"trot" poems
fischers rap
on a hot tin roof
bristol creek pools
over rock and seed
english wolfhound (and the barkbuster)
stroll pine lane
vibrant colors
of a cool spring
in cob yellow and
forest green
field mice squander
in cotton wind
goats and ferret
hold seven hour trim
raven and ****
meddle and forage (on a splendid fiaker goulash!)
crickets and frogs
hidden
in swollen grey logs
creepers fill the
cut stone walls
coy wolf high
on a frayed white rope
eagles perched
at trudy’s bend
catamounts laze
on a snow base cedar
(pared arbutus bent
through a failed ground rock)
brush spider spins
a timely web
brown bears fumble
at the spirit jamboree
quizzical squirrels
crack their nuts
as pillow clouds float
over telegraph trail
12 point dances
on talus and scree
hen hawks float
in a big hard sun
clydesdale and coach
trot copper smith road
(glancing down
on finch and the warbler
whistling through
colander row)
lavender fills
the peat soil box
mountain cats
guard the heavenly gates
black eyed ridge
is wide and open
the country squire hails
this fruitful land
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 12:18 AM UTC
Unbiased at least he was when he arrived on his mission,
Having never set eyes on the land he was called to partition
Between two peoples fanatically at odds,
With their different diets and incompatible gods.
"Time," they had briefed him in London, "is short. It's too late
For mutual reconciliation or rational debate:
The only solution now lies in separation.
The Viceroy thinks, as you will see from his letter,
That the less you are seen in his company the better,
So we've arranged to provide you with other accommodation.
We can give you four judges, two Moslem and two Hindu,
To consult with, but the final decision must rest with you."
Shut up in a lonely mansion, with police night and day
Patrolling the gardens to keep the assassins away,
He got down to work, to the task of settling the fate
Of millions. The maps at his disposal were out of date
And the Census Returns almost certainly incorrect,
But there was no time to check them, no time to inspect
Contested areas. The weather was frightfully hot,
And a bout of dysentery kept him constantly on the trot,
But in seven weeks it was done, the frontiers decided,
A continent for better or worse divided.
The next day he sailed for England, where he could quickly forget
The case, as a good lawyer must. Return he would not,
Afraid, as he told his Club, that he might get shot.
31.5k
Ah.. shes here...I shuffle around the stalls... watching..out of the corners of my eyes.... she knows ....Intimacy...a hand on flank..careful..
.you'll break me....with your gentle hands..
..My hard mouth....your soft lips..
..unruly, unruled....old horse...a kiss.
.. Confused, ...stallion in name only.
... You whisper... My ears *****
... forward..the hunt! ....your scent on..
..My bridle...I smell u still...
.. Calm...Comfort...Welcome...
.Gentled, not too gently....a strong hand.
. It grows trust …..truth...a Stallion! Once more.
Panting...pawing...'Be easy'..nervous eyes roll.
.a hand on the neck...a caress..'Gently '...you whisper,
.... hot breath against ear
… I snuffle and toss my head
…. still a bit frightened…..her power!
..Will you ride.? ! ..firm thighs and buttocks..
..Toes point... Heels dig...all Give and Take….
. Instruction to...from...the muscled beast.
..straddled. Awkward… too long without….
..A Rider … the matching... Gait with hip...
Walk-on.. Trot, pounding...Heels clip.
..faster, just a bit..Then smoothly they fit her to him.
...a canter.....this long stretch....rocking like one creature
….each a part of the other...breathing evenly…
...caught ….. Breath comes quick...bodies warm.
. Exertion...strength..trust.. Leaning forward..
knees grip..pulling...toes curl..in..
..hot breath..whisper in an ear… Now!
...hands grip mane... As they clench
… bit between the teeth...She..
...gives him his head... Finding his rhythm
…. home in sight...a last burst……
Rider/Stallion sweat soaked … blood pounding..There... againthe scent of her...Sweet Hay rising.
..she whispers… yes oh yes… I knew…
you had it in you.. In me...oh gods….YES! ! .
. No! not the pasture yet for you.. She chuckles..
.bodies tangled in sheets ….. Her mane of dark hair..
Scent of her fills him …
glad to be..Alive? Yes..head…. Heat…
heart...bursting…Not now… But soon.
. A gift.. This youth.. Who see's value in an old war horse.
..ridden.. but no more to war and blood..
.gentled, both he and she… sleep…bridled passion.
