of chess
We take them at their word
This herd of talking heads
As we rely on every line
That we're being fed
Keeping us under lock and key
Mental Slavery
With the slightest of resistance
We feel we should fight back
But at our own insistence
It's ambition that we lack
So we follow along the path
Eyes closed to reality
Turning us against each other
Makes it hard to see
Keeping us under lock and key
Mental Slavery
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 8:24 AM UTC
*stacking the arrows in piles
a triangle of fuego
furnaces blaze fire
infinite reminders
of the morning after
shafts of light
drift from window panes
remake our names in
god’s slumbering veins
from here to there a whisper
or was it a word
fellow companions
have you heard
the threadbare sisters
took their turns
climbing mountains in order
that we could learn
the ways
of green hearted sun-scrapers
sweet little dangers
fellow death chasers
full of music
givers of blooming veils
bouquets of snow and hail
almond shaped eyes
resplendent thighs
and a mind as pure as a lake
during an alaskan winter
in the frozen splinter
trees are taken from their roots
the women are bleeding
weaving you the meat and the story
outsiders are cast from clay into statues
with feminine bodies
curving like cotton candy
i choose to impress you
repeat the compliments
that land on empty stomachs
string together words
like a rosary of sweet nothings
simple deeds give thrilling feats
a chance to restore their honor
purity is unwashed in ***** soil
as i am cut from the cloth of the earth
our shirts are pressed at birth
white light forming fellowship
dimples in the cheeks of the mother
the earth’s bones torn out from under
the way we made ourselves invisible
the minute we realized our accents were noticeable
our actions were abominable
how could we ever repay
the generosity we were treated to
our ultimate needs are met by poetry
upon a ridge a silent figure wept
and held his head upon a bed of cement*
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 2:17 AM UTC
I had not been born yet.
Still, I can see you at your labor -
alone, scouring the meadows
for the stones -
lifting their gray shoulders
from the moist earth -
pulling them from the
green grasp of briars,
goldenrod, and
Queen Anne’s Lace.
The smell of the earth
must have filled you with
your own childhood memories -
of plowing fields
and cold mornings
trudging across barn yards
mud thick on your boots -
promising yourself
that someday you would leave
and never return.
I can hear the pick axe -
the sharp strikes
against the stones,
and the dull thud
when the earth
swallowed the blade -
and the deep exhalations
when the stones tumbled into
the old wheelbarrow – new then -
that now leans rusting
against my garden shed.
Some of the stones were so large -
far too large for one man –
how did you move them?
I look at the old photographs
and you seem so young –
so much younger
than I am today - and so thin –
staring off-frame beyond the camera.
What were you looking for
in those fields?
I can see you sorting the stones,
stacking them -
building and unbuilding
and rebuilding the walls
and terraces
until the walls were true
and the terraces level
and planted with dogwood,
birches, soft grass for bare feet,
and bordered with roses.
Did you know
that you were building my castle?
That the highest terrace
would be my tower and keep?
I remember calling out to my
knights, my legionnaires,
and tribesmen –
rallying them in defense
of the citadel – ready for
the coming siege.
I also remember looking out
across that verdant kingdom
for the last time -
no longer a king or a boy –
and miles away, across the river
to the west, I imagined
the new home that awaited us.
I couldn’t know
how far away it would be
or what it meant to leave.
This morning,
as I looked out across
the garden that I have built,
I felt the weightlessness of time
and its gravity
settling me into place.
For a brief moment I had
the sensation that I was standing
on the shoulders of
gathered stones.
(for my father, Guy Spencer.)
Tom Spencer © 2015
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 12:13 PM UTC
Theres more in this life than I think I can handle,
legos pile around me,
hell is becoming more understandable.
Every little mistake I've made
burns my soul with unending flames,
the memories toy with my mind
like Lego games.
Building blocks around my heart
and shredding the bits of humanity I have left apart.
Stacking up the walls higher
and stronger to keep the emotions away,
if it all falls down
the insanity and anger will come out to play.
