Some days you need to play with color,
dig out a dynamic metaphor;
A crotch hoarder with a smart mouth
who flashed his pinky finger at you?
Bollywonkers are so bitingly rude.
Locked in with that rhetoric squeezer.
Sew up your lip, sort out your tirade.
Waste of energy you don’t make sense.
Sports car driving by splashes water
making a mess of your brand new clothes;
Tippiefleas see nothing but themselves.
Some days you need to play with color,
dig out a dynamic metaphor;
That’s when you toss out a high end swear.
But if you want to go back to basics?
Just give them a good ‘F**k off’.
In spring, when delphiniums are in bloom fair
Come to my garden where I will meet you then
We will talk about life and love without a care
When spring comes, the earth is young again
As everything comes alive, trees begin to thrive
Come to me when the apple trees are white shining
In the spring when the young corn plants survive
But will you stay when winter's white is pining
When the white snow is on the mountain top
And those northerly breezes bitingly blow
Will you still look forward to seeing the snowdrop
When the garden is aged, wrinkled and slow
Youth has loves advantage in strength and beauty
True love through age and wisdom fulfills its duty
I have felt the sting
And the joy of the rain
Soaked in its confusion
Watched
As it turned cold
Bitingly cold and angry
Upon a howling wind
Frozen rivulets
Pelting the helpless
Becoming a more friendly
Soft fluffiness
Drifting into mountains
Burying all hope
Smothering
Isolated thought
Shaping the future
Of a sunrise
Hardening the resolve
Of life
Birman clouds gathered
To bury the top
Clawing their way down
to the dale below
White and grey cloaking
Short and sharp showers
Bitingly icy
Enveloping all
Felinely smothered
Now invisible
He would lay me flat on the forest floor
among the leaves and the moss
In a pasture or a farmer's field
In the hatchback of his car
parked behind an abandoned cabin
along the river road
Outside his room in the hall
Upstairs upon the bitingly brumal
bare tiles of the bathroom floor
was where I lost my virginity
Any of those places he would take me
Never in his bed
Anywhere but there
It was too intimate he said
A phantom spreads shadows over the ground,
black in its entirety of shape.
Swallowing all semblance of a life
in the darkened path, he ne'er takes a break.
Bitingly, the dreary clouds open up with
an assault of sharpened swords of pouring rain,
soaking the ground in abject sorrow, like tears.
Cloaked in silence, a silhouette, opaque,
creeps slowly along in token steps.
Smoked whispers stream from his mouth, curling
through stagnant temptation in the air.
Distorted faces cackle in laughter,
taking wing in their descent to the ground.
Shivering bones scream in intangible pain.
Flames are sparked, alighting along their feet,
a voracious beast of faceless hunger,
devoured in grief. Vaporous shapes
stuck hanging mid-air in flight above
translucent prisms of volatile rainbows,
flickering into a darkened room
surrounding a solid black-draped alter.
Shadows clinging to the hallowed walls,
dripping with a stain of crimson red.
Brittle snaps and shrieks of brokenness
bending sharp through the shallow hallways.
Running fast down a stoned path,
trying to escape this nightmarish scene
where there's no one who hears your screams.
Sun is sitting low
The air is bitingly crisp
O Winter Solstice
The Sittee River
Tumbling down from the magnificent Maya Mountains,
The rabid Sittee River rushed headlong,
Over-flooding its banks and the giant mangroves
On its long journey to the open Caribbean Sea.
Once forest green, the River’s color was now a dirty brown.
Hundreds of floating logs all rafted and chained together
Like creeping caterpillars lined up on a dead leaf.
These lumbering mahogany logs, once majestic living trees
Would be transformed mostly into polished furniture.
Attention captured by this rambling rapidly roving River,
As a child I sat at my window wondering,
What other dark secrets did this wandering River hold?
Could it reveal the life of the ancient Mayas, other civilizations, or more?
I may never know.
Today the old beautiful River is clear and bitingly cold,
Keenly listening –
Vigilantly watching -
Waiting for new adventures to unfold!
Note:
As a child, I grew up in the Sittee River Village in Central America, and this is
one of my earliest memories of the River.
TO BORROW A BODY’S BEAUTY
I want the lady so, but no, not to keep
Just to embrace her with devotion bared so very deep
I want the lady but not forever for me to hold
Because forever sometimes can become so bitterly and bitingly cold
Forever is a promise seldom if ever fulfilled
When forever’s death, by tomorrow, is skillfully and willfully willed
Some souls seek forever in their own special way
While I yearn for the lady to be mine but for just one sparkly day
After that destiny’s voice will clearly and thus be heard
And I, not foolish enough to believe in forever, will heed every sacred word
Wine leads to women who too often lead me to woe
Yet and still I ask the barman to let the Cabernet flow
Her laughter is a lure and her smile is a snare
Her flourish is finesse finalized with such flair
To own her is and never will be my desire
Because to hold her today might set tomorrow afire
Other men might want to possess her for the rest of their breathing days
But they are all men who believe forever isn’t just a fleeting phase
As for me all I want is a slim slice of the lady’s years
And the death of another “forever” without any tears
© 2012….copyright PHREEPOETREE...~free cee!~
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