They kept telling her to leave!
But her heart didn't hear their
loud thumping voices.
Like an idiot staying up all night,
this grandmother,quite old,
Physically worn out, decided it
was time to fold.
After all, few years had she left!
She put away her quill in her oak
desk, more than bereft.
Knowing to them she was nothing but
a "thumbs down."
But knew that was fine, as one
day, she would wear a heavenly
crown.
Loathed because she was a patriot!
Knew truth, not lassoed by fake
news lariats!
Glad she was in the PS Anthology,
She grinned with humble satisfaction.
Staring at her friend.the lone, moonlit
Oak tree.
The quill rustled softly in it's velvet
green holder.
No quitter, she, hard times always made
her far bolder.
12/19/20320
They say deep in Cauldron skies secrets fly
With swamp waters near , fallen angels gathered here
With tempest pain the human rises from waters depth
Secert still Bayou kept
The secrets lie with Medusa
She breathes the lovers so deep
Within her arms lariats she keeps
In the blackened depth many man will travel to her desires
To sunset sunrise she will wild your passions
She willowing make you liars
Her hair combed in seas light, all travels to her each sensual twilight
Take warn to ye alone! she will find you in place
She will charm her way to your heart, as you glide to side
She will ingest all your lifelike body
Feed you in the morning to her soul
I read a poem yesterday
An old poem
By a poet preparing to past away
It unravels threads
In my spirits well seamed hem
I am huanted
By why she had to say
I would go back and read
It to myself again,
But may not find the path
From which I fled
Shaking like a child
Before its quaking dread.
Was it the calmness
Of the preparation
The suddeness
Of my intrusion
The awareness of the desperation
That life is a pen
We write nothing with
And imprisoned by it
So long
We are strangers
In our ultimate world?
I appraised a poem
Yesterday, a sad poem
Words wheeling lariats
Around my bed, haunted
Now by a voice I hear
But do not know
Casting me in nakedness
To stand, and face my fear.
when I
a rock-chucking stick-slasher
patch-monger
was
there was a waterless
well
where we would await sprites and goblins in ambush
shoe-lace lariats
piles of rock for cannonade
this and all all the angels
at bay
for there is nothing gay grisly meaner than
restless
idleness
caked with efflorescing dandelions
raging raiding sun
No greater gift can be
than your festival of lights
which blister burst so sweet
shedding firefly skins.
In silk-shod luminosity
enshrined the tombstone corners
of my darkest patch of soul,
drowning radiant pools around my feet.
Fortune blessed the sapphire rays
loop moonbeam lariats and
tease the savage mooring, free
my aorta, dragged to dizzy brilliance.
Whereabouts the holy jewels crust
the surface of a glistered grail,
which love infused now overflows
the milk and carbon glows predestined.
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