Caveat Emptor
Doctors or Lawyers
Someone always graduates
Bottom of the class
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
The Poet Sanctuary
Linkbar
Visit The Poetshare Forums!
Latest Comments
My Selections
Vessel:
When first I settle down to write
I know not where I'm going
Though fickle muse does every night
Just set the words a flowing
Sometimes I'm silly, rarely sad
Sometimes I write of love
Sometimes I get a story bad
And slap the muse above
I like to think I'm brilliant,
With fresh, unended tales
I think I've got a million;
The muse, she never fails
Now you may think this just a
Silly poem 'bout the muse
But see if in these simple lines
There's something you can use
I have no choice in this, you see,
The muse, she does dictate,
And in her fickle hand is ME,
Her willing empty slate.
The Soul's Banquet
This dining on daggers of distraction
Delays a heartier hunger,
A starvation born of this attraction;
Sate this emptiness, and linger.
Let the garden full of roses peek to see
What bloom fulfills their master’s need;
A banquet, then, to all the senses be,
Rest here; allow this soul to feed.
Come ever closer, patient Adonis,
Complete this halfway hollow frame,
Giving others only faintest solace;
Burn those pretenders with your flame.
Burn, when gone, as heaven’s visions oft do,
Know what joyous intent awaits,
Return exultant, warmly tender, true,
Bring union, so hunger abates.
For here’s where the half-souls rest from their plight,
Here the souls sing, brought together,
Come with a passion to last through the night;
Stay in this garden forever.
What Love Is (Dedicated To Norm)
Softly glowing embers of last night’s fire
Casting subtle shadows on your face
Rustle as you stir them; my own desire
Holds me in this warm romantic place.
Watching you by firelight I hold a sigh
Tracing every ripple of your form
Turning round you catch me and hold my eye
Smiling, you return to keep me warm.
This is what love is, content in this place,
Where the sharing completely abounds,
Quickening breath when a part of your space,
In your arms only hearts making sounds.
This passion that scorches my very soul
Is an aching my heart won’t unlearn,
Let the tinder burn down until it’s coal;
Though the embers may wane, we still burn.
When first I settle down to write
I know not where I'm going
Though fickle muse does every night
Just set the words a flowing
Sometimes I'm silly, rarely sad
Sometimes I write of love
Sometimes I get a story bad
And slap the muse above
I like to think I'm brilliant,
With fresh, unended tales
I think I've got a million;
The muse, she never fails
Now you may think this just a
Silly poem 'bout the muse
But see if in these simple lines
There's something you can use
I have no choice in this, you see,
The muse, she does dictate,
And in her fickle hand is ME,
Her willing empty slate.
Delays a heartier hunger,
A starvation born of this attraction;
Sate this emptiness, and linger.
Let the garden full of roses peek to see
What bloom fulfills their master’s need;
A banquet, then, to all the senses be,
Rest here; allow this soul to feed.
Come ever closer, patient Adonis,
Complete this halfway hollow frame,
Giving others only faintest solace;
Burn those pretenders with your flame.
Burn, when gone, as heaven’s visions oft do,
Know what joyous intent awaits,
Return exultant, warmly tender, true,
Bring union, so hunger abates.
For here’s where the half-souls rest from their plight,
Here the souls sing, brought together,
Come with a passion to last through the night;
Stay in this garden forever.
What Love Is (Dedicated To Norm)
Softly glowing embers of last night’s fire
Casting subtle shadows on your face
Rustle as you stir them; my own desire
Holds me in this warm romantic place.
Watching you by firelight I hold a sigh
Tracing every ripple of your form
Turning round you catch me and hold my eye
Smiling, you return to keep me warm.
This is what love is, content in this place,
Where the sharing completely abounds,
Quickening breath when a part of your space,
In your arms only hearts making sounds.
This passion that scorches my very soul
Is an aching my heart won’t unlearn,
Let the tinder burn down until it’s coal;
Though the embers may wane, we still burn.
Other Poetry Blogs
Moderating At TPS
The Poet Sanctuary
About Me
Categories
- 2009 (1)
- Challenge Entries (13)
- Darkness (1)
- Death (1)
- ESP (1)
- Fantasy (1)
- formal poetry (2)
- Forms (1)
- forums (1)
- Free Verse (9)
- ghosts (1)
- Haiku/Senryu (11)
- Halloween (6)
- horror (5)
- Humor (6)
- legacy (1)
- Lento (1)
- Love (8)
- Merry Widow Series (1)
- Michael Jackson (1)
- Miscellaneous (3)
- Nature (10)
- Open-Mic (5)
- passion (1)
- Personal (4)
- poem (3)
- Poetry (76)
- Published (2)
- puns (1)
- romance (2)
- Satire (1)
- silly (1)
- terza rima (1)
- terzanelle (1)
- The Muse (1)
- tribute (1)
- Witch Series (2)
- writing (2)
- Xmas (2)
Readers
Archives
-
▼
2009
(71)
-
▼
March
(55)
- Lamenting The Muse
- A Little Winter Snark
- Whisp of Summer
- Determination
- Nieces and Nephews
- Tradition
- Ornamental Sacrifice
- Blue and Green
- Pedestrian Poet
- Ego Trip
- Snoopy Dance
- Resurrection
- Forward March
- Not Yet Creaking
- Prop 8
- Rock Star Poet
- Dressing As Dracula
- Not Enough Time
- How Much Is A Million Pounds?
- To Face Myself
- Last Gasp
- Butterfly
- Born Bad: Prelude to The Witch
- Conflicting Schedules
- Bound Witness
- Vanish Little Morsels (Merry Widow Part I)
- Gramma's Chair
- Ode To A Spider
- Hockey Mom
- As Luna Cycles
- The Witch
- October Branches
- Zen-ku Very Much
- Caveat Emptor
- Harsh Light Of Truth
- Time Flies
- What Love Is
- Vessel
- The Best Laid Plans
- Witness
- I Must Be Dreaming
- A Duet:Lap Full Of Memories/On A Strange Porch, Ro...
- Daddy's Diary
- I Get More Free Candy This Way
- I Remember Cattails
- Poor Substitute
- Open Window
- Peeping Tom's Curse
- Grammar
- Birthing The Verse
- After
- Fifty Arms At Yoga
- Somethin' Scorchin
- Hush
- Apology In Case
-
▼
March
(55)
0 comments:
Post a Comment