It doesn't really make the world go 'round
but, it may be what the world needs, now;
I'm not completely convinced it's either patient, or kind
but, it's heartaches are too much to allow.

It can assist one in finding their soul mate
that is, if indeed we all each have a soul;
it's questionable if it'll keep us all together
but, if it existed not, it would sure take it's toll.

Mon, 2011-09-12 10:53

China Blue's picture

re write

Passion is the tides
Surge, ebb and flow
The roar of an approaching storm
The flame of desire's
Burning heat

A lion’s hunger
When on the prowl
To the ocean’s depth
It is felt

Lust never fulfilled

Love is a comfort zone
An unconditional giving
Where no boundary lines are drawn
A knowing without a whisper
A reading of the signs

Love always fulfilled

Cocktail strangers sit at the banquet table
make some polite dinner conversation,
quite by chance, forbidden topics are introduced
and long sharp fangs come out of hiding,
then gorging ourselves on one another
like vampires feasting in daylight hours
we spit out kernels of truth
choke on what is denied,
vomiting the hideous curse of human hunger
like self-indulgent vultures
picking, picking on the curvature of scabs
and lightning ligaments
like libertine lies learned in the cradle and the womb

As dawn breaks the world is still,
no breeze disturbing woods or rill,
while I sit on this hill thinking,
motionless also, nearly unblinking,
of peace and quiet I've my fill.

Many leaves have fallen down.
Their vivid shards adorn the ground
on this frosty autumn morn
when all the hay fields now are shorn.
A few squirrels start to leap around.

Your beard, rough, against my face
lover's sweat beading upon our bed,
lingering impressions, wheels in motion
calloused hands wrapped around my poem.

Autumn Sonnet

I hate to see the woodlands flirt
In Mother Nature's annual farce.
Trees coyly lift and shake their skirts
Leave old, dead leaves to litter grass

She KNOWS the frost and snow will come.
She KNOWS the weak and old will die
But still she thinks we are so dumb,
Again we'll seek pie in the sky.

And so this weary, unloved year,
Wends on towards its death, Goodbye.
And autumn will not warm nor cheer,
It is no beacon in the sky.

wounds heal, leaving scars
like morbid stones on greens

Escape

Fucking headache. Fucking genetic disposition.
Fucking wars, Sunday church bells, conspiracies
and conspiracy theories,
fucking bombs and white vans and blasphemy,
fucking death lurking around every corner, on the
110th floor or near a hovel in Bangladore;
Cerberus is a damned dog and there's sons of bitches
everywhere,
the gates of hell are never guarded, but what the hell
let's fuck and make it all go away.

That is the way, at least, that's what they say.
You know, those folks, with wisdom words so wrong,
while fucking up the words to every song,
because they just can't leave well enough alone.

trochaic attempt;

That’s the way, at least, that is what is said.
Knowing folks, with wisdom words so wrong,
fucking up the lines in every single song,
all because they can’t leave any thing untouched.