September 6 by The Running Son
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Here’s the best of my unpublished poetry over last week or two. Part 13. Love you all. Enjoy. 😉
collection pt. 13
“ode to mullets”
Bone white skin
in the sunniest land!
The mullet: better
than turtleneck’s elastic.
Neutrinos bleed not
into neck shadowlands,
poor rays seeking skin
despair: never pass it!
1. All Houses have roofs.
2. truth-telling ppl r often uncouth.
3. Truth soothes rough hearts smooth.
4. Truth is obvious to e.v.e.r.y small baby.
5. Fools stumble, and sometimes find jewels.
6. Life and tightrope walking: simple, not easy.
7. Octaves end at 7; may we meet in 8th heaven.
“Where did they all go?“
Maybe the Beats all become sheep;
drink, indulgence, then soul sleep.
Perhaps the great scurge fed them,
now they feed on railcar dreams,
unmet vision-quests, Ambien, or disbelief.
“That first public wash-up”
I’m Rumpelstiltskin awakened and deep skill-spinning.
Blinking off sleep, but stuck feet-first in a tailspin,
draining down a filled sink, immersed but drinking:
quenching thirsts for hard work and passionate living.
By any standard of measuring trade-winds, they were harsh that evening. The promenade deck was bolted for hurricane conditions, and we were there fighting that current, beyond caring, your skin whiter than those great cumulus cities coasting along the calm blue before the storm, your hair wet, formed to your skin and primal: braids, flaring at the tips, the final warning before the whip snapped, the railing gave in, thunderheads crashed, rain fell like rivets and we, lashed tight by tongues and hair and being one, gave in to the billowing white, lost in deep green, and still beyond caring.
Written for The Poetry Question Daily Prompt: Write a 100 word story based on a recent dream. http://thepoetryquestion.com/2013/09/05/the-daily-prompt-september-5-dreams/
“an OCD variant”
I will fight, even give my very life
to make a place for
every. damned. thing.
my world is arranged nicely
with angles, vice-free with tight lines,
dialed and fixed at 90 degrees, precisely.
come in three’s and knees
quake, I need no more reason
to re-arrange things: higher
thread counts for my
a higher life,
and my cracked pathways forgiven.
previously unpublished poem
Grey, that strange space found in between.
Oh how we long for day,
And the sun’s ray’s relief.
Oh how we long for darkness
and moonbeam dreams;
that place where pain fades,
in hope and renewed belief.
“a love-induced burst of tongues“
I will update you. I’m viral like the flu. I spiral down, a bi-polar side-bar on you-tube. No pokes or jokes told. I’m hopelessly sold on you, statistically all-in, never fold or go for broke without holding my take and taking my winnings.
Perhaps the last idealistic poets dancing, us.
With no credential but freedom and being,
we chance across edges and deep ravines,
and although the abyss of ignorance may seem
a golden paradise, we are wise, brashly playing
the dancing fool with childish bliss, and style.
Tonight? I could rhyme forever it seems.
So easy, words spread out to please me,
like please take me first! Me! I’m the word
you’ve always wanted, not a verb, granted…
but new tenses can be found, when searching
♫ hope u enjoyed! Jim –
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