Poetry, with real toads

translated


in the garden with real frogs
fireblossom friday: i put a spell on u

ease right in
its no surprise

died a hundred times
revived all over again

disinterested desiderata
the yearning survives

sweet sauce thirst
hidden in exigency

distraught unzipped
deceased dust delivery

acquiesce pancake breakfast
assembled inside of me

buttoned up obscurity
its a takeover

notes to self… having company is nice but when the company decides to stay then its a fight to survive… as noted by the garden there’s a time and place for everything

Standard
3WW, Poetry, we write poems

divine poem pie

we write poems: prompt 22 what’s for dinner? poetic meal served this week
three word wednesday: hint, lust, sheen; photo: twinkle little star, reverie143, flickr

steamy the hours of cognizance
a blistery bright warm fire shining
tiny tethered stars sublime
conscious creation commences

starting from scratch, these
floaty feathered delicate delights
twirl their enchantment
in and out about and around my
favored zoetic white morning cup
bold black coffee crowded

fertile fingers follow
point and click, highlighting
reading reciting and deleting
the roman font ingredients
piled high heaped in a
chocolate brown ceramic bowl

savor the suspicious
a tale of temptation
rage and rapture taste delightful
moving through the mind
making marvelous sifting spices
effortless mingle aromatic array

always adding a this or that
imagination floured and flounced
the sheen of exploratory exaggeration
the rigid recipe quietly chirps

humming handiwork
nearing done
gentle caring hands
caress the cavorting colors
pouring perfect baking bliss
a little laughter nuzzles with lust
silent the blushing browning crust

nearing another hour the eyes close and conceptualize. through an open window light appears a break of clouds the sun returns. savor the blue scent of an early morning sky. the air is cool with the hint of fall that hangs lightly just outside the door.

**zoetic [cool word] being animately existent**

Standard
ReadWritePoem

time’s up

read write poem no 71: it’s all about the first line
i used donald harbour‘s  i know that life has loved me line for a reference point in creating my poem. now that i have finished, i visited donald’s poem and amazed how they have a strange commonality. yes, no
photo: Meet “Pretty Boy”!!!, maureen_g, flickr

less than complete he walked away…

i know that life has loved me
beyond the moments of now
forever etched at the beginning
here breathing small breaths
i recall the entirety in
nano bursts blazing

born on a bed of blood and light
poured out water unable to return
my lungs began to assert

held in a soft blanket
clutched in warmth
there’s nothing else
to remember

here i lay
the cool dirt of earth
waiting juncture
her face i scrutinze
in disappearing ink

Standard
3WW, short story

persistent possibilities

three word wednesday, avenge, genuine, ramble
photo: Rainbow hearts, yellowrubberduck, flickr

dialing his number was taking entirely too long,
must remember to put him on my phone list.
well, no, can’t do that,
it might mean something.
oh dear, i ramble,
must make a note,
stop rambling.
wonder, are his feelings genuine?
does he really want me to cowrite the script?
right in the middle of everything…
or is this another ploy of his?
part of his secret wish to avenge success,
writing another note,
don’t sleep with opportunity
no matter how beautiful the smile
or, good the wine

Standard
OneSingleImpression

shadows

tender hearted bliss
underneath the simmering
unnoticeable

suspicious wonder
invisible guardian
wandering earthings

bridgeless existence
distorted doubtful distrust
empathetic light

kindling kindness
beacon to benevolence
weightless watchful shrouds

forsaken orphans
seeking a sanctuary
all too young to know

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
one single impression this week: #28 defenses down
photo: Boy, urchin, rogue…, carf, flickr
“…Look at me here. I am thirteen years old. I don’t have a father. I don’t have a homelike house, I am hungry, I don’t know a mother’s love, I sleep on the streets, under the bridge, in cellars and gardens, I get cold, I tried to sell newspapers and nobody bought them; I tried cleaning car windscreens and they told me to piss off; I tried selling knickknacks and almost nobody bought them. So that you take notice of my existence, …” From the text “Menino, Moleque, Malandro” in José Fernandes de Oliveira’s book “A Geração Insatisfeita”, published by Edições Paulinas in 1991. another of his links abandoned in brazil stop by his site…

Standard