The rain pours like blessings from heaven
The lillies and ferns dance and sway swiftly
The dry soil turns swampy and soft
It glides away all that rests upon it
The feeling is so vibrant and cozy
The hopeful heart flies with wings far off
Wandering like busy butterfly...
The rain pours like blessings from heaven
The lillies and ferns dance and sway swiftly
The dry soil turns swampy and soft
It glides away all that rests upon it
The feeling is so vibrant and cozy
The hopeful heart flies with wings, far off
Wandering like butterflies...
He plops on a lily pad
like it’s a cushy spa chair,
wiggling his knobby green toes
and announcing to no one,
“Must be time for a mani/pedi.”
He uncaps the polish,
a shade called Pink Swampy Chic~
and paints each stubby digit
with the concentration of a surgeon
and the vanity of a bullfrog
who knows he’s a looker
if only in his own mind.
By the time he’s done,
the pond is shimmering
with reflections of ten tiny fuschia toes
and a frog who believes
beauty is mostly attitude
and a steady hand.
No soul left
The butter tin empty
White bread crumbles
The dust feeds me well.
Tents, and tents
Rows of lost dreams
White picket fence
Gone, and gone.
We know it's too late
A sky of swampy marshes
Rain from the acid
My flag drapes over me, cold.
We are children, grandparents
We are mothers and fathers
We are lost in diamond dirt.
My flag loves me with it's stars
When I die under the bloody stripes
When I am born under its navy Eye.
Hush, the bleak night is awake
Hush, this milk is all I have
Hush, they cannot hear you.
A galaxy of pearls, dancing above
But they are not for you and I.
The morning sun is very bright,
Like a refrigerator light that shines on a shoe.
I put on my socks, a terrible fright,
My left foot is wet, like a swampy stew.
Oh, cotton fibers, why do you deceive?
You are as effervescent as a broken chair.
I cannot find a reason to believe,
That my toe is cold, but the wind is not there.
My sock is a puddle, a tragedy of old,
Like a banana peel floating in the deep, deep blue.
It is very moist and also quite cold,
And I think I have a potato stuck in my shoe too.
The day is ruined, like a sandwich in the rain,
My foot is squishing with a sound of despair.
I shall limp forever through the hall of pain,
While smelling of laundry and wet, moldy air.
drifting through swampy marshlands of desire ~
time taunts readying the funeral fire
We roll beneath the cypress shade,
With radar humming through the glade—
A silent beam, it marks your speed,
Before you even see the deed.
The dash cam blinks, an unblinking eye,
Recording truth you can’t deny.
The body cam hums a steady tune,
Every whisper caught by noon.
A license plate reader scans the air,
Numbers flash—a silent snare.
If you’re wanted, or your tag expired,
It chirps—a hunter newly wired.
Computer mounts glow in the night,
Dispatch sending left and right.
GPS maps where each soul roams,
Drawing paths back to their homes.
Thermal sight through swampy dark,
Can spot a heartbeat—leave its mark.
The mic in my collar hears your plea,
And streams it straight to the deputy.
Don’t think the backseat’s just for rest—
It’s steel and shield, a lawful nest.
Your rights are read, your hands confined,
While satellites keep you in line.
So when you see that bar of blue,
Know tech and training ride there too.
We don’t just follow—we foresee,
By lens, by code, by law, by key.
Craven cupidity, contemptible crow
Your talking is squawking as black as your soul
If birds of a feather would gather your hem
A collection of seamstresses darker than them
Would weave from hole cloth a pattern of lies
From a harvest of calumny dark'ning the skies
Who rates this performance, whose benefit there
With bait this enormous just fit for a bear
Who else in the forest could relish this feast
Galumphing, triumphing, it must be a beast
Wallowing, swallowing, swampy at best
Content to recline there and dine on the rest
Immobile as a trophy, stuffed for display
On future repast, blackened feather filet
Blow hard and bellow with yellowing cries
Gather like fellows who feast on these lies
If chapels had been churches, your cathedral would loom
'stead of gathering shadows in this canyon of gloom
With your bins full of blight and your gather of smut
We hasten to bid you not good night but... what?
