"trotter" poems
Once I seen a human ruin
In a elevator-well.
And his members was bestrewin'
All the place where he had fell.
And I says, apostrophisin'
That uncommon woful wreck:
"Your position's so surprisin'
That I tremble for your neck!"
Then that ruin, smilin' sadly
And impressive, up and spoke:
"Well, I wouldn't tremble badly,
For it's been a fortnight broke."
Then, for further comprehension
Of his attitude, he begs
I will focus my attention
On his various arms and legs--
How they all are contumacious;
Where they each, respective, lie;
How one trotter proves ungracious,
T' other one an alibi.
These particulars is mentioned
For to show his dismal state,
Which I wasn't first intentioned
To specifical relate.
None is worser to be dreaded
That I ever have heard tell
Than the gent's who there was spreaded
In that elevator-well.
Now this tale is allegoric--
It is figurative all,
For the well is metaphoric
And the feller didn't fall.
I opine it isn't moral
For a writer-man to cheat,
And despise to wear a laurel
As was gotten by deceit.
For 'tis Politics intended
By the elevator, mind,
It will boost a person splendid
If his talent is the kind.
Col. Bryan had the talent
(For the busted man is him)
And it shot him up right gallant
Till his head began to swim.
Then the rope it broke above him
And he painful came to earth
Where there's nobody to love him
For his detrimented worth.
Though he's living' none would know him,
Or at leastwise not as such.
Moral of this woful poem:
Frequent oil your safety-clutch.Porfer Poog.
2.6k
****** Finds Her Love
as the rising heat rose,
prickling horse pose
a young jockey is born
among saddle of thorns
she sees his harden well
up close it looks swell
looking both in the eye
will he teach her on the fly
his widening eyes yearn
of nature's lesson she'll learn
one must trot before she runs
labor of love before the fun
she pets and explores his tap
and he sings and fiddles her gap
a plumb beautifully glows
yearning love for the rainbow
she takes his bridle slowly in
crawling like with a grin
on wings of sage she flies
higher, higher as she cries
kiss me through the night
as her widening lips incite
a fire rages the rarefied air
a trotter shaking the pair
to the moon and stars she goes
her first orbit coming to a close
down to earth with a pop and splash
their wedding night's dance a smash
LR-5/7/17
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 9:34 PM UTC
He is a mover and a shaker
And he’s certainly no Quaker!
Donnie Trotter from Chicago
is his name.
Whatever was he thinking?
This man from the
land of Lincoln.
When he tried to bring a gun
aboard a plane?
He’ll pontificate when pressed
(Just to get it off his chest)
How guns are bad
And people shouldn’t buy them.
His acts are against the law
He himself had voted for-
I wonder if the State
Will charge and try him.
Were he Conservative and White-
Not a Liberal, Black as night-
Voices would be raised
that we should fry him.
It’s Hypocrisy at its best
And this man has failed the test
In Chicago guns are banned
And for good reason-
If the victims could fight back,
What would be the fun in that?
Only criminals have guns
This hunting season.
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 10:15 PM UTC
There’s a beauty in the path that I followed
White carpet and lavender border
The uneven terrains that I skip and trotter on
A freshness engulfs the atmosphere
I could stay in bliss and a state of wonder
The dragonflies, flickering light
A constant urge to learn and explore
Entendamonos
The hills have called me home.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 11:17 AM UTC
I
On n'est pas sérieux, quand on a dix-sept ans.
- Un beau soir, foin des bocks et de la limonade,
Des cafés tapageurs aux lustres éclatants !
- On va sous les tilleuls verts de la promenade.
Les tilleuls sentent bon dans les bons soirs de juin !
L'air est parfois si doux, qu'on ferme la paupière ;
Le vent chargé de bruits - la ville n'est pas **** -
A des parfums de vigne et des parfums de bière...
II
- Voilà qu'on aperçoit un tout petit chiffon
D'azur sombre, encadré d'une petite branche,
Piqué d'une mauvaise étoile, qui se fond
Avec de doux frissons, petite et toute blanche...
Nuit de juin ! Dix-sept ans ! - On se laisse griser.
La sève est du champagne et vous monte à la tête...
On divague ; on se sent aux lèvres un baiser
Qui palpite là, comme une petite bête...
III
Le coeur fou robinsonne à travers les romans,
- Lorsque, dans la clarté d'un pâle réverbère,
Passe une demoiselle aux petits airs charmants,
Sous l'ombre du faux col effrayant de son père...
Et, comme elle vous trouve immensément naïf,
Tout en faisant trotter ses petites bottines,
Elle se tourne, alerte et d'un mouvement vif...
