Princess LilyPad Poems
A minor oversight
I have had a face my whole entire life That fairly enchanted, my body swift and lithe Eyes like a cat, lips like pillows plush And with every next glance of an old man’s greedful touch
An elf on my shelf
Small little feet little buns little hands, The delicate bones that form a true baby grand, Flecks of light that bounce from his boyish silken crown, Of fine hazelnut hairs tousled all around.
The Sixth Sense In Your Pants
My eyes gaze upon you Memorize every dip and angle Know it all and say now forever Deborah's seen your face
Branded Bridal Blues
The lives of our times, these days anymore aren’t so much ours, their yours and then their kinda mine, The riddles in our rhymes, aren’t so much sung for each other anymore, in fact, not most times The lilt in our voices, have gone flat from too many untaken back swipes and further disrespectful choices The grins we used to swap, are mostly drowned out by angered, juvenile and know it better than you voices.
Giving Up The Ghost
Polarized by a blanket of s$%T That covers every guilt, every glance, every pit Fingertips, lips, slip and fit Until its all it is and all that's it.
To explain hysteria and discontent within a female, I point to the fables. Filled with magical ways to become instantly loved, solid, safe and able. What shite have we told, what poppycock sold, Flipping the pages of fairy tales, countless times told.
Screw A Short Minded's Reach
Looking around, I see sad ugly faces Tormented by demons Ragged from the races Dragged out from the legions
A Barrel Of Moonshine Fixed Us In Time
Do you recall a sadder day When I looked upon your furrowed brow And spoke one truth for once for ever upon a time Sitting broken I told you someday ours would be the most beautiful love story ever written.
If I Was A Sheep
I want to relate a regret I want to not lose respect I have these hard things I have these horrible things
If I had to point you out in a crowd, Designate your disguise, I’d tell the wonderer to look amongst his peers To find a magic man’s eyes
Bring the boys back home
These Sundays I spend with you Only we know what they mean, special and unspoken- a loving dream revealed
A Forest of Horrors
Caught up in a storm, he peered a light coming from behind much ivy. Flustered in the cluster, he tracked that direction, feet blistered and stymied. As he gratefully approached the shack from where the light came, Odd smells of boiling must, instilled apprehension upon his onward wobbling cane.
The poetry Clock
On paper it becomes fact On paper it stares back On paper we are striken With the facts that demand as well as take
Fable me, like your fancy dancer Trouble me like the corner bum Life ahead it stands to suffer Drink me death from a bottle of rum
Comments about Princess LilyPad
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
A minor oversight
I have had a face my whole entire life
That fairly enchanted, my body swift and lithe
Eyes like a cat, lips like pillows plush
And with every next glance of an old man’s greedful touch
To be grown up they said, was important now became all the rush
I have seen the labored breathing of old dogs
I did sashay down sidewalks in stuffed training bras.
I have used my tongue to draw juice from ice pops
And had to run away from offers of rides with raised rocks
But still only was i perfecting my best game of hopscotch.
It made my father cringe, as I grew into my ...