"wright" poems
you can’t right the same poem twice
hell, yes I can
in pointy fact,
only got one,
which gets re-righted
morning noon and evening-tide
substitute a variant spelling
wright vs write vs right
and the meaning changes thrice
*the only thing i can’t not duplicate is those **** love poems
each unique and writ for the woman specific,
each love one, custom jiggered,
each poem, crafted, to her pulse
each poem, drafted, to her scent
none alike, and that’s why I believe
in the god who commanded "create her"
to make love poems in his way,
gave me millions of veins, an extra ribbing,
of inspiration to pray to...
my heart altered, modified, daily*
**** poems
**** love poems
**** love
Feb 2, 2018
Feb 2, 2018 at 10:18 PM UTC
come at her like
Whats your name?
What you in to?
naw thats not ganna work
got to get those words that ganna get you
Thinkin Thinkin
hold you like the pedals i'll never bruise
Naw to deep thats way to soon
how can i do this
step up to the table like hello my name is Luis
man im like ***** this
stressing to much thinking to far
gotta act quick before another dude raises the bar
I got it i got it i'll dance for her
naw got to think out the box
done thinkin ... i'll just wright a poem
Send her my thoughts.
End it with XOXO i like you a lot.
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 7:58 PM UTC
This Heart-Based Beauty I dearly comply
Is the Seventh Great Angel in her Trump
From here I bow in Confidence rely
Glowing on purpose for Kindness come
And what shall I owe for this Charity
If even those Letters won't make me read?
You took one Page and recited them to me
Now my Demon's Tongue wooled a Lamb-at-Heed
So now the Pomegranate starts to Ripe
Though it actually shows signs of decay
You took some Olives and combined your bite
Thus the Sweetness assumed its Form to stay.
He loves Sweets, you know. I knew you'd offer
That Halo as your tray would sate him better.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 5:33 PM UTC
Ask the Channel to his Promised Heart's Best
And Glad you shared his Spirit with your Song
Closer, then keep your Cherries fresh with Zest
So both can Savour each Flavours for long
How Fair you took his Living Supplement
Where these Vitamins need your Fresh Support
But Remind him; Of Minerals and Nourishment
Are what is Needed for his Best Report
Then the Grandfather whose Wise Hands will tell,
Strike the Gong to when their Wrapped Hands hold fast
But knowing his Flute which charms your Bell,
His Pickfold Numbers win your Lots at last.
Tally him Softly; And he makes you Proud
To harvest Best Fruits whilst singing out loud.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 11:35 PM UTC
I slept with her, my rapacious pen, took me in quiet vengeance in
full on conjugation
raken and taken, me,
her overlording me now, her authorship, so long held
in my maledom abeyance,
a kept imprisonment, unleashing at last, a tongue lashing~leashing,
de-spite my un-desirous craven lying supplications,
excuses of innocence and accident, coincidence and conflation,
ashes, ashes, denials incinerated, all fall down
she wrote/stabbed upon my heartless chest,
in the cheap crudités colors of a prisoner’s inking,
“user of words mine, all mine”
gathered up my innards of loose words,
speculative notes & titles yet to be,
born and kept hid in password protected silent back labor files,
now hers, leaving me sputtering, unable to create,
a homeless mute citizen, possession-less,
helplessly hoping her hovering harlequin might relent,
without any shelter, even a glimmering, a single aleph or bet
she celebratory cackled and clawed,
professed her reclamation ownership of all my poems predecessors,
zola j’accusing that I, ripped from her forcibly,
with no granted permission, her womanly touché of my scribing,
warning of no more global warming for my unprivileged hands,
daren’t try for pretenses of stolen legal guardianship,
warning of a new, forced caining inscription,
a tattooing of “thief” upon my 5 knuckled right ******
“plagiarist” boldly inked in back & blue upon my left palm
I, predator,
she, victim,
of my now self-professed, admitted confess,
she, my single victim,
of a decade long serializing criminal coverup
her parting poem a threatening,
herein issued in this very verse,
damning all who would falsely credit themselves,
to suffer shame and an unimaginable curse,
this, the newborn eleventh of ten commandments
parting, she kissing my lips, even my emptied apertures,
with warning bitings,
she knew all my
my numerous noms de guerre,
no dead scrolls caves to hid in, and to be discovered some future day,
and if ever marked as copyrighted,
’twas no tunneling escape,
the exposed truth to be over-stamped
upon all, upon each, in every language,
”copied right from the tongue of a woman!”
and she would be wright...
