Ianaldo Prescott Pourchot

Ianaldo Prescott Pourchot Poems

The weary Dancer wakes up,
And she dances,
She walks on her feet.
...

Like all poetry
Things don’t make no sense
But one thing is true
I really love you
...

O England alone
It is my Lovely home
It is nothing but true
Suns never set on you
...

My fingers are as weary,
As the wild rider’s horse.

An endless trail of notes,
...

One day I caught a memory
And I let it grow
I spun its little toy crown
And let it go
...

What happened?
I… I… am alone here
What is this?
...

I’ve heard of heaven.

I heard it has a sound.

But, I have searched,
...

Coming out of the depression…
I had nowhere to go
My pa was a shoemaker
And his pa was an oil tycoon
...

I strolled among the streets one wintry night.
The streetlight's cloud was spread amongst the sky,
And beside me, a face I believed was shown,
Was only a reminder—that I was alone.
...

10.

SHOULD I kill you Gregor?
You are a vermin, a creature.
Thousands of legs, hard shell,
but a beast from the fires of hell!
...

One evening the darkness and the daylight had an argument.
Does this night deserve a little rain to ruin the farmer’s crops and animals?
...

Shut the windows—LOCK THE DOOR!
We must never let the night come in, for…
Like a demon she tenderly crawls
And swiftly clings to the dazzling walls
...

There is a man I work with;
He holds the paintbrush.
He swings the hammer.
...

The suspended bridge, it has a soul,
And people cross it everyday,
People drive among it, everyday.
...

I sat on a wooden park bench,
It was a Sunday Afternoon.
A man came up to me,
Wearing a beanie and scarf
...

I was a river flowing,
And I found a lake,
So we tenderly united,
But our banks broke,
...

Hands and boots,
On the floor and on the hillside.
Hands and boots,
stomping and producing—
...

Crimson ember
Sitting on a bench
“Oh my! ”
I said under breath,
...

I was sitting on the veranda one day.
I looked out into the flowery bourrée,
A patch of annuals, and a’wine red rose.
The’wine red rose softly trickled my nose.
...

There is a place you should know.
A beautiful place where thoughts come and go,
A place where men and women speak freely.
A place where coffee’s only a buck fifty!
...

Ianaldo Prescott Pourchot Biography

I'm a high School Student in Corona California, a town just east over the Santa Mountains of Orange County, I'm a writer, it's the best way to put it. I write everything but I think poetry is the most portable engine of literature. I plan on joining the Navy and getting an English degree from California State University of Fullerton.)

The Best Poem Of Ianaldo Prescott Pourchot

The Dancer's Feet

The weary Dancer wakes up,
And she dances,
She walks on her feet.

And her tense toes reap deceit,
From Morning’s rise to Evening’s end,
The dancer prances left to right.

The dancer’s feet are rubbed at night,
And she slumbers till morning’s bright,
How sweet her tampered soles feel.

When they’re held in soft hands,
When they’re pampered tight.

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