..her...a scent of sweet hay…
.him...an old spice..and gunpowder? ..mmm.
by Alexander K Hamilton
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 12:01 AM UTC
I watch the prom Dance,
In an awkward stance,
my friends walk in with dates,
and the excitement Abates.
Alone in a corner,
I mope like a mourner,
With no partner to dance with,
No gentleman to prance with.
Amidst the mirth and cheers,
My eyes fill up with tears.
I rush out into the open air,
And by Jove! I see Voltaire!
With his satirical charms,
He draws me in his arms.
As I sway to the beats,
I'm waltzing with Keats.
Causing my funny bone to arouse,
Enters P.G. Wodehouse!
Using nonchalant wittiness,
He acknowledges my prettiness.
And then walks in Shakespeare,
Who wipes away my tear,
And my senses curdle like curds,
As he showers me with words.
While I repress the excited child,
I'm swaying with Oscar Wilde.
I'm rendered helplessly mute,
With his phrases so astute.
With a proposal so verse-y,
I'm serenaded by Shelly B. Percy.
And before this fantasy can spoil,
I fox trot with Conan Doyle.
And thus literally seduced,
into putty I'm reduced.
I am platonic-ally smitten,
By the genius of what they've written.
The dating circus can’t make me cry,
because a host of paramours have I.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 3:20 AM UTC
‘…. and now, here’s Rick with the latest Market news…’
‘Val, trading was very brisk today, with a number of influences
that set the market off to some defined trends and statements.
Of course, the Human Virtue Exchange always seems to rely
on the volatility that resides ‘between the ears’ as noted
by the veteran brokers on the floor, but the sharp ranges
of prices offered versus profit taking has set the bar
very high in the relative value of Basic Human Virtue.
Now to the numbers: Courage [WHOME], Patience [PP],
and former market darling Perseverance [GULP],
all varied widely today on news from Washington that
their value was doomed to fall in the light of the expected growth
of Persistence [IAM] which history has shown to be a marked drag
on just about everything. Outside of the self –efficacy bazaar,
old standbys Ambition [HVY], Curiosity [WDF], Industry [HAHA] and Temperance [BFD],
continued their free fall into uncharted areas of cost and return.
Some analysts feel these virtues could be a real bargain in the future
despite their history of poor performance. Could a comeback not seen
since collapse of the Protestant Hypocrisy Era be in the works? We’ll see as the lack of movement in the Kindness-Generosity-Forgiveness-Compassion Index [FARAWAY]
leads many to believe that the end of Politeness [UPYRS],
Un-pretentiousness [ME-ME], Self Control [NWAY] and Sportsmanship [LONGONE], may lead to a complete miss-understanding between casual market players and devotees to the cause. The ratios cannot lie.
But without a doubt, today’s big winner was Self Respect [YUP]
which jumped and amazing 40 points before active trading ceased at the bell. So people feel real good about themselves for reasons
that cannot be explained by the Ego File Indicator alone; this causes this reporter to predict that Naval Gazing [MOM] remains a ‘Hot to Trot’ stock fund
and the Vanity market is always a good bet.
Now, here’s Carl with
today’s Human Emotion Exchange report……’
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 12:19 PM UTC
She sang the trot like she owned the narrative,
as if she was singing about her inner most secret.
-The lady who lost her lover
The place where she met him
The Place with the Camellia flower
It was a place of summer and ray bloomed
while it matched the radiance of the two Paramour
and a reminder of their internal chest thumped in unison
In the street where they first met she stood alone
fatigued with no more breath to give
Many nights shed her tears by the Camellia flowers
Now the flower leave crumbled
The petals showed it's red bruises
and falling like the tear drops
When will the lover come back to her
To the lonely Camellia Flower
When will he come back-
The song ends with a grasp
as this German lady song ends with her whisper
To the Korean Trot song of the past
To the song "Lady Camellia!"
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC
I watched the fox, rat held firmly in its jaw,
Trot across the street, lithely avoiding the cars,
Ears pricked up.
It slithered under a fence and weaved through the undergrowth,
Not once acknowledging my presence.
Disappearing in the night, it yelped out its echoes in the wood
Licking out worms.
The shadowed moon slung down its light
Like weak silver bristles from the back of a carved out hedgehog
Covered with newly deposited fox saliva.
It had screamed as it was consumed-unable to die!
