She stepped lightly
Amid the golden reeds
Glowing, this nymph of
Riparian leisure --
Barefoot and scantily
Covered breasts, whose
Jutting pavilions twice
Blessed swayed and
Swelled as the marsh
Tried breathe, exhaled even
Deeper saturating its own boggy
Savors, fixated then
Upon her naked thighs
Exposed for the silk
Curtain had parted revealed
Luscious droplets clinging, slipping,
Slippery sliding my heart a slush
Of primitive desire --
Oh I do love the sound of the rain
As it trickles on down the drain
The ground gets boggy
And my socks might be soggy
But it's something I just can't explain.
I am here to confide it's countrywide
as whenever the British gather together
the first topic of their conversation
is almost always the inclement weather
whatever precipitates such predominant
drizzle discussion drenching debate
or downpour discourse
I do not know and cannot relate
soggy foggy or boggy it's one and the same
altho' it's plain we know where stays the rain in Spain
it has also been seen to land on England's pleasant green
yet after such falls mostly all goes down the drain
yet without its descent on the Emerald Isle
there'd be no rainbows to make me smile
but fleeting I do remember it well and can recall
out of three hundred and sixty-five it was the one day
when nothing liquid dripped down from the sky
and as a result last year summer was on a Monday
The kernels desires to expand and pop.
If you make it in too much water, it gets cooked and boggy.
In too much sticky butter, it gets grounded to the bottom of the pan.
In too much flame, it gets the undesired smokey flavor.
In too much spray of oil, it becomes an unhealthy snack.
So pop well and rise and transform to a beautify popcorn.
Then again I see you acting as a co-star in a song.
Shall I call it touché or well-done?
Carolina home
In the great Palmetto State
Place where I was born
Boy was free to roam
On a ninety-acre farm
Free from fear and harm
In dirt, sand or mud
We sandlappers had it all
To work, play, or brawl
Turning the dark dirt
Putting the hounds on the trail
Tussling with cousins
Having dirt clog fights
Making toys out of pine bark
Plowing fertile fields
Running through the pines
Wading through the boggy swamp
Swinging from a vine
Down in muddy swamp
Turtle is called a “cooter”
Anglicized slave word
So my cousin says
Parents were missionaries
Belgian Congo
Many days have gone
Much water under the bridge
Since I left that home
Days of yesteryear
Now, home is where I reside
But memories last
Aeneid Book 6: The Descent into the Underworld
by Virgil
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The Sibyl began to speak to Aeneas:
“God-blooded Trojan, son of Anchises,
descending into the Underworld’s easy
since Death’s dark door stands eternally unbarred.
But to retrace one’s steps and return to the surface:
that’s the conundrum, that’s the catch!
Godsons have done it, the chosen few
whom welcoming Jupiter favored
and whose virtue merited heaven.
However, even the Blessed find headway’s hard:
immense woods barricade boggy bottomland
where the Cocytus glides with its dark coils.
But if you insist on ferrying the Styx twice
and twice traversing Tartarus,
if Love demands you indulge in such madness,
listen closely to how you must proceed...”
Keywords/Tags: Virgil, Aeneid, descent, underworld, Aeneas, death, door, Jupiter, heaven, woods, Cocytus, River Styx, Stygian, Hades, Tartarus, voyage, journey, love, madness, god, gods
An aardvark walked into IKEA
Why he did that I have no idea
Ignoring their calls
To try the meatballs
He searched for some ants out the rear
He does ‘civilised’ when he’s able
So found a flat pack dining table
He’d built one - not ever
In inclement weather
And thus it was rather unstable
You don’t see aardvarks wearing wellies
While stuffing ants into their bellies
And if he should drown
While slurping ants down
Would it show up on closed circuit tellies?
He wouldn’t be humiliated
Embarrassment is over rated
The ground was now boggy
And aardvark was soggy
His hunger was not to be sated
So he snuck in to get meatballs - Swedish
He was wet so they gave him a free dish
He ate them real quick
And then he got sick
Had somebody done something fiendish?
The police came and said, “Well I Never,
Was it IKEA food or the weather?”
They found lots of clues
They thought they could use
But they struggled to put them together.
Your bones are scattered in a boggy field -
it happens all the time.
Time is your pocket handkerchief,
your shattered wristwatch,
your best evening pants,
all reduced to insect dust.
