Silken, shimmering gossamer soft
Radial threads pulled taut
Anchor lines holding the structure in place
A frame laid out, outlining a shape
And a sticky spiral dew-soaked and tempting
As I get closer what is that, that I see
Thrashing, struggling, trying to get free
Yet chained in bondage with sticky manacles
Its dark body stark against soft white threads
Like rats in a maze running out of time
And this may sound like a bug in a web
But happenstance is rarely unorchestrated
Now if we zoom out maybe just a little
And look inward to our lives, what do we see?
Are we … trapped … in bondage by a web?
Fruit like green oranges,
Small leaf-shedding thorny tree,
And sticky wood pulp.
No one eats Osage.
No one tastes these hedge apples.
The thorns make barbed wire.
Peanut butter stuck tight to
the roof of my mouth,
Jelly dripped out and went
traveling south,
Smack went my lips as I tried
hard to chew,
A stuck- together mess that
was purple and blue,
Wisdom says use a fork, but
a sticky hand will do!
.
'tatch'd mine
dukes yourn
'tatch'd
ambitious
flesh
Somewhere in the distant past, it stole my heart;
Time before it’s eating added to my girth.
It is not a fancy cupcake, pie, or tart.
Could it almost be the best dessert on earth?
Kings and Queens, I hear, they eat it on the sly.
Yattering with little princes over Chai.
Tasted better how my grandma used to make
On our weekly Sunday visits to her house
Following a juicy barbecue of steak;
Films of Western heroes, and of Mickey Mouse.
Every other Sunday, we all did the same.
Except when I was ill, which was such a shame.
Perhaps these were the favorite times I knew;
University was sticky pudding-free.
Darkened days in military eating stew;
Diet of a beer and pizza on settee
In a cold and dreary bedsit south of Kew.
Now, these days, I can consume it when I wish;
Grandma’s famous sticky toffee pudding dish.
I’m the fly in the corner.
Clinging to the space, looking from afar.
I know what you’re thinking.
I know what words buzz and zip through your head.
I am the vermin infiltrating your home,
Infecting everything my bristled legs claw onto.
Leaving traces,
little bits of treacherous treasure for your eyes to never find.
You run at me
With your long gangly arms–
So tall,
So above it all.
The impending darkness consumes me before I can even feel your touch.
Under the vastness of your looming shadow, I can’t help but feel small.
One swat at me and I'm splat all over the wall.
.
think
than tenebrific thought
tap
Not taking the micky
Or being too picky
Appreciate was tricky
But over in a quickie
Reeling still feeling dickie
Travis gave us a hickey
Starc took the bickie
Our batters took a sickie
Snicks to slips & wickie
Tiswas all well a bit icky
As a kid, if I fell down
and grazed my knee,
my Mum, she would attempt
to comfort me,
with a sticky plaster and, 'There, there,'
to which I'd reply,
'Where, where? Here?'
'No, there,' she'd sigh,
'But where's there?'
inquisitive as always, I would ask,
as a sensitive, yet difficult, child,
I was quite the task,
with cuts, bruises and sprains,
more than a handful, no less,
otherwise, born to run wild,
a piece of work in progress.
I want to tell you about my day,
My day of fun and flight,
But I'm worried that if I say
My say, I'll keep you until night.
So I'll settle for leaving hasty words
As words scrawled by the door,
And hope you read my scribbled thoughts
As signs of something more.
wet watermelon
sticky with ugly black seeds
delicious to eat
No I'm not stumped by a Cricket test
so here's my pitch
which creased me up it's my best
by the contender
who hit one for six the incumbent he
who shall not be named
(begins with 'T')
was bowled over and out
in 2020
of that there is no doubt
for by all scores
and there were plenty
(more than 81 million votes take note)
and what's more
based on his batting average
as a matter of fact
the latter was on a sticky wicket
and as for his later behaviour
no it's just not cricket
After the heavy downpour of yesterday
And night's quiet rest
There's a thick heavy creek rise
Giving morn a beauty that's best
Heavy dew coats late summer's grass
And all the trees and house
The creek rise adds to the mix
With wet, sticky moisture; we're doused
I'm so blessed to live to this time
God has granted me life extended
Thank you, God, for this day
And all the good you've amended
You gave me life and something better
Offered me salvation for my spirit
I feel inadequate but You're an uplifter
Help me to spread the Word; hear it
A keyboard lays across my knees
like a sleeping lapdog,
The B and the K are sticky keys
that cannot bark
or pronounce their own function.
The keys are unstuck by pure alt control,
I have also trained them with a dog whistle.
Behind the plasma screen
Bach is barking
out of the mouth of a cello.
I wonder if I should wake up
the lapdog,
maybe
with a duet in B minus
for a K9 listener?
Sticky Wicket
O molasses sticky wicket -
A groaning preached of tips malaise.
In Boston’s North, ever thicket -
O molasses sticky wicket.
Each towny hand, with no picket,
And hellfire now, they could not raise.
O molasses sticky wicket -
A groaning preached of tips malaise.
An engineer they should have used.
Epic deluge - they could not swim.
Tum’ ache of tank, shouldn’t have refused.
An engineer they should have used.
A blobbish beast, to wayward, fused.
The tank was built upon a whim.
An engineer they should have used
Epic deluge - they could not swim.
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