Mums New Necklace

Is this
what awaits us all
gone love once holy
holed is this never used gown
poverty young lovers sang long hours
shortly now
fresh honey buns used up desert dates
now
you smell me comming even corners
now have eyes
sweet smelling necklace threaded large
dull white orbs
smell was told as mouth
sucks pebbles for water in
drools flaccid Hector droops
artificial wooden breasts splintered
across them small very small nearly is
unseen
it runs down excised long since
the rudderless udder

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poem by Is It Poetry
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A Republic Fear

articulated people
led off
wherefore thereoff
into
and fed not thereof
from simple a truth.
fear i have fed you
too fear,
it is easier to control
your fear of you, your
deeds of my mistrust.
teaching all the young
why are they taught
to fear,
of they, whom can trust.
hurting us, do you fear
us/why?
and thus in the hurting
i fear why you fear me.
must it always be when

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poem by Is It Poetry
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Regina is Regina

There are is fine woman,
girl woman's, girls, there is Regina.
This creature, will see her man cultivate
the eyes of others, not in the simplistic way
the others have so thought.
Woman run the world, woman, smart woman
run there man, not foolishly as stupid chattel
to the ground.
These creatures trust there charge, in silky hot
words, they do reveal the minds of which the rest in
shame , would hide.
He, of her Regina's if it does wrong, never would the
sound of pain from her firm hand,
ever touch or reach your ears, to say.
Except by way of the scullery maid, rich full, chamber
pots in hand, such for some is rich desert.

poem by Is It Poetry
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Alone.

Love,
can it become stronger in death..
living in death with her alone.
I sit alone,
It drifts all around me.. you..
Feelings there they aren't both the same.
I coquetted all, they sway me not, wishing to drink alone
each and all but one, touched by all, seeing none alone one..is
People watch me, as do you alone, with others some I knew
none like you, alone, even inside of you but one alone.
Adornment is wines last bottle to nurse you, none found you
out, I did alone to fear deaths lusty touch alone, in bed alone.
I know you will be alone when you read this, alone has the tail
laid against your one eye, feeling heaven fly bye, home alone.

poem by Is It Poetry
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Poo Secrets

Poo Secrets

Are never kept..) It(s..adored
...) it(s..sharing....) it(...with..you

) it(s my deepest darkest fears you out found here.

If I am so smart why does It rant? you
are feeling this.
If I am so smart how did I end up inside
those cold, fast thighs?
I was smart enough to dodge, your slap.
Then the abuse really started....
I kept going back for more...
her verbals became more than Pascals.
My body became more, than her work of art.
It just, was not very smart enough, it became...
Her very own, personal....toy to hurt to maim..
just for joy..as it became dumber she became

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poem by Is It Poetry
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And Death Washes Only Bones

And death washes only bones;
The mouth of death speaks oft of every tounge
Never his patience once lost is found in all your nature;
Death washes a bone and the astrologer hands two back,
So the moon when lined up, shines down on Venus asleep.
Time smiles on the heart beating and long of face therein,
death puts it back on the middle shelf prearanged.

And death washes only bones;
Deep valleys are filled with man's rich oil,
And covered over memories by death too often dredged.
Lined up end to end exposed again to harvest the tears of wait;
And death washes only bones and man who drinks so bold,
There being no truth and lies sown shut death eyes all bottoms.

d.t.

poem by Is It Poetry
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Wankers

Being born Ignorant; in America
it feels strange to know nothing.
And of this your secret most will lie
never to be so sure, safety.
I walk into a store; out over there
next too that place out yonder,
that same chamber of commerce,
billed as your next heart of America.
Of what is red and white or real,
blue some what like you, when I smile.
I ask the old balding tailor who speaks
with a fake french midwestern accent
I'm sure he is wankers and the worst of it.
I see the empty Rosetta stone case empty
But forced to prequalify again or so I feel,
Or Well, it does seem so: some where out here,
Someone must know about it so I ask the tailor.
In America so full of wankers, and if you ask them.

poem by Is It Poetry
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Is Hope Of

A word perhaps to me is hope
and hope you used to use a lot.
Without perhaps it being hope for naught.
A lot of hope about the things you are,
and you are all the things I hoped about.
You of hope at night the moon the light I write about.
And you write about the thoughts of hope,
and make them come to pass and write of that.
Ardently your mouth of hope, not going over there.
You who are without to be and I am crossing over.
Green bushes hold within my hope, blue open flowers.
Afterwards through fog or loam a stream flows slowly after.
I saw so bright the torch of hope from here to there beside us.
So there are we.
And are we there, for loving it sits about us.
Me I simply am, you and I, comes hope a certain thing.

poem by Is It Poetry
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writing Poetry

writing poetry
stories of love
one happy marriage
sex and the sun
deep pale moon
hot my passion
can run cold as ice
smell the rose
lily is gay
sugar and spice
lilies nice
water stay mirrors death
skipping rocks
breast feed the beast
without baby a day
night loves between each toe
god holds off the devil
wine, drugs death more sex
hurting children is worse than bad
one child can make peace

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poem by Is It Poetry
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Takin a Bite in Liberty

Hold on let me grab that rattle snake
before it bites your utters and they fall
off no milk no hay sad day Ola) it(s o.k..

He will go to a different ranch the ranch
of pain, where we send the women hawks.
You know those old looking dried up ain't
had the sap God gave a pine tree seedling
for lightning strikes) it(a year from next week.

You got me all side traced from pain and
suffering plus I'm gettin excited thinking of
) it(swellon up after the snake chomps down
and shoots half an once of liquid fire in pop's
ole jhonson out board don't run nomore no how.

That's) it(s turning blue and green purple looky
veins busstun he's outa gass anyhow you git the
genral direction the winds blown your fun ifin you
stop to long in our town of Takin a Bite in Liberty.

poem by Is It Poetry
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