In order not to crowd th front window I put five together.
This viral world whirls to no end
into the arms of garbage men,
bloats like dead pigs in a pen,
is dirt again and again.
No resurrection combs the beach,
seagulls dives deep;
no spring is within reach;
no one follows your leap.
I pity he that runs in vain
like an old steam train,
I pity the glass in between
I and the unseen.
I am supreme
Whatever paths can I take tonight
to unfold hope and deceit?
Where will I not have to compete
with dreams that drains the light
in robes, sour cream and a sheet?
The crushing of naked feet
holds a cool lever over a beam.
Boldness, although incomplete,
resides in love supreme.
I am not what I seem.
I am
I am the taste
all your dream world,
your fast beating drums
can ascertain in moments
of tell tale trials
of what must be unfurled
before time itself
recedes into the night
and all memories
fade into the dying.
I am the salt
that leaves you
with a taste of longing
in times of dread
and what if
another path had persisted
with alternatives
never besought, nor paid for
in the continuation.
I am candor,
a final expression
in the night
that falls in between
what is left of expression.
There is no more
wishful thinking
amongst dying trees
in parks.
Rhythm
The world's swirling beat
swells like dark surmise
under money market skies
where a possession in heat
keeps fixed position as a prize.
Whoa! Let's go!
Africa, Brazil, The Middle East!
It's a drum, come on, go!
Let the beat enfold you,
the rhythm is a blow.
Spring
Once again spring's return
folds wild feet earth
into bundles of tales
where "the old age curse", inherit at birth,
laughs like a mystery moon with no sails.
Spring is a whirling, dervish urn
to a busy miller
that no longer burn
like spring decaying like a pillar,
pregnant with winter, a killer.
Poetry by Bob
Read 487 times
Written on 2011-05-27 at 22:17
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Five
This viral worldThis viral world whirls to no end
into the arms of garbage men,
bloats like dead pigs in a pen,
is dirt again and again.
No resurrection combs the beach,
seagulls dives deep;
no spring is within reach;
no one follows your leap.
I pity he that runs in vain
like an old steam train,
I pity the glass in between
I and the unseen.
I am supreme
Whatever paths can I take tonight
to unfold hope and deceit?
Where will I not have to compete
with dreams that drains the light
in robes, sour cream and a sheet?
The crushing of naked feet
holds a cool lever over a beam.
Boldness, although incomplete,
resides in love supreme.
I am not what I seem.
I am
I am the taste
all your dream world,
your fast beating drums
can ascertain in moments
of tell tale trials
of what must be unfurled
before time itself
recedes into the night
and all memories
fade into the dying.
I am the salt
that leaves you
with a taste of longing
in times of dread
and what if
another path had persisted
with alternatives
never besought, nor paid for
in the continuation.
I am candor,
a final expression
in the night
that falls in between
what is left of expression.
There is no more
wishful thinking
amongst dying trees
in parks.
Rhythm
The world's swirling beat
swells like dark surmise
under money market skies
where a possession in heat
keeps fixed position as a prize.
Whoa! Let's go!
Africa, Brazil, The Middle East!
It's a drum, come on, go!
Let the beat enfold you,
the rhythm is a blow.
Spring
Once again spring's return
folds wild feet earth
into bundles of tales
where "the old age curse", inherit at birth,
laughs like a mystery moon with no sails.
Spring is a whirling, dervish urn
to a busy miller
that no longer burn
like spring decaying like a pillar,
pregnant with winter, a killer.
Poetry by Bob
Read 487 times
Written on 2011-05-27 at 22:17
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text| Texts |
 by Bob Latest textsI seldom walkthere’s a rumor there will be no full stop so many regrets who am I |
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