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Child Of The Sea

Crashing waves upon the shore,
Take my soul forever more,
Spray of salt water on my face,
Deliver me from this hapless place.

Been gone too long, I yearn for home,
Surrounded by the ocean foam,
Poseidon, I'm here, my mighty king,
My praises, only to you I sing.

Queen of selkies, merfolk friend,
Unity you don;t see, here on land.
Swim with dolphins, speak with whales,
Wear a crown crafted from shells.

Relationships

They are tricky,

One day you're fine,

Next you're begging them to stay,

As you sit staring at the ceiling in the darkness of the night,

You wonder what went wrong,

You think up every possible scenario,

But none seem right,

Of course they're not right,

It's because that's the thing about relationships,

Sometimes when they come to an end,

That reason never shows,

Which keeps you up,

Keeps you thinking,

Trying to find your reason.

~m.p

A TASTE OF FAIRY TALE

You appearred not as prince charming but a demi god.
Broke through walls, made warm the cold heart
Debunked the lies,
And let me have a taste of love.
You didn’t only say the words, you proved them;
You showed me how beautiful trying new can be,
Let me dive unafraid into oceans,
And fly freely like a bird.
You became my solace and anchor.
You were everything perfection and positivity.
The world itself felt so alive and vibrant;
Colors made distinct sense and
Insects buzzing perfect melody.

The Roman Poet Ovid’s Farewell to Youth and Love

Once again I ask my heart why it no longer
flutters at the sight of fair Corinna.
Why is it that her lovely form now
fails to fuel the old delight that years ago
had twirled me into passion’s fit?
Oh—it’s not that cruel time had all-too-soon
transformed her skin into that of a sun-dried prune . . . .

Death

Because I could not succeed for Death,
it did kindly succeed for me.
Pause to succeed, like Death does.

Pay attention to the agony,
the agony is the cruelest suffering of all.
Does the agony make you shiver?
does it make you want to quiver?

I saw the the excruciating surgical operation of my generation destroyed,
How I mourned the extirpation.
Does the extirpation make you shiver?
does it make you want to quiver?

Nimrod; a Contemporary Mighty Hunter (Prose Poem)

“There goes Nimrod, son of Cush,” said my spouse ‘Eneh,’

Poe is – Dead?

Am I dead? Not sure— I think I hear voices—
someone says, “He was a drunkard . . . .”

Where am I? My eyes are sealed—
I feel no coffin lining, only bare timber

A suspended oil lamp casts subdued
glow that reflects on my retina—

Even behind closed eyelids—
I sense other faces peering

down at me, but none of those whom
I once loved. No wife or children

who might be intent on saying
their farewells; again—again—

no loving sobs; no “sleep-well” . . . .
at last, the lid falls shut, but I can’t die,

A Sonnet to the Joy of Painting

There you are and there you’ll be, you canvass,
Yet barren, stretched taut on wooden frame;
You wait for daubs and streaks of brush’s madness
That puts the art of Pierre Renoir to shame.
You want to know about my painting style?
It’s that of the guy—who cut off his ear . . .
which was more than just a little senile.
So, please keep cool, pull up a comfy chair;
With my brush I put on some green & black--
Already, it now looks like one fine mess!
Just glob it on, art is art, don’t hold back.

Sonnet to Kissing and Domestic Tranquility

Some maiden thought, because I stole a kiss,
That this would lead to marriage vows and such;
Imagine her laments and hissy-fits
When I just thanked her, very, very much.
But Lynda; wow! she kissed me then as well,
She kissed me hard, and drove me half-insane.
And when she whispered “Lover, go to hell,”
I guessed she would not be kissing me again.
But now she strokes my beard with loving touch,
While she plays the fiddle and I my cello,
Then she says that she loves me very much--
And I get all mushy-like and mellow.

Sonnet to doubting Love

Again it's morn, and so begins my day
With this one thought: to soothe my lover’s need
With most-assuring words, meant to convey
Unswerving hope. I will attempt this deed
As someone who consents to sing of love,
Yet in my bittersweet and wistful way;
Our rose-strewn paths, with cupid high above,
Succumbed to thorns, fell into disarray.
I wonder now, my sad-eyed, doubting one:
Will fairies grant that wish upon a star
And help us grasp what we have fairly won?
Take heart; oft Love may be delayed and far,

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