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 10:10 AM UTC
Here are the names of my lovers,
The women I sleep with, whom
I use, like they use me.
Spent, they discard me, for when their pleasure needs
Satiated, they climb aboard another man.
What they do not know,
Is that in my mind, in my ears,
everywhere,
I did not let them, or you go,
We are still romping,
For I
Take them as needed.
I need them all,
For my pleasure needs, like my unshaped heart,
Addictive, endless.
If your is name is here, I do not
Apologize.
Pink
Adele
Lilly Allen
Anna Nalick
Bess Rogers
Beyonce
Brandi Carlisle
Cat Power
Colbie Callait
Duffy
Eva Cassidy
Evanescence
Alison Sudol
Fiona Apple
Florence Welch
Grace Potter
Ingrid Michaelson
You
Joni Mitchell
K.D. Lang
Kate Nash
Kate Voegele
Leona Lewis
Lizz Wright
Madeline Peyroux
Marie Digby
Mary Wells
Norah Jones
Regina Spektor
Sara Bareilles
You
Sara Haze
Taylor Swift and Tracy Chapman
Tristan Prettyman
Vanessa Carlton
So many others, used so long ago, I can't remember the faces,
Which can't be googled.
Use them hard, use them often, more than daily.
Bluntly, I tell you
Your name is on my list,
Even if I do not disclose it.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 9:31 AM UTC
i have a dream we can have peace.
in world and on the street.
to share nice words to the world
and one another in life
giving a helping hand to young.
teach gift of knowledge.
what wright what wrong.
to bring new understanding.
to share hope an under standing. with
words of joy an peace. to just share.
the love.to the hearts of people in
this world.to have love an caring
for the poor on the street
to give that special joy
of love to the world.
to heal the broken hearts.
with words of joy
with poem or two.
we can have peace in this
world throw of understand
by working on this.
we can live in world in peace.
but we as people of earth.
we have to work on this.
help poor child on the street
an old man that lost way in life.
that ran away child from broken home.
to let him or her know that some one care.
an don't need war !
we need peace understanding.
for sick an poor.
we need to share the love.
of caring. for children of the street.
to let know! some does love them.
an care about them.
man up world!!!
for a peaceful world.
SHARE THIS POEM WITH
WITH EVERYONE
AN SHARE THE LOVE OF PEACE.
MY BROTHER MY SISTER
Jun 15, 2010
Jun 15, 2010 at 10:48 PM UTC
I am the young girl running around the house,
looking for the pony,
on Christmas morning,
while the ship is slowly sinking,
in a manure flavored sea.
I am the armless tennis player that
is convinced he will defeat Roger
in less than an hour,
using just one ball, over and over again.
I am Roy Wright at the beginning of the trial,
with a big stupid smile in my pocket,
and a tinny black book in my soul.
I am the faithful survivor of unfaithfulness
and I will be the one that lands on his feet,
in Scottsboro heaven.
I am Bartolomeo V, the one with no vendetta,
having a croissant,
waiting for Nicola to shave, before we take off in one of
Rothko's paintings. May the 5th be
with the ones who actually did it.. and, you know what?
I honestly think Cronaca Sovversiva is a great title,
even though I haven't read the ******
thing and I have no sympathy,
whatsoever, for any anarchist.
Hell! It's hard for me getting my **** together in complete order. I don't want to think what would become of me
in complete anarchy.
I am the one that wakes up every day
with a stupid smile under his nose,
not remembering the scent of yesterday's failure.
