"wolfe" poems
MOMENTS OF MOMENTS
LONGING FOR HIS TOUCH
CLOSENESS OF OUR BODIES
FEELINGS WE HUNGER FOR SO MUCH
WHISPERS OF A BREEZE
TICKLING SIDE OF MY EAR
SENSATION RISES MY CHEST BUMPS
WITH FEELING OF WANTING HIM MORE
AS WE START TO PLAY
HE GUIDES ME IN A WAY
WHERE HE LAYS HIS LIPS ONTO MINE
AND THE PLEASURE IS RECITED ALL DAY
FINGERS TRACE THE LINES
OF BLACK SILK ON MY SKIN
SLOWLY HE PULLS THEM DOWN
WITH A RISE OF EXCITEMENT STIRRING DEEP WITHIN
I STAND THERE COMPLETELY BARE
PEAKS AT A RISE
THE WAY THAT HE KISSES ME
AS I STARE INTO HIS EYES
VULNERABLE AND EXPRESSED
THE WAY HE LOOKS AT ME
I START TO FEEL COMPLETE
BECAUSE HE SAYS TO ME
“YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL MY LOVE”
“I COULD STARE AT YOU ALL DAY”
“NEVER COVER UP”
“AND NEVER BE ASHAMED”
WITH YOUR HANDS INTO MINE
RIGHT WHERE THEY BELONG
PRESSED UP BESIDE ME
FEEL OF HIS ARMS SO STRONG
OUR BODYS GLIDE TOGETHER
I CAN’T EVER GET ENOUGH
MOVEMENT FROM HIS CENTER
GIVING IT TO ME NICE AND ROUGH
ACTIONS FROM OUR MOVEMENTS
EXPLANATION NOT IN NEED
MOTIONS FROM OUR FANTASIES
I’M BEGGING TO BE FREED
THE GLIDE OF HIS PASSION
EXPRESSED TO ME EVERYTHING
LEAVES ME FEELING FAINTLY EMPTY
SO SATISFIED AND DRAINED
THE TENDER KISSES HE PLACES
ON THE SKIN BETWEEN MY THIGHS
TRACING OF HIS FINGERS
STROKING IN AND OUT OF MY INSIDES
AMAZING ELECTRIC WAVES
AS I CONTINUE TO BEG FOR MORE
WRAPPED IN HIS ARMS
MY BODY EXHAUSTED, PAINFULLY WORE
THE SHADOWS OF OUR BEINGS
GIVES THE WALLS A LITTLE SHOW
WITH THE PASSIONATE MOTIONS WE DEMONSTRATE
IN A RHYTHM WE ALL KNOW
-BY JENNIFER WOLFE
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 12:09 AM UTC
Tolstoy was a boy,
Ibsen was Henrik's son
Hardy had a father,
And see how well they've done.
Byron was a grandson,
And Wordsworth had a wet nurse,
Thoreau had a 2 to go,
Shakespeare a bad marriage,
Austen was a loner,
Poor Sylvia was a goner,
And see how well they've done.
Joyce had a ***** mind,
Fitzgerald liked to drink,
Richler liked to smoke,
And Wolfe enjoyed a ****
And see how well they've done.
Fielding was a misogynist,
Wilde was a jailbird;
Virginia a misandrist,
And Kerouac a simple ****
Yet see how well they've done.
Still with all their drawbacks,
Look how well they've done;
Like our old friend John,
We surely come un-done.
Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 10:39 AM UTC
…These men are worth your tears:
You are not worth their merriment.
