Share your poetry

hi all. i can't seem to find a forum or a group dedicated to the poets of us who might like to take advantage of our fellow literary aficionados by sharing our work... and reading the comments and reactions that might follow.

what do you think?

i'll tell you what i think. if there isn't already one alive, active and well, let's get it going.

i'll wait for your replies.

skylar

I like the sound of that! I would like a place to be able to share my poetry and get some comments!

Hey, I like that! I have some that I could contribute.

well, plunk it right in here - feedback will no doubt follow

"Glitter Has No Shine, well has it ever?"

of dark paths in the forest dancing through tiaras sequins stilettos glitter
facades chimera to mud slime ash sodden with independence
Cinderella to Clinton
of butterflies bursting into ash and bees nose-diving into the ground
schools of fish swimming toward a shattered goal polluted by false
promises and hopes spewing from the mouths of those in power
of the illness and the cure the diagnosis of corruption and those who cower
in fear and denial of what is
of dying breeds of non-conformity slipping into the blonde into the shorter
tighter translucent gaudy flesh
of children poisoned with words and bruises seeing the faults and
cracks in safety at too young an age
of the taking and the egocentric the plundering of the weak and building
fortresses of hate and greed and power
of mindless garbage flowing from the screen into the eyes and brain
robbing willpower slowly chipping away at stubbornness to make way for
immorality mercenary
of puzzles of the mind heart soul past present future love hate anger
sadness but the pieces never fit too many shards cut from too many
different cores
of water stained ceiling growing the mold of lies while below girls
on their knees give their minds love souls bodies blood for their turn
at the crack pipe
of the beats that flow through your head like mind control no thoughts no
feelings just there stuck engrained on the eyes tinting your images of
earth and sky
of heroin and marijuana and cocaine and alcohol and hitting and punching
and abuse screaming from the houses of infants
of blood sweat semen tears dripping from bodies pumping pulsing red wine
through veins
of blackness taking over the light closing eyes to possibilities and drawing
out hope ambition love all given to grief tearing souls apart dirt oh
encrusted dreams saturated with dust and grime
of difference being downtrodden and caked with hatred and fear eyes hid
for the unease of judgments cast as freely as wounded girls pulling
down their skirts
of men of boys bound to their egos hurting but faces never divulging the
secrets of the male mind lips opening only to take tongue searching
for an outlet but only finding the other half’s teeth
of brain words of grave importance succumbing to the dark side intelligence
being stabbed with pure desire and misogyny using the body for the
quick fix of dirty pleasure
of magazines and T.V. 6 foot 90 pound women parading their bones across
stages and back drops girls in the bathrooms with their fingers down
their throats laxatives in stomachs refusing the fuel of life tears
in eyes dying to compare
of the old and crumbling losing everything slowly to disease hanging on
until nothing is left but a body with a blank stare soul
lost in the dreams of youth still held dear
of standing up and out screaming to the stars and sun whispering truth to the
closed bud roses
listening to the winds of autumn and living today
in change hope light of tomorrow

About: "Glitter Has No Shine, well has it ever?"

There's some very vivid imagery in this poem. The depths of feeling, anger, frustration, come out very strongly.

I'm a little unsure about the beginning of everything with "of...", though... I mentally hear my English teacher's voice saying, "The /what/ of this?" She was also full of little words of advice, like "Show, don't tell." The instances given here are clearly outrageous and intended to shock, but they might do even better if made more personal, less plural. You might consider bringing each "of" verse to be about a single person in the situation you describe, less general and more specific.

I had a difficult time with the form - the line breaks and the like - it's hard on the eye -- but when I read it aloud I found it much more available. It works better in the ear and would be fine at a slam - some nice images . . . but I'd vote with AprilF with regard to the specificity of it. It conjures something vague (at least for me.)

thanks for the feedback!

i'd like to see some more breaks in the form too
i find myself getting lost and distracted
without a break time
now and again

This is one of my earlier efforts. In retrospect, I realize the "masquerade" theme is somewhat cliche... in my defense, I did write it before the "Phantom of the Opera" musical came out. :) This is one of a collection I've put out for free online at Smashwords
(www.smashwords.com/books/view/7118).

The Masque

False-fronted buildings line the crowded street
Where costumed forms, like actors in a play,
Walk up and down; and if their eyes should meet
They blush behind the masks, and turn away.

