WickedEve
save an apple, eat eve
- Joined
- Oct 20, 2001
- Posts
- 11,470
Thank you. That poem, and the others, do need some editing, though. Oh, the excitement of editing. lol#8 kicks ass, Eve. Power and elegance in equal measure.
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Thank you. That poem, and the others, do need some editing, though. Oh, the excitement of editing. lol#8 kicks ass, Eve. Power and elegance in equal measure.
the icy river
provides an unlikely nest
for the fallen bird
Is your love,
and cum,
your breathing
planned around your head?
I am not lashes,
not the skin of your lobes.
I'm more of an arch, even a shoe,
a comfortable shoe,
but you could get by
in brogues.
Your joy, that silly
joy is a chamber pot
that I must fill? You can squat
and live a day without me.
Is this the plane that came down in the Hudson?
miscellany
and things,
sundries in columns,
glass pipettes,
zippers by the bag
We ponder the Plymouth's
lady-driven miles,
but we'd be better off
with a bubby horse,
a male Nova Scotia duck.
A stranger will assist
us with Russian pronunciation,
only if
we are Christian gentlemen.
We buy a box,
a middle of the room box,
with peep holes. Inside,
there is no variety.
and you have your first survivor poem already written.
umm...
I do best writing poetry when the mood strikes me. Days, even weeks, can go by before I'm poetically smacked.
We are middle-aged hip, swearing
when we're broken-hip-aged,
we won't travel with the herd.
We will wear cool t-shirts
and stay far from the cane pack.
"We're hip."
His boy tells us not to utter,
not to speak,
not to spit out hip.
We are not hip. We are
lame. "Drop me on the side of the road."
We turn down Bob Seager
and beg the boy to stay in the car
with us -- the groovy middle-aged couple.