~Zen Mountain~

[My Erotic Trail]

they make pretty good bait too
alby-fishin

crickets are better (~_~)

 

[sugarmountain]

Beaches await high tide for the waves to wash them clean
Flowers sleep through the nighttime awaiting dawns first beams
The robins sing at the warmth of spring,
then build their nest in eagerness
for the arrival of little wings

I will wait for you my love, throughout the sands of time
to breathe in once your singular scent fresh as morning tyme
thrill to the music of your voice
as you whisper in my ear
that I will be your choice

 

[My Erotic Trail]

Beaches await high tide
for the waves to wash them clean
Flowers sleep through the nighttime
awaiting dawns first beams

The robins sing at the warmth of spring,
then build their nest in eagerness
for the arrival of little wings

I will wait for you my love,
throughout the sands of time
to breathe in once your singular scent
fresh as morning tyme

thrill to the music of your voice
as you whisper in my ear
that I will be your choice

I like what you have going here, with out disecting it <grin, I was looking for a way to make the ryhme sceme consecutive. ABAB OR AABB or my favorite aab aab... (I like your poem) for me, a poems expresion comes from the soul and not necessarily following the norm for some of our unique-ness is individual differences.

 

[My Erotic Trail]

I hear frail feathers
spring's offspring
little birds chirping
listening to them sing

 

[Sealace]

I speak plainly sometimes,
but you've got to be mindful
of the consequences of the words.

So put that down.
I don't know if you'd call that a confession,
....a regret,
.........something.

George W. Bush, speaking to reporters, Washington, D.C., Jan. 14, 2005

 

[My Erotic Trail]

from the mountain
to the valley
is a long way
and lots of flowers

following a stream
I stop and drink
quinching the soul
I start to think...

 

[My Erotic Trail]

the mantis stands still
watching the world
in meditation it prays
for another moments peace

 

[My Erotic Trail]

I opened up a book to see
the pages were blank
and awaiting me

 

[My Erotic Trail]

~ under construction ~

~ under construction ~


writing graciously on angry paper

from the mind's lips
my fingers graciously glide over gilded lines
the tornado of teachings breathe easily
exhaling heavy passion in earnest
yet my breath made the paper rise

I inhaled hot humid summer air
the paper died, but its spirit did arise
in a gust, that breeze that brings life
to thoughts. I gripped the angry page
and held it down. Demanding it receive
my thoughts penned.

Gripping the wind in a strangle hold
I swirled in the literary sand box of white
tackling corner pages still wanting to fight
submissive ink did as it was told, scrolled
writing graciously on angry paper

 

[RhymeFairy]

~ under construction ~


writing graciously on angry paper

from the mind's lips
my fingers graciously glide over gilded lines
the tornado of teachings breathe easily
exhaling heavy passion in earnest
yet my breath made the paper rise

I inhaled hot humid summer air
the paper died, but its spirit did arise
in a gust, that breeze that brings life
to thoughts. I gripped the angry page
and held it down. Demanding it receive
my thoughts penned.

Gripping the wind in a strangle hold
I swirled in the literary sand box of white
tackling corner pages still wanting to fight
submissive ink did as it was told, scrolled
writing graciously on angry paper

Great imagery, and passion here Art. I love where this is going.
Reread, work it out, let your pen ... free write till 'tis written
what must be shown ~ I said silly somewhat, yet ya catch
the rough draft drift of my wandering thoughts, as I stumbled down
the page, crisscrossing the yellowed line till red light flashed
green ... go ~

 

[My Erotic Trail]

Great imagery, and passion here Art. I love where this is going.
Reread, work it out, let your pen ... free write till 'tis written
what must be shown ~ I said silly somewhat, yet ya catch
the rough draft drift of my wandering thoughts, as I stumbled down
the page, crisscrossing the yellowed line till red light flashed
green ... go ~

writing graciously on angry paper

Outside, my mind's lips whisper
to fingers graciously gliding over gilded lines.
Exhaling passion heavily in earnest
my cursive breath made the paper rise.
I inhaled deeply a hot thought of a summer scent
and the paper died, but its spirit revived
in a gust. That breeze that brings life
to thoughts.

I grasped the angry page in a death grip,
demanding it receive thoughts I penned.
Grasping at a draft for a strangle hold,
mere dust devils in tornado training.
I swirled in the literary sand box of white
building images to be granules
in the wind.

Tattooing saw dust and glue,
branding this albino creature,
its wings slapping the table as a breeze passed by.
Wanting to fly. Showing its temperament
in a rustled tantrum while I held it down.
Tackling corner pages still wanting to fight.

A chained slave the paper whimpers
pleading in ripples upon its fringes.
I drive a spear across its flesh,
my patriot the pen killing sentences.
Submissive ink did as it was told, scrolled,
writing graciously on angry paper.

 

[MyNecroticSnail]

Some call him a Manx

So many
kiddie turds
in the littie box

 

[RhymeFairy]

there was a time
when I felt, I had no where
to turn. I found a friend
a shoulder to speak to
a mouth to listen. He tried
to make things light
to spin yarn into gold
for me. Without knowing
the real, person
me. A friend I have since
called upon
many thirteen hour days
fifty- eight day, years.
He still tells his funny tails
spreads a lil muck to feed
his wild critters, but
to this day
and beyond
I know
I shall call him
he shall call me
friend ...

 

[quietpoet]

I love this!

The inspiration of the pen...

nice!

John

writing graciously on angry paper

Outside, my mind's lips whisper
to fingers graciously gliding over gilded lines.
Exhaling passion heavily in earnest
my cursive breath made the paper rise.
I inhaled deeply a hot thought of a summer scent
and the paper died, but its spirit revived
in a gust. That breeze that brings life
to thoughts.

