Is It Poetry

(1958 - / Bus-Boys And Poets, Washington D.C.)

death, do her...


you have it under my nose
rubbed
fruit of the land none bland
sweet peas to apricots
plums pitied paired
what
deliciousness transgenders
transgression
tongueless
how did they do you
is wasted blind on
sleeveless
worms who have no sense
that taste of boiled
dirt is
death
could you not call me to
show her this lottery ticket
that won your winds of reaping
tearing pain joints seperated
from plants blossom of spring
just one 0 death who gnaws on
eternity's woman is bones gratis
0 death we can broker deals that
makes the strong draw back the
bridge of winters snow to give all
lost abandoned never claimed
enigmas that drives your dream to
harvest all plums in reapers reach.

Submitted: Sunday, April 19, 2009
Edited: Sunday, April 19, 2009

Do you like this poem?
0 person liked.
0 person did not like.

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Comments about this poem (death, do her... by Is It Poetry )

Enter the verification code :

There is no comment submitted by members..

Top Poems

  1. Phenomenal Woman
    Maya Angelou
  2. The Road Not Taken
    Robert Frost
  3. If You Forget Me
    Pablo Neruda
  4. Still I Rise
    Maya Angelou
  5. Dreams
    Langston Hughes
  6. Annabel Lee
    Edgar Allan Poe
  7. If
    Rudyard Kipling
  8. I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
    Maya Angelou
  9. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
    Robert Frost
  10. Invictus
    William Ernest Henley

PoemHunter.com Updates

New Poems

  1. Let's smile, Nassy Fesharaki
  2. When I Die A Teacher, Pius Didier
  3. Family, Kolade Seun
  4. Mothers!, John Ugolo Umah
  5. I Just Do Not Know, John Ugolo Umah
  6. Are you looking, gajanan mishra
  7. Not worth as human, hasmukh amathalal
  8. Multicolored, gajanan mishra
  9. The Light that was Lost, Alexandra Matthews
  10. Interdependent, gajanan mishra

Poem of the Day

poet Edmund Spenser

Of this worlds theatre in which we stay,
My love like the spectator ydly sits
Beholding me that all the pageants play,
Disguysing diversly my troubled wits.
...... Read complete »

   
[Hata Bildir]