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Philipp K J Jan 28
The western sky sweeps
Darkness to back yards
The dawning east keeps
Designing with hues
Mornings greeting cards.
Nice to see the crews
Active in writing
Fresh magic haikus
Deep in creating
Textures and sinews
With unique mixing
Of color and lures
Interspersed musings
On honeycomb verse
Soft snowflake rhymings
Draught on fragrant wings
Beams of rainbow waves
Fuse sweetness and light
Deeds of Devine Inc
Wrought in suntan ink
Duty with delight
In morning twilight
onlylovepoetry May 2017
twice by god's accidental interference,
our crash vehicles, super sized shopping carts,
connect, we are manger-penalized for unnecessary roughness
and disturbing the supermarkets peace

what better way to judge character than to examine
a single persons shopping cart  contents?

hers,
all organic, milk, heirloom tomatoes, even the Chardonnay,
grown upon the farms of the island and vineyards on
the forks that shelter the isle from the ravages of the Atlantic

mine,
Hebrew National franks, yellow mustard,
very classy brioche buns, a six pack of Corona Light,
and funny colored, funny looking, rusted russet potato chips

with a tremulous smile, and an overly loud, derisive sniff,
pronounces me dead man walking sooner than later,
to which, I respond,
then, teach me, where shall we dine tonight?

later that night,
after a thousand kisses of her fluttering eyelashes,
she props herself upon an elbow and
in a tone sincere and caring,
extracts from the poet promises of
natural exclusivity

from now on, healthy, natural only, organic and pure,
from the soul soil of our shared habitat

her suntan skin, garden-digging hand, I clasp,
softly climbing on top of her,
announce with total genuine sincerity and solemnity;

I swear it, from now on, all my loving will be sourced locally

rewarded with a laugh and a gentle but hard enough,
garden to table (with her free hand), head smacking,
I noting nod, good naturedly
that both the laugh and smack,
as well,

sourced locally,
sourced lovingly,

which then seeded
this new only love jointly authored poem,
planted in our mingling blossoming crashing
bodies


5/29/17 i
12:43pm
Sean Hunt Jun 7
Poor penguins
and polar bears
no ozone
above them
in the air
Soon in the cold
arctic ocean
They'll be selling the seals
suntan lotion
allusions to books make you seem well read
but you can’t fool the intelligent with empty quotes
or exist forever on a leaky boat
the snails tug at our souls and don’t you know
that its as cold as winter in our petticoats
covered in soot and coal with pets around a fire
but grief is hot and so is desire
jealous lovers misconstrue our relationship
they neglect the nature of our friendship
those special words the we have exchanged
what a willing way to spend our days
waiting for the music to sing in our souls
and listening for that longing to belong
his aches are your dreams
while you await the steamy pains of spring
it hurts me to see you like this
are you even able to kiss me anymore
distance yourself from the lakes
smooth out your carpets or take a break
these stakes are as high as the sky
and god is as bright as your eyes
underneath your eyebrows
streaks of music are drifting
like flying kites
retired pilots buy you hot chocolate
you are smart and already got undressed
since you are not protesting
i take it as a sign to go ahead
we lay down in the bed
i am frowning like the sun
the drowning has begun
his hunger is never done
for love is our dinner
and this food is simple
still it gives us nourishment to run
suntan lotion causes cancer
and our barefoot ancestors knew the secrets
they delivered the answers to our teachers
modern day seekers are wearing sneakers
learn to rest and all will happen
stand around or cast your rod
for life is a line that’s best left untangled
stacked at odd angles we rhyme unconsciously
this smacks of tampered evidence
smells of frankincense and i am hesitant again
his newest girlfriend and her oldest lover
love each other properly or part company
make way for Caesar or steer clear of Rome
dowries are no longer proper
even if you're a woman
like an orphan with post-traumatic stress syndrome
its like eating marrow from the bone
if our word is our bond than we'd better get some glue
if revenge is a dish best served cold
i will go and buy some more dry-ice
for drier than a river is a seven headed serpent
and like that dinner where we ate everything
his directions were like a table that remained unclear
to meet her at the train station by six
she waited for an hour and then she departed quickly
god-**** this traffic it never ceases to let up
we must make the most of it or it will break our heart
straps of leather against your chest
i am barely breathing as you direct me to your *******
our vests are tight and we fight like fire
threads are broken from our denial
while smiles deny our naked fear
allegories are here featuring our deepest longings
all forms are a type of fetish for control of meaning
with symbols beaming from within our beings
why are we still seemingly so ungrateful
SJG Jul 4
Big rifts.
Big rifts and fast cars and autographs.
Fortunes which do little but reverse themselves
Into sub-circles of burnt out polymaths.
Hey, that your renaissance man coming down the hill?
Doesn't he talk fast?

