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Pasted
..
Looking:
Call Roget random, is this too fast?
the first suggestion's abstinence;
there's been enough of that.
Yet, hunger of all our sense
full spectrum sometimes lost,
so go ahead and stumble on
no matter what the cost.
Begin:
Click to expand...
..
So what now, smithpeter?
I'm starting to get self conscious,
talking to a dead poet in public
like those unkempt men on street corners
speaking to the unseen
profiled, labeled, then put apart;
my kin?
..
Throw rhymes like dimes
against steps
closest there gets
all the players tokens, broken curses,
a smile of satisfaction then toss again,
where skill, like sin, prevails
in the eye of the losers
who search for more change.
..
A pantoum is like a horse pill, no offence
but I'll not take my medicine
I'm made of stronger stuff
even though the fever takes me
to fire up my Excell
and make the world of P form writing
a bloody fucked up hell.
..
enough, there's jelly to make.. credit my 2013 acct.
 
simple enigma

want to rip away the layers
festering and fulsome
necrosis shucked
delve
between meat and sinew
funnel through
arterial refrain
expose the beat then
head straight to the brain
in an multi-score of synapses
to be cast upon the stars
and reach for more
bathe quietly in mystery
stripped of raw
 
I'm crying, silently.
The unknown, a fear that shreds
like I am losing blood, till weakened
this shaking hand struggles
to bring a cup to lip.
This one who never prays, begs
whatever, whoever rules our destiny
"Please don't take him from me."

For Ron undergoing hospital tests right now
 
There are more sisters
than God made little green apples.
I'm not talking crow nor penguin
nor any of those wimpled earnest
girls though Brides of Christ
must certainly be family but how
ever would I know?

There are sisters you lose
even one you find almost
too late, probably too late
for one who doesn't know you
exist and still you see
resemblance from a distance,
recognize a smile, a familial
expression. Connections
are tenuous but real

unlike those sisters in the mind,
some of whom could be
corporeal, but only if you can believe
the last confession
of a dying man.
 
UnderYourSpell said:
I'm crying, silently.
The unknown, a fear that shreds
like I am losing blood, till weakened
this shaking hand struggles
to bring a cup to lip.
This one who never prays, begs
whatever, whoever rules our destiny
"Please don't take him from me."

For Ron undergoing hospital tests right now
Click to expand...
I've often said that we who rest
in beds, with the beep and hum of life
support machines, as those pumps
flood relief into our veins, suffer far less

than those who watch unresponsive
faces; as in sleep we dream no dream
nor feel no pain as you wait for a smile
from lips you long to have kiss you back.

Be easy now as you sip your tea,
no matter how strongly you will
the best to be, this is only step one
of the process to keep your beloved here

with you and painting conclusions
that have yet to be drawn
only creates a pain that shouldn't be
felt as yet and your tea grows cold.
 
champagne1982 said:
I've often said that we who rest
in beds, with the beep and hum of life
support machines, as those pumps
flood relief into our veins, suffer far less

than those who watch unresponsive
faces; as in sleep we dream no dream
nor feel no pain as you wait for a smile
from lips you long to have kiss you back.

Be easy now as you sip your tea,
no matter how strongly you will
the best to be, this is only step one
of the process to keep your beloved here

with you and painting conclusions
that have yet to be drawn
only creates a pain that shouldn't be
felt as yet and your tea grows cold.
Click to expand...

Thank you :heart: though must say I'm bawling my eyes out more now!
 
High dollar booze in a plastic cup
Woman worth a mint used as a slut
It ain't on the outside that matters
Some girls like it like that.

Old farm house on eighty acres
Hill behind, lake below there
It may be plain but it's all paid for
Some boys like it like that.

Simple words wrapped in a day dream
Country life don't need no vaccine
To cure those big city ways
Some folks like it like that.
 
butters said:
want to rip away the layers
festering and fulsome
necrosis shucked
delve
between meat and sinew
funnel through
arterial refrain
expose the beat then
head straight to the brain
in an multi-score of synapses
to be cast upon the stars
and reach for more
bathe quietly in mystery
stripped of raw
Click to expand...
..
Why am I reading this again and again?
 
HarryHill said:
..
Why am I reading this again and again?
Click to expand...

dunno, unless it's the typo :eek:

in a multi-score of synapses (not an) - and it reads better as 'synapse', synapses making too much of a mouthful :(

and maybe multi-verse might be more apt, though musical score and scores/keeping scores were layering thoughts

i'm quite sure twelvio has no need of my desire to peel him, establish an equilibrium he doesn't choose for himself - the poem (if it can be termed that) is a reflection of my thoughts and feelings, using him as my subject matter. sorry, twelve :kiss:
 
Last edited:
butters said:
dunno, unless it's the typo :eek:

in a multi-score of synapses (not an)
but the sonic are lovely

and maybe multi-verse might be more apt, though musical score and scores/keeping scores were layering thoughts
multi-scores also means many many. I like the image of all those synapses firing like static, white noise maybe

i'm quite sure twelvio has no need of my desire to peel him, establish an equilibrium he doesn't choose for himself - the poem (if it can be termed that) is a reflection of my thoughts and feelings, using him as my subject matter. sorry, twelve :kiss:
Click to expand...
You are sounding as morose as our friend did a month or so ago. Twelve will be okay; he's just frustrated that no one can see the depths in his writing. then again he may be a little mashugana, but aren't we all. I liked your poem. *shutting up now*
 
HarryHill said:
You are sounding as morose as our friend did a month or so ago. Twelve will be okay; he's just frustrated that no one can see the depths in his writing. then again he may be a little mashugana, but aren't we all. I liked your poem. *shutting up now*
Click to expand...
thanks :)

the many many many was the surface meaning - not sure a synapse can fire independently and a fast-moving mind will surely be firing them off in brilliant bursts of 'noise' :cool:

i'm not morose, honest *grins*
mashugana - ha :devil:
 
Remember when the world
danced with us?
They and we could only see our
May and December love.

