Short Protrudes Poems

orange pinwheel twirls
circus of color protrudes
burnished tent hovers...

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Retrograde- Sky Demon-
As the liquor protrudes fresh
In my capsule cabriolet
Near the mildew of my flesh....

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That face
In the sea  of humanity,
Like the poppy
In a bed of pansies
Strikes out
With its red
And the stigma
Protrudes black.

The bobcut of her hair,
Neat and clean
As they come;
Quarrelling with the ears
At each  nod or turn.
Those eyes throwing glances,
On the pavements she stands;
Waiting for the bus.

And then
She rides away....

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From the depths of choppy waters,
Emerges the shell of man.
Draped in an aquatic robe,
Deliberately...making his stand.

With New York at his shoulders,
And the Big Apple by his side.
His robust presence emerged,
Creating...the evening tide.

The sun boldly illuminates,
The way for birds to fly.
As the world protrudes the heavens,
Through an M.C. Escher sky....

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Cracked sidewalk,
Running beside overgrown bushes
That moan under the weight
Of immense unknown blossoms.
It leads me to my own home,
Where he waits alone
Under the stone archway.
His hipbone protrudes;
I can see it through his shirt,
Which I’m sure he’s sprayed
With his sweet cologne. 
I can almost hear his deep groan,
Muttered into my ear as I atone
For having flown away from our safe zone....

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What makes true beauty?
Some say beauty exists
In one’s well-molded physique,
Beautiful eyes
And pearly white teeth.
Others claim beauty resides in the heart,
Where humility,
Stability,
Tranquility
And mobility reign on the Almighty’s pie chart.
But perhaps it’s a combination of the internal and external,
Since the radiance from within protrudes a journal,
Eventually producing a masterpiece eternal....

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Just open up the window
And push away the screen
Which so rudely protrudes your view
Look at nature, the things unseen
The things made openly too

Just open the window
Feel the cool breeze
Taste the honey sweet scent
Hear the buzz of the bees
Trace the paths to where the went

Just open the window
Allow nature to open your eyes
So you can see the world of grace
Just open the window
Strip the horrible disguise
That humans have laid on this place...

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I love the hate in your voice.

The vein that protrudes from your neck like a striking cobra.

The vast array of hues in your eyes.

Who knew there were that many shades of red?

So caught up in the suspense of the moment that you don’t notice your voice jumping an octave.

The pitch resounding like a fist making contact with my face.

Just because there aren’t any marks, does not mean I am not bruised.

But still…

I love the hate in your voice....

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A soloist Java Sparrow flits,
A cathedral canopy of arched branched leaves,
The sparkling daylight dances the vast green space,
Moss glut rock form protrudes aground sits,
Pews of raw design entertain flocks trade eaves,
Sparrows respect prompts to spring cascading grace,
Heaven gifted natural blessings flow,
Dove coos the flock of Sparrow's faithful pace,
A breath of peace on Earth nature receives,
Bestilled feathers as the sun sets aglow,
~God's Face ......

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At the shore’s edge of the Pontchartrain
a small barren peninsula protrudes
where a lonely couple gazes toward
the lighthouse perched at its end.
Its shadow partially obstructing
the bright pallet of a setting sun.
It precariously hovers on the horizon
for one last fleeting moment.
Its hues’ are awash by the mist
ascending each step of the seawall.
Just beyond, a sailing ship gracefully
glides along the crystal lake,
its sails waving a tranquil
and cherished farewell....

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Full of looming fruit
The black wind whispers
the children lived blithely
yonder in blue cave
The silent river protrudes
by the forked road
where the seagrass grows

The seagull mutely follows
jaded in evening sun
old church bells whisper chimes
Coolness and Autumn play in lonely chambers
Sacred blue chimes in plaid footsteps

The rusted window rattles
to the graveyard on the hill
The legends are foretold
twig like, the people remember
the dark ember days of spring...

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