The one that starts dreaming as soon as he gets up,
ignoring the fact that he might be an ignorant
*****
with no desire to go to outer space,
but with huge hopes up his sleeve for
M. Damon and his agricultural knowledge.
I am in favor of all fancy schmancy Earth saving knowledge,
and I am aware that all that space debris in my head
will do some serious damage one day.
If they ever figure out how to get it all in.
I am the tic, that will come after the tac-toe, this time, and not the other way around!
the encore of every good concert,
the yin for the panda ****
the slim leg for the flamingo,
the gambler,
the rambler,
the day rider.
I am the Syrian boy that just learned to swim and
all of this infinite blue soup
is nothing more than a Saturday stroll.
I will get in the back of that truck and I will breathe
the purest air that someone could ever breathe,
I will sleep the sleep of reason and monsters will not be produced.
You have my word!
I am the skin before the needle shoots up
all its ink.
I will be perky. I will be green.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 5:58 AM UTC
EAST BOSTON, 1996
ON THE BUS
Franz Wright
It's one thing when you're twenty-one,
and I was way past twenty-one.
With unshaven face half concealed in the collar
of some deceased porcine philanthropist's
black cashmere rag of a coat,
I knew that I looked like a suicide
returning an overdue book to the library.
Almost everyone else did as well,
but I found no particular solace in this;
at best, the fact awakened some diverting speculations
on the comparative benefits
of waiting in front of a ditch to be shot
alone or in company
of others, and then whether one would prefer
these last hypothetical others
to be friends, family, enemies, total
or relative strangers. Would you hold hands?
Or would you rather like a good **** sapiens
monster employ them
to cover your genitals?
What percentage would lose bowel control?
And given time restrictions -
and assuming some still had the ability to move -
would ostracism result? Anyway,
I knew the rules on this bus.
No eye contact: the eyes of the terrified
terrify. Look
like you know where you're going,
possess ample change to get there,
and don't move your lips when you talk
to yourself: the destroyed
and sick, the poor, the hungry
and the disturbed estrange.
The badly dressed estrange, even,
and that is uncalled for. The degree
of one's power to estrange will increase
in direct proportion to the depth
of need for others. Do not cry.
This can only bring about, on the one hand,
an instant condition of banishment
from the sole available companionship, or
on the other, a near
fatal beating (one more disappointment).
Just follow the simple instruction
if you ever come here.
It's easy to remember - any idiot can do it.
Don't cry,
the world has abandoned us.
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 7:59 AM UTC
The apartment hasn’t been cleaned for so long and has housed a depressive in it for the same length of time so that there is a glaze of slime-dirt on the floor, made of dried coffee, hot chocolate, maybe some **** or some spillage from a tube of steroid cream to treat an inflammation that never really goes. The rate of ooze changes?. Clean textiles are piled up on the floor, never having been folded, and mix here and there with ***** practical fatpants that make me look like a geologist and white-white cotton blankets that can be washed on HOT with lots of bleach that I purloined from some mentalhealthfacility. The inbox is full of—is bristling with—remonstrances from Programs for the Nondoer—you haven’t filed, haven’t turnstiled, haven’t had your hologram chip assessed by central CENTRAL intelligence, what is wrong with you. Upon stepping outside there is a beat during which I think maybe somewonder might swirl and buoy but no, just wethumid and ***** sidewalks cruddy and Haitians and quasi-Haitians muttering “taxitaxitaxi” in front of their Gypsy conveyances with their dubious certifications. I should go for a ride in one, a dubious passenger for a dubious palanquin. I tried the library but it was too hot and decrepit and too filled with Books For African-Americans, which always ****** me off; are only African-Americans going to read Wright or Douglass or Brooks? Everyone is overrated, anyway, movies and theater and the moribund beat of commerce, and as the dangerous autos pass, sometimes not running you over, you can see morechange in the pockets of the shareholders of BeePee and Iacocca Coach-Wirx. Any friendliness exhibited seems to contain an underovertone of You’re Not Included Whiteboy White ****** Ghost ***** all archaic names I’ve been almost astounded to be called usually while balancing on tiptoe on some lurching, roaring dieselbus, grinding past off-off-off brand groceries that do a dubious business. While making my police report I wink at a sevenyearold boy and I get a lustrous wink back butalas this is not enough to beat back those slurrycolored brainfazes.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 2:09 PM UTC
I, too, would ease my old car to a stop
on the side of some country road
and count the stars or admire a sunset
or sit quietly through an afternoon....