So these Lego games that block out all the hurt
need to stand tall,
I can't let anything break down or my life will
crumble
and
***f
a
l
l.***
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 6:22 PM UTC
Today's a new.
Took a breath, stepped outside and Ponder upon Paradise Avenue.
Most haven’t a clue.
Stuck between a hard place and a rock bonded by that encrypted glue.
So don’t be rude.
Look the other way While I pursue.
Get in the way and even you’ll be tighten, fastened and ******* Intrigue or intrude?
Acting with passion taking my life wealth of metaphorical food.
I'm not in the mood.
I came to conclude.
The knowledge hidden will soon be removed.
Over the covenant stove.
Hypnotize lives will be brewed.
Ether produced broth of truth I accrued.
So in this life of Manipulating strife.
Conflict of fundamental issues got me on strike.
Take a hike, better yet ride a bike.
My mind has been overlapping Triple stacking in the apparent. Trying to come up with my own Patton of satin.
I will Manifest anything that’s internally speaking in a Ridicule fashion.
I'm rapidly expanding and the abundance is over flowing.
Is it me, is it you, is it us, was it he who walked above the sea?
Yes best believe.
Antiquity relics through Allegory marriage.
Helps to see Beyond and above the perished.
Come to believe and you will achieve.
That’s the hidden recipe.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 2:11 PM UTC
After running some tests
Injecting needles in your veins
******* blood from you even if it's the only ounce left
He says you're sick
Holding a pen, he prescripts
It's for you to buy, a list of medicines
And so you have to try
You have no choice but to buy
Or else, as per Dr. Quack Quack, you'll die
As you take in
Your wallet's thinning
While the packets of medicines are still stacking
Then another symptom came
And so you have to visit the clinic again
Déjà vu you thought, Dr. Quack Quack greeted you smiling
He says you're sick again
Holding a pen, he prescripts again
It's for you to buy again, a list of medicines
Oblivious to you
He's preparing his checklist too
After traveling to Europe, next stop to Honolulu
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC
your boot was turned the wrong way
on the post out by the highway
- sharp toe pointing to the south
away from where you've been
you're no stranger to the rangers
living dangerously on the edge
- sidewinders in the sagebrush
whispering to the wind
the anasazi built this home
stacking stone one by one
- far above the canyon
of petroglyphs and wrens
i knew i'd find you by the fire
talking to the ghosts of smoke and drum
- in the ruins above the dunes
reminiscing with your friends
- reminiscing, reminiscing
on the blue mesa.
r ~ 11/6/14
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 8:09 AM UTC
One night
I was a werewolf,
but that got out of hand.
One night
you were a peach,
but I preferred fresh
over canned.
The blood scent was strong
and on your collar,
or was it spaghetti sauce?
We meandered in
the lost city of angels,
but those women
in the maternity ward
were better shape-shifters.
Couldn't see if the moon
was full against
the polluted skyline,
(but I bet it wasn't).
Then somewhere
down the tracks,
the howler (that's you),
half a dream away
on some deserted block,
and flat on your back
like a pancake,
with the nightmares
stacking up,
and dripping
with strawberry syrup.
Or was it blood?
(I bet it wasn't).
Mar 20, 2021
Mar 20, 2021 at 8:28 PM UTC
Stacking up bricks
Taking em down
Not having the nerve
To apply mortar
To make em sound
Never even
Mixed any
Cos it would harden
While on the ground
Stacking up bricks
Taking em down.
