Perhaps a satellite with all its trim,
so I can reach you at, the slightest whim.
There are those pityboys and jealous birds
who’d like to jeopardise those precious words.
So, would you stick with me, stay very close
it is your specialty, Ear, Throat and Nose.
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Why write, I ask, is it to entertain?
A poet is a a writer who is vain,Potemkin engineer of his own soul.
What bugs the angry, silly boy
not Helen but the boy from Troyappears to us, his talk so strangehe quickly triggers great offense,it seems he’s keenly looking fora diatribe of little senseoh what a bore, oh what a bore.
Then what are hiders?
or backstabbing riderswho cling to the coattailsof history’s tux?From where they could seethose who still remain freein their effort to fleemany arrows do misstheir target of hearts.But the time will comewhere initially somewill beat their own drumand the arrows fly backoh, revenge is so sweet.
I am a bit embarrassed here my dear and learned friend,
bright daylight and an audience I would to you commenddare you, a poet of renown sit down and look at meat what I write to ascertain that valid thoughts emergeand stay a little while to talk and brush against my handyour tactile need erase my pain, replace it with new urge,and walk the walk throughout…
A Dandelion stood alone
he leaned against a granite stoneto rest, and to relax.He stood up straight for every trainand watched the many faces,who travelled, seemingly in vainto mystic foreign places.He never knew that there was lifebeyond the smoke and dirt,one day a gentleman with knifebent down and cut. It hurt.The man now rode to Appenzelland back each afternoon.He…
Some forty years had gone,
and, as they say abroad,time just went by. It did.Kids grown and hubbies fatthe grind goes on, no medals here,could this be all there is, she asksand nods her pretty head,and all its wrinkles, all her lipo spots,at one who’s done the deed,lived, as they say, rambunctiouslyand was somewhat content to sitto let the world…