I Made A Mistake
I reached up into the top of the closet
and took out a pair of blue panties
and showed them to her and
asked 'are these yours? '
and she looked and said,
'no, those belong to a dog.'
she left after that and I haven't seen
her since. she's not at her place.
I keep going there, leaving notes stuck
into the door. I go back and the notes
Rose Pogonias
A saturated meadow,
Sun-shaped and jewel-small,
A circle scarcely wider
Than the trees around were tall;
Where winds were quite excluded,
And the air was stifling sweet
With the breath of many flowers, --
A temple of the heat.
There we bowed us in the burning,
Bouquet Of Words
Don't ask me what is friend?
What is love? Where it lies in?
Well definition, most of us confused
With the sweet of love juice
As love has chain to fuse
Grab this love that i lend
Love is not only for a lover
Love also made for a friend
and great love for God
Beautiful loves are broad
Emo Kid
I sit in the dark corner all day long
Just writing my life's song
Why am i always so confused?
Why does everything wrong happen to me?
My life is nothing put pain
I cant handle any more misery
People ask me why im always depressed
People think im messed
Some even say Im werid
But I dont care what people think
Expression
When it's almost all gone
The day is done
A new one's begun
Confused of what to do
Or what to say
I always end up going the wrong way
Don’t know where I’m headed
I hate the feeling
Of being lost
My life is peeling
** A Knightly Warrior *** -In Top 500 Poems
He sees,
Tonight, a vitreous calm sea
Tourmaline foams kiss
Waves lap furtively
Those torpid shores
Tide is sibylline
A beaming moon
Shines in private
Signals love to her.
The Art Of True Love
The Art of Love is not to be confused with the Act of Making Love.
The latter can sometimes be merely physical (especially for men)
the former is Spiritual and involves the Heart the Mind and the Spirit.
To write about the Art of Love within
The compass of a poem short as this
We must define the boundaries of the theme
To rein it in within the 'Realms of Bliss'
The Art of Love is not the Act of Love
At Joan's
It is almost three
I sit at the marble top
sorting poems, miserable
the little lamp glows feebly
I don't glow at all
I have another cognac
and stare at two little paintings
of Jean-Paul's, so great
I must do so much
I Wrote A Good Omelet
I wrote a good omelet...and ate
a hot poem... after loving you
Buttoned my car...and drove my
coat home...in the rain...
after loving you
I goed on red...and stopped on
green...floating somewhere in between...
being here and being there...
after loving you
I rolled my bed...turned down
Heart Vs Mind
I am confused really confused
My mind says to fight for truth
And Heart says to live in harmony
The Mind sets boundaries and limitations
Heart says love unconditionally
Should I listen to my heart or mind?
Where do the emotions come from?
If it is from my mind
Then why do my heart ache and rejoice in love
Is it not the first electromagnetic wave
' As My Religion '
Each one of us believe in different creed
Each one of us have religious sects we belong to
Just to satisfy our souls' spiritual needs
To believe in different icon of Gods and Goddesses
To the multiple religions we believe with each ism
To name a few - Catholicism, Hinduism, Shintoism
Islamism, Christianism, Confucianism, Buddhism
Each have guidance, doctrine to believe into
Love Is Sacrifice
At a dim-lit dining table I sat
Alone, but a lone red rose in vase, stood
My mind's lost sojourn, she read
Confused and searching, my unusual mood
Rose asked: May I ask why the look of askance?
I could help to bring relief, given a chance
Trust me, I would find you an answer
It would be pathetic to see you whither!
That The Soul May Wax Plump
My dumpy little mother on the undertaker's slab
had a mannequin's grace. From chin to foot
the sheet outlined her, thin and tall. Her face
uptilted, bloodless, smooth, had a long smile.
Her head rested on a block under her nape,
her neck was long, her hair waved, upswept. But later,
at "the viewing," sunk in the casket in pink tulle,
an expensive present that might spoil, dressed
in Eden's green apron, organdy bonnet on,
she shrank, grew short again, and yellow. Who
At Carnoy
Down in the hollow there’s the whole Brigade
Camped in four groups: through twilight falling slow
I hear a sound of mouth-organs, ill-played,
And murmur of voices, gruff, confused, and low.
Crouched among thistle-tufts I’ve watched the glow
Of a blurred orange sunset flare and fade;
And I’m content. To-morrow we must go
To take some cursèd Wood ... O world God made!
The Long Goodbye
.
I took another step today
on that last journey I will take
the one taking me to a destination
where no one wants to go
.
Thoughts keep slipping out of my grip
I can no longer concentrate like I used to
I did not think it would be happening like this
It's so much faster than I thought.
My Books
Sadly as some old mediaeval knight
Gazed at the arms he could no longer wield,
The sword two-handed and the shining shield
Suspended in the hall, and full in sight,
While secret longings for the lost delight
Of tourney or adventure in the field
Came over him, and tears but half concealed
Trembled and fell upon his beard of white,
So I behold these books upon their shelf,
My ornaments and arms of other days;
- It's All Relative: : Humour
My mother’s brother’s sister’s name is Grace
She’s my aunt and likes to go from place to place
My mother’s sister’s brother’s name is Brad
He’s my uncle and he is my cousin’s Dad
My grandmother on my mother’s side
Is my maternal gran, she is my grandfather’s bride
She also is my father’s mother-in-law
And not surprisingly they often go to war
Color Me Red
Red is deep anger that never comes out
Red is believing, and then having doubt.
Red reeks of revenge, of suffering and hate.
Red is being thirsty and having to wait.
Red, in a painting, makes one hot and confused,
It’s the anger of crying when you feel you’ve been used.
Red is that voice, deep in your head,
It could keep you back, but pushes ahead.
Confession
I love you - I love you, e'en as I
Rage at myself for this obsession,
And as I make my shamed confession,
Despairing at your feet I lie.
I know, I know - It ill becomes me,
I am too old, time to be wise ...
But how? ... This love - it overcomes me,
A sickness this in passion's guise.
When you are near I'm filled with sadness,
When far, I yawn, for life's a bore.
On A Theme By Thomas Merton
"Adam, where are you?"
God's hands
palpate darkness, the void
that is Adam's inattention,
his confused attention to everything,
impassioned by multiplicity, his despair.
Multiplicity, his despair;
God's hands
enacting blindness. Like a child