"vim" poems
1. Fallow brown, like he's poured his whole soul out through the gold sieve and lies in wait to be replenished.
2. The color of the ocean. Blue, I guess, but that’s not even the half of it. All the ruggedness of the waves—forming up, breaking, and forming again like life is only the motions. Her eyes are blue, but you could hardly tell.
3. A hand-painted bowl of fresh chocolate frosting from which the most immature hands soonest get a mouthful.
4. Beautiful. Like, drop dead gorgeous. I’d dig my own grave and stick to rolling in it if she ever looked at me some type of way. Their color? I don’t know. But most of all, I dare to wonder about the bludgeoned scar between them.
5. Sturdy cobalt. Far more indicative of her steady heart than gold could ever hope to be. Still susceptible to tear, but not so easily warped by heat or stress.
6. Simply brown. No, red? It’s always been hard to tell through the fog. Truthful like the rawest earth, I’ll call her mahogany.
7. Faded blue spray paint over a slate gray wall. Forcibly muted after her years of blasting music, but there’s still that rogue twinkle to them that I pray slips through the cracks.
8. Coffee, with all the vim and vigor to make you click your heels and fall in love.
9. Unripe lime seen lazing in the shade. Not fit for a margarita just yet, but straining at the bit nonetheless.
10. Hazel, although I still don’t know what the **** that actually is. Whatever. It looks nice on her resume.
11. Green. Or were they blue? The memories of her were too wonderful, too important, that I had to let the littlest details fade away first.
12. The crystallized seafoam that made me realize I deserved to feel alive, too.
Jun 24, 2018
Jun 24, 2018 at 3:09 AM UTC
Can you lend me a pound of your strength
maybe give me a slice of your chi.
I could do with a dose of your vim
and a dab of your vibrant esprit.
So give me whatever you're having,
let me follow your daily routine.
So long as you allow strong coffee
within your wholesome regime.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 4:05 AM UTC
Forced to act on the stage of life
so humble, feeble & half-clad.
Daily swapping of dreams for a few coins,
He is shunned, lonely, starving and sad.
No rhymes, no stories
No pen or pencils,
No book, no papers
No colours or stencils.
No playground, no park
No friends to talk,
No love, no kisses
Only a lonely walk.
Compelled to sell both body & soul,
Toiling hard, he does his best,
Story of hard work, wounds and pain,
No joy, no fun and no time to rest.
The present is all gloomy & dull,
lacking colours, excitement and vim,
Shattered hopes with no dreams,
The future is touching, dreary & dim.
With deep anguish, I weep and yell
cuss myself for his ill-fate,
Losing all hope, I wish to revolt,
I need to speed up before it is too late.
Mukesh Kataria
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 3:01 PM UTC
Nothing is more important
than your sanity and your safety.
Achieving that is your choice and
your topmost priority.
You can say no not now,
or no not yet but don't forget you
will be burned if you don't give your
best to diligently work hard to achieve
it daily for the cosmic law fulfills.
What can be more important than
your well-being and happiness.
Do the right things for today and
tomorrow will be alright just for you.
Have you ever thought about helping
someone else in your own little way
to achieve their goals or excel in
their chosen projects.
Always remember that when you do help
with the abilities and resources available,
you are also be investing in yourself,
it's like an insurance,
a protective way that will guarantee
your place in the scheme of things.
Everyone is as unique and irreplaceable as the stars.
When your life is full of incessant activities,
you will not have time to check time.
You are filled with vim, vigour and vitality,
put it to work and be the best you can be.