Bright coverings obscure the shapes inside
And gloves ensure that hands need never touch.
Behind such silken barriers they hide,
For fear that face or form may show too much.

So choose a mask and costume; take your place.
Pick one to be your partner - for awhile.
Come join the masque, but never show your face -
There are too many meanings in a smile.

And is it fair, the face behind the mask?
Who knows, or cares? It's safer not to ask.

I decided to start a blog where I'd post my poetry. You can find it here.

Technically, this recent frivolity could have gone under "animals" or "humor" threads, but those seemed to be mostly for the notable poets, so I plunk it down here.

When my dogs go on their guard,
Peering out into the yard
With that focused, dogged stare,
I know Squirrel will be there.
Squirrel is an evil beast
To my pair of dogs, at least;
Fleet and nimble, with a knack
For escapes from their attack.
Squirrel loves to tempt and taunt
In his early-morning jaunt
Round the fence; he knows to keep
Out of reach of canine leap.
As the dogs come closer, he
Scurries quickly up a tree.
While the dogs jump up and yap,
Squirrel takes a little nap.
When they're crazed enough below,
Squirrel thinks it's time to go -
Down the branches, cross the roof,
Followed by an angry "Woof!"
Finished with his run-and-tease,
Chitter-laughing, Squirrel flees.

I posted a new poem on my sferse blog. The poem is about Mars.

Dear Group,

Ummm, I originally posted this Poem on the group "Cats,books,life..."
But other than MM I didn't get a response. This could mean the poem is lousey or...

Well, I'll try again, not 'cos I think the poem is any good but because I LOVE my CATS and it is based on a true experience. And even though I thought I didn't I have an ego, I do.

ANY/ALL "constructive" critism is wanted/needed/craved.

.............................................................................
To Max.

What does a cat do at night

Days, he sleeps the good, good sleep

But, what does a cat really do at night?

Does he fight , caterwaul - even with no balls?
Does he visit the spot he was dumped
Looking for what?

Please tell me, what does a cat do at night.

My wounded Max, my stray, my wounded Max
What, what do you do at night?

Last night Max walked in with blood on his paw-fists,
Walked in stiff and hurt and hard, a fighter.
Young, scared and stupid.

What happened on that night Max

What does a cat do at night?
.....................................................................

Thanks, Guido.

interesting basis for a poem, if it were mine, i'd direct it more directly to the cat, and focus in a little more on the possibilities of cat night.

but overall, very nice. i think you could pull a lot more out of the paw-fists thing without making the poem any longer, if you give it another try.

hope your cat won the fight.

cat fight club - no confessions

but I think tcw has a point - addressed to Max it has possibilities

Thanks, #15 & #16,

I like your suggestions but realize that I find it difficult to just "tinker". I find myself re-writing the whole thing and then it's a different poem :-(

I will re-work it to put a more personal and tougher emphasis on Max.
Although he is just a big PUSSYCAT who is now grounded at night.

He is, after all, just a teenager.

Guido.

Just posted another poem on my blog - see here.

Here's another one for you to enjoy. It riffs on Wordsworth. Sort of.

Dear Group,

I do know who iansales is wrt. SF.
But this apperently "egoless" Guido, does seem to have an "ego" re. poetry.

Thus I have re-worked my poem about MAX.
Once again, ALL "constructive" ideas, are welcome.

...................................................................................................

To Max.

What did you do last night?

Days you slept the good, good sleep

But, what did you really do that night

Did you fight , caterwaul - even with no balls?

Did you visit the spot where you where dumped...
Looking for what?

Please, MAX, tell me, what you did on that night.

My wounded Max, my stray, my poor poor Max
My poor wounded stray...
What, Oh what what did you do that night.

You walked in with blood on your paw-fists
Walked in stiff and hard and hurt, a fighter.
Scared and young and stupid.

Oh MAX.

What happened on that night?

MAX.

Barbaro

I am just a horse
that has run my course.
Of human species not a part,
though hope and prayers of many
I carried on my back,
their weight too much for my hooves to bear,
but not too much,
not too much for my heart.

With no leg left to stand on
at last I freely run,
the last race lost, and won.

(Barbaro was the horse injured in the Kentucky Derby about three years ago, who failed to survive the injury; his hooves broke down after a heroic and prolonged attempt to save him.)

barb,

now i'm bummed about the horse!

and guido,

interesting rework. well done.

Dear tcw,

Shuffles feet, eyes downcast, err. umm.

