We who loved America
I enjoyed America and remember touring
a Sunday outside Houston (Texas), met in a café
a group of openly armed, elderly men
They were courteous people one could meet
I understood guns have cultural meaning
In America, we in Europe don't understand
I remember a saying, "A country where the populace
is armed, people are polite."
I stayed on the ship longer than needed, but had
To go home and get educated, I studied management
and later ran a restaurant
I was never at ease in my country, not that I suffer
Retromania, trying to escape my past, but
I was back on a ship again, this time as chief steward
plying the waters of America and the Caribbean.
Two sisters born afar from my terrain
one rising near Taj Mahal ‘s glorious dome ,
another hopping on lanes of maple trees;
still, poetry traces their heartfelt rays
enduring continental divide
like silken wishes on angel cheeks
plying on a relay of starlit skies...
One a sweetened Jasmine utterly
devoid of night's umbra, ohh the other,
a peppered Cinder sizzling with
the sun's baked fireglow.
And though zones of time differ
in paddles of midnight’s arm stretched,
laughter and whispers scoop bowls
of friendship wild and lucent as dawn;
touching me through live words in a gathering
of images warmer than moon's crawl.
I fold my eyes on sands of hourglass
blowing winged kisses to miles distant
yet, near in the ingot of affection’s graces.
To take a thought and shape a poem
Takes patience, and a clue –
The patience for the diligence
Required of a muse
The clue for clever subtleties
Engaging poets use
To form connections yet unformed
Reveal with clarity
The mysteries that men have known
Throughout the centuries
Unraveled with apparent ease
In fonts of industry –
To trace the riddle of a thought
Decrypt it as it bends
To find epistles in a phrase
And coax it from a pen
One finds a poet at his craft
Plying, with keen intent
The words with which to move the earth
And all the universe
"It is quite possible to leave your home for a walk in the early morning air and return a different person - beguiled, enchanted."
~ Mary Ellen Chase
We enjoy the whistling wind as we walk,
The cool morning breeze calms and charms us,
A peacock is perched on a peepal tree,
Its fine feathers flowing fascinatingly,
Its sound of squawking seems sophisticated,
Like mystical music to its magnificent mate;
The butterscotch-orange ball blooms in the blue,
A snake slithers silently in the sewer nearby,
Songbirds tweet tantalizingly in the tall trees,
Vehicles plying on the highway are a vision to view,
Blushing bougainvilleas have blossomed in bunches,
Numerous neem trees line the narrow footpath,
A squirrel squeezes through a small, square hole,
And we uncover God's wonders as He unveils a new day.
plying females with manmade bait ~ is not an animalistic trait
beasts instinctively lie in wait ~ a misogynist will dope its date
By
David Kavanagh
The very first rapper preceded
Ice-T by aeons and eons
Though his rap-a-tap-tap
never earned him lights in neon
Humbly plying his trade in forests far
from billionaire rapper stars
The woodpecker taps out his tune on trees
~ at times nearby, have a look-see
As day dawns, the sky gleams bright.
Fresh clean reborn, the morn's alight.
I am the glimmer in the sun's feeble rays,
That its hope will bring me better days.
I am the dew caught on blades of grass.
Glinting beads that gleam esteem in glass.
I am the caress of the gentle breeze,
That dances, awakening rustling leaves.
I am the artist who paints the scene,
With soft warm gentle hues, so serene.
I am the sunbeams plying the sky
For clouds to kiss that come on by.
I am the hush of silence the quells
Night's clatter with quiescent spells.
I rise with hope, to chase my dreams
In the warm glow of sunlight streams.
It is such a pleasure to be up and see
The symphony of each dawn abide with me.
We who loved America (second part)
I enjoyed America and remember touring
a Sunday outside Houston (Texas), met in a café
a group of openly armed, elderly men
they were courteous people one could meet
I understood guns have cultural meaning
in America, we in Europe don't understand
I remember a saying, "A country where the populace
is armed, people are polite."
I stayed on the ship longer than needed but had
to go home and get educated, I studied management
and later ran a restaurant
I was never at ease in my country, not that I suffer
Drapetomania, trying to escape my past, but
I was back on a ship again, this time as chief steward plying the waters of America and the Caribbean.
