What are you a man or mouse or female prose maker rhyming making poems not prose but real live poems making nouns meaning what they say and never in verbal disagreement. Your adjectives are where they are supposed to be and your contractions all have marks. Your conjunctions fit the content and the poem looks so nice. The ideas come from Science Fiction unbidden springing from the hidden well we keep them. Universes in your mind and only one love inside your heart is mine. True love is lets the person go to be themselves if she returns then love was there. IN every written word ewe write eye see myself somewhere to the side of them iff not directly mentioned there outright. Your Verbage is the word that eye was looking for invariably you make the poem bleed and howl when it was stated from your heart a universe apart from head when stating verbiage again. For now eye drop the things that are depressing mee the lost Christmasses and Birthday wishes the lost Holidays when no one seemed to care for eye become just love in each and every day a poem yes a poet lost in love for someone special in his heart now ewe deicide dear gentle reader ewe is this the one ewe want to love. A Poet Poese Poetess for ewe.
The sky is Western Covered sky dark for half the canopy is covered up the smell of rain filters down some conflicting with the surroundings the landscaping the hey fever springing here nearby. The birds were swimming in the sky the western sky with wings folded they glide then extend the wings again then fold them back confused by the wind in western sky. They glide then fly then glide. The poet however must walk than lamely then halting lame he walks under the western sky rain never falls but clouds roll out of the valley walls but back they come as poet walks. He walks and as he limps along he notices them the gliding flying birds are gone.
TheTotalStranger
In the vernacular perhaps his style but charlax words an emulationThe owl was hoot the hour was late the jig was sawed, as the total stranger entered town he walked and carried a Hurley bough bundle on a stick much like the old train hoboes used to did. He wanted wine the kind of thing a hoboe wants when in a town and so he began to unwind the contents of the stick he laid the bag down and carefully untied the bundle just like anyone would or the Idiot Boy in summer did. He shook the Hurley Bough again the money was still missing. He waited until daylight and then walked into the market place he was very near the door the people used to enter market when he put a pence he had found on ground in hand and did his asking for his alms. He had a want for the glass bottle with the cork it was only 185p a steal at that price he noticed that the content was too high about 12 % alcoholic high. He finally had the mark the price in hand and entered near the bargain bin. The bottle was so old the label came off in his hand but no suspicion entered in the mind he paid the counter helper then he almost ran away to a dark shadow where he could hide from them that drink. The bottle sipped he walked away to ask his alms anothere day. His shiney pants was give away to what he does for a living. His shirt was not much better but he had the stuff he needs for weather in the tummy tucked away of the total stranger.
The poet lay tormented clutching her manuscripted answer the publisher would not answer any more cell calls she was dejected had been inspected and now lay in torment her words spilling out of the manila envelope around her on the bed room floor. She had rented the penthouse sweet it was a classic room with view overlooking parked cars. Her computor was locked her TV was open but just snow showing up she was late for greeting the day. She lit another cheroot and spilled some more lemmings in her glass of ice added. She splashed it all over. She was drunk. She had to get together. The mouse in the corner roared. The ice squeaked. She managed to find the door when it opened. The bell rang three times then there came three knockouts on the wall next to the door. She leaped from the balcony balustrade echoing on the way down. She filtered threw the trees and leaves and fell headlong. A bicycle went by its bell was tinkling. The wind was whistling in the dark dawn light. She groaned. The enormous gloom entered the area. The grass roots all over the lawn were weeping the bugs that would crawl were wet. She made it to the edge of the lawn when the storm hit. The lightening cracked the thunder. The train was horning in the distance. The cable car clanged as far as South. She made it to the highway pediment. There she stopped. Thar she blows. Her nose was stopped. The faraway queen of the leprechauns lowered the bridge that draws flying aspects. Save me she cried and the Truck Driver opened his ride to another hitchhiker borne. Where else could we go but to Horning Ohio near the border of Turning. Where the editors give second chances.
Between your eyes your beauty lies. As useful as hinds in a field dear. Raining harder than pizza on a flat rock.If ut works leave it alone. Harder than a peeper bird. Stranger than a three dollar bill.Like trying to stretch a quilt over a rain barrel top. He will get right on it like a traveler on a platter. He dropped his pocket.Like flint on a hard rock. Like Flies on Lemonade.You can’t fight your way out of a cardboard box. Like White on Rice.The more things change the time changes things more than changing times wait this can’t be write The more things change the more they stay the same.NO that aint it. You can fool the people some of the time and fool the rest of them any of the time but you can’t fool none of them people all the time. WaitYou must be thinking of the country version.
ParodayAn Answer to William ShakespeareMayhappenstance recall as fast as thou can go, then thou departFrom conjecture to the truth of aging well, the truth is better than the off thou slothFor the youth of life is given once so young, then old thou doth becomeAnd stay that way the rest of life convert to olde. Vanity is youth that never seems to age. Add to this the fourscore years of summer sin, who dimly ascertaineth age. Let then the wombe and the bed languisheth as they play the king and qyeenThe qyeen is it who hath the moore.Which bounteousness apply to lave. She ornately twinned thee and in her haste has made thee copy.As fast as thou shalt wane thy paroday. As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st,In one of thine, from that which thou departest;And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st,Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase;Without this folly, age, and cold decay.If all were minded so, the times should ceaseAnd threescore year would make the world away.Let those whom nature hath not made for store,Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish;Look, whom she best endowed, she gave the more;Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish. She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby, Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.
The night has grown still.Nothing stirs but that Martianblasting its heat ray.(by CharlaX)
