A rose
With the scent of the earth
Aroma from the clouds
A desire to soar
Tides crashing
against the shore
Pauses to expose
the measure
Of the treasure
Yet the strain
Of the petals
inside the fine veins
Yearning for a selfie
The glee of the folds
So bold
Expecting expansion
Spirit of ascension
Reinforced by
The longing for flight
Freedom of light
In addition
The sops
The raindrops
Veils slowly ajar
A glimpse of the shine
of a star
A delicate smile
Somewhat beguiled
At a simmer
A glimmer
Lips and eyes follow
From a depth
Gradually
The treasure
Time swallowing time
Chimes in the atmosphere
Eyelashes and hair
Fair and lovely
And the eyes
Azure and solitary
The flute
Its sheen
Nose aquiline
Ready to receive
with a salute
___________
July 23, 2025
The trails of fog like cold entrails
that wind and slither through the copse
which shiver at the touch and sops.
A chance at vision clearly fails.
Each jutting rock: a sentinel.
A greying headstone stands alone
against the tones of verdant cone.
My heartbeat sounds like a death knell.
A silver coffin bell from ditch.
As I am trying t’ place the hums;
direction clear from whence it comes
in variant beseeching pitch.
A hand that reaches up from grave
implores me for small change to buy
a warming nip of hooch as I
surrender will at being brave.
As lonely sighs drift across the mountaintops
Mists linger ‘til midmorning, caressing trees
It's evident that the temperature slowly drops,
For a chill is accompanying the August breeze.
Slight hints of color nestle in along the crown
As lonely sighs drift across the mountaintops
A few leaves, growing tired, are drifting down
For autumn leans heavily on August’s props.
Predicting summer’s sodden humid day’s sops
We can enjoy hints of coming autumn’s glamor
As lonely sighs drift across the mountaintops
They call to mind the end of summer’s clamor.
Be still and you can hear echoes of September
Chants of “the hills are alive” music never stops,
The lovely days of August, always to remember
As lonely sighs drift across the mountaintops.
Written August 11, 2022
A stored ripening sunlight,
opens veins under wet sods.
We are conveyed on the thaw,
upon the guttering soil
through the squelching narrows
of wayside hedgerows.
Spring mops and sops,
breezes furbish,
unlock a pearly dew
to melt the frosted prints
of paws and claws.
christening cruise, ship to shore...queasy slick ~
tropically trotting, tempura-tapping, sure shoot’n quick ~
digital capture of roiling hammock can’t help courting hacks ~
HOrrendous cheesy chunks HUlking bits from back ~
Surely shooting crackers from dry yak, yakkity yUK ~
Torrential towing, whale-blowing brackish sucks ~
sleazy sponge sops uncorked sluice ~
dawns dreadful dweeb of joyful juice ~
~~~~~~~~~~~~ 1-18-2020 ~~~~~~~~~~
Nina Parmenter’s Tongue Twister contest
Emotions inside inwardly
Motions outside outwardly
No influence on each other
Except for moving together
Left the professional apps aside
Now in relational sops beside
Rounded in life Regulations
Surrounded by dutiful kindness
Obligatory Rights in place
Holiday moods in space
Spending the balanced time
Without interference in mime.
Quite frankly, the time between
Now and the past is in tween
But it’s for the future’s certainty
To attain the future of quality
And like that she became wet.
Undressing before she bathed in the storm.
Umbrella left home, by the door.
She wanted to be cleansed.
Clothes thrown to the side.
Where's the fun in being dry.
To rush every moment that craves to be moist.
Splashing in puddle after puddle.
The Infatuation of being free.
The depth of being caught in a portrait just before it drys.
Covered in layer after layer of heavy blue.
A foam of white.
A kiss that quenches every thirst.
Our lips the brush that sops the wetness.
Forever more.
To purposely be caught without an umbrella
My town nicknamed, ‘Mini Dubai’, burgeoned and branched
on the bank of Kanoli canal like a tamarind seed.
Now the silvered canal sprawls on its death bed.
Busy pedestrians walk down
an ancient bridge built by the British.
As the traffic light has lost its eye balls,
a potbellied policeman dances and controls.
Jalopies groan, and modern cars whiz.
A long whistle: an ambulance with the wounded
and a van with the wedding party halt side by side
as the southern and northern hemispheres
of emotions meet at a single point.
Nostalgic smell of the canal sops in the sizzling tang from a cafeteria.
The splurging women whirl in the hurry wind among the concrete
buildings seething under the tanning rays. The stink of sweat and
the aroma of the Arabian perfumes choke the air in shops, where,
sometimes, the chicanery peeks through the glassed. The
applications drafted in blood and salt scurry to the offices nearby –
only to get the obsequies in the waste baskets. The sots creep like
snakes in the yard of Snadra Bar.
A crow sits on an electric post and watches all beneath
with a smile of wisdom
The sun sincerely set tonight,
the rising moon to night's delight,
where water couplets parse the night
and scattered roots thy rose.
Fore every drop that sops the sky
and leaves nay speck of dry behind,
the lunar orbit weeps this night
and scatters roots thy rose.
Let us hear the couplets,
let us feel the drops,
let us be gravity's eventual stop;
let us be the anchor
of said idle ship,
where impacting moisture meets receiving lips.
The summer is singing the sun lullaby,
the song be so tearful
the sun has gone shy,
it's hiding behind the yonder hill's boon,
the sun has come ready to hibernate soon.
The moon's a ready and glowing at ease,
for time's never standing-
it's pace has increased,
the violet tulips have noticed their turn
and scattered roots thy rose.
What is significant to your life?
What words stick with you?
What Memories pour forth in your shackled brain?
What things make you go absolutely insane?
What darkness sops your soul?
What light keeps you controlled?
What is bad poetry?
—can’t think of any
The possibilities are endless
Wasting your time searching is worthless
Life is wonderful, full of insight
And all you have to do is
WRITE WRITE WRITE!!!
So I ask you again, man and woman
Can you truly, sincerely See
What is good poetry?
A poet
dresses the naked
word,
with emotions. Such as the air
in this empty room sops the hand
and satisfaction it gives. Still,
the pen he has used
flows again and the page cherishes
that in its roots—
and produces blooms on the bed
of spring. Ah, the spirits are splattering
on the tasteful styles, but the
mails on your phone
are comme il faut the summer sheets
of petering dust. A note from him
is among them, unread. I watch
at the poet. It is so vain not to peruse—
that I opt instead to read his soul.
Children are little,
They love to be in the middle,
Of everything,
christmas lights they want to hang,
Youth.
Young is being young,
Children like to stick out their tongue,
They love to dance,
and prance,
Around like they are something to world needs.
I miss being a kid,
I always hid,
in the best sops in hide and go seek,
They like to act like birds and wear a fake beak,
Kids are funny.