Fey King knelt to me.
Hearts engraved with oak leaves
Songs of fires and green rosaries
Bands of merchants plying their wares
Queens ascending toward mountains glen
Scenes of battle and quests of yore
Live contention favors from source
Cosmic gardens Love branching forth
Trees connecting roots deep in the earth
Stars descending fall from the sky
Open secret I never die.
Is there anybody out there
I can only see my face in the forefront preflection
Of the passed, away on vacation until all comes cross
Is she really on the page or on the screen an AI model
Stockings stocking to no avail
Preferably a real lady, married, a couple of kids, nah
He enters the mainstream understanding orifices procession
Pro to nothing concrete all absolutes don't exist
Clean and not heard
The genius in him should talk to the mirror
Instead of a gun shot plying the thought of Gmail account
Accessible bypass crude
Why sense the tasteful callipyge stragglers told too
In her scent he can find a thousand Dani Daniels Krissy Lynn Jane Marie, she'd just another troubadour old fantasy
Reality overweight overwhelms filly folly breads hvvgfnbdg
*** VV bukkake Bukowski travels by and nothing taken for granted Lego logorrhée Times Square sexshop where a dude speaks East Timorian does it really count what the guy said on the corner of the contents of the wall Pao chicken breast
Sir! You Have Besmirched the Good Name Of My Pangolin
Nothing can be the same now -
before the recent pandemic
my companion Pangolin
Boris and I,
were carefree,
and happily plying our trade
as chimney sweeps in Siberia,
but since the ‘great lie’
we dare not show our faces
in any town or city,
for they have labeled Boris; a good, kind,
not too gentle creature
as a SPREADER'!
O the calumny. the infamy the inaccuracy!
Now our only recourse
is to have him dress up as an Anteater
and move to Bolivia.
Weeping willows stand
As silent as sentinels:
Children’s laughter rings.
The sun’s golden show'rs
Filtered by weeping willows--
Dazzling dance of light.
The lake’s calm waters--
Picture of serenity
A boat passes by.
Weeping willows stand
Beside the lake’s still waters
Sheltering lovers.
The much trampled grass
Wet with rain from yesterday
Looks verdant today.
Scores of bicycles
Plying the same narrow route
Some fast, some slow, some -----.
A sea of faces--
Some real, some blank, and some masked
But which one am I?
Children play, shout, run
The air echoes their laughter
Longing fills someone.
How many lies until my hands are in your brows? I ask
Perhaps a couple more lavender candles?
She tells me to write her literature before I can hitch her lips....
Disgusting? But here we are
How many more lies until my hands are in your brows?
A thousand?
I'm a pitiable man with an interest of stanzas
That's the problem with losing innocence,I know the world owes me nothing
But it's the valentine fever speaking.
So I touch on her Indian hair and she brushes on my waves
Modern love stories are hilarious
A couple shots on a day someone died will have us beneath sheets
Sweating like two dragons in a rumble
Plying on what's suppose to be sacred like it belongs to me
It's these type of poems I write with my eyes closed,
Look at the disgust
The day my future wife reads this I'm a dead man,
She's not here yet,so how many more lies until my hands are in your brows?
To her my words are scripture and these are my songs of songs
During a low tide, it fled me in derision.
Dinky waders reveal marvels on the sand.
Stoic eagles soar over the sky and expand.
Will scan from high plying their acute vision.
As the dark decreased, a few birds wailed.
Rapid, pointed beaks and claws at night.
Fell from the sky, similar to an arrow flight.
The weakest of them, his body, failed.
There was no eulogy to escort him.
This was a tragic event, and the bard wept.
His swollen heart bled, and an empty crept.
The poor soul died; the glow turned dim.
Written: November 16, 2022
Watching JJ Play with Dinosaurs
David J Walker
The flying reptiles frighten me
What if they come back
What if they attack
What if a stolen egg escalates
Into another annihilation
The plying reptiles fascinate me
What if feathers are lost
What if we ignore the cost
And act in fits of passion
What if their leathered skin
Becomes stylish
Again
What if we killed them all
For fall
fashion
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