The crow stabbed at a newly dead rock pigeon
As the stalking cat pounced......
Death mingled!
Joe, who lived near me, waved:
I waved back, wondering why he saw nothing.
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 7:32 PM UTC
All what fussy ***** had got,
Something that started to rot,
Is nothing else but lofty tails.
Her most horrible trot,
Got her inside the slot,
Of someone called ****
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 9:27 PM UTC
I see her sitting over there
another's arms around her waist.
Sunlight shimmers through golden hair,
bodice ruffled and unlaced.
Surprise sits obvious on her face,
over the distance where I walk
it shouts to me of felt disgrace.
A story told no need for talk.
I look down staring at the ground
feeling awkward as I continue
not raising eyes to what I found
like curtains drawn across a window.
My footsteps quicken with the pace,
footpath blurs with constant view.
My head can't raise to see her face
because I don't know what to do.
I hear her calling, voice a quiver,
I hear her tread as she doe's chase
Almost a trot I do deliver
trying to clear from this place.
I manage to evade her follow,
thinking of the scene I saw.
Her cheating ways are cruel and hollow
as I viewed her frolic on the floor.
What do I say when next I see
her arm in arm with my best friend.
But if these words I say to he
will cause him harm that may not end.
So I have given them some room
to sort themselves in their own way.
It's she that must hand out the gloom
from her own words then she must pay.
As for this secret I say nought
I shall not give her game away
for she's not the only one I've caught
for my friend does play away.
I do not judge the things they do
and best that I do not involve
myself with what they both go through.
It's for themselves both to resolve.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 9:26 AM UTC
Friday marches in.
Trumpets playing serenades.
Nearly last weeks end.
Banners flying high.
It's five o clock or there abouts.
Hark,
Delighted squeals and shouts.
Buildings locked, off we trot.
To the station, week forgot.
Saturday descends with her restful smile.
Chill at home just for a while.
Wake up in the early hours.
In dream state panic.
Forgot the day.
Thought work was calling me today.
Realise it's Saturday.
Turn over.
Drift back off to sleep.
Sunday morn.
A sleepless night.
Woke up at seven.
Coffee on.
Then it dawned on me.
The weekend's nearly gone.
Make the most of Sabbath day.
Monday's coming anyway.
When back to work.
Off I'll trot.
Satisfied sort of with my lot.
I truly hope Sunday doesn't fly to fast.
Sunday waiting for Monday is never a blast!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 4:18 AM UTC
I
From you, Beethoven, Bach, Mozart,
The substance of my dreams took fire.
You built cathedrals in my heart,
And lit my pinnacled desire.
You were the ardour and the bright
Procession of my thoughts toward prayer.
You were the wrath of storm, the light
On distant citadels aflare.
II
Great names, I cannot find you now
In these loud years of youth that strives
Through doom toward peace: upon my brow
I wear a wreath of banished lives.
You have no part with lads who fought
And laughed and suffered at my side.
Your fugues and symphonies have brought
No memory of my friends who died.
III
For when my brain is on their track,
In slangy speech I call them back.
With fox-trot tunes their ghosts I charm.
‘Another little drink won’t do us any harm.’
I think of rag-time; a bit of rag-time;
And see their faces crowding round
To the sound of the syncopated beat.
They’ve got such jolly things to tell,
Home from hell with a Blighty wound so neat...
. . . .
And so the song breaks off; and I’m alone.
They’re dead ... For God’s sake stop that gramophone.
5k
There was an old person of Ware,
Who rode on the back of a bear:
When they ask'd,--'Does it trot?'--
He said 'Certainly not!
He's a Moppsikon Floppsikon bear!'
4.9k
Who here loves *******
I mean, dogs
Obviously…
Immature people.
I love ***** shows.
Seeing them all groomed to perfection, not a hair out off place
A shame some cute faces will just go to waste.
While some may whine and some may resist,
If it’s not monetised, well… does it exist?
Lined up in a row
Look at them go
Praying and hoping to win best in show, just for a itty bitty wittle headpat, while the owner gets useful things like money.
Cause a dog can’t use money, that’s just silly
Nails perfectly trimmed
Intelligence dimmed
Watch how they walk with a little trot, so proud of themselves,
its like they forgot they only have the same rights as their owners in 6 countries.