And the universe will be kind to you
by giving you the right dividends to equate
the effort you put in place.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 12:58 PM UTC
With the magical banner held high
invoking the crocodile rain of oppression by elites
of greed by leeches and bacteria, amoebas and suckers
oh come all come one, join our revolution against dark powers
Oh.. who in rightful mind could refuse
off she went to hear hot propaganda of those high and mighty folks
who took food from baby's mouth and live likes kings in our homes
fed in Le Cordon Bleu a'la Rouge with lashings of aspic fabrications
Without hesitation she swallowed all up,
I'm in and I am an Activist show me the culprit, what can I do
all for one, one for all, that parasite deserves miseries and doom
Easy comrade sister, get to know him and help us do his head in
It's a sport for us that elitist blood sucker
just get under his skin for us, let's play his mind and infest his head
report back to us, inner knowledge is power and we're fighting a war
comrade sister, our hot Activist marched forth on with vim and vigor
comrade sister wholly followed her brief
though soon saw things weren't as the revolutionaries presented
conflicted and confused she felt pity for a rare icon held in gallows
but the majority carries the vote and all is fair in love and red war
At her cost and with a wretched heart she gave her all
did as she was told and played her part as a true comrade in line
Solidarity she give to the fight, was mean and nasty as demanded
It's them or us they say and see comrades I give my services to you
all
No medals for Comrade sister, no epaulette yet earned
rather at her cost her privacy invaded and smears throws at her
tales of dark deeds and loose morals hung on her in dark corners
yet that poor heroine fought and gave so much blood for the cause
where is the honour amongst thieves and knaves
she did all that was required of her
told the lies she was made to tell and played the game as taught
stood at the barricades and ****** her guilt and conscience
yet they still don't trust her for paranoia rules them all
Mar 4, 2019
Mar 4, 2019 at 3:31 PM UTC
I got me a Kangaroo
Lives way down in my pants
He seldom sits quiet
He'd rather get up and dance.
He goes Bo-ing! Boing! Boing!
I can't get him stopped
He's always on the go
Yea! he's always on the hop.
II
Well, he ain't no Dodo
He sure knows how to pogo
Even when I say no! no!
He keeps on on the go! go!
(Bit of a yo-yo)
And when he's full of vim
There's no catching him
I only hope my pants hold out
And he don't pop out.
III
Now how can I put forward
My Best face
When I got him down there
Bouncing all over the place.
He's up, then he's down
Then he's back up again
Up and down all day
Like a demented drawbridge.
IV
He goes Bo-ing! Boing! Boing!
And I go Down! Down! Down!
Whoa-aa Boy!
I go one way
While he goes the other
Man! he's tearing me asunder
I'm every which way.
My mind full of insecurities & fears
And my Kangaroo down there
He's looking up at me saying
What the hell are you doing up there.
V
O! what am I going to do
With my wild Kangaroo,
What am I going to do !!!
What! Get him a didgeridoo ???
(A didgeri-didgeri-doo!)
Have you got a Kangaroo
Down in your pants ?
"Ooooo! Whoo!" sang the girls
"yes! we Dooo Whooo!!!"
What! Wait a minute, you mean...
You mean girls, they got Kangaroos too !!!
Jun 9, 2019
Jun 9, 2019 at 6:16 PM UTC
Plunk your Magic Twanger
years ago when I was a tike
back when I could barely even ride my bike
there was this silly show I loved and had to see
on Saturday mornings just for kids
they showed short films and had funny skits
so weird it seemed they were just talking to me
films about this kid they called the Jungle Boy
he rode on an elephant and brought me great joy
always tracking down men doing evil things
then there was always this special guest
a doctor, a scientist, someone who impressed
who would try to demo and explain
their special skills but is was to no avail
along came the gremlin with water spritzer and pail
and on the poor speaker he would make it rain
he was called Froggy the Gremlin a puppet at best
he'd dance like a clown and stick out his chest
and he was always introduced with this silly chant
plunk your magic twanger froggy, oh my dear
and boing in a puff of smoke he would appear
and bedlam would ensue he'd go off in a rant
Hiya kids, Hiya, he'd always say as he danced
on the edge of my seat, I was so entranced
what kind of stunt would he now try to pull
squirt the guest with his seltzer bottle he was so bad
the guest would run away, run away so wet and mad
the gremlin always kept his bottle full
zany comedy, mindless laughter every week
couldn't wait to see who would be the next weeks geek
so innocent then so full of vigor and vim
there is another part to this story someday I will tell
later on in high school before the first morning's bell
Froggy is still alive, no cant forget him
Gomer LePoet...
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 7:41 AM UTC
My dear, it rained last night
And I remember
The alleviated rise into
Lush sobs and lavish emotions
The way your dilatation relieves
Every worry and anxiety
But sometimes when we speak
A violent lie radiates
And last night you were naught
But an alienated virile sot
A view unholy I omit
I remember the tin roses on the tiles
Devastated, shattered.