-Wilfred Owen, “Apologia Pro Poemate Meo”
When that loudmouth on the wireless machine
Alludes to Western Civilization
What does he mean? Paradise Lost? Probably not
Nor Saint Paul speaking on the Field of Mars
The Kalevala, Hagia Sophia
With its pendentives lifting up our prayers
Horatius fighting to defend his bridge
And Wilfred Owen dying bravely on his
Lord Tennyson and Idylls of the King
Chapultepec, Henry V, Becket
The paratroops at Arnhem, Saint Thomas More,
His King’s loyal servant, but God’s first
The Stray Dog poets of Saint Petersburg
The brave last stand of Roland at Roncesvalles
Lewis and Tolkien and glasses of beer
Montcalm and Wolfe on the Plains of Abraham
Hildegard von Bingen, Siegfried and the Rhine
Magna Carta, HMS Hood, the Thames
The Grove of Daphne, “The Old Rugged Cross”
Beatrix Potter and her little pet rabbit
El Cid, Anne Frank, John Keats, Saint Benedict
“I Have a Dream,” Dostoyevsky, and Greene
Viktor Frankl, Dag Hammarkskjold, and Proust
Good Chaucer’s naughty pilgrims telling tales
The Gettysburg Address, Willie and Joe
Stern Saint Augustine of North Africa
Wodehouse writing a jolly bit of fun
Saint Corbinian and Bavaria
The ancient glories of Byzantium
Pius XII contra the bombs and lies
The 602nd TD Battalion
Saint Joan, the Prado, and Robert Frost
And far, far more.
When that loudmouth on the wireless machine
Alludes to Western Civilization
What does he mean?
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 4:06 PM UTC
In the shadows rose the gallows,
his execution date drew near.-
Wolfe Tone, denied a soldiers ‘death,
could not hold life that dear.
He took a blade to his own throat
and cut a swathe of red.
It’s said he lingered but a week
then brave Wolfe Tone was dead..
He was the father of desire
for an Ireland brave and free.
Desire famine could not ****
nor emigration flee.
He choose the manner of his death.
He did not die a slave.
It put his life in context-
His words transcend the grave
Each year on the day he died
as long as Wolfe’s lived there
They lay a spray of roses
on his graveside in Kildare..
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 10:21 PM UTC
"Stop your navel gazing, get out your notebook, there’s a world exploding out there"
Tom Wolfe
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 10:00 AM UTC
I am at the curly wolfe
Looking at the spruce trees
Behind them lies an army
of
Stout Little Soldiers
Drinking Lemongrass Tea
With Raspberry Tarts
They yell and squeal and raise their hats
Armed with tiny toothpicks
For to them I am a great blue giant
Peering through the Spruce
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 12:07 AM UTC
UNTIL NEXT TIME
THE PRESENCE OF YOUR BEING
PLACED UP AGAINST MY BACKSIDE
CAUSES A BIT OF EXCITEMENT
THAT MY BODY CAN’T JUSTIFY
FROM JUST A SINGLE TOUCH
FROM YOU AND YOUR UNSEEING
MY BODY TREMBLES DEEP INSIDE
AND MY GENDER BECOMES SO REVEALING
I TURN AND WRAP MY LEGS AROUND
AND USE YOU LIKE A CLUTCH
THE FEELING IN MY BODY STARTS TO TRAVEL
I DON’T KNOW IF I CAN HANDLE IT
OR IF IT’S JUST TO MUCH
THE SLICKNESS MY BODY’S REVEALING
BECOMES LIKE A FLUID GUIDE.
YOUR ARMS GLIDING MY EVER GENTLE MOVEMENT.
