Rant, freewrite, zen, whatever.
Current state of mind: hormonal-imbalance-mood-swing-dont-mess-with-me-totally-worked-up
with a lightbulb. Fascinating,
how red flashbulbs make walls look
eerie at night, when red looks so
good in my neighbor's peonies.
Reminds me of my never-to-grow tulips;
I so hoped they'd be lovely and huge.
Never knew what color to expect. I suppose
that's what happens when you buy things
from leprechauns and goblins, those
irresponsible creeturs.
Brings me to the elves – now there's a
class of respectable, honorable fellas.
All of them courteous, mellifluous and
beautiful. Never yet heard of an
unhandsome elfin lord, or an ugly elfin
mademoiselle, or an elf that couldn't sing.
People often wish sunsets would never end.
I agree sunsets are beautiful sometimes,
if you see them from the right spot at the
right moment on the right day; but a sunset
is the death of a day, no matter how beautiful.
I don't think I'd want a drawn out ending. The
day might have been good to me, but who
knows what tears hide within the sunny breast.
Is the ocean made up of those hidden tears?
Don't think I'll ever know.
Was cleaning rice the other dayfor cooking.
Found a squiggling, wriggling worm.
Put him into the wastebasket among a bunch of
cucumber peels. He is hopefully making compost now
in a dumping ground, making the land fertile and
propagating his kind.
Ever heard of the fella who had a mistress, a wife
and two teenage daughters? Yeah, the same guy
who was never heard of again. Last heard, the women
got together and went on a honeymoon, the girls
with them. Funny, huh.
I hate people who smirk at my poems. I consider
them to be of an inferior mental level. Alrightie,
so my language will be different from Enid Blyton,
like Hellloooooooooooo, I'm Me and she is Enid.
Is it so difficult to understand, or impossible
to believe that poets are different from authors
just as painters are different from sculptors?
Even if I do the crossover jig sometimes and
write a story or two, I'd like to believe an orange
will remain an orange until its thrown, juiced
or its eaten and still be called an orange
and not a kiwi.
This morning, a kid trampled down a chubby
caterpillar because, well, he looked so delightfully
squishable. Mr. Caterpillar musta gone straight
to heaven, lined with all the leaves he loves to eat.
Question: do dead caterpillars turn into butterflies
in heaven? Or are they reborn as beetles and fire-ants?
Words by Arti
Read 766 times
Written on 2007-02-10 at 19:37
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Current state of mind: hormonal-imbalance-mood-swing-dont-mess-with-me-totally-worked-up
Random Refuse
I reach for an apple and come awaywith a lightbulb. Fascinating,
how red flashbulbs make walls look
eerie at night, when red looks so
good in my neighbor's peonies.
Reminds me of my never-to-grow tulips;
I so hoped they'd be lovely and huge.
Never knew what color to expect. I suppose
that's what happens when you buy things
from leprechauns and goblins, those
irresponsible creeturs.
Brings me to the elves – now there's a
class of respectable, honorable fellas.
All of them courteous, mellifluous and
beautiful. Never yet heard of an
unhandsome elfin lord, or an ugly elfin
mademoiselle, or an elf that couldn't sing.
People often wish sunsets would never end.
I agree sunsets are beautiful sometimes,
if you see them from the right spot at the
right moment on the right day; but a sunset
is the death of a day, no matter how beautiful.
I don't think I'd want a drawn out ending. The
day might have been good to me, but who
knows what tears hide within the sunny breast.
Is the ocean made up of those hidden tears?
Don't think I'll ever know.
Was cleaning rice the other dayfor cooking.
Found a squiggling, wriggling worm.
Put him into the wastebasket among a bunch of
cucumber peels. He is hopefully making compost now
in a dumping ground, making the land fertile and
propagating his kind.
Ever heard of the fella who had a mistress, a wife
and two teenage daughters? Yeah, the same guy
who was never heard of again. Last heard, the women
got together and went on a honeymoon, the girls
with them. Funny, huh.
I hate people who smirk at my poems. I consider
them to be of an inferior mental level. Alrightie,
so my language will be different from Enid Blyton,
like Hellloooooooooooo, I'm Me and she is Enid.
Is it so difficult to understand, or impossible
to believe that poets are different from authors
just as painters are different from sculptors?
Even if I do the crossover jig sometimes and
write a story or two, I'd like to believe an orange
will remain an orange until its thrown, juiced
or its eaten and still be called an orange
and not a kiwi.
This morning, a kid trampled down a chubby
caterpillar because, well, he looked so delightfully
squishable. Mr. Caterpillar musta gone straight
to heaven, lined with all the leaves he loves to eat.
Question: do dead caterpillars turn into butterflies
in heaven? Or are they reborn as beetles and fire-ants?
Words by Arti
Read 766 times
Written on 2007-02-10 at 19:37
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text|
kid |