Sometimes you hum
Your hands delicately miming secret memos
And I can see it in your eyes
Irises shining like teal devils
And the music carries you
White with adrenaline, pupils likes violists
Headwaiters lie, strumming tin violins
Their alienated visions wilted with passion
I see the way she cleverly conceals
Lies as vows to you
A veil called "us" she puts on "me"
And I call for mutiny
But youth is vim, vim is now, and now is lies
Every hug from you is just a violet whim
In noisy rooms
My vision is misty
My aura dies little,
Oh if only you could realize your reign
You’re the master, the ringleader
But you’re lazy; you work without zeal, you’re idle and lazy
Eyes glazed, agile hands getting greedier
Have you ever seen
A dearer lion?
He roared, the lonesome rider
Alone, an alien.
Well sometimes you lie
And I dare to become
An oral denier
My radar detects one lie,
Then two...
You become red
Redder than a ****** lion's ear
Adieu, you say, with a gently undefined lilt
My tears speak more reality than your words
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 11:56 PM UTC
Vim and vinegar.
Lushously loose and lulling a ligation of love.
A pretense of pompous pretentiousness priming a primal powderkeg.
Destructive dictation diseased the dowry daunting a demons debate.
Imagine an image irrigating an interesting irritation.
A common citizen creating a carcinogenic cacophony.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 10:46 PM UTC
I see your pain
hiding behind your smile.
I see the tears
behind the smile
you try to hide.
I heard your heart
pounding as it buried itself
beneath the tears
behind your eyes.
I see your fear
peeping through your smile
to hide the unspoken words
dancing on your lips.
I feel your heart
as it hides itself
beneath the breathe of
each words you utter.
But i know the power
of the strength within
flowing like the river
to conquer your shame.
I see you rise
like the leaven bread
to share the beauty
that was once abandoned.
Like the morning sun
you rise from the
ashes of your brokenness.
With vim and vigour,
you are full of vitality
to get back to
the business of living.
And like the sunflower
you opened up to spread
the love of your glory.
©2021,Emeka Mokeme.
Apr 7, 2021
Apr 7, 2021 at 3:52 PM UTC
Coming from your humble and holy
houses each morning bringing blessings, your lively and
cheerful "Good Morning!" sounds - all the power and energy
that a good life brings. Living by the light God gives you
every day, eschewing electricity,
and all of the worst that it brings with it,
teaching your children and loving your wives
with gentleness and devotion.
Ruben, Glen David, Marlin... did I spell these right?
I only heard your beautiful, traditional names in your own, clear, grounded voices,
as we began to know each other, while you travelled back
and forth, from bright and early each day, onto our ailing roof.
Tearing into four layers of old, sickly roofing tiles with your
wonderful vim and vigour, a healing began that went deep,
deeper every day, as we absorbed the precious fortune
of having you in our midst. Your chosen, Amish lives inspired
us, and still do, as we still, quite often, hear the echoes
of your footsteps above us, each one a prayer and an affirmation
of lives well-lived.
One fine afternoon, one of you stood straddling the very top of our
steep old roof line, and that image of a man mastering his craft,
invested in a life that blesses everyone he cares for,
and teaches by example, everyone he meets,
will stay with me for all of my days.
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 7:11 AM UTC
Close your heavy eyes and picture for me, if you please,
The way your hair catches in the warm summer breeze,
The rose tint of your cheeks as if they are petals to breathe,
Your soft skin kin with the snow caps of the evergreen trees.
Your good, tired eyes so gentle and lush and strong forest full,
See a world so harsh, yet gaze upon it so steady, fierce and tactful.
Great lioness, with white teeth so sharp, prowl the preys so pitiful --
They cower in corners of deep darkness, dreaming of your downfall.
Open your easy emerald eyes and look as me, if you might,
To understand this is what I see so this is what I write:
Your charisma, your grace, your gentle laugh like a kite in flight,
Your electric vim, your vivid aura, your strive to force things right.
You’ve fire in your fathomless green eyes that challenges our sun,
You’re a phoenix, soaring through the sky like a bullet from a gun
Screaming C O M E A T M E at the top of your lungs.
