Shawn and Shauna fell deeply in love
And were on their way to be wed
When a car, on that day, took their lives straight away
As both of their bodies, lie dead
But their spirits were both drawn to heaven
As they stood, in front of the gates
Saint Peter was there, at the top of the stairs
When Shawn hollered loudly “Just Wait"
Now Peter looked puzzled, at Shawn
And said "This is no time to tarry "
Shawn spoke again, and refused to go in
Without being properly married
Saint Peter replied very softly
"We don't do that kind of thing here
But if you're willing to wait,
“I’ll see if I can, get it cleared”
Three months went by, while they waited
Saint Peter, show up with a Priest
"I know it was slow, But I want you to know
You’ll be married Forever at least"
As the wedding was getting started
Shawn asked a question, with doubt
What happens here in heaven
“If this marriage just doesn’t work out”
A silent filled up the heavens
Saint Peter, was shaking his head
And once he regained his composure
This is what Saint Peter said
“It took Three Months to find a Priest
In this Heavenly Foyer
How long do you think, I’ll take for me
Up here, to find you a Lawyer ?”
Poem by: Mr. Ronald Watson
Sep. 13, 2012
My Poetry on PoetrySoup
Stinking thinking/ it leads to drinking./
What moisten the soul without an inkling?/
Unto making a wild left turn /while the right signal light were blinking./
Within a mild mix of rice, hops, and barley,
Since/ it is too much laugher at a karaoke party./
How Elvis sounds like,/ a broken Bob Marley?/
Now it’s as if,/ inhibitions are lowed/
Frozen in time/ and slipping far out of control./
As intuitions of minds does loathe,/ as such weariness echoes for tomorrow./
Yet,/ a stinking breath that smells just as death/ and it's where all funky asses dwells./
Though/ all hung over /and unjustified to flinging heavy heads into that porcelain king,/
Even this is a sight for red sore eyed Kings!/
It is an aftermath of ravishing through them royal purple cloth bags./
So/ afraid to admit that shallowness slowly drags!/
When,a sense of clarity which will just admit it.
That stinking thinking is difficult to kick, but
One day at a time, it is the only way to shine, or get fixed.
Thank youMy Poetry on PoetrySoup
Extraordinary, I am
Craving for unusual thoughts
Endless exploration without boundary
Understanding the gift I shouldn't fought
Invisible drawings in my mind
Playing with the words in my head
The food of my soul
I feel so lucky
The random thoughts
A lifetime companion
A self esteem builder
A goal planner
Be my forever life saver
I write more
I talk less
I want to please
I chose to bore
What tickles me the most
Is to know what I'm for
Thinking is my love
When my mind goes empty
That's when I hate
My day dreaming lust
Organizing things in my mind
Playing roles of simulation
Where images of art is my vision
And words of attitude is my heart
I am looking right at you and you don’t even know it.
I will deter your intent and throw you off a steep cliff.
But in the air will be my snuff and gruff you can sniff.
Eventually I will have some sort of mercy of just a bit.
Surely we are above empowering manners of tat for tit.
Maybe I’ll light a scented candle and blow you my whiff.
Or maybe I will strand you grounding your bones to stiff.
Opposed or decomposed and still composed I won’t quit.
Inside or out,
I’ll throw down.
I am the clout.
Don’t mistake my identity,
Either or, it’s your eternity.
® Registered: Ann Rich 2009
Here’s what I’m thinking now
at the end of the world:
There are no atheists in foxholes—
no theists in politics.
If knowledge is power,
and power corrupts,
then why did I bother reading you, Cicero?
Does it matter that I didn't’t love you?
Would it have mattered if I did?
There’s a poetry reading tonight
whence I’I'll chide other poets
who don’t sit alone.
I won’t bring up death
but I might have to breathe,
even into a mike
and mouth lines to get a snap or a boo
maybe even a wince or two.
Just maybe I’I'll talk about love
and how following your heart is like following a dog—
it only leads to vittles and (female dogs).
But how many times have I used that line
since the story I wrote about you,
a witty and sexy and fictional you?
Most likely I’I'll read something tonight about you.
I won’t recite it from memory
because I don’t think about you that much anymore,
not even when I search for my socks in your drawer
or when I put on the scratchy sweaters you give me,
horizontally striped to bring out my eyes?
I don’t remember your eyes
except they are blue.
And I don’t remember you,
not even when I smell cucumber and apple,
not even when I sleep on my side of the bed
or when you walk through the door
happy to see me;
even then I don’t remember you.
Does it matter that I don’t love you?
Would it have mattered if I did?
How about a few one-liners
for the end of days?—
Depression is self-awareness,
which you’d know if you were;
I need Ritalin to listen to you,
Lithium to hug you,
Viagra to feel you,
and Valium to sleep.
All you need
is me standing there, waiting at home
with turns of phrase and word plays
telling you about why I hate Ayn Rand
but want to buy as much as I can
and how I love celebrity gossip
and detest poetry slams
and find rhyming trite
except when I am.
Hypocrites can still be right,
which you do understand
because you nod at my nonsense
about fighting the man.
But now, at the end of all things—
I’m speechless and witless and pointlessly well-read,
and you’re just sitting there, smiling
asking me to pass the bread.
It's nature's way that in the spring
Emotions make a lamb's soul sing
And so it was my young heart found
That love is not by species bound
Well cruelly spent, did cupid's dart
Pierce deep my foolish woolly heart
A wiser sheep would fain desert
Such love unwise and bound to hurt.
Nor was it then that common sense
Came forth to give me sound defence
No matter how well meant and groomed
My ardent love was clearly doomed.