I grasped the angry page in a death grip,
demanding it receive thoughts I penned.
Grasping at a draft for a strangle hold,
mere dust devils in tornado training.
I swirled in the literary sand box of white
building images to be granules
in the wind.

Tattooing saw dust and glue,
branding this albino creature,
its wings slapping the table as a breeze passed by.
Wanting to fly. Showing its temperament
in a rustled tantrum while I held it down.
Tackling corner pages still wanting to fight.

A chained slave the paper whimpers
pleading in ripples upon its fringes.
I drive a spear across its flesh,
my patriot the pen killing sentences.
Submissive ink did as it was told, scrolled,
writing graciously on angry paper.

 

[My Erotic Trail]

The inspiration of the pen...

nice!

John

hello John...
good to see ya back,

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

[My Erotic Trail]

time to lasso time

I cannot lasso time
nor bind it, graph it to a tree
and make it grow
ever so slowly

For it moves like the wind
an invisible force with duel personalities
a gentle breeze or a hurricane gale
forever like a cloud
inching one way, forward
to slow to see it move

I toss my lariat
across the open sky
hoping to rope the nature of things
and for those moments
I watch the oval loop fly,
I find that I am bound, to
time to lasso time

 

[quasar]

writing graciously on angry paper

Outside, my mind's lips whisper
to fingers graciously gliding over gilded lines.
Exhaling passion heavily in earnest
my cursive breath made the paper rise.
I inhaled deeply a hot thought of a summer scent
and the paper died, but its spirit revived
in a gust. That breeze that brings life
to thoughts.

I grasped the angry page in a death grip,
demanding it receive thoughts I penned.
Grasping at a draft for a strangle hold,
mere dust devils in tornado training.
I swirled in the literary sand box of white
building images to be granules
in the wind.

Tattooing saw dust and glue,
branding this albino creature,
its wings slapping the table as a breeze passed by.
Wanting to fly. Showing its temperament
in a rustled tantrum while I held it down.
Tackling corner pages still wanting to fight.

A chained slave the paper whimpers
pleading in ripples upon its fringes.
I drive a spear across its flesh,
my patriot the pen killing sentences.
Submissive ink did as it was told, scrolled,
writing graciously on angry paper.

You have excelled remarkably in creating a read that pulls the reader into a poem. May I offer a few suggestions? I believe this poem to be worthy of perfecting.

 

[My Erotic Trail]

You have excelled remarkably in creating a read that pulls the reader into a poem. May I offer a few suggestions? I believe this poem to be worthy of perfecting.

thanks Q~
I am open to suggestions...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



a circle of boxes (6/9/06) Art ~

ship a box
around a sphere,
or drive to circle a square

watch a ball rise
above a horizontal line
fly a triangle through the air

You can get boxed in
head directly to a u-turn
or be square in a round about way

Bounce your thoughts
think outside the box
circling boxes all day

our feet are disciples
of a repetitious cycle
the sphere our minds are entombed<<

checker board neighborhood
from the roof's panoramic view
a circle of boxes like the moon

 

[My Erotic Trail]

my little yellow friend

We sailed the seven seas
to the gulf of Mexico
and up the Mississippi

Around the Horn
and through the canal
I sailed with my favorite pal

We went up the Nile
and across the Amazon
on the water is where we belong

calm seas and hurricanes
to ponds that are murky,
bubbling springs my rubber ducky

 

[My Erotic Trail]

Thoughts in a Fish Bowl

I feel my conscience, is as solid
as a fish bowl full of water

as open minded as a glass sphere
where thoughts can swim freely
within the confines of my conscience ness

always viewing the room in wakes
Now and again
a glimpse through open doors

Windows of opportunity
grace distorted visions of hope
for in the darkness there is still a star

life as fragile as glass
thoughts are fed
and conscience ness swirls

 

[My Erotic Trail]

zmp~ moths and butterflys

Butterflys fly
with colorful flare
mingling with flowers
everwhere

moths perch
and blend with trees
watching butterflys
enviously

 

[My Erotic Trail]

zmp ~ every breath counts

how many steps
will my life take
or is my life measured
by the amount of breaths
I breathe

did I cheat myself
by not filling my lungs
in gasping pants
like a marathon runner
at the finish line,
in every moment
of my existence

in that last step
of my life's run
I hope to make
every breath count

 

[My Erotic Trail]

my little yellow friend

We sailed the seven seas
to the gulf of Mexico
and up the Mississippi

Around the Horn
and through the canal
I sailed with my favorite pal

We went up the Nile
and across the Amazon
on the water is where we belong

calm seas and hurricanes
to ponds that are murky,
bubbling springs my rubber ducky

Thoughts of a Fish Bowl

My thoughts swim freely
within the confines of my conscience ness
fragile as a glass sphere,
an open minded fish bowl full of water

gravel in the blue
images from eyes with orbital vision
circulating within my limits
always churning at the surface
to keep my thoughts arid

conscience ness swirls
as thoughts are fed
a frenzy of creative ideas
filed in the dark caverns of a mind
protection from the hurricane of emotions
hard as lava rocks under the surface

and when the ocean of my mind is settled
and I have only the stars for a light
I swim in my dreams
of this fish bowl, planet life

 

[My Erotic Trail]

I am perfectly fine
living in a perfect world
where the dominate species
attempts to achieve perfection

trail and error has paved the road
by those who are and are not perfectionist
it's perfectly clear as a cloudless day
there are as many perfect moments
as there are not

as round as a perfect moon
the years crawl slowly by
almost as perfect as time and dates
which is not perfect
but what better way is there
than trying to achieve perfection

 

[My Erotic Trail]

from a flying flock
a feather falls
passive to
the pushy wind's whim

below the blue
above the green
casually drifting
or submissive to a breeze