Poets Final Resort!
This singular site tis
Of the world's best
Here self styled poets
Self mutually praise
And double their comment
Those like you and I
We finally lament.
Don’t be amazed
it’s not like other sites
where they only praise
And
Money you do so raise.
You have to read a lot friend
And
Don’t leave with tears
towards the end
As tears can be discomforting too
then don't say
Loved
Didn’t warn you
None the less
A happy innings

Fractured psyches, Frankenstein
practicing professions
guinea pigs all in a row;

always on, slightly off
Wikipedestrian logic
dimensional dementia says it's so.
~
Plastic personalities
put Achilles heels foot forward
recycled dreams float high above the roof;

erogenous enablers
emotionality outcries,
dimensional dementia has the proof.
~
anti-skeptic scandalousity
shituation's bleak
if something threatens to back-up then, just let it;

Your funny bone is plain to see
and tickles me with musely glee
oh, write for fun or fucks or tears
it all comes down to test of years
sometimes to shock is cause enough
to call your sullen reader's bluff
but when you give your reader humour
ideas can grow, much like a tumour.

THE SMELL OF DEAD RACCOON
Down a two-lane highway
one midnight near Macon, Georgia
an eighteen-wheeler came barreling through
like a bullet on a target straight and true.

the air was heavy with the smell
of dead raccoon.
warning to all woodland creatures
Death was speeding in their direction.

a deer at a crossing
heeding no warning
was found the next morning
wheel marks across his middle
and as most animals do
smelled a little like dead raccoon too.

Everyday, first love happens
and, someone says I felt a funny feeling
traveling through my body, when I saw you

There's something about a smile,
a twinkle in an eye or lab's beaker on a burner
cooking up a lover's brew
that makes first loves' unforgettable

Even when years pass like departed souls
and making memories with others
a passing glance is enough to rekindle sparks
for the one that got away

I write for poets penning not for laughs,
for unlike them I have no funny bone.
Thence trusting said attempt would spark the gaffes,
I write for poets penning not for laughs.
Far be it I should write our epitaphs,
exposing barren wit that cause one moan.
I’ll write for poets penning not for laughs,
for unlike them I have no funny bone.

When the inevitable midnight hour greets me
slapping my sullen face
with the sudden rudeness of a winter rain,

I won't complain at all, this time.
Let those raindrops fall to balance me,
that I may remember the laughter of the dawn;

and when that rain has gone away,
I'd even pray for the hottest, highest noon
to slap and anger the skin I wear!

I promise you, I won't even care then, either!
For if my skin would truly turn to leather,
I shan't forget the midnight hour's grin;

Night is your day
Stranded humans, your prey
Fascinating beauty
Seeming innocent display
Coded mode is your way

Lies fed unto hope
On tap in range and scope
Make-believe in nothing true
Enforced by petulant stubbornness
Leading nowhere to nothingness

A lion’s teeth on the nape to make it still
Indifference toughened stiff like steal
Victim drained of blood to lifelessness
Soul spirals into air, this earth my brother
Childless, O! Hear the cry of a mother

SOUTHERN BREEZES

southern charm and southern comfort

southern breezes and southern spices

scorching days and sultry waves

of cotton dresses

satin sheets in perfumed nights

passion’s fire seething into daylight.

I took in hand a block of wood
and looking at it long I stood
trying my best to see within
the hidden form, where to begin

At last I saw an inner bird
and muttered"hmph" no other word
then set out with my keen edged knife
to bring the wooden bird to life

As at my feet the shavings grew
the shape emerged I so well knew
with care I carved each curve and nook
regardless of the time it took