THANKS

See, I even have to do revisions to a one line sentence!

Guido. Umm did I spell my name right?

I'm still not convinced by the caterwauls with no balls. Sorry.

Thanks Ian,

You might be right. Although I was rather "fond" of that particular line
I can see that it might not be appropriate to the "tone" in that poem.

Version 3 might be a while though!

I will remember it for some future "dribblings" I may have, though!

I did like one of your poems, though, it did remind me "much" of the speach of the "replicant" in the Movie "Blade Runner" and I do NOT compare the book to the Movie.

Yours, thanks, Guido.

"spelling" :-)

I stole the first line of my poem from that speech :-)

Oh you

"plagerist" sorry that's wrong. I just seem to be unable to spell...
THAT word.

Suffice it to say YOU SOD IAN

I am going to assume you are a "POM" and will take this "appellation" in the
best intent, If you are a USA'er...sorry!

Your, sometimes CRUDE Aussie mate, Guido.

Several years ago while searching for the magnetic poetry sets,I found poetrybang.com.I have not visited their site in months.One of their groups was a A-B-C-D...The next word of your poem/prose needed to be in alphabetical order.I did write a letter poem about an elephant who thought He was the king of the jungle.And one that contained all references to rock music using all the alphabet letters-I reversed the order from "Z to A".

Eighty Prufrock hangover

Who could say no to a single malt
Or scotch the idea of a pint or two
For ever? And who could deny the view
Reflected in the bottom of a glass?

Is your nose really that big?
Live beers, live oaks, live girls –
All put down roots that curl
And leave a little residue or scars.

A hangover acquiesces; dry
Wits and throats rasp at dawn.
Baths and conclusions are drawn
As interior voices shake us

And we drown.

Resurrection seems impertinent;
Chance and chants cast echoes,
Wheezing like leather bellows
And cautionary bells toll.

Mournings after are for apologies,
Sincere and otherwise, and regrets.
Good taste rises early and all bets
Are only slightly off.

In our cups, then in our coffee,
Bedlam rises to the level
Of intrigue. Now the devil
Has our tongue; wit forsakes us

And we drown.

early I guess in the morning, sigh

Hi BarbN,

Your poem about the horse was sad and affectionate.
As a novice myself, I will leave the "critique" to others, BUT I do like it.
Guido.

PS. Max(pussy cat) is now sitting on my knee and I find it difficult to relate that
MAX who came in "...stiff and hard and hurt..." with the "needy" cat now sitting here.

there are sone error in my poem, but herr you go.

http://teenink.com/poetry/free_verse/article/176054/Nation/

My shortest poem:

FLEAS

Adam had em.

Sorry, I initially thought that bookmonk had claimed "he" had written that
poem/word.

http://www.fun-with-words.com/shortest_poem.html

Sorry "book.." I guess I jumped in too soon with my unwarrented assumptions.

I must be twitchy 'cos of our new PM here in Aussi Land!

Yours, Guido.

The pelican’s lament June 2010

In formation with my sisters I flew along the shore
The ocean below held dinner
For my chicks in the mangrove bar
In the Gulf it was spring
the fish were running
My chicks waited for their meal
I saw my fish and dove below
(As I had done many times before)

I failed to see or understand
The tide of death along the strand

I dove but found I could not see
Oil filled my bill
My wings weighed me down
I could not fly
I could not breathe
I began to drown
(Why was the sea my enemy?)

I struggled blind upon the shore
My eyes were filled with fire
I spread my wings as best I could
And tried to preen the dark red oil
That held me in a mire
I saw my chicks upon the nest
Their bills agape they called to me
I could not fill their bills with food
(I could but writhe in my oily hood)

I grew weaker as the sun went down
Red sun upon the dark red sea
My head sank down upon the sand
The oil was burning, burning me
My heart failed in my breast
(I knew this was my final rest)

The skua will eat my babies
I abandoned in the nest

>35 guido47:

Then there's: "I speak in rhyme all the time".

hmmmm . . . peering with head spinning?

I wasn't looking for that

For me it's often - - peeing with head spinning :-) Sharon Olds would write like that e.g. in Blood, Tin, Straw: Poems Love her poetry.

Being less frivolous, here is one of my published poems:

LONDON

And the gray old earth
grows up into heaven
where gray old ammonites
masquerade as ornaments
in men's parlors.

And the charwomen move around
dusting desks and cleaning floors.

