She was my old flame
I can never remember her name;

she often tried to bite me,
at times it did excite me,

she was my old flame.

My gal Christine
she was pretty, slender, and mean;

she was such a vamp,
in fact was quite the tramp,

she was but a teen.

Then came Shirl
who really made my life twirl;

when she left me I got sad,
She treated me so bad,

thought she was the girl.

Then came Anne
I feared she might be a man;

Anna Lee

Speak softly breeze of passion's moan
O'er fields fresh plowed in fertile loam
Of musky scent and maiden grown.
Stout was the tree with vigor plied
To rend the valley of earthly pride
And sweet the deaths where passions vied.
Damp the forest so freshly rent;
The seed lies planted with passions spent
And tree once stout now lying bent.
A maid she was, sweet Anna Lee
A rose of love blooms heavenly
Her petals opened - sweet ecstasy.

After totaling the greater sum
of broken hearts you've caused,

and subtracting when the heart was yours
and your life was quietly paused;

multiplied by every single time
you brought another joy,

and divided by the pure attempts
you took no credit, and was coy;

knowing in your heart of hearts
you know nothing that's for sure,

all the while blindly believing
that love for others is what's pure.

Proudly humble that your actions
have always shown integrity,

Come to Tir na mBan, the fertile land,
Where women reign and rule the storm.
We'll feast and dance untill the morn'.
Here on the Isle of Women.

Grainne will welcome you with a gentle hand,
as fog rises from the ground.
You'll steal away into the night with hardly ever sound.
Here on the Isle of Women.

Etain shall teach you how to hunt,
beast and man alike.
Creeping and crawling through the brush untill the morning light.
Here on the Isle of Women.

From the very edge of shadows
imagimotions play with sight,

hidden in those layers of darkness
lies an essence that rules the night.

Of course, she shouldn't wait impatiently
but, raindrops urge repast,

her cognitive skills are wavering
so, this decision may be her last.

So, while this fair maiden is forced to wait
inbetween the drops of her mind,

recollection urges her independant feet
to seek purchase, so as to find;

a place where solace rules the day
where one's confidence can't stop,

Every night I look into the mirror and see a person I don't recognize.
She has short brown hair, jelled down, and brushed in her face that covers one eye.
Brown eyes of pain and sorrow, a beautiful soul, her soul is like a light slowly fading away.
Her thoughts of the past, and her hopes, and wishes for the future to be bright.
But she is hurt inside, torn apart, confused, disarray.
Everything she does is wrong in the eyes of people, especially her own.
In the eyes of the Mother and Brother she is brave invincible.

One day in my life that never should have happened.
The pain and sadness that rushed through my body when I heard the first tear drop.
Seeing my Mother cry, seeing the tears fall, and hearing the silence that follows it all.
Remembering the good times, remembering the fight and losing the war.
I know that you will always be with me in everything I do, but I still wish you were here with me to.
Looking into your bed and seeing you made me drop down and cry, seeing you still in my mind.
The weight you lost was too much.

Crippled individual
dismal outlook on the day,
knows there's only false hope
to coerce him on his way.

Pencil selling blind man
tells himself it's work,
the good news is he's spared the sight
of rolling eyes, and each knowing smirk.

So very tired of their homeless plight
and their consuming inner gloom,
a puppy of extremely rare pedigree
is sold so they can pay for a room.

A silver stage,
dim lights,
applause, resume.
Silent pause, you assume-
Your electric presence,
my eccentric absence.
And I presume, it's time
for a curtain-call.

You, and me;
that’s all.

(part two of the three poem set can be found at http://new.neopoet.com/node/encore )

It would make a women giggle
and 'twould make a grown man cry,
but there's a blues I shall not shake
even past the day I die.

A kind of blues that's reckless
because we flew by the seat of our pants,
whether we ever was even with the girl
will haunt us at the chance.

She could've been any different woman
one could've cheated with, or without;
or maybe I never even tried
because I couldn't quite figure her out.