AS WE INTERTWINE
YOU SLOWLY TAKE YOUR GENDER
AND PUT IT INSIDE OF MINE
TO REACH YOUR IMMENSE INDUCEMENT
WITH YOUR HARDNESS BURIED INTO MINE
AS I SHAPE INTO THE PERFECT FORM OF YOU
SO ACCEPTING AND AGREEING
BANGING THE WALLS INSIDE
I GRADUALLY ACCEPT YOUR FREEING
WE RISE TOGETHER IN THIS MOMENT
MY BEING BEGINS TO SHATTER
THIS IS A PLACE OF EVERLASTING BLISS
AND NOTHING BESIDES THIS SEEMS TO EVEN MATTER
MY BEING SHATTERS AS I START TO INCLINE
THE COMBINED MOVEMENT OF US TWO
THE SWEETNESS OF YOUR SWELL
TELLS ME WE’RE NOT THROUGH
AND IN THE SHADOWS I CAN SEE
YOUR EYES LOCKING INTO MINE
MY SOUL WANTING TO BE BURIED
AND MY HIGH IS CLIMBING AGAIN INSIDE
YOUR EXISTENCE IN MY LIFE SHORT LIVED
YOUR BODY SO CLOSE TO MINE
FOREVER YOU ARE APART OF ME
YOUR BODY IS SOMETHING I STRIVE
AS YOU LAY YOUR LIPS UPON MINE
AND WE SAY OUR LAST GOODBYES
YOU ARE FOREVER SPECIAL TO ME
REMEMBER, UNTIL NEXT TIME
BY JENNIFER WOLFE
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 12:11 AM UTC
There are railroad tracks
That run through my town
And at night when I finally receive
The silence I wished for during the day
I can hear the faint whistle
And hum against my bedroom windows
I hear the whistle now.
All my life I have heard the trains
And I find beauty in the fact that even when I'm not listening, they are there
The trains carrying coal, chemicals, lumber, and the better parts of my childhood
As a child I loved the idea of the caboose
Allowing any stretch of rail
Any length of land
To be your home
Your bed
And it was probably through this my wanderer spirit grew.
All my life these trains meant something
Escape
But not without possibility of return
I romanticized the long web of rails connecting all the land and Souls in the American night
I have always loved such pieces of antiquity
So in the latter years of my childhood in high school it's no suprise the love I had for Steinbeck, Sandburg, and Woody Guthrie
I would lament to friends that the trains became too fast to hop, but I never tried
I always sat back and watched
Or listened on quiet nights
Now my childhood has passed
I am nearly 20 but wrapped in my head is the idea that the young boy who had train posters and pictures covering his walls was nothing but a stranger or a character in just another awful coming of age rerun
But deep down that child turned to Ginsberg who wrote of boxcars boxcars boxcars
And Kerouac who followed the long stretches of road to the western edge of America
And it was through Kerouac I found
Thomas Wolfe
I feel I have Thomas Wolfe in my bones
Thomas Wolfe who left home rejoicing train rides to the North
Then realized he couldn't go home again
Thomas Wolfe who never wrote a bad train scene
Not all of Wolfe is in me
Not the 1900s Southern prejudice
Or the raving accusing of friends of great treasons, only to have to apologize the morning after
But I can feel his need
To write all I can
To never take away
To add add
To never reduce because who tells Van Gogh "yes yer paintings alright but I need you to reduce the amount of stars by 30 and I expect it on my desk Monday"
I won't take anything away from myself
Only add
So at nights
When I hear the train whistle
And soft rattling on my window
Thomas Wolfe is with me
And he loves the sound too
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 11:13 PM UTC
Thanks thespis for another muse anew,
Filliping my soul with the spirit of a song,
To chant for the young world in these pepperish letters,
before my callous eyes on the skull of historical future
on my pykitonic torso of I another African pykin,
as I finish my coffin for the cadaver of poetry
that the law of poetry is a distorting neurosis,
neurotic abnormality its baseboard of time
giving classical balance for wondrous poetry.
Compensatory motivation a charm of its seed,
Taking dear eyes from the skull of Demodocos
Leaving songfull mouth his legacy for humanity,
Warped physique not short of history,
Teaching the world to drink in full pyrene spring
As hunchbacked dwarfism of Alexander Pope
was not in any sense dwarfism of his poetry,
nor club foot of Byron in ******* to Maugham
Byronic heroism to Europe of yester times,
That sired Proust, the Jewish neurotic
And Keats the most dwarfish and Wolfe the tallest
Of man and woman to the cultural matrix
Of Europe, the mother of art, poetry and synaethesia,
From which was born Pushkin that took poetry
Out of his nymphomaniac heart, to the solace of czars,
And Shakespeare the dear thief, luckily converted
Childhood kleptomania into royal theatre of King Lear,
The parallel of four brothers from the house of Karamazov,
Their father; impecunious penny penchant muzhik
In the name of Fydor epileptic Dostoyevsky.
