Washington . . . The West SideYou’ve only to visit in autumn, And you’ll stay.The reds, golds, yellows, and orange Of maple leaves drifting from the heightsOf limbs stroking the grey light of sky, Piled high will beckon you to play.But yet winter has its own design, Often wet, not frigid for long.The skies more slate and charcoal The wind might whoosh and howlAnd chase you in to fire’s warmth. But will not overstay the goal.Spring comes awkward with might and meek, Undecided but in bloom.Early tulips and daffodil Hearty but hungry for the sun,Which often hides in winter’s wake,Waiting to deliver the anticipated thrill.Summer proclaims its hindered arrival, The welcomed guest spreading the heatMaking green the color of choice. While flowers herald the show-off sun,Soaking in the rapture, exploding in unequalled palette,The season unfurled, success announced . . . and then it’s done. by Nicole Petrino-Salternicolepetrinosalter@hotmail.com
Kinda lame, but, oh well. Who wants any accolades from Gov. Gregoire anyway? Oops . . .
Title: I Used To Love My State Of Origin, But Now I Have My DoubtsWashington, named after GeorgeBeautiful mountains and concerts at the GorgeApples, coffee, rain, and sunEvergreen, ever-gray, laid back and oh, so funUntil they outlawed playing TAG!!!The End.http://www.thenewstribune.com/news/nationworld/story/6172700p-5399088c.htmlDid you read about that? Seriously. No good.
WASHINGTON:Greyhound always costs what I have leftafter beers and little debbiesafter I’m aloneand I don’t want anyone to see mecrying into a dunkin doughnuts napkinchecked baggage non-identified genderpeople with their faces caved infrom sorrow and failureeverything is brokensmoking is this kindnessa favor to myself to save myselffrom dying a less predictable waywriting poems on cocktail napkinswriting poems in travel toiletswriting poems is this pleasent out to some other hoboalso running away from home retroactivelywho also happened to do theinternational baccalaureate in high schoolbut ended up bumming rides to Vancouver
123Poets jump up for your annual spayingYou heard me right"Annual poet spaying"It's that time of the life again, people.Assume the prepositionand bite down.The words are a fluid chain,A cyanide capsule that bites you back,and nobody, I mean nobodywill excuse themselves from this one.If you people had a nickelfor every time I mentioned poets in a disparaging way (called them subhuman chased them with baseball bats)you'd be rich neutered poetsI mean rich.And if that doesn't make you mad,and brand me a traitor…then all I can do is write harderand grind my poems in peace.CinnamonGhoulj_gulbranson@hotmail.com