#poetry Homes Need Domes #poem

Homes Need Domes

Course, rusty cloud, and cluster all’s crown.
Cast our bated desires; swim our pleasure view.
Clearly, give us names, old hues, clues to bones
submerged in hunger’s stew. I do risk a chew…

Lady lip flutters by butterfly wings, and we’d,
duly, rather sip manna dew, construe fountain
complexities as simple to dos. That old rust dye
illusion vaped, counter to lies’ cut crusts’ escape.

Fuzz’n’balls brush mutilated memories of songs
that cast off clouds, that no longer do as a cue
of justice, as it claps the cracks you, inside, know.
Eyes turn, you see, bolt by bolt, motion-sensed.

Colossal chip chunks bolted by electric flashes,
raw, electric funds, chip and collapse and crush
closet wishes walled by stormy, flag pole pinnacles
that our view rarely escapes. Homes need domes.

#poem of #poetry about #healing #global #holes #reflections on #worldpeace #peace #news #writerslife

Pray

Pray, puss o globular, globule o
                                   a

sea urchin o                 a
          whole pea   o   slim pickings,
my universe...   whole wih holes

needn't long reach, fra inside poles.
Blind a mind, curtain a sense,
an    ar
you,    tri       
        my hole ↑
       dwell wih me,
                           a
                                  dole
pole t plug th ozone shatter hole
        our hug from a tap tap tap dole, bu,
                       urge        mind,
you, Pine°Sol planet,↑gain↑race↑hind↑pray.

formatting error, last on poem “Bottom Line”

Bottom Lines

There’s a free bird out nights, musically as alive.
Night time, I spend alone, on drives;   old walnut
crushes crest the dash edge.   I thrive the old hive
a butt to my tires, babies no man touched or putt,
as blusters shade singers;   it’s spring, and I drive.
Blusters blow smoke out.   Walnuts surf dash butt
rim and out smoke more;   and I attempt to shrive;

in, goes numerous beats;   in, goes plum sensual elixir.
out the window, mind on you;   out the window, dope.
in, goes elixir air;   in, goes fixer air;   in, goes airy dope.

Bottom line, natural, wild bird on eggs, loses keys.

#poetry a #poetic #poem on #Bottom #Lines

Bottom Lines

There’s a free bird out nights, musically as alive.
Night time, I spend alone, on drives;   old walnut
crushes crest the dash edge.   I thrive the old hive
a butt to my tires, babies no man touched or putt,
as blusters shade singers;   it’s spring, and I drive.
Blusters blow smoke out.   Walnuts surf dash butt
rim and out smoke more;   and I attempt to shrive;

in, goes numerous beats;   in, goes plum sensual elixir.
out the window, mind on you;   out the window, dope.
in, goes elixir air;   in, goes fixer air;   in, goes airy dope.

Bottom line, natural, wild bird on eggs, loses keys.

#poem of #poetry

Whistle at Sunshine Bats

Before line of vision,    I’d
                     already   press things
    to
    drive at drive—
   cheat a whistle
                  at the sunshine
           bats
  at beat on my lids  —before I’d woken.

                 air strips, stripped my eyes,
        Years’ posters,
sucked lack of luck      —Blue Dog—
of a shellfish cracker crack a of shell
of spell wall,   lit, rainbow spirals,
         and Blue Dog’s most famous,
which woke a joke of self-yoke.

a #Poem of #Poetry

Shadow behind Happenstance

Happenstance, chance, a mark, a pure pop
of inspiration, a flash, a writ of blood anger,
flop on the crown top, be a sheer system.
El explosion explains our eclectic submission,
where miracles are a steal as credit’s vapor.

A close, on my account, is a forgotten photo—
sister, me, mom, and dad, the kids. I see roses.
Shaves, turns, burns, pushing hubbub, lie.
Lizards in helicopters, sent, trample species,
who closed connections, individuals, rubs—
y ellas películas spin in all and lame—
inside, snap in to sleeping shadow.

#reflection #poetry #poem #creativewriting

Time is a line, not a wheel.
   We swerve left and right,
yet are, hardly, right inside,
  not left or right, balanced
  within with what truly we
   know, for sure, our best,
 becoming self has on rise
of reflective turnaround,
 rolling straight with a map.
In the mirror are sirens.
 A friend helps.  A friend
helps not.  Best of bends,
 by the maps, my friend,
mercy, is choice in two—
  hard or easy, less or more.
More for who?  A name—
 naming is not necessary.