Panting, with a run-down look
And a pleader's, for
Your man's sympathy
Approach, as when blow, hotly
Days, frail doe, a tree.
Pleasantness! As what relieves
Through coos so o'ertook
Leaves one such sleep-bound
Of safekeeping, for shade thereround
Hugged, suggestive, round.
Nirvana is a handsome, gray writing spider. She kneels on the outside of her web. She opens up her legs and reveals a slim, female arachnid's, similar to a woman's.
"Interpret me," she coos. She takes her feelers in her womb and licks herself.
Moments later, our legs collide, and we're both moaning. The feeling was rough with a lesbian sense of bliss. Snakes and spiders would agree; the thought of the dirty voice inside my head began to rumble. It was the voice of Jiminy Cricket. Don't forget to FLOSS them gum-vipers, she screamed, swinishly...
Her jaws were now down there, licking. I, in turn, licked the lobe earnestly with precision and vanity.
Have you ever seen the l mouth of a ladybug or a transgenderbender? Yeah, I did them all, I gulped.
The vampire was feasting, feasting on the wrath of man-- the vampire known as the Antichrist and Count Dracula...
On seaside cliffs
Central Park to Trafalgar square
Soft coos in the air
Flying rats they call them
Found even here
Aired embellishment.
Musical sound.
Fog-cleared, of all a new-woke
Source of uplift, more vibrant
Flowering ground.
Can we, as lovers
State otherwise?
Live in the heart; bell-like rings
Relatably in tune with
These coos. Dove-size.
vermillion sun rising
reveals cobalt clouds swiftly gathering....
mourning dove coos
A Bird Haiku Set of Two 6-16-26
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
dove
a mourning dove coos
matins of morning glories ~
sweet bird song wakes dawn
first light serenades
clothed in downy grey plumage ~
sun rise reveille
Unseen, this shown to advance
Our too world-shy romance.
Of each side's tree-folds hemmed in
As thick wrapped around by.
Midst what as aptly produced
For coos these hearts outfly!
Seated at which intervals
That world-fear into falls
The sheoke, through its whispers
Opes an ocean-view on.
Whilst in fragrant isle-dreams lost
Inhale them; vapour-hung.
Baby
Blossom fair gently coos
Beguiling hearth with charm ,
Bubbly as morning dew
Born from heaven's cradle :
Bright smiles make me quiver
Blushing...dimpled cheeks roll
Bundle of pink enthralls!
Sometimes it shrieks, hoots or creaks,
whistles, cries, trills or squeaks,
rattles, russles gurgles or moans,
babbles, crackles, grunts or groans.
Sometimes it chatters, chirps or howls,
baas, ribbits, hisses, roars or growls,
cackles, coos, squawks or crows,
chitters, bleats, clucks or bellows.
Sometimes it, barks, buzzes or caws,
clicks, gobbles, gurbles or heehaws,
moos, humms, oinks, meows or neighs,
peeps, purrs, quacks, snuffles or brays
the silence of nature is a never-ending song,
forget your troubles and come sings along.
Though it’s still partly cloudy in this street
& everybody follows the king’s fleet,
I’m following you to the ends of this world,
where I’ve replaced everything with your word,
I remain elsewhere like the empty plea
because you’re that fire burning inside me.
Though those agencies that create duets seem
to believe that a system employing well over
2, 000, 000 couples with infusions of bright visions
will need certain clearly specified characteristics
with objectives & noting costs to protect the new moon.
You’re that whirlwind blowing everything away,
that’s why in this play, I pray not to be the next prey.
I’m too late this morning & I won’t catch any bus,
though traders in their market won’t understand us.
To them, we’re actors in a tragic-comedy stage.
& we made a bold decision to try out the phage.
Give me your hands for a warmth of touch
& I won’t be in operational form in that skutch.
Give me your mouth for a kiss
when I listen to your coos.
Give me your whole body for burying me completely
when I pledge fealty.
The outcast dove sits alone, apart
From the rest of those who shared the start
Of the journey that has led them here
And left some full of dread and fear
Its bills and coos don't matter now
For the line they choose does not allow
Separation from the flock and roost
Different, and the choice - the noose
That leaves it twisting in the wind
Hanging there without a friend
That wind whose loft brought all along
And fills each lung with life and song
Allows the soul to separate
To fill, to fly, but not inflate
Yes, from the flock, but not the soul
That one lone thing we can control
Left hanging there is what is lost
Relations now the tempest tossed
Suspension left to bear the cost
Of souls refusing to be bossed
Relations never really die
They linger in that endless sky
Surrounding ev'ryone we know...
The air that lives in ev'ry soul
As you walk down the dirt path, past the tall green trees,
I hope you remember who you are when you reach the willow tree.
You will inevitably get lost, confused in the woods,
struggling to find your way to the willow.
When the light dims, the whoos and coos of owls
and other nameless creatures will hymn in your ear,
distracting you from the overcompensation of your own voice
a light whisper of overthinking,
a gentle pluck of uncertainty.
The journey is long and weary,
more mournful for the woods you walk
than eager for the destination ahead.
With fleet, you fall,
but with glory, you rise
again and again
proving you know what you want.
Unsure of what lies at your destination,
you remain purely hopeful,
your mind already hanging by the tips
of the lanceolate leaves.
The sun fades to moonlight,
and you stand in the quiet presence
of a single thought
a dream that lingered
through the walking and the withering.
Thankful for sight,
eager never to turn your back to the wilderness,
for you have reached
nature.
We spend the hours in tinge of pale
There's no tenderness quite right--
And more hazy moments prevail
Growing dimmer like snuffed twilight.
Although he's near the inky hues
Splatter into unanswered coos:
While this pained heart bears all
To feel his cold of whispers diffuse.
Shall we grate hours in tinge of pale?
This time... let me request,
The tiny stars to dart away
Beyond the ridge of moonlit crest.
My longing hands and warm embrace
Can't fill his icy space ---
How one-way is ardor's mantra
Point of no return... I'm out of grace.
Down where the privet hedge blooms
And doves sing their coos
A woman feeds the birds
Now her life resumes
God's love is an ocean
And mine a small-streamed river
The tide comes in and rejuvenates
The small stream's thirst for life
Dear Lord in your son's name
Let the water flow
And my life like spring flowers blossom
Amen
When nightfall dips in palest of gold
I feel a sense of indignity,
As owl's melody loses its eloquence
Through the absence of a safe abode;
Where quietude calls for avian coos
The kind which never seeks to intrude…
And its orbed eyes larger than neons, freeze
In need of natue's hued, aerial parade---
Startled, bird's forest trail is washed out
By mourning dew of poison
Denying the barren woods of nourishment
while allowing thieves to skin owl feathers,
mangled talons like so, wasted ---
Wise keeper of secrets, hushing the noise.
Life marvels at your nocturnal guardianship
yet, this world shares not your moonlit toots
lithography of hills no longer owns
your delicate interludes of silence...
Man ravages bird navel, flesh , and plumes
For trading quests, for self- interest ---
Can this earthly slaughter cease
sucking nectar soil of birds dry?
Somehow, I still hail the dwindling number
of hooting owls
Which believes that the next generations
will wander on an environ,
Soaring their wings... joyously free at last.
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