A choir of crickets for homecoming king
And the click click click of cameras for the queen.
Journalists park indiscriminately on her lawn,
And bloggers fire up their laptops to beat the scene.
Saturday TV at midnight, the cognoscenti are like:
"The gnostical turpitude of this work is obscene".
(The host sagely nods their head and agrees.)

He kicks his sneakers down the street.
A man of circumlocutions
But he always, eventually, says what he means.
She places the styrofoam cup in the crevice of the coffee machine.
He walks into the store, squints, but the image of her
Is never ever more than someone in-between.
She curls a lock around her finger,
Then directs his attention to the tip jar.
He throws in a little too much change, and later,
Is a little too short for the metre to park the car.

A man of circumlocutions; yes, but he's my friend.

I can't help but dwell on the creeps who write poetry.
Do they ever figure that nobody has the time
To figure out what this **** means?
Keep it short and sweet, or obviously beautiful
Like classical gas.
These days, poetry is words on a screen
And must compete with photographs.
Use worn out words and familiar themes.
Feign that you're some romantic bandit
With some spiritual side-eye on some
Mannered field of scarlet and green.
Keep it simple. Keep it sweet.
Keep it grey-mundane and slate-clean.

I had to fall for her
Amidst the age of my circus clothes.
What she saw in me is still a mystery
(Hell if I know).
I often wonder if it could have worked,
Often when I need a friend.
But I wouldn't know what I'd say to the girl,
If I saw the girl again.

All you need to do is tell the truth.
So much art is being made, there's no use
In pretending to be a genius,
Seer of fates, master of the human heart.
(Buddy, there's a million rubes
With designs upon that part.)
Just find a few words that ring true to you
And you're halfway to a start.

You don't need their money.
You don't need their ends.
You're still alive, still impaired.

Poetry is a private pulse losing time
To the deadened ticking of the clock.
Poetry is a guilty flame; the adamant sea
Throwing itself against the adamant rock.
Poetry is the cutting of the cord, the trips around the farm,
The scent of damp gravel and wet tarmac.
Poetry is suntan oil, motor oil,
Andalusia, Aberystwyth, the years you never get back.
Poetry asks you to bend to elemental law
And for anything breathing to do the same.
Poetry writes a lot of verse that it don't plan to cash.
But mostly, poetry wants you
And poetry wants your guilty flame.
L B Oct 2018
I hadn't meant to spy on them; just one of my evening walks along the beach.  Moonlight gleaming on wet teenage backs.  Horseplay crackling in their young male voices-- “King of the Hill” from a rusty life guard chair.  I like these memories, the ones that just occur-- when everything is there again....

Coming to find myself again in October.  Long trudge to the “Shanty Village” gets me thinking about the wrinkled hand that first took me close to the ageless roar and seething.  Skirted bathing suit, indelible tremble of voice-- the woman bringing me beyond the fear that had watched all day from those cautious castles, after being so rudely trounced!   She helped me make my peace with what I could neither own nor tame— the sea and me.  We walked along the channel then, watching slender fishes in their school-- that even fish would go to school!  We had to laugh.  Scorching the soles of my feet in the parking lot!  Oo-ah-oo-ah! Forgot my flip-flops!
_

October now, piling sand along the roadside....  First kiss at Cooks Brook Beach.  Surf breaking over this jetty, could have been my heart.  I think his name was Stan....

How can people leave their flowers still blooming in window boxes?  In the cottage quiet, I can almost picture... bicycles leaning by dripping shower stalls.  Beach umbrellas, the smell of suntan lotion,  kids roving in barefoot bands....  Fall packs them all away.

While cold advances on the struggling song of crickets, a man, wearing a painter's hat and whistling, does the unthinkable-- hammers plywood over his shanty's windows.  I think that summer people can close their eyes.  We, of October, have vivid memories-- savoring sources that linger in their endings.  Coming late—staying long beyond the leaving-- sleeping warm in winter sands.
prose poem  Heading back in a couple of weeks.

— The End —