In the embassy the security men are
weary, standing bulletproof
before somebody else's body. Yet
when all is said and done,
when, salary-paid and inebriated,
they go home and, though weary, watch
television in somebody else's parlor,
they appear not so weary as
when on duty near Hyde Park
where the colors of the trees
are pleasing to the eyes
that behold them in October skies.

The leaves fall, wind-blown,
and spirally find their way home.
This I think is evolution's way.
Weeds and leaves together
provide soil-food for the next
generation as naked bodies swim
in primal lakes, small earth-bound seas.

I read the history of poets
in every corner of the park,
Pound, Elliot, Auden.
I am but one among many
in search of my own voice
in the solitude of a big city.
I am thinking of the next war
as I watch lovers like serpents
twined around trees;
they wait eager and linger
fingering the gloss on God's green.

And inexorably, near the Park,
the charwomen move around
dusting desks and cleaning floors
as the security men come and go
not knowing a thing about Michelangelo.

And the gray earth grows
where the gray earth meets the sky.
And a gray dawn comes upon October
as if colors did not matter.
And mists descend upon mind.

Forget T.S, Eliot, I'll take your version of London any day!

(Actually, I never cared for Eliot & I've never been to London, but the picture your words paint - better than real!)

#42
Thank you so much, MarianV. I feel so very complimented by your words. Do you write poetry yourself?

I thought there was something to say

and there I was speechless

confronted with you

all I found
was this touch

so I placed my hand onto your arm

and spoke to your skin

with my fingertips

#43
Yes, I write poems as well as read them. some are on internet magazines. I haven't published any books.
Have you? I would like to read a book of your poems.

Here's one of mine :-)

Forebear

The chains of hollow
Imitation clasp their sterile links on
Minds so lost in routinized
Intentions even
Love can spawn but
Crimes; and,
Faithless certainties, like
Clockwork, build their
Superstitious blinds so even
Faith becomes the Devil trading
Hope for fruitless
Rinds.

I represent a poet who has just published a book of poetry. It is an amazing book that I am promoting called Burnt Lips.
http://www.amazon.com/Burnt-Lips-ebook/dp/B009UKD6VQ/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=...

Not a very new attempt at 'spam' #47.
One and a half stars. :-(

I will flag you later, if I remember you at all.

Are people still following this site?

To all who would strive
To all who would be
Just once
Creative
Don't try it online
extemporaneously.

Yep, all my own work. Booze helps but
unfortunately nothing is ever lost on the net.

Guido.

#50 > Perhaps you wrote that In Spite of the booze...?

Here are a few mini-poems, from my blog:

...

she saves my life

in tiny fragments,

keeps them in albums and jars.

...

she is weather

and when she goes

she takes the blue sky with her

...

half my bed is empty-

so are my hands,

my arms, my heart.

...

I still feel her pressed against me

like the ache of a phantom limb.

#52 > Awesome!! :-)

The "ache of a phantom limb" is an effective phrase.

#53 and #54

Thanks! I used to write longer poems, but recently all I can come up with is these fragments. The declining mental powers of middle age, I suppose... ;-)

madpoet,

Rather than middle age, I choose to see them as brilliant flash-poems---wisp-poems---twinkles of meaning...

#56 "flash poems": I like that. Mind if I borrow it?

#57 --- Sure :-)

Well, here's a poem from a few years ago, simply titled

This Poem

There is a poem in her naked arm,
in the bend of her elbow,
her arching back.
I see a verse run down
between her breasts;
curling around her navel
I can almost read it-
then it slips off,
and I chase it,
where words cannot go.

Hi folks, I was publishing poems on my profile and then realised I never read any so I thought I'd try to find some. I must take time to read this thread again. I'll put my own efforts on one day but , meantime, who should I be reading to get up to date?

Punctuation would help.

Agreed.

Break it up into stanzas --

Let it breath.

Punctuate.

Respect the reader.

Except for "Prufrock," no poem by T. S. Eliot is worth reading that is not about cats.

This is really a work in progress but I needed to try it out somewhere.

Communication.

"You never ask what are my thoughts
How ever can
that be?"

"I do not need to ask you, dear.
You tell me
constantly."

"Remembering my words,
you trust that all
is set,

but when new thoughts intrude
those spoken
I forget.

You keep my words inside your head
and wait for me
to act.

While I confuse intention
once, so expressed,
with fact.