But dogs don’t need equal working rights, that’s just silly
Look its absurd
When they whine all their words
Clogging up space with their frilly likes and their silly ums that totally like inconveniences like everyone because they have to um like listen to a ***** talk for um longer than they like totally like um have to like ***
But they aren’t so bad, especially when you’ve had
A ***** that wont behave, a ***** that’s gone mad
Howling at the moon with their wandering wombs
It’s like there’s no party, only balloons.
If a ***** wears pants, do they go on all fours
Or do they get sent home for showing more than their paws.
Gasp at how they growl, protecting their hairy bodies, which, silly them, they don’t own.
They must be culled
Anger dulled
Knock in their thick skulls they are nothing but a *****
We all love ***** shows, we love the ******* even more.
So come on ladies, get down on all fours.
Feb 23, 2022
Feb 23, 2022 at 4:37 PM UTC
I blend cry not,
An antic land, lest not
Trot
Blot
On a sparkling terrain
Epitome Heaven,
Lo!
That I hearken an Archangel yet?
Gabriella tears, rears, near:
I saw a stag, reindeer, lag, and flag in the distant snowy mountains…
Sep 17, 2009
Sep 17, 2009 at 5:13 AM UTC
Who knew what all a horse could do
Most think horses work
Walk, trot, canter
Being ridden for pleasure
Driven for work
Who knew they could do so much more
Opening doors for the disabled
Allowing the autistic, cerebal palsy, mentally challenged, parapalegic
to move around, to feel the wind on their faces, to laugh
To feel in control of their surroundings for the first time
Yet who knew that horses do more than all of this
Helping kids and adults with low self esteem
Pulling them up to feel good about themselves
Giving confidence when it has been taken away
Allowing them to feel successful
A horse can be a confidant, an enforcer, a best friend
Legs to move, muscles for strength, a body to hold,
Who knew a horse could do so much more than show, jump and plow
They can help a troubled child let go of anger
A disabled child feel in control of such an uncontrollable world
A mentally challenged person feel accomplishment and free of that which traps them
Horses can help so many different people
Overcome all types of obstacles
Bullies, fear, anger, sorrow, disbelief, self pity, frustration and hurt
Giving them strength to take up for themselves
The power to conquer being afraid
Allowing them to feel happy and sure of themselves
Control of something allowing them to feel alive again
Horses become hard working friends
They love unconditionally
Don't judge or cause inferiority
They don't care if you can talk correctly or at all
Horses could care less about disability
All they care about is you
Even when they are not loved they love
When abused they still work
So it is so wonderful to put an unloved horse
with a special needs person
Both win by giving and receiving the love and tenderness
they all deserve
Horses Helping People
A wonderful blessing
People needing Horses
A miraculous discovery
All rights reserved
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 12:52 PM UTC
Back of the net,
A collective roar
Of instant joy,
Lets get one more.
We need the points
To stay on top.
So keep on chanting
in the Spion Kop.
Four wins on the trot,
lets make it 5.
We'll bring this city of
Liverpool alive.
It's now or never,
We're almost there.
This is the last game,
This is our year.
45 minutes to go,
Then the season ends.
Go tell your neighbours,
Go tell your friends.
Join in with the chorus,
Join in with the song,
We are Liverpool,
We are back,
Right where we belong.
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 7:55 AM UTC
Girl,
You’ll be a woman
Soon, so start
Straightening your hair
So it’s smooth and shiny
And cake on your cumbersome
Concealer because
Acne is for boys.
Browse bras in Victoria’s Secret
The ones with plentiful padding,
Push-up, so your cleavage
Screams: “I am a grown lady”
Even though you’re only thirteen.
Trade your sweats for slimming
Jeans that squeeze, skin-tight
Telling you to take a trot to trim
Your waist because you weigh
More than a delicate number.
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 9:56 PM UTC
I shall go away
To the brown hills, the quiet ones,
The vast, the mountainous, the rolling,
Sun-fired and drowsy!
My horse snuffs delicately
At the strange wind;
He settles to a swinging trot; his hoofs ***** the dust.
The road winds, straightens,
Slashes a marsh,
Shoulders out a bridge,
Then --
Again the hills.
Unchanged, innumerable,
Bowing huge, round backs;
Holding secret, immense converse:
In gusty voices,
Fruitful, fecund, toiling
Like yoked black oxen.
The clouds pass like great, slow thoughts
And vanish
In the intense blue.
My horse lopes; the saddle creaks and sways.
A thousand glittering spears of sun slant from on high.
