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Open Poetry #7
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Get the real Facts" [another Quick Copy]
| Open Poetry #7 |
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Get the real Facts" [another Quick Copy] |
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lucky Senior Member
since 2000-01-17
Posts 1601Idaho 
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Get ready for Y2k a cloud bursting shadow drove us from the blanketed field back to camp pioneering back up through dark trails of woods across a clearing and fallen logs fitting our selves between a couple of dried snags we barely slipped through the greasy darkness until we found insulation enough to scratch out a swaddling nest while busy hands & fingers began their trail sparking inside the pink panther electrical system tightened lumps mounded just out side the water hose neck I never thought to notice if any invasion of crafty eyes while white rain dripped along the wet wresting clothes line then reaching over to check the oil for a night of steamy cruising only moments away but not unexpected furry rode in over pulsing sudden eruptions squealed and gasps lost control in an up roar scrambling back to eye quaking arch lifting and thrusting to such sparkles of skin lean and oily shattered whitish drops raining on gleaming tips over each other’s intense devotion settled into a bearable idle to a warmth like furry whiskers trembling in rhyme we must have scurried over the moving hillscapes unknowing which no longer slept through the thunder we built a shelter where we could flee different shadows through the night live a couple different lives fantazise in the same span of time just existing in a spin of torrents cozying up to the belief each other built containing explosives while each maintained this gloryious system of flashing back filing through the darkness reclining to the knowledge that there was enough fuel shines to carry us past any Y2k glitch plus these stars would certianly be visible long after that anyway yet just down the... etcetera, etcetera. If I could paint a portrait, of this life in which I've led, and somehow sketch a story, of the visions in my head, I'd start out with a canvas, stretched tightly in a frame, and in the bottom corner, I'd leave room to sign my name. (Michelle A. Bartley) |
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