Hundreds of years later
they discover,
a distant tooth with its crown intact,
later still, a being reports your broken jaw,
unearthed by the sludging rain.
Bit by bit your skull is discovered.
Eventually they have enough of your head
to commence a plaster likeness
of your skull.
Your life is so distantly buried into the past,
that the new beings have to speculate...
some assume you died,
at the hands of an axe wielding foe,
others that you succumbed to a
primitive tooth condition.
None ever guess,
that you flew off your girlfriends Honda,
practicing one last incautious wheelie
on a minor road
in darkest Derbyshire.
with each word I say to you
I feel myself being taken
down by the undertow
below the boggy mire
as I struggled to say
just the right thing
I find myself sinking
trapped knowing inevitably
I'm helpless as each word
provides more of a struggle
into the quicksand
of our broken love
©SamHarty
Broken-hearted are the tree limbs,
General Flooding surveys the wreckage
blames a subversive sky.
Gamely, the peg-legged scarecrow
salutes the wavy navy
while they row on by
in their bathtub parade.
It's a fine day under water,
cats are stewing poems
in a bobbing blue barrel;
words drip from their whiskers.
Ducks flop their slippery wings
as oily drums grease
their oily bones.
Rowdy are the gulls
that pipe the rain ashore,
it's as if the blocked-up
boggy landlubbers
had Mackerel eyes,
or as if the sky had gills
and needed more.
i got a ghostly
mostly moist handful of you
i got a mind
that's top heavy with you
it spills over with you
leaks you
I pant like a Parisian poodle for you
my baggy saggy heart
is packed to the hilt with you
my soggy boggy parts
pine for you
you told me to go to hell
and i went for a while
but came back
with a picture of you
tattooed all over my eyes
and
there were hot flames
under my hots
for you
also my burning boots
and socks
this day i dedicate
to my loss of control
my needy desperateness
my unrestraint
my ill-advised
madcap
rash and heedless
love
i celebrate you
and the fact
that you don't give a damn for me
maybe you will come around
change your low opinion of me
shoot the breeze with me
so for now dearest
please put down that shotgun
Poor soldier Andrew Jackson who
Attacked the British after peace
Was signed three weeks before at Ghent.
Unnecessary bravery
Is no less admirable for that.
He waves to patrons eating their
Beignets at the Café Du Monde.
Astride a horse, saluting with
His bicorn hat, and stern of face,
He looks less menacing than if
They cast him brandishing a sword.
But who can blame his victory
(Redundant though his conquest was),
The English might have occupied
The Crescent City, New Orleans.
Between Lake Ponchatrain and Gulf
Of Mexico the land is boggy here.
Once rains would pelt Orleans and make
A flood enough for fetid pools.
Pine coffins bobbed and knocked aloud
Discouraging the patronage
Of all the working girls for weeks.
But that was long before the war.
And British and Americans
Were mostly buried on high ground.
So no unnecessary dead
Were ever disinterred by rains
And washed some parishes away
Without their names on coffin lids
To now or ever be reclaimed.
The dusty, dead strands
of summer grass has resurrected
into plump green clumps
knee deep in the ooze of boggy ground.
Now almost winter, something moves
in the cold, set to reclaim the places
owned by the suntanned set who
paraded in the spotlight
of summer's heat.
A creature of shade, it has spent
all summer locked away in the dark
of its chrysalis, rearranging
the content of itself until,
stirred by an icy chill, it stretches
to burst through its wrappings,
unfolding its wings, metamorphosing
into me. Watch out….my bite
can freeze souls.
Froggy bottom chorus line was jazzy and smart
They obeyed with rhythm, they bogeyed with heart
They brought their dance routine to a whole new art
Choreography of their steps, courtesy of leader, McLart
This boggy chorus line danced nearly off the chart
Every one of them, even smart little missy Tart.
I was mesmerized said my dour cousin Bill Bart.
Best of all was when the whole line began to belch and fart.
Scaring flies who did not know which way to dart
I like to think that love
is Universal – even little
green men, on boggy worlds
having such fond capacity
like to think that stars
share brilliance affectionately,
giving an extra beam, here and there,
to a fellow where a twinkle lagging
like to think, that vagabond comets,
trade heartfelt sonnets in the passing
like to think that you would love me
forever...even if I wasn't so
poetically cute and clever:)
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