Monday, 7 February 2011
What can you say out there in the fog
in want of the old flame, you burned your last log
The memories are hot, the pain you remember
beneath all the ashes, that last glowing ember
Don't bother to fan it, there's no fuel to burn
let it go out, save the ash for the urn
turn your attention to wood that needs chopping
do something worthwhile, like sweeping and mopping
Sweep out the soot and mop up your tears
clean out the attic let go of your fears
Put on the blues,then something upbeat
get on your warm clothes, walk out to the street
Follow it down to the steamy creek bed
The mineral water is something, it's said
melts away sadness and heats up your head
better than anywhere else I've been led
Water and Truth are hardly the same
but spoken by God and heated by flame
springs from the Rock, eternally true
flows through the mind much better than brew
Comforts the soul and eases the dread
lightens the burden and raises the dead
this is the stuff that He baptized us in
Hope for the weary, forgiveness of sin
Gave us His Word which will stand and deliver
won't ever forsake us 'cause He is The Giver
and when life is dreary, and love let's you down
you're feeling all weary, as if you might drown
read Psalm Twenty-Three and you'll get to the part
He leads you to water, and rest for your heart
lie back in the warmth, pulled free from the mire
be freed from the past, and forever 'on fire'!
Friday, 4 February 2011
I'm messing with your heartstrings and you're feeling out of tune
from now on no one touches these you cry out to the moon
You're safe and sound concealed, packed within your hard-shell case
protected by a shield from the hitch, forget the chase.
And maybe you are best alone, a hard-shell case like me
prefer your friends to lovers, seems the way it ought to be
you've learned to tune your heartstrings to the symphony of life
rather than be messed with by a heavy handed wife.
Well I've got something to tell you, which I've learned along the way
and I hope this golden nugget's gonna bless your heart today
though life's a hard-core teacher, take a chance and fail a test,
you'd be wise to save your heartstrings for the one who'll play them the best.
Thursday, 3 February 2011
My first ever epic poem written during the peak of PMS. It reflects the usual feelings of insecurity, self loathing, paranoia, irritability, irrational thinking, mood swings, and a tendancy to turn on the loved one who is usually an innocent bystander. Mostly, it's just a silly poem about the hairy side of love.
Love is hairy, stubbly stuff
shave all week it's never enough
whether I shave it or slather on Nair
whack it or hack it will always be there.
Keeps coming back as much as you crop it
waxing and chemicals can’t even stop it
try to ignore it, the nubs comes in thick
even my eyebrows, a uni-brow chick.
Come Saturday I don’t really care
let it grow outta my underwear
Let it alone, that unruly mop
looks like I got me a nice bumper crop
This is my way, ain’t gonna change
my love and my hair are looking deranged
Sitting there pondering love and love's looks
flippin’ through Cosmo and metrosex books
Beauty is bare in my favorite rag
Nary a hairy or haggard old nag
Eyebrows are separate and carefully arched
Lips are injected and never seem parched.
Legs are butt smooth, and so are are the pits
Love is not given to hairy chick fits.
Speaking of nares, mine is exempt
The nose and the ears are extremely well kempt.
Sunday mornin’ rolls around
but his razor can’t be found....
I call out his name and wait for an answer
his ditty bag’s gone could It be that dancer?
The one that he watches the one he admires
could she be the one whose igniting his fires?
I’ve seen her there waiting the picture of grace
smooth, fair and agile not a hair out of place
I sit on the edge of the tub shocked and numb
look in the mirror then look at my thumb
I eye up the woman whose not spent a dime
on personal pleasures as though it’s a crime
My overgrown garden could not see the light
missed out on the sweetness, bare skin’s delight
Bought into myth and every girls hope
that she’d still be worth something without any soap.
Rummaged around in a drawer feeling sick
through my tears I lay hold of my old Lady Bic
Slipped into the shower convinced he despised me
lathered and cried, none of this has surprised me
He'd seemed a bit distant, preoccupied,
the more I persisted, the less satisfied
I should have considered my Love is not blind
his eyes are like sponges his vision will find
The best of the beauties the cream of the crop
as sweet sugar blossoms parade past his shop
I have an epiphany there in the suds
Time's never wasted on pruning the buds
Better to nip 'em if you're feelin manly
can't be mistaken for Charles or Stanley.
Lord knows the time I've put in at Curves
not that i see any good that it serves
So who really cares if he's after that minx
just between us we know how she stinks
Let him go sister try rising above
'cause if that's all he's after it ain't really love.
Making my plans to rip up his picture
wipe out his memory no longer a fixture
I can't say that I needed nor much that I cared
for the man or his dirty laundry I've aired
When into my steamy retreat disconcerted
the voice of the man I was sure had deserted.
I silence my heart and put down the Bic
ease back the curtain and see my St. Nick
The hairy faced heathen battered and worn
face kind of prickly needs to be shorn.
'What is THIS? 'he demands and holds out his hand
'Why, a worn out old mach 3, the triple edge brand! '
"I just CHANGED this blade and the thing's dull and rusted!"
"Heck if I know", but I know I’ve been busted.
Step out of the shower bare skin drippin' wet
'At this rate I think I’ll buy stock in Gillette.'
I hold out my Bic and smile at old Bones
"Would you like me to light your cigar, Mr. Jones?"
Leave him to his business, which won’t include the shave
Love is stubbly,love is soft and hairy to the grave.
Gina Morrone 2007