I'd open the door and go walking
like James Wright across a meadow,
where I might touch a pony's ear and
break into blossom; or, like Hayden
Carruth, sustained by the sight
of cows grazing in pastures at night,
I'd stand speechless in the great darkness;
I'd even search on some well-traveled road
like Phil Levine in this week's New Yorker,
the poet driving his car to an orchard
outside the city where, for five dollars,
he fills a basket with ********* apples.
2.9k
Of ***** roasting pans and racks and island fog!
*if you love me, then you know poems wright themselves when standing, driving, bus riding, ********** and especially when
doing manly battle, ******* ***** dishwashing midst island fog
a passing remark goes noticed and summoned to a
Friday night feast, roasted fowl, wild rice with golden raisins and mushrooms, English spring peas, was it a Montrachet?
for dessert the washing up is obligation mine, a traditional desertion,
separation of church and state, her cooking a church in which I worship, she states eloquently:
“Unto Caesaria , Render Her the cleanup”
this is hand to hand combat, no dishwasher mechanical
can scrub like the human hand, and with body english,
water hot, but no gloves employed for this is ***** man’s work,
not for sissies, cleaning roasting pans and roasting racks
that are at least twenty years burnt and crusted with a blackened
finish, residue of other lovers and dinners P.N. (pre-nat)
array three kinds of sponges and some human & metallic *****
no one asking which came first,
the scrubbing away of life feasting residues,
or the poem writing that comes with pre & postscript sleepiness
when I say the dark stains and the grease buildup are
flavor enhancers, am beknighted with starry stares of
“how stupid do you think I am?” and sadly return to the
Battle of Agincourt, the one the American lost….*
but they do source poems that flavor life
2020
Jul 17, 2021
Jul 17, 2021 at 11:54 AM UTC
You told me once that I am your favorite writer.
I was hesitant and unsure. Your innocence might jinx me this time. Then you laughed, as you always do, like a child giggling while waiting the rain from the summer sky. Everything becomes clear. After all, whatever comes from you is never you.
Of course, you are as always an empty being.
Your emptiness tells many stories. Your emptiness fools me. Your emptiness is the real vessel of soul. Your emptiness is a parchment for budding thoughts. Your emptiness is a magic.
No wonder, I fell in love with that emptiness. I just do not know if emptiness loves me back.
Or, was it me who stares at the abyss long enough that a centenary gone by.
1900: The Boxer rebellion begun. Freud published his Interpretation of Dreams.
1903: The Wright brothers marked their first flight. In turn, Curtiss decided to invade the sky.
1912: Titanic anchored to Atlantis, to its final resting place.
Two years after, the first World War broke out. Horses galloped to the killing fields.
1925: The first among many trials of the century began. That day, Darwin risen for the second time.
1934: ****** became Fuhrer. The world becomes a theater. “Absurd,” says Beckett. “Cruelty” for Artaud.
1939; 1941: Second World War broke out; Pear Harbor bombed. Asia Pacific meets its infernal fate.
1945: Three mushroom clouds seen: New Mexico, Hiroshima, and Nagazaki.
1960’s: Humanity becomes obsessed with multiple wars: cold, space, nuclear, music, universities; not counting the mutants who played major roles in between.
1986: Itay wrote a letter to Inay. The letter reached Manila after a few days from Jeddah.
1989: Capitalism won. Berlin wall fell like a paper plane after its victorious flight. My parents met for the first time. Months later, they decided to cut the cake and get married.
1993: The World Wide Web saw its day. I was born.
Twenty two years later, I met her. A year after, Phil Collins sang once again Separate lives.
That time, I know, I will never be your favorite writer.
