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...a few of my kids...(blush!)

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[before we begin: unless otherwise noted--all these are copywrited]

A Wizard's Mercy on a Drunken Poet I hid only his left hand.

As an afterthought,

enchanted his cat into glassware.

whoever first came up with the idea of the drunken poet? they must have been one themselves. however, running afoul of an angered must have done or said or done and said something that aroused such a one's ire--yet also might not have been all that big a deal.

Who knows; or will say?

I can't. The above is only what was reported to me, another writer who runs the dimensions, going back and forth, in and out, through the separating membranes.

Surely Not That Many!

in may he remembers

the december past as

shaped glass unicorns, cut crystal mice:

gifts to a girl but returned so

up on a closet shelf they went.

...remembers refusing a broken heart;

becoming a craftsman and molding

the forms of his sorrow

into shapes others saw as joy.

he brings them down and laughs

to wonder how many of his products

now gather dust on closet shelves.

I think that one speaks for itself, and might not want me hanging about...the same for this next one.

Fawn tan-Tawny Is In Love

looking, she remembers various aspects of it all:

...blushes, then blushes again this time at herself

for blushing in the first place--all the while blinking

looking away then looking back at him to see if he notices

but he's doing something doesn't see...she marvels at it all...

places palms together on the same side of her face

openly stares at him in admiration lost in momentary dreaming

expression not quite Asiatic nor Mona Lisaish or even childlike

yet an intensity of all three as differing from a likeness:

at that instant her femininity becomes total and he feels it

like what you see? like what you see? like what you see?

echoes around through her being with her not realizing

he's spoken...the sensations of the utter feeling his voice

rocks her to her foundations until she cannot know whether

trembling arises from his voice or being but it does it does

--nor can she pull her gaze from his eyes once he looks up

over to her gasp!ing deep inside she must close her eyes!

waves pound wash her she spins floats until all fades and

with a silent orangepink wuhwuhwuhwuhwuh everything

comes back and she opens her eyes smiling warbling

still held in the oily warmth and the calm neat friction of life

I think I might have one or a few more odd bits of cobbles together lines here in the house somewhere...just have to find them to get them here--don't get me wrong now: at a certain point, when it came to me just how difficult it can be and is to write good poetry, I think I stopped at that knowledge, and didn't really try again--not that I thought anything I'd penned up to then was good--a lot of that early stuff I burned--especially one work named "The Multi- (Dark) Colored Flames of Hell" [yes, friends and neighbors, at one point I was very darknatured!], and was relieved of it.

No, poetry is best written by me almost one line at a tyme, with my remembering the previous line while making room for what might follow.

One day a fellowscribbler read one of them and suggested that I lengthen the idea, and instead of trying to turn it into a poem--which it might not want to be[?...!]--let it be a bit fiction.

Which is what I'm working on now, and seem to be happier for it.

Til next tyme, loved ones.

Edited by Cobalt60

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i dnt understand what this is :no:

soz didnt see subheading

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