The stream (all workshops)
In a dark room she is a glimpse of light
On a sad face she is a glowing smile
The sun on a cloudy and misty day
She is the antidote to that dis ease
The sweet sound of friendly conversation
When the only one listening is the wall
The scissors to suffocating ropes
The promise between all the lies
The honest Abe amongst politicians
The artwork on a blank wall
The enemy of uninvited insecurity
Meet my better half, poetry
Far down the vale slow death has wrought from time
no offers tempt an extra hour of life
no promise makes new offerings of strife
seem real enough to take from what is left
before the water's icy shock makes sear
of power slammed into a pounding chest
by Science seem as pure as fleeing soul.
Under a hog made out of iron
where libations flow so fast
and the music will coerce your feet to dance;
be aware of your surroundings
and forget about the past,
let the room fill up with party, and romance!
~
There's no way you're in the wrong place
it's "hog heaven", as they say
let's celebrate together young, and old;
we'll all raise high our glasses
and toast the aging of the day,
staying well after the final joke is told!
~
A unrhymed poem in trochee.
Nonsense is the answer, poet.
Incongruity in poesy
hides a lack of innate talent.
Nonce words need no vindication,
whimsy never wants but fancy.
Cognizance is over rated.
Since the reader does not “get” it,
why should we write subtle verses?
Dr. Geisel understood it,
Dodgson wrote to feign dementia.
Audiences thought ‘twas genius.
Why, oh why, should I make sense then?
There is only one good reason-
“I” would like to read my poesy.
Narcotic grin, agitated
Demon jaws swallow her whole
She is afflicted
Savage, insane, horrified and stricken
Terrified She will rip out throats
As a result of being bitten
Holds herself in prone position
Lamenting what has come to pass
Longing to be forgiven
Were wolf lover addicted
To her sensuality
Stalking her in the undergrowth , undetected
Fatal collision only one will survive
Tooth and claw
Who will be victorious and end the fight alive?
Damn! there goes another poet
off to the land of nonmeter
overstressed about the stresses
made to write outside of rhyme
(though he did it this one time)
Syllables spoken naturally
though in a southern dialect
even when spoken out loud
stressed and unstressed run together
as his head turns into mush
Losing count of all the lines
as he slowly loses his small mind
while sitting in the padded room
trying to write trochaically
sunsets beauty showing pastel lighting
mother nature's canvas unfolds to earth
the tress outlined in shades of dark shadow
hanging heavy from nights dew drop splendor
forest creature will sleep without the fear of harm
upon it's floor a bed of leaves and twigs
cushion the sound footfalls that man will make
all is silent at peace and rest for now
And there is always someone in more pain,
a hunger to which I can not relate.
Someone who's anguish, borders on insane.
Someone with so much more upon their plate.
And what right do I have to make complaint?
What horrors have I suffered on this Earth?
Empty canvas devoid of hope or paint,
a victim from the moment of Its birth.
What right have I to morn upon its grave?
What solace gathered should I end it's plight?
What false anger unfurls the flags we wave?
And what would be the point, to win its fight?
Blinding darkness
Only seeing with the naked touch
That sends images to a fevered mind,
Fingers navigate every contour of a physical soul
Pleasure heightens with each new discovery
Of a erogenous zone,
Salty sweet sweat begins to pour
From the heat that rises on the surface of the skin
Breaths of air escape in fevered pitches
As if a beast emerged from somewhere deep,
Eyes now see the beauty of the aura
As conscience is loss of the outside world
And senses flare into universal oneness,
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