Dec 26, 2016
Dec 26, 2016 at 6:34 PM UTC
If my life were a movie it would be one of those films that gets hyped up to no end because I’m one of those kids with the rough childhood who just wants to make it
When in reality it’s just a less action packed but just as dark dc movie
My story has also been confused with a marvel movie since the protagonist is me
And i can't help but cut my overbearing traumatic tragedies with self deprecating comedies
But my life to me feels more like an edgar wright movie where the action isn’t as exciting as The fact that I was able to get out of bed this morning
And my day to day reality will forever feel like a motion blur of edited out negative emotion
I think Maybe my life could be a wes anderson movie stuck in one color palette for the rest of my eternity
And my maturity tends to overwhelm me
my journey is like an anderson movie because i tend to create a world around me
Taking time to shape my own protected reality so that the outside world can’t hurt inside me
If im being honest though i want my life to be a spielberg movie that grabs attention of all ages coming from all sorts of places
I want to spin my truths into his fantastic fantasies where no one equates my past with me
But at the same time I want my life to be a blast from the past john hughes movie where i find a way to stop my past from haunting me
And everything ends up okay at the end of the day because my minds overbearing insecurities
No longer have control over me
Now i see that in actuality other peoples movies are just too much for who i truly want to be and how my trauma impacts me
I mean between my all of those boring biographies and my abundance of favorite movies
I’d want my life’s movie to be full of images depicting my fondest memories and all my angsty gen z tendencies
If my life were a movie i’d make it about how I am, or was, or am going to be
If my life were a movie I’d make it about me
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 12:24 PM UTC
#1. What in the world
possessed you
to do that!?@#$%^
My god . . . that was so stupid and careless!
#2. Why? . . .
I trusted my intuition.
My heart believed,
emotional logic compelled me.
Fluid, spontaneous from the gut.
#1. You’re crazy.
I would never
put myself at risk like that.
#2. What risk?
Getting harrassed
by the mind police?
They don't own me.
#1. But they punished you.
#2. No, just a little
desperate flaggelation.
#2. But look at yourself
all boxed up,
stigmatized and branded.
#1. You mean the labels?
Those words they use
to define me?
#2. Yes, you’re a bad person.
#1. No, I’m not.
#2. Yes, you are.
... and they argued til dawn
neither knowing
nature does not declare winners
but admires innovation....
like when Magellan sailed off no edges
when Einstein confounded everyone by sailing in his head
when the Wright Brothers lifted off
when Tesla moved electrons
when Christ embraced the centurions
when Gautama just sat down
when the librarian refused to take Catcher in the Rye off the shelf
when Lenny Bruce swore on stage
when Leary and Alpert left Harvard
when Joan of Arc refused to recant
when Gandhi and friends burned their English wool
when Jung declared a spiritual psyche
when the UFC earned a huge Neilsen
so be your own guru
take kava kava instead of Prozac
barter with your hair stylist
and when someone says
you are wrong
ask them why
there are no dinosaurs
in the Bible.
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 9:18 AM UTC
I buck the system my ***** like forget the system ***** , This world is so Corrupted, The government just wanna take away are feelings, & make us into killing machines..just like the Nazis
(Fuck America)..Uhh
(They lie to us*2,..MK Ultra,
(Its mind control*2)..mind control
This **** is getting way outta control..)*2
Uhh, The **** been going on , I been In my zone,
I been sad for so very long..
I been writing all alone, I been stuck in my room, broken mirrors, & Monarch butterflies all around me, The voices in my head won't leave me alone mane, tryna distract me from my Fathers truth homie, I'm having Dreams of demons tryna take hold of my soul..(I won't let em get to me thou..)..Ayo, I'm getting so sick & tired dawg..Im feeling very depress, homicidal & suicidal, like Tommy Wright the 3rd but forget killing myself dawg.. I'm just about to buss out the AK & go Rambo & make these ******* die dawg..They are gonna feel the wrath of Young Ston Poet.. The ****** Disciple , that I felt for so very long..Man its eating up my insides..Uhh
I buck the system my ***** **** The system my nigga,..I'm bringing pandemonium..