And so it is that each of us
believe the other
knows

My speaking and your waiting
the difference in us
shows.

And parallel, our thinking makes
responses out of
time.

So I will never know your thoughts
as you do not
know mine."

Err. #64,

Why should I care for that protagonist in your poem. All I hear are complaints.

I don't care about him nor his problem. Pull me in.

And And parallel, our thinking makes
responses out of
time. does sound laboured and affected.

Guido.

PS. You should have heard my 'Cat' poem from a few years ago. Perhaps not!

I haven't been able to go beyond the first stanza of this one. (That often happens!) Every time I try to write more, it sounds... cliched.

All my wounds are self-inflicted,
I've been dodging friendly fire.
I'm broken, and bleeding, and so tired.

--Alternative to the third line:

I'm tired of life,
or I'm just tired.

Freestyle poetry, not following any rules:

Title: Beautiful Face

Thinking of your beautiful face,
Day and night.

Until all the stars fading to twinkle brightly,
New stars to be born, new moons to appear.

Thoughts of you refuse to fade,
Alas, my memories of you still persist.

Oh, you are a happy memory,
Trying hard to erase from my memory.

This time, a ballad poem, no rules followed.

A cowby named Jim,
Living in a ranch fitted with a top-class fireplace.

He dislikes anything and everything cold, really very cold,
But he prefer anything that are really very hot.

He went to a dance hall in his township,
Something meet his eyes.

A young Mexican damsel, Tina
Have a face of J Lo.

Try his luck to ask for a dance,
Fate on his side, Tina accepts.

Moment on, their friendship sparks.
Like 4th of July.

She danced like J Lo,
Jim could not keep up with her moves.

Indeed, a sad sight,
To lose a chance for a longer dance.

Came his rival, a suave dancer,a better dancer than him,
Moved liked John Travolta.

Tina caught her eyes on the mysterious dancer,
It happened so quick, everything changes.

She changed her thoughts for liking Jim,
Off she goes with a new dancer.

Reminded me of the song "El Paso"

(Any more contributions?)

Lost Pears

In the valley above the valley
at the end of it all
stands the wild pear tree
where the wild pears fall
unpicked, uneaten, by man or beast
to roll and rot among the rotted leaves.

The waste of it all!
(Though I know the pears are bitter)
I brood on their loss
as fall turns to winter:
the pears soon buried in forgetful snow
that melts in the spring
when the new pears grow.

I have just changed the poem on my profile. The latest one was entered for a competition but the results are out and I didn't feature. maybe they didn't like lateral thinking!( Autumn Thoughts)

madpoet, #71,

I was really taken with your poem.

Obviously you have thought long and hard about it. Thus I hope you don't mind
me asking you a couple of questions about it.

1) why the parenthesis? Not a usual poetic convention, it should, an aside, be built into the poem.
2) In the line to roll and rot among the rotted leaves. why not "rotting leaves"?

Not a critque, just an amateurs thoughts.

Guido.

>73 guido47: Guido, actually, the first stanza kind of just popped into my head. And "the valley above the valley" is a phrase that's been running through my head for years. Decades, actually. I guess it was looking for a poem to attach to.

In answer to your questions:

1) It is, as you said, an aside. Perhaps it is a bit old fashioned to use parentheses in a poem, but the poem is a bit old-fashioned itself. I obviously owe a debt to Robert Frost and his generation.

2) rotted--rotting. Hmm. You may be right. I used 'rotted' because I meant the pears were falling on last year's fallen leaves; to emphasize that this cycle has been repeated for years and years.

Thanks madpoet.

In Two Centuries

Will
Groundwater feed
The heartwood
Of this oak?

Will
This meadow’s sun
Warm the soft parabola
Of a woman’s hip --

Or will this be a dead shore
Mocked by the sound
Of waves,
Glittering like the wings of insects?

Our bodies
Will have the forms
Of lakes
Or curls of ash beneath

The moon, huge and low.
A moon that has forgotten
The frigates and trawlers
That fill the horizons of these days.

Christmas Mouse

There once was a white mouse called Poppit
Whose owners were going away
They called us and said could they drop it
For Christmas, two nights and one day.

I said that we'd have him with pleasure
And find him a home in the shed
Such a cute little pet I would treasure
With his cage and his wheel and his bed.

We moved all the pots for the flowers
And cleared all the tools from the shelves
Then left, to be ready for Santa-
His reindeer, his presents, his elves.

