Buds And Bells, Poem by James McLain

James McLain

James McLain

From Tampa Florida And Still Living Near By

Buds And Bells,



Doctor house and buds and bell sucking on the scandy stripes.
Greek fantasy hospital house of his her wildest fantasy.
Coming home clear windows that turn upon her cries.
helping those whom try to walk but never seem to talk.
Lips open move and learn to come enjoy.
Wherever there is joy within the home.
Likein it within I melteth and you bubble out of contact
sweet the joy rain and never speaking when.
Thus it is when then to you one wanders in and out about this fantasy.
Come flying which it opened flew and still exceeds her open door.
Looking I to she permits with a thought how it expands.
Open minds' closed widely.
Doors inside of doors and She is' Throwing arrows,
and cloudward of it from I rise against Sun rise.
Fantasy of the candy of a loosely fitting O!
Her open blouse is loose,
and i like time that leaves when green permit.
Summer' hot The joy that she becomes growing wild and useless
depending upon when illy used, and the spring as it unfolds.
Enjoying it opening the way, Autumn' full Red lipp' s.
The Fruitage of the mighty D,
and passing by the fog and dew, when you blush, tasting of it is:
Something then?
In or out, up and down all around the tree the limb upon.
The time when right, sit a spell slide down on thee, with it tingles.
It is bright, cold it burns, winter's Mind; it marches on.
Night; When soundless the earth is covered, the explodes
and as for the heavy snow by which is set.
The ploughboy' she has is mixed.
Empty; shoon whose bag is always heavy O so heavy.
Full of seed.
All buds and bells and dewy morn of May.
Running from the spray where it is sprayed.
Autumn' where everything is wise accumulated.
The wealth of us, and using, still, I am.
Mysterious it is hiding:
Not from you, when you decide to come then come and ask.
As for her like three Ruby wines of glasses mixed which love mixes.
Kissed these joys, and quaff that of you must now shalt.
Your shalt I waer but you I hear the distant harvest clearly.
Rustle of the corn the silk you move aside and it is harvested.

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James McLain

James McLain

From Tampa Florida And Still Living Near By
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