Oh to have one's heart-string strummed by a
loving angel-like hand! Like lumps on a head
are those lumps on the heart, a read of life's
mixtures of orchids and desert sand. Oh to see
an angel-like smiling back...divine halogens on steroids!~
a lost vision to my ailing heart -- deeply regretting
our divorce...the absence of my home...with a pool...
a country-club setting, and that enviable Master's style
golf-course you so hated. Missing you.
Who gives a damn about the crying man?
What about human beings they’re treated so mean
Some are more concerned about animals and beast
While they treat their own kind the (human race) the least
What about fair housing
What about unpaid student loans
Some politicians say “Squash that, our hearts are made of stone”
What about well paying jobs for all, that’s the greatest call
What about the environment, how much more abuse can it stand?
It’s not about cigarette smoke that’s destroying the ozone
It is man-made chemicals, halogens, chlorine and bromine that’s
Destroying the land
When it’s too late the crying man will dissipate
And those who turned their heads will meet their fate
He is classed among metals yet he`s not,
To be looked down upon this he fought,
His affection and passion for the halogens
Is rare and strong like human antigens,
He pairs with helium to form the shinning star,
Which illuminates the earth from afar ,
He`s divided into three parts known as isotopes,
But exists in one state only without allotropes,
I fear him for his weapon of mass destruction,
Which makes cities desolate,bringing down construction,
He`s the lightest and his breath used to propel rockets,
Which has made money to enter many pockets,
He should be handled with care for he`s flammable,
Yet, he is soft, accommodating and amiable.
CONTEST:"Periodic table Of Elements" sponsored by Anthony Slausen.
halogens burn bright...
graze along blacktops at night
herd of deer take flight
By Robb A. Kopp
All Rights Reserved © MMX
I see a savior everywhere, I see
a prophet everyday, shining purple through the faces of
Teachers, Stockmen, Welders, Prostitutes.
Those halogens shine, pilot lights burning bright in
Cyan, Magenta, Hunter green and Mauve, stained-glass
saints made free from that flat and veined dimension.
Those are
Figurines,
translucent they bear before them brushes and
cisterns filled with lamb's blood, marking
the houses of the unlucky as they pass-
(they walk on hallowed ground not a place for me they walk with heads held high eyes up to
the sky contemplating visions I am not blessed enough to see)
Hushed voices in oaken pews speak
litany and mumble
Hymn, while doomed players act out the
stations of the cross within the
Lavish temple.
Ah!
see this rimmed with gold and platinum:
A chorus made for angles of war and angles of peace rides upon the
heavy air, gliding
upwards from the ladies choir.
I suspect that if Gabriel or Michael were to lend an ear and hear them, tears
would pour out from the heavens, covering the
world in a second flood, and
Once again, our
bastion of hope would land on Ararat, but
this time it would be a super-tanker.