We dance slower now my love
gone the dirty dancing
no more to cause a stir,
but I will gladly
waltz with you into eternity
love undimmed
 
I'm back, smithpeter, typing without the light,
no clue where to start in the long fight down the page
past smiles and *nods* to where you,
old sage, wait patiently for me
to wipe my feet and sit down,
explain the ungodly hour of my arrival.

Aware of your patient stare, a sip of coffee, a sigh
and I struggle,
to find the thought that brought me to you.

Jellymas will be over at the end of this month
that's a clue in my visit to you.
Such bounty in those gauzy socks
turned from gay to gravid,
bowing to the earth, where the pop of harvest
is followed by the yew bowed swish
of released tension, a sigh, saved eye,
I grow cautious in my toil, ready to press on
procrastinations worst fear, starting.

The four great quadrants that join us, smithpeter,
my coined &tiholiday falls somewhere on the equinox,
riding that cosmic clock in an uncertain circle.
I have great plans for next year, but today I must press on,
the elderberries waiting, sacks and sacks
to clean, juice strained through cleaned socks
stained royal mash crocked and fed
becomes starter for the wine.

Drinks are on me then press then,
it's the least I can do after disturbing you
with nothing to say.
 
HarryHill said:
I'm back, smithpeter, typing without the light,
no clue where to start in the long fight down the page
past smiles and *nods* to where you,
old sage, wait patiently for me
to wipe my feet and sit down,
explain the ungodly hour of my arrival........>


<........Drinks are on me then press then,
it's the least I can do after disturbing you
with nothing to say.
Click to expand...

butters said:
beautiful, Harry. really.
Click to expand...

I agree with butters, really lovely.
 
Such bounty in those gauzy socks
turned from gay to gravid,
bowing to the earth, where the pop of harvest
is followed by the yew bowed swish
of released tension, a sigh, saved eye,
I grow cautious in my toil, ready to press on
procrastinations worst fear, starting.

The four great quadrants that join us, smithpeter,
my coined &tiholiday falls somewhere on the equinox,
riding that cosmic clock in an uncertain circle.
I have great plans for next year, but today I must press on,
the elderberries waiting, sacks and sacks
to clean, juice strained through cleaned socks
stained royal mash crocked and fed
becomes starter for the wine.
Click to expand...
the sounds in this . . . reading it aloud or inside my head . . . :heart: i do so hope you gather these as a collection - i would want one on my shelves.
 
butters said:
the sounds in this . . . reading it aloud or inside my head . . . :heart: i do so hope you gather these as a collection - i would want one on my shelves.
Click to expand...

I think smithpeter has been listening and infusing this thread with muse.

Harry I wish you had known him. He would have adored these poems, maybe a bit embarrassed that they address him, but proud to be part of such terrific poetry.
 
Well crap, poets, thanks. just trying to put all those things that twelve keeps espousing down on electronic paper without too much thought getting in the way. and they are in a collection, sorta, here where a man once began an engaging game to write, simply write.
 
HarryHill said:
Well crap, poets, thanks. just trying to put all those things that twelve keeps espousing down on electronic paper without too much thought getting in the way. and they are in a collection, sorta, here where a man once began an engaging game to write, simply write.
Click to expand...
don't, one at a time
and wrong approach (thought must surface and then recede)
as for write, simply write works fine when you are honing the same knife, knife blade gets thin
 
Let Me Be A Real Woman

http://nakedcelebgallery.com/wp-content/gallery/barbara-eden-fakes/barbara-eden-fakes-036.jpg

When Tony got home, he saw Jeannie laying her naked body
On the bed like she was waiting for her master to come home
And give her the same sexual pleasure just like a mortal woman.

"Please, Master! I want you to do it! Let me be a real woman!",
Said Jeannie before she ran her fingers up and down her body
And allowed Tony to really be happy to be home.

And since nobody would barge into his own home,
Tony got naked in front of the very woman
On his bed and fucked her until their sexual peak finally came home.

After that, cum squirted out of his body and homed in on his woman.
 
metaphors, metaphors *rolls eyes*

i want no spaniel on silken leash
no puppy dog with urgent bladder
no two-dicked snappy yapping runt
or fighting dog with taste for (find alternate word here...)
 
12:01 (a fluke)

Hey, smithpeter, how are you in the hereafter?
I'm fine 'cept for the insistent rhyme dripping from my mind
like sudden rain showers, leaving me wet and sodden,
inside and out.

Yeah, I know, I've become quiet and pensive, lost
in thoughts that show no fruit, barren white space
needing seed to till and sew,
hoping no precipitation will pass without anointing
thirsty tendrils, springing from that ill tilled soil.

now your mood has affected me
rhymes are stones, words wasted dirt
and salty tears never a garden grew.

I wish she would leave my thoughts,
and hope you will still welcome me hereafter.
..
12:31
 
Crash Test Dummy

Over you, I feel the sheets are a road map
without seat belts and no speed limits.
All signs say, "dangerous curves ahead"
but caution into the wind, I race green lights,
find the marker on my forehead hits hard, again.
 
Last edited:
Crash Test :)

love the poem, neo, but the last line makes me feel like the dummy, can.t figure
it out
..
1:01
..
We're all confined on the poetry bus,
headed downhill, fast without brakes;
all of us spitting, barking cats and dogs
holding dearly to conviction and seats.
Too busy in our adversity to notice,
the driver fast asleep at the wheel,
approaching the river, the bridge washed away,
flood stage waters below.
..
1:18
 
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