Untitled
I'm looking forward to spring......
Kids roaming in fields;
A most joyous thing.
Old men turning to look,
when they hear them sing.
Oh to shake off that old Winter;
That made you strive and plod.
Kinda makes you believe,
it's done by the hand of God....
Pedro
Untitled
I am who this poem is making.
This shy monster begining to understand
that in life one must release the roar.
Surrender to this nameless moment;
This product of destiny waiting
for the clattered clouds of Spring
to turn the seasons.
No tomorrow, no yesterday,
just this naked awakening.
I have dressed myself with this cloak
of my devotion;
Drawn it about me like the calmer clouds
of June, and it is everywhere inside of me.
I am this silent joy,
like summer clouds crumbling to the vague
voice of August Sun.
Poet, poem, poetry, drifting freely
like the lonely clouds of Automn,
not yet possessed by that harsher reality.
I am who this fading verse has made,
and all it has done, is meaningless...
Pedro
Dew drops.
Crystal tears of dawn I treasure;
Those diamond jewels of early morn.
To fill this waning hour with pleasure,
and in my waking heart delight reborn.
You are a beauty that must perish;
To rise upon the breath of sunny skies.
Oh dew drops, Your splendor I cherish,
and keep your haunting death in my sighs.
You linger here too short a spell,
and languish in this borrowed time.
To this place where you dwell,
and this poet;
You are most sublime...
Pedro
THER DAY DAD'S BOOTS
The day Dad's boots went missing,
it made me Kick-Ass joyful.
And Dawg, that out there in the air,
(kick my ass) Mutt mug grin.
Him and his curr-kicked revenge
with his leather chewed deep hole
boot burried smile.
And us kids with our bend over butt
attitudes and smug mungrel envy.
Dawg wore a trophy toothed smirk
all day long.
Dad went and got new boots.
I was proud of that Bitch...
Pedro.
My Moon.
Oh white and silent eye
hush this mind's plaintive roar.
Drift, drift on by
and take me to some distant shore.
Draw me with your arc so wide
upon your journey long and bold.
Leave me on some far off tide
where this soul may grow old.
Oh white and silent eye,
high, high above the dawn.
How you make this heart sigh
when you've passed and gone....
Pedro.
Untitled
I wasn't always called Derlly Singleberry;
No, a long time ago I was Derlly
the Dragon Slayer.
Guardian of the Street.
Last month I galloped down Mary's street
on my three wheeled charger
and saved her from Cujo
the rabid monster.
But she wanted to kiss me,
and I found that more frightening
than my closet Demons.
Kisses take the fun
out of saving the World.
They distract the heart that it requires
to do the serious deeds.
I'm thinking of changing my name.....
To " Ivan the Kissless"....
Pedro
untitled
Last night I awoke in a land of reflections
and stumbled through the graveyard of my thoughts.
Unfinished thoughts strewn about like fish-bones
upon a beach;
Stupid one left hap hazzardly laying about;
like chicken bones from a Witch doctors leather pouch.
Sexual ones peering from hillsides
like pimps ogling little girls at a parade.
Silly one dripping from trees
like snot from a child's nose.
Dirty ones piled high like ivory tusks at a poachers convention.
Private ones, safely placed in shadows,
like kittens hiding from the noon-day sun.
Poetic ones, swinging from lofty branches,
like trapeze artists entertaining their crowds.
Deep ones, sunken and preserved.
like treasure recovered from some far off land.
Last night I awoke in a land of reflections,
like a dream to clean up my past......
Pedro .....
untitled
Only one thing to do with a cat
that's had too much of a nip.
Tickle his chin with a feather
and watch how he moves his bottom lip.
If it curls upward to the sky
and his eyes start to role.
And his fur starts to fly
and he heads for that scratin pole.
So I'll give you a friendly tip
on cats, that are spaced out.
So what's wrong with a little nip
when it it feel good on the snout.
Pedro...
Our poetry
Would that I could pen a poem
so perfect in structure and rhyme.