Aug 15, 2025
Aug 15, 2025 at 4:34 AM UTC
I was scared to give myself to you
But now that I have, I'm terrified
Explained to you what I'd never explained before
And from atop of your wall you said you understood
You say time will bring down your wall
But I can't help but notice these bricks your stacking
The harder I try, the higher your wall seems to be
The only time you let me in
Is in the solitude of home
In public you put your mask on
As tho the opinions of others dictated your heart
I step back with attempts of strategy
Only for you to change your game
I've put my love for you on display
Only for you to pocket it
How can you say you feel the same
When you don't show the same
Displaying shame
Embarrassment
Cut your strings
Release yourself from this puppeteer
And I will catch you
Hold you forever
Be the man you should have had
I'm ready to give you my all
Just show me you're willing to receive it
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 2:00 PM UTC
The weak inherit the Earth
The meek inherit their lead
Unaware of their life's worth
Until after they're dead
We are hopelessly trampled by a bullet stampede
Inflicted upon us for the wealthy man's greed
They sell us death as a commodity
While we can only mourn solemnly
They are arms dealers
We are harm feelers
They are life stealers
When we can't find healers
For the fatal wounds that end our lives so abruptly
And the man with the gun has no need to trust me
He has placed his faith in Ares
His humanity he failed to carry
He sold it urgently to feel secure
But then his thoughts became impure
For whatever reason he cast a death sentence
He felt injustice and wanted to get vengeance
But to the merchants of wrath
He is just math
Numbers on a graph
They must minimize
With blatant lies
Businessmen will try to create a need for their product
But engendering fear for profit seems like misconduct
Because as the bullets are raining
And the militants are training
Their money is stacking
While terrorists are attacking
Their nature seems callous
When they rely on our malice
They see us as a body count
They see us as simple trout
Swimming upstream to die
So they can eat us
Convincing us we'll fly
With minds of a fetus
The bullet burns as it punctures our civilization
It fuels our bitter spiteful incubation
We sit in the chamber
As they utilize our anger
The rich get richer
We don't see the picture
When gunshots scatter crowds
And the echoes scatter our thoughts
They want the volume to be loud
So we'll forget what we're taught
That our lives are the price of a gun and a bullet
Our paranoid lives become hard to live to the fullest
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 6:34 AM UTC
I always wanted to be that random style of writer
Writing about things which have no connection
In reality but they are connective only by the ingenuity
Of his genuflection; the circumvention of his
Circuitous routing, his plaintive perturbing petulance
Which insists on stacking things of different orders
Flying birds together of different species
If I could write something of the ticking of clocks
Not as though the ticking were of premeditated duration
Embedded in metal tracks around perimeters
Of prevaricated die-cast hours; but as though the ticking
Were only a random fixture of a theoretical day
In which random clocks ticking played a minor role
During the still life of which a poet happened along
And copied it all down dutifully, not caring if
Ticking clocks were related to pitchers of Forsythia
Or falling off of cliffs into the Aegean;
The only task of the poet to capture it all
And let the reader sort it out later
In the random tracks of his circuitous brain:
Whether the pitcher was full of sea
Or the sea was stealing into the pitcher
One blue, serendipitous drop at a time
And where no clocks were keeping time.
Mar 7, 2010
Mar 7, 2010 at 5:36 PM UTC
Once i was seven years old, a dream had told me
one day i'd be married under palm trees
Once i was seven years old
I was a girl with a plan but you thought yours was better
You pushed me close to the edge then sent me sweet love letters
By eleven i was broken, crying in your sweater
Never again would i fall, you couldn't stand the pressure
Once i was eleven years old, my brother told me,
don't worry 'bout these boys just get your money
Once i was eleven years old
i always had that dream like my brother before me
so i started working, grinding, started stacking money
Everyone called me honey, cause i was still so sweet
I didn't let the riches change me, never folded in heat
Once i was sixteen years old, the parties got old
The morning after was always so gloomy
Once i was sixteen years old
I almost went to jail, almost ruined my future
who would want to be around a girl that's so stupid?
