Short Hereto Poems

Many souls linger therein pity's pot.  
Many minds subcomb thereto th' Addler's.  
O, shall we permit ourselves hereto rot?  
So challenges white waters -- the heart of Paddler's....

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Come, come one come all! For there awaits a
lush garden rife of color and verdure;
Which's tended to by the imaginations,
the imaginations of writers.
Come, come and join our ranks as an equal.
Where not an once of bashing may be found.
We hope you'll join us for a bowl of soup.
With no further ado, we welcome one
and all hereto "The Soup", poetrysoup.com....

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Blossoming romance
Amorously so
Consumes daily thoughts
Visions manifest
Your luscious lips tempt
Perhaps kiss or two
Eagerly texting
Device ways and means
For assignation 
Exploring our minds
In carnal desires
To arouse senses
Crossing boundaries
Once hereto unknown
So let us step back
To our comfort zone 
Have light hearted fun
Building a friendship 
A brick at a time



Anacreontic Poetry Contest
Sponsor - Silent One

4/11/21...

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-Dedicated to all those suffering with an eating disorder. Beauty, true beauty, belies a gentrified, pretty exterior. You are not alone-


Benighted whispers and spurning dreams
Forthwith in blisters and burning streams

Shameful saunters in billowing blight
Hereto haunters with pillowing plight

Weep and wither betwixt a bawling bloom
Seep shall deliver amidst a falling fume

Expel and deliver for the morning's bright
Swell and shiver for the swarming's night

-...

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Hereto, as my soul lies dying,
throttled by the winds of change,
hobbled by the wrath of time
'til nothing but a gasp remains.

There abides a wisp of evil
tempered with a shred of grace,
an iota of confusion
on this saint/sinner's face.

I'm not meant to meet my Maker
'til I've done what I must do
to set the ledger to Your liking,
strike a chord 'twixt me and You. 

then will I be granted access,
evil, grace, confusion mixed,
I will need exoneration,
all my faults and foibles fixed....

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Hereto, while my soul lies dying,
throttled by the winds of change,
hobbled by the wrath of time
'til nothing but a gasp remains.

There abides a trace of mischief
tempered with a shred of grace,
an iota of confusion
on this saint/sinner's face.

I'm not meant to meet my Maker
'til I've done what I must do
to set the ledger to His liking,
strike a chord 'twixt me and you.

I will need exoneration,
all my mischief set to rest,  
then will I be granted access,
take my place among the blessed....

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