To skillfully guide a wandering gaze
and lead it to it's rightful clime.
So ambitious in directed course
yet so smooth in molded design.
Would that I could scribe the verse
and make it as much yours as mine.
Would that I could make you dream
and ignite in you a curious glow.
All the while to have you ponder
and invite your imagination to flow.
Would that I could spin a yarn
and tantalize your inquisitive eyes.
To let you imbibe from enchanted cup
with such thoughtful lingering sighs.
Would that I could entice your whim
and make your journey more sublime.
Would that I could glaze the lines........
and make my poetry as much yours as mine...
Pedro
For Andrea's Sister
How strange my fate that does me thus,
whereupon to thy sister I must compare.
Twas thy smile that stirred this fuss,
but like hers, is twice as rare.
Though her eyes like diamonds glow,
and yours with such beauty shine;
Oh what this soul would give to know
if thy heart could someday be mine.
So brief the time whence we first met,
and long my joy at thy first sight.
But now alas! My heart must fret,
for love's last chance hath taken flight.
If thy sister, in a garden were an Orchid,
then thee would most surely be a rose.
With all my heart and soul I would bid
to have a bouquet of thee to soothe my woes.
This poet's thoughts fly on enchanted wings,
and soar high upon some lofty air.
It is of thee that this poem sings,
and that makes thy charms more the fair.
Pedro
untitled
I share with you this.
Oh soul, art thou mine,
or art thou mine lent.
Tis now that i must pine
until my final breath be spent.
Is there joy in my death,
that leaves with my last breath.
To what law do thee attend
that I might beg thee to amend.
Could thee not renew with delight,
that witch bloomed in early sight.
How peculiar thy journey's run,
To begin whence mine be done.
Tis thee that is mine in breath,
but no the more mine in death.
Oh Soul, art thou a holy force,
where destiny runs her course.
Dost thou leave my heart
when it's your time to depart.
Oh Soul! art thou mine
or art thou mine lent.
..Pedro.
Writer's block.
Siting and staring, like a priest taking confession,
staring at this snowy expanse of white.
White-knuckle nakedness oozing forth.
What foolish thought wooed me to this cold space;
What persuasive force threatened me to this chore.
This desperate coward enduring this futility
that only makes time pass.
Head buzzing with enormous whispers,
but alas! not even self pity can rail this soul's cursed heart.
Desire is achievement's sincerest friend,
but offers no rewards or forgiveness for failure.
I calmly beg this doomed interval
to take these harmless words
and suck the miracles right out of them.
To hell with it......
Good night.
Pedro...Pedro says No word is harmless....:):)
Bard's Guild limericks
A poet who's e-mail always closes
with the saying of peace and roses
To us she's our center
and for me is my mentor
no ifs ands buts or supposes.
There was a poet named Papa G
who's poetry was uplifting and free
I think he's a Taurus
who sleeps with a thesaurus
but that's just between you and me.
That poet Web Kitten once expounded
I'm flabbergasted I'm dumbfounded
I just have to confess
you are all such a mess
Am I the only poet well grounded.
The poet Dragon Phantasy once stated
I think poetry is all to oft over rated.
Some poems i rebuke
as pure gobbledegook
and that leaves me so discombobulated..
Gilgamesh chortled look I'm a poet
and if you let me I will indeed show it
So sweet the grass on the lawn
from early sunrise til dawn
Now get your ass out there and mow it.
Jeremy was once heard to expound
by archaic computers I am bound
If you get my drift
they're almost like a gift
and cost the same as a pound of ground round.
There once was a poet named Dax
Who said my poetry is nothing but facts
and if you think otherwise
then let me just surmise
by saying you're all a bunch of quacks.
Pedro
Poets
Poets are merely miners of words,
diggers of dowsers and dirge.
Sorcerers of silhouette and swirl;
Mincers of mingle and merge.
Poets are weavers of thought;
Sewer of seed and seem.