A lull of the time to escape from world of rent and tax,
Gripped nerves of the duo to a new realm of art
wherein sensuous glory from ***** and Indian hemp
propelled the souls of Coleridge and De Quincey
to grandiose highness of poetry in the dreams of *****
bordering on the teutonic greatness of ritualistic breed,
poetry that transcended from rotten apples in the writing desk
of Fredriech von schiller the begotten son of Germany,
writing under the arms of Balzac dressed in monkey clobus,
that along with Milton in the lost paradise, gave him swaddles
only when the poetic vein of Milton flowed happily from nothing,
but from the ritualized autumnal equinox to the spiritual vernal,
as Coleridge was in full recondite of marquetry,mosaic and miracles,
the miraculous white male sheep, the white ram of Wole Soyinka,
that he gave as a gift to Achebe at the last anniversary, evil decoy
that become a car which deathly crushed Chinua Achebe
down to demise in the catacombs for the law of poetry
as abnormal human neurosis an equation of perfect art.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 8:26 AM UTC
O BUT we talked at large before
The sixteen men were shot,
But who can talk of give and take,
What should be and what not
While those dead men are loitering there
To stir the boiling ***
You say that we should still the land
Till Germany's overcome;
But who is there to argue that
Now Pearse is deaf and dumb?
And is their logic to outweigh
MacDonagh's bony thumb?
how could you dream they'd listen
That have an ear alone
For those new comrades they have found,
Lord Edward and Wolfe Tone,
Or meddle with our give and take
That converse bone to bone?
2k
There's a crowd of pitch black unicorns at a Chelsea Wolfe's concert.
A crowd of pitch black unicorns moving their onyx hooves and horns
at the rhythm of drones dressed in electric guitars. An acoustic break follows.
The vibrations of the music and dancing cause purple flowers to grow,
purple flowers weaned on blood and sticky black tar. There's a crowd of
unicorns dancing at a Chelsea Wolfe's concert feeding on ladybirds crisps
and dragonflies sticks, that once home will play vinyls on mystic turntables of fire.
The purple flowers grow into vines and try to smother the unicorns
to prevent them from listening to bloodred-dyed vinyls on mystic turntables of fire.
Meanwhile in the corner of a museum S. Teresa of Avila's statue animates by itself, walks
to the window and throwing itself crumbles into a thousand of pieces of marble.
The seventh seal has not been opened yet but the ninth the eleventh and the seventeenth
exploded already, cracked their own wax and started spreading tongues of flames
and water to decimate humanity. A woman dressed in a fifteenth century scarlet outfit
leads the pitch black unicorns to salvation creating a safe haven for them
in Manchester and another one in California. They have in the meantime gone bonkers
and started feeding on each other. Equine teeth suddenly grow carnivorous jaws.
Nothing is left in the two oasis apart from a puddle of blood and a pavement of corpses.
It's 7 a.m. Chelsea has not yet finished her concert and her music blossoms around
played by the mystic turntables of fire. That which remaineth is pitch black light
and the breath of aeons lingering here and beyond and nowhere.
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 8:33 PM UTC
We met in kindergarten
Miss Wolfe’s class
Into an ear I whisper
A shy boy’s bargain
I knock on your door
Pray the dog
Doesn’t **** me
Seems like a metaphor
Laughter and chasing geese
Stealing glances
And prances in the woods
Sprained ankles in the creek
Your moon-drenched family room
And our primal need
Bodies glide
Into foreign feelings
I concede
We’re both shaving now
Not children
Yet not men
In between and fooling around
In my attic bedroom
Space Jam soundtrack
Hoping my mom doesn’t hear us
My hands on your back
Then moving down
Committing little sins
Shhhhhh
Don’t make a sound
Then the bed of my dad’s truck
Some hand stuff
Never a ****
Never enough
You get up and leave
I want you to stay
I play the radio
97 ZOK
Meredith Brooks
And I hate the world today
Because I’m a *****
But I like me this way
Fifteen and fevered
Down Mix Street
I rollerblade
Turn right on Worth
My love for you
Is such a sad parade
Remember when
We camped on the lawn
Quiet light and secrets
Then that wicked dawn
Dragging us back
Into a world
Where our desires
Don’t belong
We are strangers now
With a little bit of everything
All rolled into memory
Like a sacred vow
I’m your hell
I’m your dream
Do you remember anything?