I had my boys with me, at least that was in my favor
Then those same boys went and put my ******* life in danger
Once i was eighteen years old, being alone got old
I went and found someone who was there at night to hold me
Once i was eighteen years old
Soon we'll be thirty years old, our story pretty bold
We got married barefoot under the palm trees
Soon we'll be thirty years old
Little ones learning about life, our love is constantly growing
I'm so happy as his wife, he's what keeps me going
Most of my friends are in jail, dead or close to dying
I did my best to save them but they just kept justifying
and its so hard to talk to someone when their ego's showing
If I reach sixty-years old, then he'll reach sixty-five
We'll sit back and reminisce of simpler times
When we were young and happy dancing in a waterfall
with nothing to lose because we'd already lost it all
If I don't reach sixty-years old, will my story be told?
Or should i write a book detailing everything?
If i don't reach sixty-years old
If I don't reach sixty-years old, will my story be told?
Or should i write a book so you wont miss a thing?
If i don't reach sixty-years old
Once i was seven years old, a dream had told me
one day i'd be married under palm trees
Once i was seven years old
Once i was seven years old...
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 10:23 PM UTC
You have heard it said that
A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose
But truly I tell you that
I am that I am that I am that I am
Dripping with Jehovah and stardust we fell to earth
Pieces of atmosphere pieced together
And who can trace the mythology of our chemical compositions
Or rewrite the narrative of our anatomies?
I fell to earth soaked in Yahweh and covered in snakebites
Black holes where the fangs sunk into the astronomy of my freckled skin
All the galaxies of my body each with their own elliptical orbits
Connect the dots to form two wolves in my milky way
Romulus and Remus –
My ******* bear venom white as the purest lamb
Whisper astrology and
Remember the day we built Rome by stacking corpses
Remember the day when all the stars burned red for us
But that was millennia ago and
I’m not your Venus anymore –
I’m nobody’s ********* Venus anymore
It was the age of Pisces and we came out drenched in Messiah
You found me picking painted roses on asteroid planets
With a blonde-haired child and a fox
In the garden green snakes and white roses
Thorns and soft pink ribbon-tongues
Fangs and velvet petals
Two drops of blood in the white sand like Mary,
I bore a son and named him Ares
I named him Mars
I named him Set
Boys will be boys will be boys will be monsters, you know that
I am that I am that I am that I am.
Swim down deep enough into the black waters and you’ll reach the heavens
Keep drawing blood from thorn wounds and you’ll drag out the atmosphere
Stare out intently into the abyss and the abyss will stare back into you
These are the things we knew
When we reached the outer boundary of the cosmos
And realized how hydrogen is nothing but celestial amniotic fluid
We, motionless
Smothered by God and Carbon and perfume and poison
In this ****** we named universe
On this fetus we named Earth
I am that I am that I am that I am
Truly with you until the end of the age
Until the afterbirth of star matter gets tossed out with the baby and the bathwater.
You have heard it said
A rose called by any other name wouldn’t smell as sweet
But truly I tell you
A rose is only as beautiful and fragrant as its thorns are sharp
And if you want to know what fills the space between protons and electrons
The gaps between breaths
The light-years between planets
Then listen to the sound of your own heart beating
Counting down the gestation period of our own reality
I am that I am that I am that I am
I’m more than a Rose.
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 7:14 PM UTC
I don't like being alone.
Rays of kitchen light,
Beaming down on lime flavored tortilla chips,
With mild salsa,
That's still,
Too hot!
Or cheap tea,
Flavored with lemon and crystalizing honey,
I do not like being alone,
Stacking,
Molasses cookies,
On my shaky finger tips,
I do not like being alone!
Shaky, shaky,
Three,
Round plates,
Stacked on top of one another,
And I'm not saying I have a standard,
eating disorder,
But when I am depressed,
And,
Alone,
I just,
Don't,
Get,
FULL.
No I don't think I'm fat,
I love my body,
And I'm not over weight,
But my stomach,
Is the new home,
To the black hole in my mind,
It's fine,
I say,
You don't know how many plates today,
And it's not every day,
But I find myself stealing snacks,
The way people steal kisses,
Enjoying meals hot or cold,
Instead of going in the snow,
For if i lept into turning waters,
Like people leap for love,
Or if my mind,
Got that black back,
Transferred from my stomach,
You,
Wouldn't be the only thing crushing.