For fate is fickle, fate unkind
Fate unhinged my young sheep's mind
Though strong inside my true love burns
It never wins my love's returns
So ardent burn my ovine fires
Kindling noble deep desires
But I know what e'er I do
That four legs never yet won two
She lives a life I cannot know
And goes to places sheep don't go
I patient wait and hope she'll pass
But know she'll never share my grass.
I know it's doomed, I know I've lost
My passion most unkindly crossed
For even if she knew my heart
I know our lives must stay apart.
But maybe she might scratch my nose
My love troth's a half-eaten rose
With that held in her lovely hand,
To think on, she might understand.
Cherish me as I grow old, and am surely liable to forget things.
I know how interesting life is and the contentment it brings.
I know you'll make excuses to try and be miserable and even try not to go.
Now just have a good trip, even though I know your stress will just grow.
White, sandy beaches and salt tasted air, with an ocean so cold.
Aggravation sets in as we try to put our lawn chairs down to unfold.
Breathe, my love, its as simple as remembering the latch on the side.
Surely, all you had to do is ask, I'm tired of your old, stubborn pride.
Finally, we get our chairs situated and I'm ready to bask in the sun.
You ask for sun block and as I search, you assume I brought none.
Its just at the bottom of the beach bag, you stubborn old ass!
And don't think I don't see you sneaking a sip out of that flask!
I turn bronze as I used SPF 40, you chose SPF 15, and look at you.
Red as a lobster, mean as crab, and I'm enjoying the view.
I tried to tell you, but so stubborn, do you ever plan to listen?
Probably not now, nor never, so your skin will always be red and glisten.
How are you supposed to relax now that you can't move not even a limb?
Our stress free vacation, is as always, starting to look grim.
Oh well, aloe you up, and off to dinner we shall go and have some fun.
Take some Soma, Lortab, and Xanax and you'll be good and numb.
An hour later and you're stress free, and mostly out of that pain.
Good thing, because its in the forecast for Florida rain!
We'll hobble around the block and get soaking wet from head to toe.
Knowing tomorrow you'll be back in pain and stressed so we'll have to go.
But its like this every year, we plan to stay, but I know how you are.
One or two days of driving makes you stiff from sitting in the car.
It'll take the rest of our vacation for you to blister and finally peel.
You're the entertainment in my life, and that's why I'm with you still!
If Peter Piper picked a pack of pickled peppers, would you care?
Would the peck be put in a glass jar? What if he dropped a hair in there?
And, if Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet digging
and found the jar that Piper had hidden in the muck,
along side the skull of Cro-Magnon man?
“Ahhh, NO we’ve found the hip girdle and he’s a she!”
Well, ole Pipper’s pecker would have gone to the pie in the sky
and Miss Muffet’s tuffet would have gone to compost;
So, how would the archeologist know for sure? "
Why the HIP, you hafta have hips, miles and miles and mile of hips…
Baby you can be a hero of course just put that ‘orse behind the cart!”
Heart, well it’s left the building too. “Geeezzz it was just a pump
whatcha want from a pump?” Thump, thump, from the bump, bump,
then ya hump, hump, and my goodness, we’re back to Peter Piper and his pecker?
“NO, no, his peck of pickles and Muffet’s missin’ tuffet?
Well, I say the stars, yes the stars, show the way,
the celestial meaning of the id, the I, the you, the ego too,
and love “Ahhhhhh love the excuse for it all!”
The pickles, the muffins, the tuffet, the bumping the humpin’
The free for all of we!
I will start with using my hand as a guide
And in the end I will open my eyes that I will decide
I consider to do this with one thing in mind
I will close my eyes and will imagine it blind
With no colors or fractionation of the light
Just plain me and a vision with my hand as my sight
My hair is very coarse and some what fine
What I just described is so benign
I twirl my hair and make it bend
And I will say its very clean not oily on the ends
As I press on my forehead I simply feel a distinct part
I notice from hair to skin it is very different from the start
The simple partings from hair not like skin
I am going to feel with my other hand and begin
The smoothness of my skin like years of water eroding a rough rock surface smooth
Not just that my skin is like home to years of stories like scars and attitude
And when I raise my eyebrows the wrinkles it makes is more so for expression
I did not notice it with certain ideas, thoughts, and emotions
I run my hands down to my eyelids I feel movement of my eyes trying to peek
Eyelids that I have, vibrates with some kind of fear, Why?, that I will seek
Just now as I thought about it a sensation ran through my brain
My eyes is the world to me and that is true and not insane
Myself portrait of me is through my touch for now
But to finish it I will have to open my eyes soon and how
I been in a trance full of so many ideas just with my eyes closed
I run my hand on my nose and lips and I smile who could apposed
The feelings in the tip of my fingers rub on my chin and jaw with care
I do notice roughness of unshaved velcro gripping hair
I skip my ears so I will sneak a feel with my fingers I chose
I notice it is like my nose with cartilage, so I don't suppose
I will now open my eyes that I will use a mirror to see myself
My head is oval shape and my neck is like a stump, please help
My skin is very tan and my eyes are brown with my eyes I see
With all the description with my hands, one sure thing is the same and key
It is the description of measurements that is what my hands and eyes can see me
With a smile I am looking into the mirror and I can describe that I am happy
Myself portrait of me is such a way to get to know myself once more
I will never think it was a waste of time or a bore
Green bark a prism creates,
Feel the pull of earth, you must.
Rotates, a slime of endless hates,
Can hold me not, this world’s crust.
Friendship’s ties, isolation Deflates,
Succumbs, my spaceship, to bitter rust.
Mist, my soul forever permeates,
Lift-off, booms the rocket’s thrust.
My spirit when light returns, elates,
Swamps swell, swallowed hope’s swirling dust.
Trapped, I am, until student from fate
Arrives to learn; Cloud City or bust.