I recall it all
Your tousled hair
And my forbidden grin
I think you live in Wisconsin
Sep 1, 2022
Sep 1, 2022 at 11:23 PM UTC
When I laugh like a 65-year-old smoker,
when I fill in the lines of her face with my fingertips,
when my thoughts crash,
when I don't return my mother's calls,
when I apologize for stepping on your new shoes,
when I read Wolfe instead of socialize with the priests,
when I stare into open caskets,
when I microwave popcorn for all my friends,
when I throw nickels at Vietnam veterans' feet,
when I drink almond milk,
when I swear celibacy,
when I break oaths,
when I decide to write an epic poem that rips off "Howl",
when I browbeat idiot roommates,
when I buy books I never read,
when I hit on summer girls through text messaging,
when I wake up beside myself,
when I sleep on the tile by the toilet,
when I **** off the neighbors
when I hear someone say New Journalism died,
when I say they lied,
when I break my fourth finger against a wall,
when I listen to The Silver Jews during a heinous fog,
when I get to the table on time,
when I talk to Shorty about Waits,
to Zach about Springsteen and Ryan Adams,
when I'm surprised my friends actually listen to me,
when I straddle roadkill,
when I rock the proverbial boat,
when I lie with good intentions,
when I hook,
when I line,
when I sinker,
when I shift,
when I falter,
when I fix,
when I fake,
when I take the bait---
it's involuntary.
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 11:24 AM UTC
What need you, being come to sense,
But fumble in a greasy till
And add the halfpence to the pence
And prayer to shivering prayer, until
You have dried the marrow from the bone?
For men were born to pray and save:
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Yet they were of a different kind,
The names that stilled your childish play,
They have gone about the world like wind,
But little time had they to pray
For whom the hangman's rope was spun,
And what, God help us, could they save?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Was it for this the wild geese spread
The grey wing upon every tide;
For this that all that blood was shed,
For this Edward Fitzgerald died,
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,
All that delirium of the brave?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Yet could we turn the years again,
And call those exiles as they were
In all their loneliness and pain,
You'd cry, 'Some woman's yellow hair
Has maddened every mother's son':
They weighed so lightly what they gave.
But let them be, they're dead and gone,
They're with O'Leary in the grave.
1.3k
678
Wolfe demanded during dying
“Which obtain the Day”?
“General, the British”—”Easy”
Answered Wolfe “to die”
Montcalm, his opposing Spirit
Rendered with a smile
“Sweet” said he “my own Surrender
Liberty’s beguile”
1.3k
"My heart is a tomb
My heart is an empty room
I’ve given it away
I never want to see it again
And all your words could save me
But keep your love away from me..."
- Chelsea Wolfe
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 11:51 AM UTC
WHAT need you, being come to sense,
But fumble in a greasy till
And add the halfpence to the pence
And prayer to shivering prayer, until
You have dried the marrow from the bone?
For men were born to pray and save:
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Yet they were of a different kind,
The names that stilled your childish play,
They have gone about the world like wind,
But little time had they to pray
For whom the hangman's rope was spun,
And what, God help us, could they save?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Was it for this the wild geese spread
The grey wing upon every tide;
For this that all that blood was shed,
For this Edward Fitzgerald died,
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,
All that delirium of the brave?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Yet could we turn the years again,
And call those exiles as they were
In all their loneliness and pain,
You'd cry, "Some woman's yellow hair
Has maddened every mother's son':
They weighed so lightly what they gave.
But let them be, they're dead and gone,
They're with O'Leary in the grave.
1.1k
No creation of merit can be created
without first digesting
the written-down genius
of those whose shoulders pad our feet.