How lucky am I to call you a friend, you strong and beautiful woman?
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 11:27 AM UTC
Taking Chances
when we were young, full of vim and vigor
we could not wait, until we were bigger
few things frightened us, we were made out of steel
seeking excitement, we wanted to feel
short on brainpower, but strong blood and guts
we didn't care, if we were knocked on our butts
we'd get right back up, and try it again
from climbing a tree, to committing a sin
now we are older, the chances more measured
simple things then, now are more treasured
being more careful, with much more to risk
keeping things hidden, on a backup hard disk
are we smarter now, or just a whole lot more boring
have we lost our zest, spending time hiding and snoring
afraid to take chances, throw our hearts in the ring
seeking out ways, to make our hearts sing
I don't want to die, having too many regrets
being so careful, simply hedging my bets
let them all snicker, and call me a fool
I want to live life, bending some of the rules
put on that parachute, take that big leap,
take some missed chances, before that last sleep
look that special friend, square in the eye
tell them I love you, let your heart fly
Gomer LePoet...
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 10:24 PM UTC
my motor
isn't running too good
these days
there is something
not quite right
with my spark plugs
they don't seem to fire
as they once did
there is a definite sluggishness
in the motor head
reaching top gear
is a thing of the past
vroom vroom vroom
vroom vroom vroom
where has my engine power
gone to
vroom vroom vroom
vroom vroom vroom
how I'd like to
have a new motor installed
a Lamborghini
engine
would give me
some velocity and vim
but I'm saddled
with an old 4 cylinder Hillman
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 7:32 PM UTC
I need a vacation.
Maybe a trip to Italy.
I gotta revitalize.
Maybe, Pompeii.
I am feeling starved of my vim and vigor.
My words are lukewarm.
There is only one option:
rekindling my virility.
I could vivify myself vicariously:
the sensuality of the city's verve,
all the daily livings of people,
venerated in an intense blaze;
might make me vivacious again.
Input daily routine.
Output socially valued norms.
My vivid, vermillion passion
has been layered with ashes.
I am desperate for veracity.
Did my igneous, poetic life temper
to an obsidian verse?
The beat in my heart
has felt industrialized,
monotonous,
a steady assembly line of chaste gray;
a vexing variance of my vitals.
Revive me: my virtuosity
will ventilate me with
venereal voraciousness.
What is left to me,
a choice of perspective:
a plunge in to the devouring,
a dive in to the radiant;
both, a swim through a viscous sea of wildfire
in Mount Vesuvius.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 5:45 PM UTC
Oh travelers, awake and see soon,
Father of heaven is spreading boon.
Deep love has come in nice emotion,
This morning is adoring in devotion.
Beautiful early morning is nesting
Testing freshness mind is resting.
Investing attention you all do see,
Morning is in dew you feel a thee.
Sun is rising with hope new ray
You soon awake attention pay
Sun's first ray is kissing sky
Who has sent behind spy?
Very deep love you feel
This talks about a zeal
To find God be ready
Calling us is daddy.
First ray in in row
You see rainbow
You rest in him
He gives vim.
You do say
This is ray
You pay
Do say.
I n by
Die
hi
I.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC
With the benefit of hindsight
it should have been me…not him.
with the benefit of hindsight
I’d have better teeth - Oh yeh, and be slim…
and, with the benefit of hindsight
that chap that drowned needlessly…
well, he’d definitely have learnt to swim.
With the benefit of hindsight
I’d have tried harder in maths
With the benefit of hindsight.
my classmates would’ve shown respect
not just scorned me with laughs.
With the benefit of hindsight - we’d be IN!
we wouldn’t have lost on penalties
we would have had a ****** rip-roaring win!
With the benefit of hindsight
of course you’d all do your best
approach tasks with vigour verve, and zest.
With the benefit of hindsight
we’d all show true-grit, determination… vim
With the benefit of hindsight
I would have been smarter not quite so dim
What chance a little bit of foresight?…
SLIM!
Aug 27, 2021
Aug 27, 2021 at 11:09 AM UTC
1
What faith remains today
that isn't locked inside
the muted minds of flagging few
to languish and reside?