Next morning I ran down the garden
To see if dear Poppit was fine.
I'd left all my parcels unopened
For, of course, I had plenty of time.

I looked at the cage in the corner
But couldn't see Poppit inside
Perhaps he had gone somewhere warmer
Under the bedding , to hide?

But, alas, he had fled, we had lost him
There was just not a sign of a mouse.
He'd escaped- you might think we had crossed him
We should have kept him in the house!

So, the day that was Christmas we started
To empty our old garden shed,
The contents on wheelbarrow carted,
Just hoping the mouse wasn't dead.

And when, with the day nearly over
And the junk on display on the grass,
When we'd given up hope for the rover
he was out in the open at last!

That holiday won't be forgotten.
The mouse was returned to his home
And a day that could have been rotten-
Inspiration for this Christmas poem.

A little lengthy, I must say, yet pretty good too, I really liked the last verse! Well done, thanks for sharing, Oldstick!

Young children will loved this "catchy' poetry of yours . Do you liked "limericks" not the bawdy type?

"That holiday won't be forgotten."
"The mouse was returned to his home."

Intrepretation: The mouse found its way home.The mouse remember its "host" - A creature going back for the "warmth" of Christmas in its humbe home.

Christmas Time is nearly here.
it's the best season of the year.
Children believing Santa Claus bringing gifts down the chimney,
Let's all dress in red and white, what a chime!
It is a time of merriment,joy and cheers.

>77 oldstick: That was fun! Thanks for sharing.

Hello:
"His Blood" is just a reminder that the Lord is good!

HIS BLOOD!

His blood is flowing all over my soul
With His grace and mercy ever untold
He will never leave me here all alone
I can call to Him without using a phone
Although He is sitting upon His throne
He listens to my voice even here at home
As His blood is flowing all over my soul
I’ll fear not for what’s lingering ahead

Having solid trust and faith in Him
Helps me to live more extremely bold
I placed my life in His Hands to hold
Thus I’ll endure the climates hot or cold
He hears my every moan and groan
I live knowing that my God is in control
As His blood is flowing all over my soul
I’ll fear not for what’s lingering ahead

For in Jesus Christ there is hope untold
Yet to be unfold not just gloom and doom
Those by force will always try to bloom
But in my life they will find no empty room
Deep down I’m grounded with lots of roots
Trusting in God’s word gave me a boost
As His blood is flowing all over my soul
I’ll fear not for what’s lingering ahead.

'sblood !

Or perhaps, strewth.

#76 Proust-Stevens.
very good, indeed.

Very good! Send us more.

#50.
Things are lost on the net. Ofren. . . But just KEEP WRITING!

Hi everyone, here is my latest poem, feel free to read it and comment!

LITTLE the BEE

My name is little the Bee
I’m so busy at times I get dizzy
I wish I was winkle the beetle
He is just sneaky an cheeky
Work makes him fairly sleepy
Not me, as during spring time
I worked with the sunshine
Visiting from flower to flower
Picking up nectar and pollen
Working with all those plants
To fulfilling the Lord’s plans
Yearly throughout the spring
I go from flower to flower
Whilst idle Winkle the beetle
Lives freely, looking sleekly
Stays home eats corn flour
I worked with all my power
Being inspired by the flowers
Made me sang buzzing songs
Working daily in spring time
Completing the plans of Divine
Made me of all insects unique
Says Little the busy little Bee

All rights reserved.

DEEDING and RE-DEEDING
A Thunk

O Deeds, you do what?
Have done.
Though carried-teeth, back wired,
Half sun-baked, lily-faith spotted, tired.

To where? Do what?

Well, only if you or I be, we
here, there, show
Though desert dunes crinkle
Yet the rose blooms.
Think beyond the pot.

CONGRESS, 2014

Lamp wicks, match sticks
clay feet drop
Songs go up, go down
the Gerrymandering highways politico
Over the stiff-lipped in Chambers
and the loose in the Pot

There, Noon is sloth
Mad cows lunch
And Words, words fly on and on
Making things up

GETTING ON

Varicose, speak!

Your blue witcheryʻs down her leg
The way gander/goose over
hell high
down the run amok
like Spring brooksʻ chatter,
the mad hatters shrill
and laughter

But for the Pain, Shame, Ugly
disaster a Vein can

24 March 2014
Improve these, please. The above is Not for copyrighting.
That is, my part is not, by me.