The writer is a carnivorous beast
with an eye for talent
It would be a fool’s errand
to venture into a vacuum
in an attempt to find anything
of artistic merit.
The greatest accomplishments recorded
by a collective arthritic hand are merely flawed reflections
of the natural beauty in others’ magnificent work.
A writer puts into words
the common thoughts
of the people who won’t
elaborate upon their own condition.
So it lies with the beleaguered scribe
to illustrate in tomes both engaging
and mundane what the rest of the world
would gladly walk over.
There are no thanks for reminding
the world of it’s shortcomings,
but there is also no rebuke for shining light upon
the sullied truths for which no one wishes
to lay a claim. And therein lies
the writer’s world-
cared for by few and searched for
by those who have already recognized
the societal malaise dripping
all over the front pages of tomorrow’s papers.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 2:20 AM UTC
Michelangelo from marble made man,
Beyond Perfection.
An Ultimate image,
as Apollo's Earthrise on Luna,
or Showcase #4.
Germany has it's Beatles,
Just as Liverpool does too,
And I've seen pictures of a wall that stretches the length of China.
Pyramids rise out of the Deserts of Egypt,
The Jungles of the Aztecs,
and the Mountains of the Mayans.
A Colosseum still stands in Rome,
And every temple envy's the ones in Angkor Wot
For every age a legend.
For every actor a role.
For every writer a story,
and painter a painting,
and general a battle,
and architect a structure.
Wright and Wolfe and
Orwell and Wells and
Kafka and Kubrick and
Lenin and Lennon and McCartney
and MacArthur and Patton
and Plato and Dvořák.
There is a perfect apple pie in every mother's mind.
A perfect game in every pitcher's eye.
A work of art around every corner,
Stuck to refrigerators,
And tucked away underneath children sized beds.
Hanging in every high-school hallway,
Spray painted on every highway overpass.
A Planet-wide gallery
as simple as a finger-painting,
As grand as that canyon out in Arizona.
A world full of masterpieces...
But for me...
Only you...
Only you.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
After Seven,
She stands at her stall,
Glass Case.
Scarlet strobe.
******** clad, she practices
The oldest profession,
Scant consolation.
A Smile, A Tap, A wink.
“Come in, I’ll show you
A Good Time.”
After dawn,
No leading lights,
Lying alone,
She watches television.
No good news in Libya.
An assortement of literature on
Her coffee table;
Cooking manuals, How-To guides,
No Austen, No Wolfe, No Bronte,
Just an illusion.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 7:05 AM UTC
With Poe-try you can surely
get your Words' worth
So many words are waiting
like a Wolfe at your door,
for their Cummings into being.
If you listen, they Pound
upon your brain
They Lamb-aste your viscera,
making you Nash your teeth.
They create a Millay in your head.
So many shapes, so many Hughes
Lusting for Moore they Lear
at you when you least expect.
Look back at them!
Like Frost upon the windowpane
they write themselves,
then, when all is said and Donne
melt away too soon.
Grasp them when you can.
Put them in a *Rowe
Taylor* them to your muse,
use your Whit, man !
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 9:45 AM UTC
*So your feeling down? Your feeling like you are nothing? See everyone has a thing called self esteem, it's how you feel about yourself, but a shocking 85% of people suffer from low self esteem. A disease where you have no confidence in yourself. Here's the thing YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL. Margaret Wolfe Hungerford once said, "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder" now I want you to think about everything you think of as imperfect or a flaw in yourself.
Ok? Now think about this, to someone that stuff is either non existent or what makes you perfect to them. This makes me feel better about myself already how about you?