Is there goodness to be reaped,
by human hands untarnished,
1 when HARM and MONeY grace the glutton's table,
by lies and discord garnished;
2 when greed spangles spotless hearts
3 and lust commands their every whim;
4 when envy robs their neighbor
5 and sloth denies them vim;
6 when wrath clouds their waning reason
7 that's by pride already dim?
2
Oh say, can't you see that Uncle Sam's a-slumber?
He's dreaming the dream that built big cities
and put a chicken in each ***
the dream that left the people wond'ring
at what their silent god had wrought.
3
Oh say, can't you see that Uncle Sam's asleep?
He's drifted off to the American dream
and not by counting sheep.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 12:48 AM UTC
Starlit nights bring a sense of tininess.
The vast soot-stained cloak of the sky,
pierced with so many tiny scintillating
spots of vim opalescent flares, is a heavy
intoxicant. It contains a thing most panache.
A girlish teetotaler beside me says,
"We're like those stars, distantly inflamed,
lost in a void of what we cannot know."
She is most apt in her contrivance.
I wish to be castellated, terraced
with Byzantine buttresses and towers-tops.
I want a portcullis for my portico that is
made mostly out of gold, an inner bailey
where the stars can sleep and the wine may flow.
I want the wine most metaphysical,
the type that flows and churns, perning
inside the inner sanctum of the mind.
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 2:04 PM UTC
I've been on this journey for far too long.
My vim and vigour long since gone.
So many trials conquered, so many tests,
yet my soul only craves for one final rest.
A world so familiar to a soul so old,
A world full of wonders, a world full of woes.
I dance the twisted dance that many called life,
A dance of joy, yet also a dance of strife.
I've danced the steps many, many times;
This world seems nothing new to me.
Yet I write these words with shifting rhymes,
asking when the end of said dance could be.
My body is young, but my soul is old;
weariness weighs down my fresh bones,
As I write down the story that is being told,
Wondering when I can go home.
Jan 17, 2019
Jan 17, 2019 at 4:27 AM UTC
vim and vigor
**** and vinegar
stale old sayings that still ring true
and i'm people-watching again
putting words to their steps
pulling phrases from the books i read
when i was a child
and dressing them up like dolls
in their own descriptions
some game, i think to myself
as the lines drift round their heads
like prickly crowns
we define ourselves with these words
with things unthinkingly said
and we wear them
like capes or like armour
like medals or like long baggy sweaters
displaying or betraying
the true poetry inside
i'm people-watching again
noticing how we take these words and use them
to excuse ourselves, to explain ourselves
to take the disdain and refrain from believing
our own homegrown lines
for some reason, the words that come
from other mouths
are the ones we take as truth
vim and vigor
now that's a compliment
**** and vinegar
take that with a grain of salt
by default, your own voice comes first
so describe yourself wisely
i'm people-watching again
shielding myself from the poetry of it all
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 10:25 PM UTC
a quantum of soul and cherry ***** in the backseat of a ford-
we were going to eighty-six the world
the sinews of our unattainable hands
that yanked themselves free
and went to ruining our best Bellamy salutes
and went to forming ladders and tarmacs in the vapor of the night
and went to everything
it's wasn't the shaking or the vim of the stockyards on the days they hung up ornaments
it wasn't those who followed a cheekier Moira and gawked at Rita of Cascia as she passed by
it was the way escape felt with you as it's stern
it's the way escape felt with you full of sanguinity
the kind that your mother gave you in the belly of California
the kind that I ripped away for ***** and giggles
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 1:15 AM UTC
i.
Mine doting of thou,
Is not wilting amour;
Mine love is more
Then floating, outside
Thy door.
ii.
Even in mine woe,
And caging dolor;
I shouteth thy name,
"Sweet jane' mine girl.
iii.
Whilst even in mine
Suffering, and the
Battle I'm in; with
Satan and his lackey's,
I wilt step upon them.
With thy help, and God's
Discipline, Jane O' Jane,
I'll soareth to the highest
Apex, mine plume's to expand,
Wing's to stretch; Yahweh's mighty
Word, to push them back to the gates of death.
iv.
So mine Jane,
I telleth thou this;
I'm not losing amour,
Nor am I tenderness.
