Flora$$$ghostw12

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The Light Site Rank MAJOR GENERAL
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CATEGORY

life

"STAY 2 METRES APART": garish white letters,
painted at night by a benign tyrant?
Leering white letters, brilliant on the ground,
I winced at them when I ventured out today,
barely breathing.
A modern burning bush - a sign of
decay? The fallen blossoms curl up like red fortune fishes
Cowering from the tyrannical paint,
as they wait to decompose

While our clunking blundering

declines

and falls transfigure our race

We fall so we can rise altered like

Michael Jordan stood high up and tall

Nature you're humankind's basket

when you short-sightedly thought you're the ball!

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COMMENTS


		mlowe5 says: A well penned message, Tazalia. Profound! Come November, we must be as Nature, causing the tyrant's evil blossoms to fall and rot away along with that unveiled "mask" face. Enjoyed this great write. Peace and Love, mlowe5. poems by this commentor BIRDMAN THE WORKER'S WORKERS TORMENTATION
		LP45 says: Nice write Tazalia. Thanks for sharing. poems by this commentor Pillow Talk Woman to Woman Autumn's Chill

OTHER POEMS WRITTEN BY Flora$$$ghostw12

Poiemeh kalos

Hold a lamb around your neck

Silver tongue

Easter Sunday

Now I finally feel the resurrection.

My Father smiled at you,

Like an artist gently resting his paintbrush,

And, breathing out, he admired his work.

Easter Sunday

My Father looks down on you,

His children,

As if you are the sun,

Smoothing out his wrinkles.

Believe me, he is proud of you.

God is good

The major general

I'm the Major General I'm smart and stern PATTERN UP YOU ain't got time on your side

31420

Thirty one thousand four hundred and twenty. Damn

The light

Exists only in certain postcodes W6 w12 are OK don't Subtract anymore though Or the light becomes disturbing Refracted in an odd wsy Because it is too far out

Jazz tuba

A silly idea

DIS ERE BY BOBBY TIMMONS

Dis 'ere..." Cannonball announces, E flat sax of his all lit up In the smoke-filled club, "... is a jazz waltz." Brother Nat' s horn Plays a foreign fanfare, Proclaiming the second coming, Like a thousand tongues of Prostrated Pentecostals. This here's a whole congregation, Of foot-tapping listeners who, In the Spirit, are slain. As they pray for life in 3/4. 3 counts and no rests. Jazz. Period. No Bach Chorales, No laboured grace notes No European overthinking. A primeval urge to survive Set our ancestors, Like driven jazz drummers, Hurtling towards This promised land: thuggish, smug in its all-knowing 'un-reality'. This double-edged sword Of knowledge: Science and Faith. Which one's the gloopy black Murderous residue? Product of neuroses, Our glib hypotheses? PAIN. Is an entire people, Destined for syncopation, Like a band on the brink of combustion, Yearning for open fifths And blues scales, Imperfect cadences like Suffering unansw...

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Poiemeh kalos

Silver tongue

Easter Sunday

Easter Sunday

God is good

The major general

31420

The light

Jazz tuba

DIS ERE BY BOBBY TIMMONS

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