Contributor Posts

Should I worrry
When she says,
"I have to go to
The bathroom" and
Then says, "Where
Is it?"
Should I worry?

The grey-blue
of the VW van,
shows primer spots,
with a little paint.
The metallic side,
is smooth; plain
with paint removed.
A great find today,
as a new ride may be
on its way. Hooray!

I lay in bed
with a thought of Ewe
in my head.
For counting of sheep
is supposed to help you sleep.
I hear a neigh in my ear,
for I can't disappear,
as the evening is nigh.
Oh, wait. I need to explain,
I'm talking of reign;
not talking about rain,
for if I do there,
it will be pain (ful)
as I place my head through
the window pane.

Looking out the window pane,
the streets are wet
with a Springtime rain.
As I lookout I bet,
the newspapers
may be dry, hopefully not wet.

From the cold waters of Lake Lenore,
come the voices from a bird haven.
Dark as night, not a Crow but a Raven.
A bird who will blot the Sun from the door,
saying over and over again, "Nevermore."
What sayeth now? I asked of him.
He wouldn't say but he looked grim.
"I have no words, to say to you,
for I know you always abhor,
a bird who talks, saying, Nevermore.?"

I'm alone in the dark,
years before cell phones.
A small flashlight,
it's called a "pen",
for it resembles,
the instrument
of its name.
Not much light
but I can still see,
the small patch
of ground, near my feet.
Not much help,
not to me,
but anything will do,
at a quarter to three.

I stood there looking at thee.
I watched you but couldn't see,
For I was lost in my reverie,
What has now happened to me?

Never more. Never again
will I tell you
I have an ear to lend.

Forego the wind.
Forego the fame.
I ask only
for your name.
We were young,
when we met.
Asking of you,
with no regret.
My memories gone.
Fleeing the scene,
escaping from here,
for I mean,
of something thought,
is your last name;
what I forgot.
Help me now,
oh pretty please.
Keeps me hanging,
not nice to do,
dangling in the breeze.

It's getting close.
It's getting near,
when a mosquito's sound
is what you'll hear.

If I have a poetry predilection,
is it considered a poem addiction?

Do you suppose
if I were to propose
a meeting of those
with the funny old clothes,
they would accept? Who knows
for they're wearing odd hose.
I suppose I would, if my nose
invited them and they arose
to ask of the nature of those
who did lately, I suppose.