- Sur vos lèvres alors meurent les cavatines...
IV
Vous êtes amoureux. Loué jusqu'au mois d'août.
Vous êtes amoureux. - Vos sonnets La font rire.
Tous vos amis s'en vont, vous êtes mauvais goût.
- Puis l'adorée, un soir, a daigné vous écrire !...
- Ce soir-là..., - vous rentrez aux cafés éclatants,
Vous demandez des bocks ou de la limonade...
- On n'est pas sérieux, quand on a dix-sept ans
Et qu'on a des tilleuls verts sur la promenade.
1.2k
It was the morning after the night before
Three bullet holes were embedded in the dress.
Strangely there was no blood on the floor
You don’t need to be an expert to guess the rest.
Because the event did not happen, it was all a dream
A dream produced solely inside the pig’s head.
Things were not how they planned to be or seem
The future Mrs Pig is not real and definitely not dead.
Mr Duck slithered into the room with a pipe hanging from his beak
A stuck on pair of mutton chops and a green check cape.
Mr Pig hid behind a newspaper laughing unable to speak
Hatching a cunning plan from which to escape.
“So my dear Watson, er sorry Pig, what were you dreaming last night.”
Mr Duck was puffing awkwardly on his pipe.
I suggest I heard a scream just on when it became light
And you were muttering on about a blood type.
“Murderer” shouted Mr Pig, and then slapped his hand across his lips.
Regretting his choice of word he quickly said “moody aren’t we”
Mr Duck tried to squint at him and stood with his wing on his hips
Squinting was ******* - he could hardly focus let alone see.
He now was confused, slung off the cape which was getting hotter
That was because it burst into flames from ash from the pipe
Which promptly landed on Mr Pig’s sore trotter?
Mr Pig was oblivious to this and thought he smelt tripe.
However the newspaper he was holding went up in smoke
Mr Pig heard the crash of a saucepan and its lid.
Thinking what now has Mr Duck broke
Not realising Mr Duck had fled and hid.
Now can you guess the rest?
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 4:56 AM UTC
I want to check my emotions at the door
And drop my keys in a bowl
Baby, oh baby
Take all of what I got
And I'll pretend to do the same
I have a book of your emotions
Because I know I'll never see them in real life
Use me, abuse me, and take me to someplace darker than this
I'm a globe trotter
And a dog-walker
Your dogs look tired, why don't you sit down?
Oh, there's no seating save for my lap
You know what to do
I came without you
I can do me all by myself
I don't need you
In fact
It's a hell of a lot easier without you
I can be exactly
whoever the ****
I want.
and I can ****
Exactly whoever I want.
Catholic with a very foul mouth
Not that I'm proud of this
But I'm proud of my writing
No lie
Few alibis
I'm really in China
I have small feet to keep it tight
If you know what I mean
There's nothing in me that wants to continue
And don't read into this, because it's as much about you as it isn't
That's to say, not a whole lot?
Paradox
I know it's never meant to be easy
But sometimes I wish it were just a little easier
I like music that screams at me
It makes me feel at home.
Sick?
Maybe.
Life,
Don't you know it.
Just don't flatter yourself.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 1:43 PM UTC
Smirk pianos, shave the bindings off the back packed Americans back pack.
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 1:00 PM UTC
i wish that i had atlas hands
so that i could trace fingers
across maps and be transported
to where you were
nothing would be unfamiliar
if your face was what i saw
against the backdrop of the world
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 2:13 AM UTC
These piano keys,
They scream the verses inside of me,
Up and down they go,
Shivers wrack my body,
Where do I go,
This oblivion of music,
Everlasting piece and joy,
When I die bury me with my piano,
Coffin full of wonder,
I'll fix the strings for eternity,
Till they play the write note,
And win you over for me,
Cause I love you,
I love you,
I'll probably let you go,
They call me a globe trotter,
But I can't no more,
I created a boat out of my piano,
Come on for a ride,
I'll take you down the spectrogram
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 8:24 PM UTC
An indigo dawn
Without sunlight or shade
Awakens me sleepless in terminals waiting
To bask in the glow
Of skies without borders
Of peaks beyond mountains
Of cascading jungles
And clarity coastlines
Stretching as far as the eye can perceive
Of the details to stories no one could believe
But write them I shall
As the misshapen-shifter
Of paradigm falcons
The ever-adrifter
The gifted and chosen
To roam with this pen
To be eagles and ravens
On ironclad dragons
Then perch atop cities
And gaze upon views
Of the world's yet to gain
And the self yet to lose
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 6:33 AM UTC