my inner thigh.
copyright (c) 2014 by franzad
With curly locks, toys, dolls, blocks
You hold me near
I hear that beating rhythmic flow
Will never stop, never go
With braided hair, sweet embraces, garden picnics
Sun-filled yards, glistening tears
You sing to me
A song to laugh, to dance
Over scrapes, beyond shadowy fears
With growing years, a clear warm voiced song
As you hold grand little ones
I loved you then, I love you now
Moments shared have showed me how
I hear that beating rhythmic flow as you leave
As you go
You in heaven as on earth will be one to wipe away
By Jonathan McCallum
Well, I’m having fun being back at 20 Lines.
The little wingèd creatures come to view
and charm me as they clean the grounded seed.
Now winter’s gone and everything is new,
including those who wear their springtime blue.
I watch them from the deck or through the glass,
these fliers who make up this April’s class.
They come from skies that seem to toss them here,
their wings providing necessary gear.
I need to prime the writing pump again,
go deep into the well where words reside.
I reach into the past for fountain pen
so I can prime the writing pump again.
When traveling in France I’ll cruise the Seine
or swing through universes planet-wide.
I need to prime the writing pump again
go deep into the well where words reside.
Sandside I slump, on shelled shore, sun screened and sipping soda, unaware of rising tide.
The waves lap my feet, childish, childlike.
I settle into my shallow rock pool.
It’s pretty. Controlled. Tepid. You could say lukewarm.
Occasionally, mercifully, the tide refreshes it
And that unforgetting love spills in, flooding my dry sand living.
I have been playing adult-like, fun-less,
Responsibly boring the world,
Offering religion, not new life living,
Forgetting I was made to be as simple as the waves.
Missing, simply, the fathomless sea.
Words ring in my ears, in my mouth: “Try harder,” “Read, pray, do…MORE.”
Words so unrefreshing, untouched by tidal tonic,
Stale on tired, heat-stroked ears.
But your one word stroke broke yoke-rules, found parched hearts,
Mine among them.
We study the sea,
Read books, endure lectures, schedule workshops,
Then, with dry feet, speak of how nice it would be
The tide is turning, the sea calls me in.
There are some strokes to acquire—
But surely the splash and splatter of learning is better than stagnant pools or stifling sand,
Sheltered from revitalizing thrill.
Time brings tide’s pull, I splash in, all I feel is new.
I dive, delve into your effervescence, afloat in you.
Stillness and movement mingle, a sweetness of life.
A soul-craved life.
That which clothed me, masked me, left onshore—
Religious duplicity, scanty love living, safety settling.
The tide is turning now. Will you take me to the deep?
The swirls along the rocks tell me that it is
Time to go to sea.
Today it rained and then it fogged,
I couldn’t see and so I blogged.
I told a story of a time where men,
spoke of their problems and were gentlemen.
This time is gone and now I see,
that all that’s left can’t surely be.
What happened to the days in which,
doors were held open and no lies were stitched.
I have a dream and let it be said
when I rest my head and go to bed.
Life is simple and can be cruel
don’t let it drag you like a mule.
Smile and laugh and make good decisions,
and soon you will see you dreams come to fruition.
© Christina Laureano 2014
Hiccups and laughs,
Joy to be heard,
A crack of a smile,
a glance at a bird.
The baby is yawning,
mommy is aware
and all through the nap
noise is handled with care.
Now you’re up
and you smiling
no more fuss
no more crying.
The joy of new life
is a blessing.
Originally posted on dribblingpensioner:
A poetry challenge with a difference, which i thought up myself.
A poem made up completely from song titles only.
No additional words to be added.
It doe’s not need to rhyme and can be any length.
The poem should have a theme: love, travel, places, etc.
Get those fingers and minds working.
The past is not fallen leafs;
it is dirt blanketing newly planted seeds.
It is a crack in the window
causing the afternoon sun
to rainbow across my wall,
allowing November’s cold to seep in.
The past is the eye lash fallen on cheek,
a turned up carpet and door with broken deadbolt,
a watch stopped five minutes till 3.
Sometimes the past comes back.
It scratches at door,
curls around fires,
lays in my bed.
In the clarity of reminiscence
I see what I have been looking away from.
It is stark and it is clear.
The past does not haunt me,
I haunt it.
A lingering scent,
a familiar hand brushed upon the small of my back,
I am always leaving pieces of myself behind
waiting for others to catch up.
I wonder what it is about me
that is so easy to let go.
I must let the past solidify,
mold it into perpetual bricks,
and mend broken windows
until my house can stand.