My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun.
Her skin's mahogany, not regal white.
She slaps on paints and fillers by the ton,
and has the dress sense of an anchorite.
Fastidious? Only in her brand of beer.
Brash burger joints are where she likes to dine.
She'd rather look at Fonzie than Vermeer:
thinks maybe vampires dwell in Wittgenstein.
It's Oprah Winfrey over Orson Welles,
and Justin Bieber beats Thelonius Monk:
she'll read "Hello!" before the Book of Kells,
and Chateau Margaux's just for getting drunk.
A fiery, funny, perky popinjay?
I wouldn't have her any other way.
I’m not the girl with the Cinderella smile
exposing perfectly straight pearly teeth
so lovely birds swoop down to
perch on my finger and sing
I’m nothing as sweet as Snow White
I’m far too smart to fall for
the old poison apple trick
I’m more likely to be the one
placing a curse on an enemy
that’s earned my enmity
I’m no raving beauty
my waist a bit wide
my shoulders too broad
my spine slightly snaky
with a tendency to trip
over my own two feet
I’ve often pondered the possibility
that in a past life
Shakespeare’s muse for Sonnet 130
must have been me
yet he found in her something exceedingly rare
a love strong and true beyond compare
Is there someone searching for that
out there?
Nightmare:-,
these leaves too float,
and fan.
what
beauty
dazzling
before
my
eyes:
what
excitement
ahead...
...awaiting
the
moment..
within
my
grasp
to
reach
and
claim
and
enjoy
inspired by Mendelson violin clip
surgical changes
value of the life cycle
human dignity
24-04-2018
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
www.howmanysyllables.com
haiku - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mick Talbot
1st place in the contest
Hope (Ps 130, Col 2:13-15)
Out of the dark I call
“Covenant Faithful One—Ruler of All,
hear my cry,
for You are Sovereign—not I.”
My dark depths of despondency
press down deep the decrees upon me—
hard on my head
so that I’m filled with fear and dread.
But lo! A light of love,
blazing eternally bright above,
burning away the ashes of my deeds
beautifully terrific display—never to be made of me!
Forever forgiveness from The Faithful!
With hope I await, awake—full
of whispers of His freedom word:
faithful love, abundant redemption, fully restored!
NOT SONNET 130
My body is nothing like new Adonis born
In some men’s sock there may be delight
Though the fabric may be worn
But mine doth reek, especially late at night
If hair be full crops in the field
And men’s skin be smooth as silk
Then bare soil is my head ‘s yield
And my body-cover’s like sour milk
Some men’s feet are curved all round
With arches graceful, ankles perfect
My feet are flat to tread the ground
They shame my leg with all their defect
If this mess disbelieved be
Then you have never witnessed me
“Dear God, Jesse
it was 130 yesterday!”
yes
Age
a’int
nothing
but a way
of counting up how
many times you’ve been around the
sun