It is so blind, it saw eyes, mouths, bodies, feet
imploring it's paint, it's beggars land, stroked
by hand.
It's can, faceted as one gem, drips only you.
The brush peels back, stroke by stroke, layer
by layer, new always differed you.
Each canvas, some happy, some mad, still it's
always you, is to Regina's sun.
The brush of lips, still trembles it, invitingly...why?
Lips brush the stroke, you make the paint, wants why?
The canvas is always full of different you, asks it,
is it not?
Respectable mirror to try on in you..why not?
It laughs at it's self, seeing a growth on it, so boss.
The rose drips, it is painted to it's natural blush,
as it's meant to be.
It is a struggle between the rose and it's blush, it's
a grippe so tight, the colors run at times, on it..you
still laugh amused.
It just cannot, as much as passion flames it's eye,
be reduced to frame, you in the boring same tired,
eyes of it is.
When every woman is her, she a Queen.
Google poetry James McLain
I generally mean mine mien mental state
moost occasions heavily marinated stupor
long established as external trait
psychologically time tested trooper
impossible mission to kickstart sanity
doppelgänger regularly revisits his soul asylum
hellbent antimatter he cannot vitiate
despite therapeutic laxative merely exhausts
well bred literate smoking doobie brother
eliminating aforementioned pablum
witnessed courtesy one floundering grouper
among plenty of fish schooled
hyphenated (high finned haggled)
burn hushed scaled poem
courtesy one unionised rebellious party pooper.
Spellbound with colossal mental grippe
(i.e. all-consuming figurative cerebral
obsessive compulsive forced membership)
magnetic resonance imagine indicated jagged blip
and/or nsync microscopy
showed telltale genetic authorship
regarding above stated mental health crisis,
whereby Sigmund Freud analyst did flip
lid freeing leeches imported courtesy Philip
Hansel and Gretel a mere slip
o' lass whose nose she always did turnip.
Sea the wight-capped waives rolling inn the see;
here the howling wynds, wile I’m standing hear,
whale and forme hi waives. Theirs eh jumping wail-
tale upp inn the ayre! This should make gneiss tail
two tel wen eye get holm. Butt now theirs too
blew wales inn wiaves- there water spouts just blue!
Whether getting worse, kneed two sea weather
it's my thyme too lieve since wynd now blows it’s
grate, whiled sounds awl across the see, witch great
allowed and shriek. Could bee, I’m knot aloud
write hear two stay- dew knot want gnus too right,
“Sum man fell inn the see and payed the some
witch cost his life from storms angry whiled which.”
Week legs mite make mi sync and fall; eh weak
wood pass before they fined mi with eh would
bored inn my grippe from roe boat beet and board
bye waives and whild wynds that kame and flue buy.
Eye no, its thyme too lieve, cum back wen aye
cee com, and eye can stay eh wile two sea
wails jump inn waives without the wynd’s whiled whales.
April 7, 2015
~2nd Place~
Contest: Only Homo’s Allowed
Sponsor: Jerry T. Curtis
Judged: 04/30/2015
(Homophones)
Whaler’s fate
Several submarines disappeared,
without a trace in the greatest, World War two,
ancient mariners of the Yankee race,
still dive’s and surface’s too,
a time shift to century twenty first,
6 torpedoes wait to run,
on the deck a 5 inch gun, immersed,
for the Japanese or Hun,
Then in the south Pacific, blue,
On Coral Sea war patrol,
A big ship of the rising sun, too,
A target like days of old,
Sailors man the deck gun of an iron look,
the whalers world is really shook.
A world war two submarine appears,
to stop the blood and flow of tears,
A rusty torpedo leaves the ship,
and punches a hole in the awful nip.
So down she goes as the water’s grippe,
the last of that awful whaling ship.
And the old Sub disappears.
Don Johnson
The ghostly grippe on Zorro's goolies,
as the ghostly footsteps fall,
some old bugger called d'hoolie,
jerked his chain and was not enthralled,
gelded by the facination,
would he get her would he fall,
rising, falling, flaccid, hesitation,
Zorro needs some other's balls....
Don
Dogpaddling the Styx
Dogpaddling cross the Styx
To be with old Tom Mix
But Charon was there
Demanding he be paid
So an uppercut a bit
sorta laid back the twit
the deal was made
We reached the foreign shore
Side stepping a Boar
Caught old Topper for a ride
But Cassidy said nuts (Hoppy)
Don’t ride my horse
So I had to give him back
Twin pistols he did pack
On another horse, Jack
I rode for sure
Wild cattle we were chasing
Thundering and racing
And sparks n fire came from
Their flaming hooves
We galloped cross the valleys
Up n down streets n alleys
Down footpaths terrifying
derilects a sucking booze
So back to Charons boat
He said “whither go at”
So we boarded for a free trip
Going home
Bit grumpy was old Charon
He sidestepped up the Narran
But changed his mind when
I got the Christmas holdt (Goolies grippe)
The nutcracker fair
Got us flaming there
On shore into the timber
we did bolt
an interesting trip
on the grog we did sip
stay away from hell
the moral bit
I know it
Don Johnson …..16-may-11
Apologies to Hopalong Cassidy ?
Get that firm grip
Get a firm grippe
or off the planet you'lle slippe
Then you’ll find you have
Lots of space
Like a giddy Giraffe
Don’t sit there an laugh
The airs getting thin
In this place
So:
Where do we come from where do we go?
The spirit does fly with our alter ego
The death rattle kick
An you’re out like a chick
Eggshell just falling away
In freedom you flick
To go anywhere quick
As random as any thoughts say
Ah well Dr Ram
sometimes it flows from "I am "
the fat controlller
a pulling the strings
return yet again
perhaps in Siam
soul body
to learn many things
Don Johnson...is it a couplet?
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