Now I want you to think about everybody you've ever said hi t without them saying hi first, you could have been there rock, there reason to live all from saying hi. Have you ever looked at an ok drawing or painting and said "Wow this belongs in a museum." Do you remember how you felt, pretty good right like a surge of joy? You are beautiful and you are perfect to someone*
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 10:03 AM UTC
I came back to a town
In a year of my life
To nothing the same as before
I tried to recapture
Those early beginnings
But time had barred shut every door
I came back to a town
The first haven I knew
I never would see it again
Like Mr. Wolfe said
Nobody finds it
It's gone just like yesterday's wind
I came back to a town
That nurtured and reared me
Now only the memories unfold
While one lonely figure
In all the shop windows
Seemed utterly lost in the cold
Aug 1, 2010
Aug 1, 2010 at 10:06 AM UTC
The mountains, knowing that a reversal, prodigious,
is due to a clear reading of the leather of the planet the
desert ******* and 1 felt a keen sense of cold did not
have the receipt of the skimpy flesh of his clothes,
the Muses, the morning the wind had calmed down,
holding the end of the little voice that seeks conflict
with and half to death, he headed to the dawn of Wolfe
beating the day of his sweat and women, the socks of
a stranger are done after love, Oh! by the shadows
came to meet you a firm stance to listen to the hot
goddess force spread weapons leashed the shoreline
he lived for important prostitutes; are seen to change
entirely move the mainstream movement of the
invisible defense no longer great that straight rovers to
Asia tail always known prostitutes, **** of this volume,
Street Hills hey, yes, we dream of Mrs. [ ]; the image
sheath that falls into the same fate on drugs; The mountains,
knowing that an overthrow, prodigious, due to a clear reading
of the leather of the planet the desert ****
and 1 felt a vivid sense of cold did not lessen the reception of the skimpy flesh of his clothes, the Muses, the morning of the wind had stilled,
holding the end of the small voice that seek a stranger's socks
are in conflict with and are half to death,
he walked the dawn of Wolfe beat to the day
of his sweating and women,
is done after the love Oh! by shadow came up to meet you
stand firm to listen to hot spreading goddess force
weapons held leaves the shore,
he lived for important prostitutes; considered to be changed entirely up move unseen defense mainstream motion is greater than the tail straight Asia rovers always known prostitutes, naked to the present volume Hills Street hey yeah, we dream Mrs. Gauls in the image sheath that falls into
the same fate upon the drug; The mountains,
knowing that a reversal, prodigious,
is due to a clear reading of the leather of the planet
1 desert ******* and felt a keen sense of cold did not
have the receipt of the skimpy flesh of
the Muses, the morning of the wind had calmed down,
holding the end of the little voice
with half to death, he headed to the dawn of Wolfe
beat the day of his sweats and women, | | the speed of
Strange are done after love, oh! by the shadows
came to guarantee a firm stance to listen to the hot
goddess force spread weapons leashed the shoreline
he lived for important prostitutes; are seen to change
fully move the mainstream movement of the
Defense no longer invisible; Asia tail always knows prostitutes,
having regard of this volume; Hill Street Hey, yes,
we Dream of Mrs. [ ] the image [ ]
sheath that falls into the same fate on Drugs
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Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 9:49 PM UTC
“Poetry needs both a mother and a father....”
-Virginia Wolfe
I am the poem
that has been born
of all the mothers
who have come before me.
In every fiber of my being,
in every cell of my body,
the words and deeds of these women
beat through my soul
in an eternal rhythm that will continue on
to my daughters in a distant,
unseen future.
Each mark upon my body,
every desire in my heart
is an echo
of all that they have loved,
all
that they have sacrificed.
The words I write
are their words,
muted and modulated
by time and society;
my name written upon this page
is written for their glory
and the recognition
of all that they have gained
for us women of today.
I am their testament,
I am their artistic expression.
We,
now,
are daughters,
are grand-daughters,
are nieces,
are sisters
of these women.
We are the mothers of tomorrow
and for all that is to come.
We add to
the poem,
the story,
the painting.
We are all literary women by our birth;
we are literature to our deepest core.
We are the muses of the fathers,
but the fathers cannot be
the womb of creativity
as we are.
There is glory in being
the mothers of expression.
I am not a poetess,
but I am a poem.
Another line has just been added.
Mar 15, 2010
Mar 15, 2010 at 6:57 PM UTC