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the week was dry
without whit, she
misses humor in
the mundanity
of modern dwelling.
thinking the rustic
life may be the
more illustrious
after all this social
experimenting and
clammoring to the
new heights, perhaps
the obillisk with the
small cottage and
two acres, like kernals,
would be the wiser
stimulation. where
clothes could be
dropped for a balmy
steam in the outdoor
sweathouse for family
or close friends with
vodka all around
one, two, three shots
then basking by firelight
at the end of a 'day'
of tilling owned earth.
would have merit.
the blackberry gives
her sore tendons.
like the swell after a
romp on the keyboard
battling words for the
merriment of unknown
souls or soldiers, who
are wrecking their toils
on humanity. the earnest
buck, somehow shot
for his rack. to hang
on walls with decals
and profane misalignments
the faked photos with
handshakes and leers
from sidelines. of those
jealous souls. to labor
at the earth and shake
her roots. would somehow
be beneficial. and maybe
a little paint and dabbling
with herbs would satisfy
what she has become.
(another bucketman series)
Donna Quesinberry
| Submitted Date |
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Wednesday, April 18, 2007 |
| Submitted Date |
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Tuesday, February 15, 2011 |
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Poets