**** The CIA ***** , America isn't protecting us , They ain't doing nothing but putting us on a string..Uhh, So Forget America mane..Im blowing **** up like the Two brothers did at the Boston Marathon dawg..Real Talk man..Uhh,...I just don't give a **** any more,about nothing..Yeah
America **** them..Yeah
America is just filled with puppets man.. Sinning Machines, humanoids,clones..shit, people thats just here for devilish purposes, like assassinations, & prostitution..
**** all of that sick **** man, **** being a robot for the white man, **** mind control..Imma stand against the **** shit..This is Only For The Real..This is Only For The Righteous.. Uhh
They lie to us, Its mind control.. MK Ultra..Uhh
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 12:48 PM UTC
O Babylon! Your God is a sport-utility vehicle, a VCR, and a two-car garage!
You delight in images of killing and artificially-large-breasted women!
Your arteries are clogged with Big Macs and a thousand pieces of Kentucky-Fried Chicken!
Your God is Technology. Your God is Progress.
Your skyscrapers rise to the heavens! Your astronauts fly to the moon!
You clone sheep! alter genes! make a mountain into a parking lot!
Your fields flower! Your grain-bins groan under the weight of the ripe corn!
But the land of your soul is a desolation.
O God of Henry Ford, the Wright Brothers, and Bill Gates,...
All the nations adore Thee!
(Pretty soon they'll be ordering Papa John pizza by cell phone in New Guinea....)
Your God is Mammon.
After the movies, after the Quarter-pounders-with-cheese, super-size fries, and a large Coke,
after the evening news, the Hostess cupcakes, golf, beers, and swimming 20 laps,
the hunger will be the same as the day you first felt it, O Babylon!
the thirst of the soul, O Babylon!
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 2:24 PM UTC
A man and his brother set on a task
An undertaking attempted many times by others
To no avail nothing and no one could succeed
But their vision was to them possible
It seemed that this feat was not meant to be
The world told them to quit
If God wanted it to be he would have giving you the tools
Yet they were undeterred in this goal
They toiled and worked
They slaved and sweated
Failed many times in their task
But together they crawled toward their aim
One day they finally did it
They climbed aboard their creation
And started a new era in the modern world
Finally these brothers did the impossible
Their names were Wilbur and orville wright
Stubbornness is perhaps the greatest gift God has given man
Those who have it are mocked and berated by their clan
Undeterred they continue toward their mission
Never swayed by words blinded by their ambition
When the dust settles everyone sees
The answer to success is this disease
More things have been done
By unrelenting men seeking the long run
Stubbornness may in fact be wrong
Alas anyone can see this burden is carried only by the strong
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 11:20 AM UTC
I shall keep you close to my heart
And smother you with my art
The change in my pocket isn't enough to bring about change
It's strange that accepting this doesn't make me feel strange
The twenty pack I casually smoke away
Keeps me from worrying how much I make in a day
As I read thoroughly every article in the paper about you
It makes me wonder, am I really glad that we're through?
I fear leaving the confines of my thoroughly sanitised bubble
For I know that when I enter again, so shall rubble
Poised atop the rubble out there stands a figure, bruised and weary
Her eyes glisten not with lust but with passion; her thoughts, priceless; but her looks, dreary
As always I shall try and end on a high
As per the Wright brothers, if you obsess enough, one day you WILL fly.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 7:59 PM UTC
I pried the Words off the Wall
Rearranged and used them All
Stacked upon each other in
A sentence Said with Style
Coco Chanel And Ert'e Flaunt
Lesbian Fashion In chic Paris Haunts,
In the 1920s, While Albert Camus
Late Night Parties Extistentialist Claims
*Amid ****** and Champage*
Django Rienhardt Played Jazz Guitar
To the West Bank Artists in Bars,
Toulouse Lautrec had Drank
With Prostitutes, in Art Deco
Frank Loyd Wright Praised
In Architect Circles
How He has Designed
The Unfolding of the Future
The Camera Has Brought
Sharp Images to see
While emergence of Psychology
Has driven Art into the Abstract
Paris in the 20's scent of
Hedonist Creativity
Cultural Gravity
To the Inclined
De rien, entre amis
Prende un jour a la fois
All the Work here is licensed under the Name
®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 3:39 AM UTC
The cube, the sphere
and the triangle
Building blocks, visionary shapes
that brace wind, cut clouds
Industrial smoke goes against
the grain of architecture
Maybe we can find where
they breathe tomorrow in naturally
It will be opaque and after breakfast
arrested by cantilevered thoughts
A ripple in the calm
whirlpool above the falls
As Liliane enjoys swimming
in the **** and collecting modern art
By nightfall and before the uniting
there's a solemn dream to be had
Haunted fragments
within the libretto of a Shining Brow
The contents of Froebel gifts
form organic steps, and led us
Wright to the water's edge
Aug 31, 2020
Aug 31, 2020 at 8:47 PM UTC
The day was clear as fire,
the birds sang frail as glass,
when thirsty I came to the creek
and fell by its side in the grass.
