Poetry is the chiseled marble of language; it's a paint-spattered canvas - but the poet uses words instead of paint. Poetry is like a food to the soul |
There once lived a man and his wife with a baby...
The two never gave much attention to the boy...
Succulent tenderness;
my heart constantly drifts away...
My life has heights and depths,
And iam a tree by the river bank...
At the table the body was laid
Bread was broken and unto each it was partaken...
Early in the morning she rises & up on her...
Hoping to do what she does best but down on the...
I would have loved to take part in charity works if only charities would take part in my works. |
A gnawing mouse knows no limit 4 he bites from one corner to another up in th ceiling. |
Meeting fOr tHe fRogs: Let's jOin Our Jointed Limbs tOgetHer GeNTle fRogs & "hop" for tHe beTter...Yay! |