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tenyearsinabeaglecollaredshirt

ponderous poetry for the hoi polloi

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summer

The Nag’s Head

In my moments of desolation,

Expectancy is the hand that cast

A thousand heartbeats,

The cigarette,

Which so often drips from her lips,

As wisteria does weep tears of purple

From country cottages,

Oh how she turned the nag’s head from

Granite to poultice,

Which once did whinny with grief,

But now sings songs of summer and rain.

 

And while obsequiousness proves fateful for

Those who follow the wrong heart,

I would be foolish to mar my breath with

Complaint,

When it breeds such joyousness and relief,

For one man’s prison is another man’s paradise,

Oh! How blessed I would be

To spend my final living days with thee,

Behind the castellated walls of your love.

Indian summer

How cruel is Mother Nature,

So happy to stop

The beating heart of the winter clock,

When instead she decides to

Abrade the ebullient whispers of summer,

(Importunity is distressing),

With such abruptness and dispassion does she

Slash the lacquered cheeks of

Yellow Jasper,

Who eagerly hurries to reach her bed!

 

Oh!

And how cruel too is the English breeze,

So heavy-handed with everyone he meets,

So ruthless with his daily approach,

To wipe the tender smile from

The peony’s lips,

With only a trail of milky flesh left behind,

Blushing beneath wearisome skies,

Never to laugh

Again.

 

I’ll dream of an Indian summer instead.

Limonada

Lemonade-lover

Bittersweet bit o’ sweetness,

You’re cloudy even on the

Brightest of days.

 

But the Sun’s no match for your

Incandescence,

Zesty essence and

Piquant presence,

You are the most brilliant of rays.

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