Ballad for a Bushy BeardIt's time to trim
this bushy beard.
Can't find my chin-
A grungy sheep
I never sheared.
grow like weeds.
"Tame that beast!"
the family pleads.
Finally, my sloth
I gathered scissors,
blades and combs.
I bought some Face-Nick's
I prep'd for paleface
With ninja blur
I sliced and chopped!
The whiskers snowed!
I swept and mopped,
before I stopped.
When the chin-fuzz
all had settled,
I felt so fit
so firm and fettled!
My nose was high
my rose was petaled!
I cleared my throat
and then announced
"Reduced the grunge
nearly an ounce!"
I bowed and basked
in loud applause!
My daughter's smile
then drooped and paused...
"I miss 'ol squishy Santa Claus."
55 i don’t want to write a poem
about you, or me,
even oceans -
vortices of brontebight sand
pull beneath our feet,
the crashing waves
of laughter &
bay wide smiles
lithe sea grass
is your role model
(neither of you could
really care for that)
& shoals of fish
have never had to write a single sentence
in analysis of foreign relations
i don’t even want to write
but i can’t paint
& social piroue
land of the envied.there’s a cross inked down the flat plane of his back,
one thick line of black punctured by the jut of bone,
but a shrug of fabric later and that’s all gone –
was it ever really there in the first place?
the lone paper bag in the corner of the room
has wrinkles all over its front and back,
trademark symbols of wisdom and serenity –
gone through mass production and rough hands.
a still body of water slowly clouds over in the tub,
the temperature warm enough to fight away goosebumps
but cold enough for you to want to sink into it and never rise –
one slow trickle is all it takes for empty gaps to fill up over time.
a three-legged chair supporting its own lopsided weight on
a pile of ashes that will never feel fire ever again.
constellations reflect light down towards the masses and look pretty –
but that’s all they’ll ever be.
things are always beautiful when they’re doomed,
when they have an expiration date, when they’re sure t
The Art of Poetry KillingWhen I find an old poem
Packaged beneath an allegory
Or taped beside a piece of prose,
Warm and balmy and still swollen
Ripe with the undisturbed
Within their plastic wrapper,
I untangle its cellophane bindings
To find it's too old
And too stale for the proper use of a poem
So I pluck out its
Like some guts of a creature
And sew them
Onto other dust poems
Like the mismatched socks
Of a child
Just like murder is an art,
I still walk away with ink on my hands.
A small collection of inspirationHey everyone!
My friend WillTC was asking about the photographs we liked during our time here on dA and put no limit to it… and because i couldn't post a comment with this amount of photographs, i just decided to make a journal feature about it!
and now, show me your favourite photographs of all the time no limits in quantity or time! just send me a link to your journal, if you are like me, too much too post in a comment
Sun down by deepgrounduk