I'm in the stage, of trans-
Figuration, O' soon queen,
We shalt meet in blissfulness,
Beautiful apparition's. Ghost's of
Old, ancient soul's, we'll tasteth
Cascade's of mezmerdade; bralishas
Of barinthia, thitherward the province of
Ourn holy one, next to El Shaddai, meaning
Elohim, also Jehovah, mine Jane and honey-
Bee. Aside the Almighty's throne, And elevated
Seat, his son Jesus Christ on the right- garbed
In robes that floweth with the vim of life. As there
Shalt be none need for the sun or moon, the creator's
Ourn light. A place that's right, wherein there art none wrong's,
Ourn sin's art forgotten within the angelic song's, these song's wilt be sung, on a basis of eternity; none ending, just befriending of the saint's at God's feet. Wisdom shalt be deep, from the beginning of ages, none more false prophet's nor greedy men to ruin the nation's, Concord within ourn Lord shalt follow the month's, as Jane, mine swain, it wilt be in this time's happening;
It's still thee I shalt want. So hold on tightly, don't let loose of mine hand, we'll trounce these dark bearers, and pour holy oil upon their head's, None more wilt they torture us, as they'll flee instead, before of ourn Lord, Jesus Christ, the risen, the man, the son of God, ourn protection, whom hath arisen from the dead.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( Filipino rose)
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 9:39 PM UTC
“Compus uma canção para dizer:
‘Amo-te descontroladamente!’
De ações tangentes; da equação complexa que é te amar.
E mesmo pacificamente;
Minha alma sem ti, não pode se encontrar.
Como contra o céu paradisíaco que constrói o tempo e investe areia contra mim;
Mesmo no pior dos casos, nos meus últimos gritos, altissonante direi:
’ EU VIM!’
Me encontre na beira de meu coração,
na ponte que causa essa estranha paixão;
E direi que não sabia que um anjo poderia possuir tão rápido todo meu sentimento assim.
Vem que em laços de eternos amantes, cada consoante, dirá e recitará meu amor celeste;
Rolando em campos grandes e em flores campestres
O céu sussura uma sinfonia recém escrita para o nosso caso infindável;
E jamais ouvi a voz dos anjos num tom tão amável
As lágrimas que derramo não reclamam de nenhuma tristeza desconhecida;
Mas sim da alegria pela qual minha alma foi tingida
Novamente nos encontraremos eternamente e direi mais um trilhão de vezes:
’ Amo-te descontroladamente!”
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 10:39 PM UTC
He’d go to the Square each afternoon
And sit on a bench, near me,
The one that stood in the shaded gloom
Of a brooding maple tree,
He’d roll his brolly and doff his hat
And scatter his bits of bread,
Then when the Keeper would tut, he’d say,
‘The Starlings have to be fed!’
He’d watch them come in a darkening cloud
And scare the sparrows away,
Then sit and listen to what had risen
At this loose end of the day.
He’d sit and nod, and he’d take it in
As if he could understand,
This Starling patter that passed as chatter
Concerning the world of man.
I never once saw him take a note
Or even record the sound,
He didn’t acknowledge the presence there
Of anyone else around,
He totally focussed on what they’d say
And **** his ear to their cries,
Then nod and smile in the strangest way
And shake his head at their lies.
Then after dark he would walk the park
And head for the studio,
That one dim lamp on the outer wall
Would show him the way to go,
And once inside you would hear him slide
On up to the microphone,
Where he’d tell his tales of success and fails
In a drawn-out monotone.
But you never felt a part of the tale
You were always shut outside,
Peering in from a ledge or bin
With a window open wide,
Then sometimes you were looking down
On the action from on high,
It could be from the bough of a tree
Or a wing in the azure sky.
He must have muttered a thousand tales
Of brooding, joy and despair,
The type of roles that would feed the souls
Of the folk who listened there.
They were light as vim, they were dark and grim
They were sown like seeds in the night,
And at the end, a beating of wings
As a bevy of birds took flight.
He entertains through the winter months
With a new tale every eve,
But stops as soon as the Spring comes in,
As the Starlings begin to leave.
They all return to their northern climes
With their tales to their Viking den,
While he will wait on the same park bench
For the winter to come again.
David Lewis Paget
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 11:08 AM UTC