We wonder still under quick'ning despair
In search of escape, it must be here but... where?
There must be some light lest this darkness o'erwhelm
We must brave the night til the Good take the helm
The grass waved hello
the birds called back.
Telegraph poles stood still
like tall slender trees.
the birds liked that.
the crickets a constant tickle in the ear,
swathes of brown grass bouncing back after drought,
three troughs haphazard on a patch without
any grass. Bare dark earth.
the raven makes its cry
under a bright grey sky,
on a swampy, sweaty day .
my dog companion at my feet
"Come on then, let's go home."
Bubbles hit the walls of the dome and pop.
Hurting sounds.
Flinching tree branches.
Feeling bored in here.
As if my car won’t start.
No one believes that my car won’t start.
Or that the dome is getting warped.
I’m like a failed science fiction story.
I wish I could turn into a stone and get flicked away.
I wish I could shrink so that I won’t need to eat much.
Feeling bored still.
Bored and trying to be whimsical.
By playing in the swampy old puddles.
In this place where it never rains but has endless, sloshing puddles.
I think everyone else is happy.
Rusty water hits my face again.
a tiny drizzle or an avalanche of water cascading like Niagara Falls?
April is giving us a joyful nod, emptying her clouds one at a time
Clothes on the line went from being sprinkled to saturated
robins had been hopping happily; now they are in hiding
I was dancing with joy for the garden and I needed rain
But this is a muddy mess, the lawn is swampy, grass seeds washed away
my umbrella is inside out, for this storm has brought intense wind
It feels like a monsoon.
I have stopped splashing. Electricity is zapping across the sky.
God appears to be moving a piano up there.
Loud sounds of crashing and thrashing.
A full-blown thunderstorm.
In Paramaribo
I met a girl, half Indian and beautiful
there was a big church and a castle
to defend Dutch interest
A hot and swampy place, which I liked
coming from Norway, a cold country
with a poor working- class who sent
their sons to join the merchant marine
The housing estate in Paramaribo
consisted, mostly of shacks, among
romantic palms
Had I married the girl and settled
I would have been a beneficiary of
the promised oil wealth
As it is, as a Norwegian, I get a pension
so mean, I have to live in Portugal
because the rulers put the wealth in
sovereign fund for a future that
appears to be at the threshold of a war
La wicked bruja hechicera,
with an impious hex--
deep within the marshlands-
'neath a foul--swampy grave,
shall indeed summon
Pumpkin Head.
Rage's what he wheels,
from those who seek revenge;
Restitution for the reckless end
of a love-one, who's been slain.
Her Abyss fiend, ghastly nights
of vengeance spreads.
'Tis best and wiser yet
to kneel in silent prayer.
Repent, for it's the only tool
the hunted have to soothe
the impinging gloom
of dark that looms.
For those he stalks
don't stand a chance;
The Reaper's minion
feeds his thirst
with bloody-blugent preys,
la hechicera dooms.
Sinners atone, confronting
their fate--with a wicker fort
made faith that rots;
For pleas and screams,
like wood ablaze-only excite
his callus, morbid heart.
Condemned souls
who bear the witch's mark.
Hell hound will dissecting hunt.
For the following dawn
are found only severed heads
with bods from limbs apart.
four merry frogs with a hey wheez wiggle wiggle wiggle
Were riding a designer fish down the middle of Lake Gibble
The fish was flopping and floundering as fashion fish do.
The frogs were laughing their guts out, and playing their old kazoo.
It’s the kind of day that other frogs are sitting in their swampy place.
But we are the orchestra of orchestras said frog cousin Mrs. Grace.
The rest of them agreed, as they floated out to sea on the fish.
Just one thing, said a dragonfly stopping by “what is your final wish?”
Nonchalant Monkey rides the masked elephant in swampy bend.
We wonder where he found the likes of this mysterious friend.
Who put the mask on this beast? An inquisitive star child asks.
The monkey keeps mum, no surprise, but it was quite a task.
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