Mothballed Poems - Poems about Mothballed

...My long-patched magician's suit has been mothballed, the trick pockets, hidden springs and secret linings no longer fool or bedazzle. A white rabbit died in my top hat the hat, I returned t......

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...Courts oblivious, on blissful high, Poor plaintiffs on a long wait die, The system still stays put On same age-old input, Mothballed, the pending cases lie. Perfection, a vague search, Totter i......

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...I feel bubbly but corked Reserved and labeled In the light, I sparkle However, my home is dark And cold And chilled No, I'm not a message in a bottle Floating across the sea Never to ......

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...Grandma’s secret places mothballed memories......

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...There, parked in rows like overused commas or German prose or mothballed bombers lay ranks of rats as if on drill, but quite as dead as vaudeville. Someone had slit each ventral hide an......

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...Her life was on ice she wore purple silk accented black earrings and chain ship of gold mothballed connie pachecho 1/19/17......

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...Moon has possessed me again. I have become dervish. It hints at shedding the leaves. Flame of forest wants to glow at noon. It was a genuine withdrawl from honeycomb. You wanted to ......

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...I wrote a great book, part memoir, part novel Shopped it around, I ain’t too proud to grovel Got kicked upstairs to a big publishing head He invited me in, and here's what was said: This screed......

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...Second Home by Rob Barratt An escape from the rat race. Life lived at a slower pace An idyllic setting they won’t be letting The cottage slumbers , Like the electricity meter numbers It’s early Ma......

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...The fading colours in a trembling leaf, Perhaps a portent of the coming cold, When the heavy hand of an icy winter Will press hard upon gully, flat and fold. The rose’s vicious stems will be laid ba......

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...Second Home by Rob Barratt An escape from the rat race. Life lived at a slower pace An idyllic setting they won’t be letting The cottage slumbers , Like the electricity meter numbers It’s e......

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...Strands of silver, tinsel fine, Thin, flyaway, Winged, widow’s peak Widows’ weep Bubba, Grandma, alone. Up the dark tenement stairs Cross tiny, tile squared floors To the always open door… ......

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...Never did I love someone the way that I love you, Never did I feel such love, so resolute and true; My sometimes sin, to sainthood turned, in dreams to canonise In the willow-patterned blueness......

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