You’ve only to visit in autumn, And you’ll stay. The reds, golds, yellows, and orange Of maple leaves drifting from the heights Of 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 howl And 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 heat Making 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.
Title: I Used To Love My State Of Origin, But Now I Have My Doubts
Washington, named after George Beautiful mountains and concerts at the Gorge Apples, coffee, rain, and sun Evergreen, ever-gray, laid back and oh, so fun
123 Poets jump up for your annual spaying You heard me right "Annual poet spaying" It's that time of the life again, people. Assume the preposition and bite down. The words are a fluid chain, A cyanide capsule that bites you back, and nobody, I mean nobody will excuse themselves from this one. If you people had a nickel for every time I mentioned poets in a disparaging way (called them subhuman chased them with baseball bats) you'd be rich neutered poets I mean rich. And if that doesn't make you mad, and brand me a traitor… then all I can do is write harder and grind my poems in peace.
Washington . . . The West Side
ReplyDeleteYou’ve only to visit in autumn,
And you’ll stay.
The reds, golds, yellows, and orange
Of maple leaves drifting from the heights
Of 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 howl
And 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 heat
Making 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-Salter
nicolepetrinosalter@hotmail.com
Kinda lame, but, oh well. Who wants any accolades from Gov. Gregoire anyway? Oops . . .
ReplyDeleteTitle: I Used To Love My State Of Origin, But Now I Have My Doubts
ReplyDeleteWashington, named after George
Beautiful mountains and concerts at the Gorge
Apples, coffee, rain, and sun
Evergreen, ever-gray, laid back and oh, so fun
Until they outlawed playing TAG!!!
The End.
http://www.thenewstribune.com/news/nationworld/story/6172700p-5399088c.html
Did you read about that? Seriously. No good.
WASHINGTON:
ReplyDeleteGreyhound
always costs what I have left
after beers and little debbies
after I’m alone
and I don’t want anyone to see me
crying into a dunkin doughnuts napkin
checked baggage
non-identified gender
people with their faces caved in
from sorrow and failure
everything is broken
smoking is this kindness
a favor to myself
to save myself
from dying a less predictable way
writing poems on cocktail napkins
writing poems in travel toilets
writing poems is this plea
sent out to some other hobo
also running away from home retroactively
who also happened to do the
international baccalaureate in high school
but ended up bumming rides to Vancouver
123
ReplyDeletePoets jump up for your annual spaying
You heard me right
"Annual poet spaying"
It's that time of the life again, people.
Assume the preposition
and bite down.
The words are a fluid chain,
A cyanide capsule that bites you back,
and nobody, I mean nobody
will excuse themselves from this one.
If you people had a nickel
for every time I mentioned poets
in a disparaging way (called them subhuman
chased them with baseball bats)
you'd be rich neutered poets
I mean rich.
And if that doesn't make you mad,
and brand me a traitor…
then all I can do is write harder
and grind my poems in peace.
CinnamonGhoul
j_gulbranson@hotmail.com