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 10:51 PM UTC
Sitting home alone in my striped socks
Swinging my feet back and forth above my bedroom floor
There’s no one but me and my striped socks
Looking down over my bedroom floor.
Mommy died, Daddy went away,
Don’t have any friends that want to play
So I think I’ll build my very own castle today
In the middle of my bedroom floor.
It’s only me and my striped socks
Stacking pillows on my bedroom floor
I’ve found a friend for me in my striped socks
And our playground is my bedroom floor.
Lights out, flashlight on
We’ll keep playing till the break of dawn
Till all the last rays of sunlight are gone
In the windows shining over my bedroom floor.
I became royalty with my striped socks
Built a kingdom on my bedroom floor
Addressed all my subjects and my striped socks
In the dark on my bedroom floor.
So if you ever chance to open my bedroom door,
This is what you’ll find:
A fairy queen in glory on her courtroom floor,
Remembered in no one’s mind.
*She was left alone on the cold asylum floor,
With her striped socks on and far from fine.*
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 8:43 AM UTC
Words are a fickle thing.
They claim those faint of heart,
Destroying those heathenish men,
Who dare try to control the world
Through the power of words.
Those who try are instantly conquered
By the omniscient dictionary,
Destroyed by their constant use of a thesaurus,
And taken over by attempting mimicking another man’s voice,
Instead of trying to find their own.
They fail because they write for the wrong reasons.
They fail because of their selfishness.
They fail because they want fame.
They fail because their words are…
Lifeless….
Hopeless...
Stubborn…
Their words refuse to conform to their ideas.
Their words punish their minds with sleepless nights,
Over their horrid word choice.
Crush their dreams with metaphor upon metaphor.
Win over their imaginations by continuous simile stacking.
Imagine if you would,
Attempting to perform heart surgery,
With a sledge hammer,
While a hungry lion is in the room,
And you’re in your underpants.
That is the challenge that these miserly men face
When they sit at their desks, with their pens twirling,
And their minds racing, asking why their characters
Are like puppets with no puppeteer.
Why their poems have no reason.
Why their words truly have no power.
When you write, think not about what you want to accomplish.
Don’t think about what will make people stir.
Think about what you feel.
Feel your heart pound and your soul quake.
When your words make you want to dance,
That’s when you know that you wrote something worthwhile.
Because it made sense to you, someone else will feel it.
Someone else will know exactly what you mean.
Always remember that your first draft comes from the heart.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 4:19 PM UTC
time changes
and I realize the world needs my LOVE.
so I want to write more love poems
and infect heartstreams,
bursting valve seams, repairing flows.
carrying capacities need expanding,
deep breath felt.
simplicities stacking, and all else is.
decension, the reflection of ascension,
is being dug.
the perspective has always been from above.
time to root down, bury down, dig deep
in the ground and bring the LOVE down.
in the darker side, where light struggles sometimes,
here, this minor level, that many feel is
real,
this place needs the panting of love
to be rained down.
souls duped to believe
evil is abound.
cycles are always dark and light
and layers are thin.
pay closer attention to the place
where to the two meet again,
that point, moment, peace.
listen to its speech, the flow of a new
sprout on a tree,
the fungus sprawl through its wood.
stretching its love from underground,
above, to feed and seed and heed
the lessons here.
biodiversity, nourishment, interdependence,
just being loving. nurturing,
to your self, the total inclusiveness...
our carry capacity for LOVE is infinity.
eights will flow infinitely, so we just let it be,
walk easily, stop and discover those on our path.
discover the magic of home.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 4:34 PM UTC
Who said that
watch the moon
but can't touch?
Truly a full moon picture
broke the mirror.
Stacking all of it
the sky fills the full jar.
Empties it though
sparing a piece
to every shining star.
Yet a full moon Kohinoor
eyes on all the stars
no one can touch!
Aug 31, 2022
Aug 31, 2022 at 8:44 PM UTC