The immensity, the spaces,
Are like the spaces
Between star and star.
The hills sleep.
If I put my hand on one,
I would feel the vast heave of its breath.
I would start away before it awakened
And shook the world from its shoulders.
A cicada's cry deepens the hot silence.
The hills open
To show a slope of poppies,
Ardent, noble, heroic,
A flare, a great flame of orange;
Giving sleepy, brittle scent
That stings the lungs.
A creeping wind slips through them like a ferret; they bow and dance,
answering Beauty's voice . . .
The horse whinnies. I dismount
And tie him to the grey worn fence.
I set myself against the javelins of grass and sun;
And climb the rounded breast,
That flows like a sea-wave.
The summit crackles with heat, there is no shelter, no hollow from
the flagellating glare.
I lie down and look at the sky, shading my eyes.
My body becomes strange, the sun takes it and changes it, it does not feel,
it is like the body of another.
The air blazes. The air is diamond.
Small noises move among the grass . . .
Blackly,
A hawk mounts, mounts in the inane
Seeking the star-road,
Seeking the end . . .
But there is no end.
Here, in this light, there is no end. . .
3.1k
Two sides, four faces.
A god of some type, enraged.
Three eyes open, five hearts broken.
How the man who taught me morals
Went astray . . .
and I can't help him.
He won't let me teach him
The very same things
That he taught me
So I breathe through the filthy air!
Reminds me of a home;
One that is now liquified.
How bitter it is to swallow fire . . .
I trail through the tracks;
A horse amidst a mess of baggage.
Unsaddled;
To trot on
Into the fine truths of this world,
This one we call our abode.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
“I am the wolf!” I say
As I trot behind the caribou.
I’m salivating and my heart pounds
As I ignore the pain of miles jogged.
“I will never stop running” I say
As I swallow my thirst.
I run on and don’t slow;
Determined to sink my teeth into healthy flesh.
“I’ll never be the coyote” I say.
He desires only weak meat.
He laughs at the idea of a good meal
Stealing any morsel he can find.
“I’m not the coyote” I say
“I want to earn a true dinner.”
I absolve my petty desires
With my passion for the caribou.
--
I run through a field of rabbits,
Past by my potential meals to stop at shore.
I can just make out the lone caribou.
She is alone on her island.
She is beautiful and strong.
She looks me in the eyes - inviting and unafraid.
--
“Alas, I am NOT the wolf…” I say
“I am cunning and swift,
Yet unable to swim to her shore.”
My hunger rumbles as I stare.
“I am the fox” I say
I hope for the caribou,
But I try and try in vain
To fill her void with rabbits and the slain.
Jan 15, 2010
Jan 15, 2010 at 2:15 AM UTC
What a nice name for a bird.
I bought a bird.
Tuesday mornings seem to fly away now.
Thursdays often nest in my eyebrows
and every second Sunday I could find reason to sing.
The bird took my soul.
and flew away with my money.
I should have never bought a bird.
Feathers ****
Next month I shall buy a dog, or perhaps a horse, maybe even an armadillo.
But the dog will run, the horse will trot, and the armadillo will roll;
All away.
Pets ****
Next year I shall find a wife,
and the the month before a band of pearl,
but what If I should run away?
what if I would ****
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 12:47 PM UTC
for Barry and Tina
Life experience is something I haven’t witnessed,
the fitness of waking up and going back to bed
50 years on the trot.
But I look to my father’s hands and see
all twelve-thousand morning mists
he has seen.
A gristmill heart, grained hands
and workshop walking feet are
all hidden from view.
He writes in capitals, written
with precision, and crosses the T’s
as he goes along,
So not to prolong the sentence writing chore,
making more time, conjuring up the minutes
to potter around and mend unbroken objects.
-
Life experience is something I haven’t witnessed,
the fitness of waking up and going back to bed
50 years on the trot.
But I look at my mother’s hands
and see remedies read about in those magazines,
all to look younger in the staff canteen.
A watermill heart, smooth iron fingers
and contoured, sculpted chiselled
corridor feet are all hidden from view.
She scrawls her sentences; they become the tide
hiding letters and numbers in the swell
of punctuation and dotted I’s,
The T’s cross themselves and she moves on,
another phone call to attend too or
a new BBC this-time-more-accurate historical drama to view.
-
Life experience is something I haven’t witnessed,
the fitness of waking up and going back to bed
50 years on the trot.
