At three o’clock, malt whisky (ten years old),
Napoleon brandy follows (warm and gentle),
to ease away concern a mind may hold,
about the planned assault upon “God’s temple.”

An apogee to years of aggravation
(a body racked by rampant throbs and aches);
four different ailments blend to cause frustration,
while giddiness, fatigue are nature’s brakes.

Of flowers and sunshiny poems;

limited episodes in rerun;
like a goldfish spinning 'round in a bowl;
nothing new under that sun.

Those of emo affect in lackluster tones;

a broken playlist, stuck on repeat.
Pity parties tire me out,
and not being young, I'd rather delete.

As for woo woo, and angels, and the heavens above;

all cringe worthy themes, stuck in a rut.
Preaching to a choir of fuzzy thinking coots
leaves me with nothing but... "what the fuck?!"

This is all about personal taste:

I write to release
Yet when it's read you retreat
To what your own definition
Of what poetry should be pissing
On every emotion I choose to show
Disregarding that I'm fighting to grow
Instead of hiding my lows
Allowing pain to fester and blow
On whomever
It's sad you assume lesser
Of me, one of very few
Who won't bury the truth
Or better yet, coat it with sugar
Then boast to on-lookers
On how exquisitely I riddle
You with imagery that tickles
Your soul

If life is the sea,
then moments will be
the high
and low tide.

When the mundane cycle
becomes unappreciated,
a tragedy that rocks one's world,
shall reveal its worth.

It is not a punishment
for the faithful,
but a test and reminder
to be thankful.

Just as the darkness of night
shows the beauty of the moon and stars,
so does the grimness of life,
unveils the value of little things denied.

gown noire
shimmer diamond
naked skies
allure of heat
the smooth
of blacktop worn
sleeps

The golden rain
of summers days
which bite the skin
like freezing pain

The circles made
upon the trails
in puddles dance
and then they fade

A rainbow floats
across a lake
a gasp is caught
in frozen throats

then nature mourns
the loss of sun
while birds do drink
and blow their horns

to find a muse
in written words
intoxicates
like drinking booze

Dream street
flash and glitter,
blinding reality under
bright lights
and illusion,

he joins the menagerie
parading to grandeur
in festive camraderie;
the come-hither lure.

But soon, that scene fades....

"Let the games begin".

Taking more than his share
of bumps and bruises,
a wistful initiate's
small town ego
goes limping
sideways,
sullen,
and confused.

No ocean has depth
to drown my sorrow
its salt does hurt my wounds
its waves now remind me
of that elation
of being with you

The sky no more calls me
to soar among those fluffy clouds
my wings are now laden
with the burden of the loss
no warmth now to comfort me
in our abode

as day turns into night
my gloom slips into plight
in that darkness
I search for your light
but you are nowhere in sight
and the pillow on my right
keeps waiting for you

O you there
come and share
poetry I compose on pets
is very fair
but don't me with pets compare

I AM A LOVELY ONE
COME SMILE WITH ME

This is what I always
wanted to be
a pet for many a darling
as all would love to kiss me

O what a lovely feeling
they'd pet me
ruffle my hair
and

I would lick side by side
upon a hard sweet bone
they'd give me to
my mouth ride!.

Then into their bed
I'd also slide....