You’d think that he was just one of them fellas

You’d think that he was just one of them fellas
Looking everywhere for places shady.
(This poet shows us far too many umbrellas.)

His page is white as half the hair of Cruella
(Now there was one! A real crazy lady!)
You’d think that he was just one of them fellas.

His words are good they make me say “Que bella!”
Like architecture as convoluted as Gaudi
(This poet shows us far too many umbrellas.)

Want poems? He sends them squirting out like jello
Or spreading them on toast just like a baby
You’d think that he was just one of them fellas.

He makes me laugh like Abott & Costello
(Betcha he sings lot’s like a buncha Brady’s)
While showing us ’bout far too many umbrellas

And at the end he gets us all so mellow
From hanging out with coffee and crumbly pastry
You’d think that he was just one of them fellas
(But what the heck’s with all of them umbrellas?!)

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My Love Did Not Speak With Me Today

Some days are colored mornings full of play,
And some there are that leave the soul in mire
For my love, who did not speak with me today.

Now while at work, anticipate display
That cause too brief of words that would inspire,
For days of colored mornings full of play.

And there are days of skill which will, while may
This love too many moments, that they tire
Of my love, who did not speak with me today.

Now happy days may necessarily stay
With mutual longing. Lights we leave with fire
To bring those colored mornings full of play.

But now I sit alone, along the bay
Where lapping waves come covering remnant pyre
Left from love, that did not speak to me today.

So leave me thoughts that weave and coax my lyre
And leave these words aloft. Obscure desire
For days of colored mornings full of play
For my love, who did not speak with me today.


As you sit and sip your cup of tea

Now, as you sit and sip your cup of tea
And leave the rest alone to rail and worry,
We are sufficient now, you must agree.

How soon the time, I think, to cross that sea
Severing us from land and hour. I’ll hurry
Now, as you sit and sip your cup of tea.

And in this time, your voice now calling me
To double speed, to make it fast, to bury
All, to make sufficient now. I must agree

To spend my time now learning, how to be
Able to stand my ground amidst this flurry
Now, as you sit and sip your cup of tea.

There will be time, that when my soul is free
And burdenless, and not for other’s glory,
We shall be sufficient. Now you must agree,

That as we pass each day, and pass each hour
Until a time when this is merely memory,
Now as you sit and sip your cup of tea,
We are sufficient now, you must agree.


Make Holy This Expression of Our Rite

Know me now to anticipate your sight
Even as we play ourselves in rapture
Make holy this expression of our rite

You called me to your bed this very night
The motion in your voice did me capture
Know me now to anticipate your sight

Let burn this flame, let it burn very bright
Expression stokes the burning which to cure
Make holy this expression of our rite

I watch your dance for me to hold me tight
The motion which now moves our breath to pure
Know me now to anticipate your sight

Sing! We sing until all our senses’ flight!
Let burst! Let burst for these needs ‘til rupture
Make holy this expression of our rite

And we are spent to rest ‘til early light
Anticipate again this mood to capture
Know me now to anticipate your sight
Make holy this expression of our rite

-sebastian


She Comes To Me In Her Own Way

she comes to me in her own way
which some would call in manner strange
which manner to my mind does play

thoughts my mind which hold her stay
i decorate her there, arrange
she comes to me in her own way

calling passions forth and me to sway
allowing my thoughts unbridled range
thoughts my mind which hold her stay

she brings me kindly, if she may
whichever place she may arrange
she comes to me in her own way

she moves to take my thoughts away
presumes on mine for these exchange
which manner to my mind does play

and when my thoughts might finally pray
she returns more in manner strange
she comes to me in her own way
which manner to my mind does play