But if you keep on going, stay out of strong sunlight
so not to rot, those years will pass
as a striking blur leading to coastal Big Sur
roads, where the next 50 miles
bring just as many smiles as the last 50.
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 12:41 PM UTC
Who, or why, or which, or what, Is the Akond of SWAT?
Is he tall or short, or dark or fair?
Does he sit on a stool or a sofa or a chair,
or SQUAT,
The Akond of Swat?
Is he wise or foolish, young or old?
Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold,
or HOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk,
And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk
or TROT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he wear a turban, a fez, or a hat?
Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed, or a mat,
or COT,
The Akond of Swat?
When he writes a copy in round-hand size,
Does he cross his T's and finish his I's
with a DOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Can he write a letter concisely clear
Without a speck or a smudge or smear
or BLOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Do his people like him extremely well?
Or do they, whenever they can, rebel,
or PLOT,
At the Akond of Swat?
If he catches them then, either old or young,
Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung,
or SHOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Do his people **** in the lanes or park?
Or even at times, when days are dark,
GAROTTE,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he study the wants of his own dominion?
Or doesn't he care for public opinion
a JOT,
The Akond of Swat?
To amuse his mind do his people show him
Pictures, or any one's last new poem,
or WHAT,
For the Akond of Swat?
At night if he suddenly screams and wakes,
Do they bring him only a few small cakes,
or a LOT,
For the Akond of Swat?
Does he live on turnips, tea, or tripe?
Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripe,
or a DOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he like to lie on his back in a boat
Like the lady who lived in that isle remote,
SHALLOTT,
The Akond of Swat?
Is he quiet, or always making a fuss?
Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or Russ,
or a SCOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does like to sit by the calm blue wave?
Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave,
or a GROTT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he drink small beer from a silver jug?
Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug?
or a ***
The Akond of Swat?
Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe,
When she let the gooseberries grow too ripe,
or ROT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he wear a white tie when he dines with friends,
And tie it neat in a bow with ends,
or a KNOT.
The Akond of Swat?
Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies?
When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes,
or NOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake?
Does he sail about on an inland lake
in a YACHT,
The Akond of Swat?
Some one, or nobody, knows I wot
Who or which or why or what
Is the Akond of Swat?
3k
Barnacles crunch like fast food under your sneakers,
my gnawed-on boots.
We pass over cat-eyed shards of glass
still spicy with beer bubbles
and still fizzy with teen rebellion;
It molds like an infection here.
In a town nicknamed "Little Norway." ~
This place hoards candy-colored suburbia in its pockets.
Houses like skittles weigh down its pants
and it belches out tourist traps weaker than expired pepsi,
yet it still manages these moments
where I can trot by your gazelle legs
and blast Julie Andrew's confidence.
And I want to heap myself on the oyster shells, say
STOP
Put this moment in a snowglobe,
sigh into it before we move on,
do anything before the wind whips it away.
Etch it into your hand if you have to.
But breeze dimples the water like a golf ball
and rips at the seams of the shore.
Please don't forget me when you leave.
Mar 6, 2012
Mar 6, 2012 at 1:20 AM UTC
I should've known from the first ride,
that I would be falling fast.
I should've felt it from my first fall,
that your show must go on.
I should've known from the first rodeo,
that should've been the last.
I should've felt it from my first trot,
that I'm better off riding alone.
I should've known you couldn't choke the horn,
but you were all but a yellow-belly.
I should've watched how you 'let her rip',
yet a horse is all of my riches.
I should've believed you don't want no cahoot,
but I rode for you 'til dawn while hungry.
I should've watched you ride to the sunrise,
yet I am left chasing sunsets.
But I am still the greatest,
with or without a lily liver cahoot.
I am the best, from east to west,
a taste from my lips would prove it's true.
I am the lone star that shines the brightest,
with or without your hat on, you'll be blinded.
I am all of the gold that they all rush to,
the legend they call 'light at the end of the tunnel'.
You should be sorry, oh you should be sad,
all you would be is a runaway robber.
Because I could've been your brokeback god
now I would be everything but your lover.
I put my hat down to say sorry for being your bandit,
Now I ride to where the lights would welcome me,
far away from all the grime, dirt and strife
They all cheer and whistle and holler my name,
while you weep that your whole life,
let alone your morning rides will never be the same.
Jul 15, 2023
Jul 15, 2023 at 11:15 AM UTC