My breast on bright moss
and shower embroidered weeds,
my lips to the live water,
I saw him turn in the reeds.
Black horror sprang from the dark
in a violent birth
and through its cloth of grass
I felt the clutch of earth.
O beat him into the ground
O strike him till he dies,
or else your life itself
drains through those colourless eye.
I struck again and again.
Slender in black and red
he lies, and his icy glance
turns outwards, clear and dead.
But nimble my enemy
as water is, or wind.
He has slipped from his death aside
and vanished into my mind.
He vanished whence he came,
my nimble enemy;
and the ants come out to the snake
and drink at his shallow eye.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 7:08 PM UTC
I'm from the land of candy, which is as rare as gold.
I'm from the land where fruits are our desserts and rice is a must.
I'm from the land where cheese is a treat and milk is banned.
I'm from the land where determination is my Parliament Building,
The Library is my City Hall,
Technology is my Plaza,
And Music is my Town Square.
I'm from the land where Math is our School,
Lucy Maud Montgomery is our teacher,
And Creativity are our Artists.
I'm from the land of pine-smelling air and strokes of sunburn.
Where laughter is heard at every corner.
I'm from the land of a Dominating Dad and a Mature Mom.
I'm from the land of a Busy Brother whom is somewhat caring.
I'm from the land which changes constantly,
Hot and Cold,
And is always forgetful.
I'm from the land where Pheonix Wright is our King and Meg Cabot is our Princess.
I'm from the land where friends are our special jewels,
And family is priceless.
I'm from the land where my valuables are my memories
And I'm still collecting them.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 1:29 AM UTC
Silly words like daughter and laughter.
Why isn’t dotter and lafter?
Both, moth and mother are confusing.
It all depends on the way you are using
Those mad silly words in our tongue
More bizarre than between and among.
And, of course there are the oughts
And ought nots of enough and thought.
Shouldn’t one sound per word be
Far less typographical insanity?
I mean someone wound a bandage
Around a wound on an appendage.
It’s just plain silliness of a high order.
You fix food for a boarder, not a border.
You can fish for fish, not sheep for sheep.
And, you can’t daydream if you are asleep.
There’s a rhyme about a wood chucking wood
But he only seems to do it if he would.
A dog can bark at a cat on a roof,
Which can be said either like root or woof.
In Britain anyone can go pound on a pound
In America, ground coffee can be on the ground.
And driving a car now your own can be fined.
But finding a free auto is something of a find.
It makes very difficult to tease other tongues.
Not even if you shout at the top of your longues.
Lately we changed things like light and nite
But, not white, night, knight or blight.
We changed you to one letter, a simple ‘u’.
Now, tell me please, was that so hard to dew?
Oh, wait. I mean due. No, I meant do all along.
The way English is, it’s not hard to do it wrong.
Is it its or is it it’s? It’s dependent upon.
What kind of sentence you have going on.
For example if you have an itch on your ****
It’s on your **** but I’ tell you what.
It’s itch is its own, and needs no apostrophe.
Just one more view how silly things can be.
So, until later, when things get better
We had better do it rite to the letter.
Oh, wait, that’s wright. No write, no right.
See, I got it rite before the end of the nite.
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC