It wasn't until I woke up, that I realized I was sleeping.
Harry Rutherford over at Heraclitean Fire has doused my blog in flames by graciously decorating me in the “nicely designed but seriously poor content” award! Oh, how I do appreciate an honest review. Conversely, upon such a statement as “seriously poor content,” I would have liked to have seen some paradigms to back up his perception of my poor content. I know I am no Shakespeare, but what constitutes as “poor content?” I simply post my poems. So Harry is saying that my poems are seriously poor, in other words, they suck. No problem. Just tell me what sucks, and I will do my best to improve.
I understand that he is making an example out of my literary works in reference to 9rules. The 9rules network claims to be a community of the best weblogs in the world on a variety of topics. I submitted my blog to 9rules when submissions were open, and I was chosen to meet their quality requirements, and my blog was accepted. So what Harry is saying, is that he feels that my blog and poems do not meet these high standards that are advertised by 9rules. Keep in mind that 9rules sorts through the blogs that are submitted to them, and chooses out of these submissions. They do not go out on the web and just start adding blogs to their network. Anyways, Harry featured me in this post of his, and it is only right that I reciprocate.
The cafes stone wall leaned against my backside.
My order was in,
a “Kicken Roast Beef Bagel Sandwich” was in preparation,
and when properly groomed, it would call out my first name
as though it, I, and its designers, were familiar.
As I fondled the roughness of the wall to pass time,
the bell riding door handle turned, “Ding, Ding!”
- and she entered.
Her polished long black hair floated upwards as she passed me
leaving me in the quake of a distinguished womanly scent.
A scent that captured me,
drawing my every breath of attention to her presence.
yet curvy in regards to her perfect circular mound of a belly,
a belly in need of, “a bagel, with peanut butter spread, no jelly”
and “a strawberry banana smoothie.”
Lunch for two I presumed, for her, and her passenger.
I watched her move,
and how her feminine features conversed with the lights
and shadows dancing through the etchings in the windows.
She was stunning, glowing with angelic wings,
and that halo,
radiating above her pulsing womb,
filled the room with the rhythm of a double heartbeat.
Consumed by the throb of her presence,
when my order was up, I nearly missed my name.
I took one last breath of air, now brisk,
in the autograph of her womanhood.
I grabbed my paper wrapped luncheon
and fled back to work,
almost as if, I were running away
from the intensity of an aura of light,
a light that only woman
In a dry spell,
rain falls, but only between your toes.
You can run, skip, and play through it,
but still, you’re left dehydrated, baked,
In order to overcome such a drought,
you press on,
until another spring comes along
and humidifies your voice again.
Then, like a wet sponge, soaked
in the juice of inspiration,
again, you quench the desert’s thirst
through the perspiration
of your wet dripping tongue.
if thou must prefer.
Strew thy pages
in another’s tongue,
in reused moth-eaten dung.
Might as well spell
“unoriginal” as thy title,
for thine entries
seem like a parrot recital.
Not one novel idea
or thought of thy own,
just another wannabe me
Why art thou so defensive?
Was it something I said?
It is thee, who allowed me to move thee,
thou and thy discriminative head.
Thou grasps at an idea of how the world should be,
and to thee, any other way is a good as dead.
Thy way, my way, his way, hers,
our way, always, one way wed.
Behold, I am thy friend and lover,
do not misunderstand.
Attacking thee I am not,
I am but reaching out my hand.
If thou art offended,
Tis not by me.
Thou hast offended thineself,
through a mind not yet set free.
Time taxes life
until were left bled,
having paid our debts
to the flower beds we’ve tended
to carry on our name
through their pollinating payments
to the soil,
loyal to preserve
our footprints tints of a
in this seemingly infinite universe
where dust and sand
are my inferior companions.
Canyons swallow me
as if I were a rain drop
sent on the rays from stars
of the past.
I am but a single element,
belittled by that in which is beyond my reach.
How could I be so arrogant
to value myself over a lonesome blade of grass?
A blade of grass equally significant to the ocean,
an ocean where big fish swallow little fish,
and big and little are relative. A family,
of microscopic relatives creating one whole being.