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Poetry Is It Poem
Each field is barren white with snow,
around me blind, they know.
I see.
Darkness brings the haze of dawn,
how many must it show.
While many miles of web it's barb,
my flesh,
it tastes and grows.
Bringing home the wheat,
ground white,
and powdered souls,
spread open far and wide.
Touching only youth,
not men,
Each gem from stone,
pours out and lost our seed it keeps.
No more.
j.McC.
Is It Poetry
Copyright © Poetry Is It | Year Posted 2009
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Poetry Is It Poem
Gossamer Shroud
Finery most precious.
Whimsical silk and all it's tales.
More than deep mythology.
So that woman may go naked,
while clothed.
Wearing nought,
but bright colored clouds.
Almost religious,
sericulture of it's knowledge.
Volunteering, I live to do so,
'Standing' guard over this secret.
Even today, being windy it is so.
And it is,
ever so much cooler because of it.
Is It Poetry
Copyright © Poetry Is It | Year Posted 2009
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Poetry Is It Poem
More than a man, the south made.
Black and white, south one started,
great oaks refused no man a child
to hang about it, call dark christmas.
Hallow was a name, old now hollow.
Stigma inside wears grey cotton
memories, alive die uncompensated.
Here, electricity has that sick sweet
smell about it, as if it were once alive.
While morality, debates in pockets
of isolated votes packed together.
Is It Poetry
Copyright © Poetry Is It | Year Posted 2009
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Poetry Is It Poem
The 'Happy' **** Star.
Grew up in poverty,
on a farm,deep down in the south.
With too many brothers
and many her cousins.
She had not the time to love them all..
Except for her pet pink pig.
She had no use for a cork screw.
Most of the house looked like there's.
Not her room,
full of lace and silk, they yurned.
She burned and burned wanting more.
She has her own pony.
Nice little pony and friends.
By the time she was grown and tall.
Every thing of value she owned.
Old gold coins and silver in a box
southern confederate money,
yellowed with age.
She packed it all up,
while her pony and she rode away.
Is It Poetry
Copyright © Poetry Is It | Year Posted 2009
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Poetry Is It Poem
After the interview;
Each rider and horse,
move it off, all too quickly.
My head how it spins, around it.
As it works each day, with such beautiful hands.
None known here, can refuse it.
Here in this factory, they own it.
It are they, as they hang down, each cloud
and dawn like dew, each tip, now dripps with it.
What has it done.
What should it do.
Roles reversed, would you.
i look they say, like it.
I frown they laugh and i smile at it.
Upside down, they are all I see, and it's full with it.
They all watch it, as none can slip by it.
Explaining and swirling about, as it utters.
Looking at it, most like they, start to work.
One says it's simple mechanical, it's poetry.
Fore their arms are off and their aft of it.
All just because, they make cream from it.
Factory chatter is loud and the clamor it grows
as each machine moves,
up and down, outside all around it.
The bottles once clear, are warm when they're filled,
and the milk comes out, quickly through it.
They try Calming it down, as too many hang
down,
and around it, are those hands that confess it.
Each cow, you now know, has it's very own name,
and as Betsy stands there, don't confuse it
Is It Poetry
Copyright © Poetry Is It | Year Posted 2009
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Poetry Is It Poem
She doesn't mind the great length
or the girth of it.
Bushes without leaves
are not green as he kisses it.
The woods
are not deep without tree's
that are seen.
While the path that she walks
he chose in her dream.
Stoping she dropped what it was
that he picked.
A daffodil that bleeds white sapp
if to hard it is picked.
Is It Poetry
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Copyright © Poetry Is It | Year Posted 2015
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