I realy do love these things. Never did hear of them till now though.
Sleep.
Slow in coming.
Restless night.
On the way
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I realy do love these things. Never did hear of them till now though.
Sleep.
Slow in coming.
Restless night.
On the way
Orgasms are spasms
most ladies delight in.....
except female wrestlers
who fake 'em when fightin'
Memory
of autumn,
brittle grass
broken by the wind.
I stood once
pushing my face
toward Heaven,
only once.
B. Y. O. B.
The heavy wind didn't drag down
the airiness of the dance,
nor did the rain dampen
the delight in their songs.
Goldfinches bring the sun
wherever they go, and when
they throw a party, the invitations say:
“Bring your own beams.”
The Royal "We"
Forget for a moment
that Satan used it
referring to himself;
instead remember how
serviceable it was
for emperors and kings,
not to mention that
present-day celebs
can pluralize
their egos, while
simultaneously
humbling themselves.
Hey, if it was good
enough for Show Business,
it’s good enough for -
us.
Wow this is brill :nod:Quote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky
We celebrate your latest poem.
By “we” I mean myself
and Gus and Edna.
If each of us were we,
imagine what a multitude
we’d be!
But excuse us now
as each of us, on his or her own,
have need to use the ‘throne’.
We are amused.
Thank you Dave and Hawkman, but Prince, your retort is 100% -- no make that MLB-style 110% -- better than ours.
Slaves
Born in fetters
raised in chains
in death only
freedom gained.
Born in palace
clothed in silk
by ritual and convention
maimed.
Lover leaver, smile eater
had a life but wouldn't keep her
put her through a special hell
and there he left her, so unwell.
No new verses
no new thoughts
no new fancies
no new ports
no new missions
no new words
no new visions
no new birds
the sparkles hanging overhead
are stillborn worlds, God's tiny dead
Summer Shower
In the field, the namesakes
of Queen Anne held high
their lacy parasols,
while on the hill, the mute
trumpets of daylilies blared
with orange melodies.
In the Stillness of Herat
Herat, of the Moon,
The Night Lit Citadel,
where Alexander's regaling laugh
trails still, unbound, unconquered.
Where Jami wrote of seven thrones,
and now Nazemi crows out
silent white flowers,
a mute village rooster at dawn.