Harvester of creep and curl;
Distillers of death and dream.
Poets are students of Earth;
Performers of folly and flip.
Captains of cloud and cluster;
Applauded of love and lip...
Pedro
What a lie is !
The hugger mugger of circumstance
flirts with tiptoe and tact
ever vigilant for reason or chance
to expand the zones of a fact.
With nudge and nod to pursuade
into the realm of truth to stalk
A veil of veracity to invade
this skulker of account to mock.
Messenger of mask and muffle
and peddler of varnished disguise
Arranger of fold and ruffle
this harbinger of bold faced lies...
Pedro..
A BREEZE
It's like the morning dew
gems the earth can wear
priceless, yet desolves
into thin air.
It's like a child's whisper
transparent by choice
speechless, yet it still
has a voice.
It's like an ancient poem
testing the mind
ageless, yet somehow
still defined.
It's like true love
measurable like art
helpless, yet it moves
the commonest heart.
Pedro.....
SITTING HERE
At this glum distance I see sunlight splashing
peach-light upon her sighing face.
She rises; Like the moon climbing to catch
its breath in a galaxy of stars.
I feel in her sighing, that shadow draped between us,
like a dark sheet drawn taut to test the heart.
Drawn to separate the passion that exhausts
lost lovers and deserts them
like moon-struck children waiting for dawn.
I sense for the briefest of moments
a vague necessity to yield to this fresh new spell;
To be a willing victim of this pleasant dream.
I watch the white of the Moon paint sadness
into her eyes.
I hear the night-air whispers thinking up words
to gather our horizon and center us to each other.
But i witness only her departure
into the darkest of nights,
where i can no longer find myself,
or the love of that woman...
Pedro.:)
MY PEN
I set my pen upon the page
and watched words as they appeared.
It flew like a canary from it's cage,
composing as though death it feared.
First it wrote with joyous flare
then settled into a delightful purr.
Then as though its task it could not bear,
its fury accelerated with peculiar blur.
It knitted letters with solemn need,
and now and then in reverse.
It spewed them out with urgent greed;
And there-in penned the topic of this verse.
With ceaseless vigor it kept on weaving
faster than my eyes could blink.
Just as I was thinking of leaving
the damn thing ran out of ink.
I snatched it up before it fell
and sensed the sadness of its woe.
Just what else it had to tell;
Alas! That is something we'll never know.
Pedro..
Poetry
Poetry is a conveyance for the privilege of explanation.
Where syllables march with a consonant army
of words to tantalize the senses of the mind.
The world is waiting upon thy shore,
wading in thy ebb and surge.
Summon forth like never before
and ply this soul with thy dirge.
Wherefore art thou poetry;
Of thy true account defined.
How much a part of life you be,
to embrace me when so inclined..
Pedro...
A little white lie.
A little wrong given flight,
uncurled and woven right.
A faint breath to grow,
a trickle a dribble a flow.
A truth passing you by;
A simple thing to ply
A tiny thread to extract;
An evaluation of a fact.
A flicker, a flame
a curly puff of blame.
Soothing an error,
compelling it fairer.
An unsorted right
be it ever so slight.
A thought gone astray;
Just some words at play.
A gauzy flimsy thing;
The truth on a string.
A slip-up on the sly;
Just a little white lie..
Pedro..
BEAUTY
In thy sleep a most precious thing,
that in a dream it doth endure.
And as though a bell did ring,
you waken, a patron of it's cure.
Crystal pools of calmness lay,
with thier shimmering reflections.
Ah! Scholars and Poets often say
Beauty is Heaven's perfection.
An evening sky with star light spread,
it's embers lush with heaven's hue.
It glows on thee upon thy bed,
while thy dreams are yet anew.
The mellow Moon of midnight hour,
through thy window doth creep.
He's there perched upon thy bower,
waiting to see beauty fall asleep.
Some say beauty is the coy mistress
of infatuation and fascination.
Beauty makes ever man confess,
and we do it without hesitation.
Pedro...
