My dream girl's not a doll, no Kewpie cutie,
Or an heiress, or an actress on the screen.
She's neither nun nor acrobat,
Nor wears fine feathers in her hat,
No frump for Trump Republican,
No beauty queen.
She's not a princess trapped inside an ivory palace
Awaiting rescue by a valiant knight like me.
She doesn't dazzle like aurora borealis,
Or sing arias from "Carmen" like Ms. Callas,
Or practice taekwondo,
Or even know tai chi.
But the girl I dream about has joy and laughter,
And her heart's as full of love as it can be.
When my spirit's low, she lifts it to the rafter,
And I know we'll have a happily ever after
Every time I dream of her
And she of me.
On the streets of the tent-city
the lad grew up fast
Crime, drugs and vice
How long could he last
A rich heiress had pity
took him into her home
Too late to reform him
He left her this poem:
HIV bug
Grave dug
Cry not
~ I rot
my sympathies aren’t born of grace
like in the way of the benevolent heiress who,
ever-so-delicately, extends cupped hands
to feed the twittering songbirds
perched on her windowsill
it comes from a far more wretched place,
emerging so unsightly, it almost contradicts
the inherent virtue of the word
because it isn’t fueled by love or fortune,
but by every instance unaccounted for
in which i should’ve felt the same pity
for myself
my sympathy is abundant and involuntary
as though in response to constant overflow
and extends much further than hungry birds
or grieving friends
it reaches all the way out to lone, discarded cans
that didn’t quite make it to the trash bin,
and to the virtual strangers that walk past,
their defeats and quandaries overheard,
and to every unfortunate soul between,
under the sole condition that
they don’t share a brain with me
Independence panacea dashingly suggests
We purchase our palace hexagonal
Reoriented Nerida handed padlock, blessed
Fathoms red cross heiress of hospital
Imposter student enrols wild idea envisaged
Wider scope than she ever deserved
Ostentatious vistas brew broadwater blizzard
Novice nurse serves a nostrum absurd
Ultraviolet facet inferno disco jive diamond
Wears title queen of high hive divine
Fanciful feminine accepts novel assignment
Redhead remedy writes Chapter 119
Third of February
Thank you, dear old Doris
She never entered a ghetto.
She perfected a high-pitched falsetto.
At the Carnegie Hall
she could both enthrall and appall
as she shredded every libretto.
She's up there with her heavenly peers,
Where many angels must now plug their ears
There once lived a local chef named Harris
Claimed he trained at a school in Paris
That he makes fine dishes
Harris had grand wishes
He couldn't boil water; married an heiress
*Image IMO; hairstylist Jay Sebring, 8-1/2 month pregnant actress Sharon Tate, a friend of the property caretaker Steven Parent, screenwriter Wojciech Frykowski, and coffee heiress Abigail Folgers by LATimes.
The Manson's at Cielo Drive
first seen
eighteen
shot died
outside
java
diva
ritzy
pritzy
two guys
one tries
all grabbed
and stabbed
horrid
four did
five die
jive by
nutty
Chucky
helter
skelter
2021 July 09
*1st Place*
A BRIAN STRAND JULY 16
~~Brian Strand: Judged 2021 July 16
MATHEMATICS (Pleiades)
Maths always puzzled me,
Made life a misery.
Many a teacher tried,
My mother even cried.
Mattered not, to be fair
Married an heiress, Claire,
Multi-millionaire
4th October 2020
Pleiades Poetry Contest
Sponsor - Joseph May
Imperial heiress waving the dry handkerchief,
how flows your infectious desires ...
spreading oh so much malignant sawdust grief
Holding darkly the pestilent flame
closely to the pox-tinted looking glass
Scorch thy self-acclaimed name
into the pantheon sky of kingdoms past
See thy haughty visage
lunar bathing in a global sea of misery
Bane ebb a crescent smile
to those lip drowning in blind naïvete
Ere watch as evaporated hope
ascend into the void
Weak-hearted souls can’t cope,
tainted air carries
that woebegone noise
Flagging trust died
when plague stricken eyes
were tearborne
Doused immunity cried
when vaunted shoreline pride
heard the dirge horn
When I was but a boy
in the small village of Cold Springs,
I lived near a cantankerous old witch.
At least, that's what the gossip implied she was.
Her name was Almeda Hamilton, and she was a hoarder.
Of course, we knew nothing of hoarders back then
and most everyone thought she was plum crazy.
She'd trap and skin groundhogs and squirrels,
salt their hides and stitch their raw pelts into fur coats.
Pew, you could smell her coming downwind for miles.
She lived off-road in a patch of trees
in a dilapidated cottage crammed with garbage.
The irony is, her father once owed the whole county,
and she was an heiress,
suffering from a severe phobia and mental problem.
Years back, or so the story goes,
her fiancée had left her at the altar,
but her father had built them that house,
and so, she stayed there a recluse.
It was rumored she'd buried hordes of cash,
and when she died, alone in her filth,
her property was potholed by fools trying to find it.
I confess, I felt sorry for her then, and still do,
for the lady got mistreated by the world,
and on its behalf, I apologize.
(Free Verse)
03/18/2020
Gold as far
As the eye can see
In awe I stood
As the sun lit up
Everything around me
Instant heiress
Of a golden estate
With unimaginable
Gilded treasures
My heart overflowed
Then in a split second
The clouds rolled back
And took it all away
My riches and my heart
Published in my photo/poetry book ~WEALTH~ 2019
AP: Honorable Mention 2022
Submitted on June 7, 2019 for contest YOUR CHOICE (4) sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 3RD
Originally posted on June 4, 2019
heiress on the lam
great romantic comedy. . .
won top five Oscars
Copyright © 2018 by Mark Toney. All rights reserved.
First published 2018 in Hollywood Haiku via wattpad.com
Thoughts unspoken, feelings remain hidden,
Concealing all emotions, she walks ahead
All rainbows and sunshine.
Unravelling her will take hell lot of time.
She portrays herself to be strong,
Thinks she can gather all the broken pieces...
Rejection played a crucial role in where she is now.
Her gorgeous smiles don't give away
The beautiful mess that she is.
She refuses to acknowledge those unpleasant feelings,
She has mastered the art of fake smiling.
Oblivious to the whirlwind of emotions,
The world thinks she is an open book.
Unaware of the hidden pages, the unspoken secrets.
She sure tried to get rid of the bad vibes
That passed right before her eyes.
But no matter how much you rub a black board,
Some marks are not bound to go.
She refuses to lose her dignity
But she has lost the ability
To dream a 1000 dreams
And never fear anything.
She can't take rejection anymore.
Yes, she is a beautiful mess,
A mystery, a fragile heiress.
Sylvia, you are the heiress to my heart;
Your garden to saunter at your leisure.
Lieu of one seed, I vest whole orchards of my love in you.
Vacant is this Eden, and though the apples be by Eves eaten,
It still be my love, Sylvia, it still be my love,
And now it be yours, evermore.
If only I could make my way to Paris
To search the boulevards and rainy rues
I'd look to find my lonely heart an heiress
An Irish lass vacationing her muse
We'd find a quiet cafe' on the Seine
Where we could sit and share a laugh or two
By candlelight we'd toast with French champagne
Pretend that we were on our honeymoon
But how could I convince her I'm the one
To make all of her fantasies come true
She knows there's more to life than having fun
In Paris hearts get easily confused
I'd get down on one knee under the stars
Give her the paper ring off my cigar
an original poem by Daniel Turner
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