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It is pink and grayIt's pink and gray and also pale like limes
Beneath their skins, with just a touch of burnt
Sienna. Such a palette wants sublimes
Like cashmere dyed to match a sweater, turned
Into a luxury that few can buy.
But what is this? The pink is peeling paint,
The gray is steel reverting to the lie
Of stainless, green is some organic, faint,
Repellent smudge, and burnt sienna just
What you'd expect, an oxidizing ore.
The image of the soft, cashmere-like lust
Becomes the teeth of industry's next chore.
The iron age is still our king, but oft
I dream of sweaters, pink and lime and soft.
What is the pace of lifeWhat is the pace of life well-lived? I chase
This answer every day. Here, take this cake:
To gobble, lick, or gaze? A nibbler's pace?
To plan dessert, or buy the cake, or make
The sweet myself? To offer cake to you
Or make it for a crowd? To freeze it first
And eat one slice per day, or send a few
To Tom who's blue, with cake his sadness nursed?
To photograph the cake before it's sliced?
Evaluate the recipes and box
The best? To make it chocolate, then try spiced,
As Martha said? To bake upsets and shocks!
Can you tell me how I should set life's pace
When even cake creates a pastry chase?
You showed it to me justYou showed it to me just the other day:
A postcard perfect scene down by the lake
With elements of green and white and gray,
So perfect that at first I thought it fake.
The evergreens are tall and touch the clouds.
The other trees are topiary balls,
Deciduous but hanging tight in shrouds
Of lighter green. It's weeks before the fall.
I'd like to sit and touch the velvet grass
But feel compelled to stand by water's edge
To see reflected clouds before they pass.
And did I cry and plead and did you pledge
To take me there when summer comes and mean
It too? Norwegian perfect postcard scene.
She likes the girly thingsShe likes the girly things in orchid, pink
And green, and outfits matched like magazines
That show the many ways they go. In sync
With online fashion plates, she blogs, she preens.
He likes his manly things in blue and gray
And often black. The outfits never match
But every man he sees looks much that way.
The only cloth he buys is socks, in batch.
She is the expert in things cotton, wool
And rayon, too, and never dries but hangs.
He eschews fabric but he'll buy a tool
Especially ones requiring screws or bangs.
How wondrous that a house can house them both.
The fabric vowed, the metal took an oath.
And while I slept last nightAnd while I slept last night, the Pharaohs rose.
They did not rise to rule a people as
Of old but rose and held an arm. Depose!
They said. The tide of feeling rose, it has
No arms but still an army, nonetheless,
Of ordinary people seeking things.
The things they seek? Their daily bread, redress
For wrongs, the bell that Liberty still rings.
And will you say that liberty is wrong?
The eighteenth century has come and gone.
But what's a century or two? How long
It takes does not mean freedom's call is done.
I had a dream: the soldiers stayed away,
The people came, the Pharaohs rose today.
The roses that I like are notThe roses that I like are not the red
But rather pale ones, coral, pink or shrimp.
In violets I like purple more, instead
Of blue, and orchids best if you don't skimp.
In chocolate I like chocolate, not the goo,
The cacao high, the sugar moderate.
So skip the caramel, marshmallow too,
Forgettable components I once ate.
For cards, I like the clever ones, the sweet
Part kept at minimum, so thereby lies
Don't make me blush. We know that I'm not neat
Nor sweet and this requires your lover's guise.
Give flowers, treats, but make the words quite few,
Unflowery speech, a simple I love you.
He said to me quite worriedlyHe said to me, quite worriedly, the end
Is near! How do you know, I said, for I
See tracks that lead away beyond the bend
And every end has new beginnings nigh.
He said to me, quite somberly, the ridge
Is sharp and plummets down to water's edge!
But do you know, I said, that there's a bridge
That jumps across the river past the sedge?
He said to me, quite hopelessly, that side
Will vanish to a pointinfinity!
How do you know, I said, that some great tide
Won't wash you back to spend the time with me?
He smiled. The tracks, the bridge, the far seaside
Seem narrow now, but further, they are wide.
Two ways to dieTwo ways to die, one fast, one slow. One takes
The healthy body sooner than it needs
To go; the other takes the body, mind and makes
Decay the theme of aging's fears. These steeds
Of push and steeds of pull are prancing now
Outside your view. You know you hear the beat,
Perhaps a gentle walk or maybe plow
Attached to work horse; foaming bit, with heat
And sweat, with effort, he will climb that hill.
You cannot run, and so you slow, with grace,
And hang on thoughts of purpose, love, free will,
Since you don't drive and you don't set the pace.
Two ways to die but only one to live
Before that steed comes up the hill: to give.
I hated winter renting spaceI hated winter, renting space and time
Each year with pale concession stands of snow
and ice. So little noise and sound, its prime
directive damping color, light. Its show
contains so little carnival, I thought
another merchant would come in and bring
the red and blue and yellow sights. I bought
a snow cone, sat and waited, hoping spring
would come a little early. Winter's lease
Is sealed by planetary movement, earth
Is meant to tilt just so, the snow's caprice
Creates the water for this year. The dearth
Of sound and light gives frantic souls release.
I make concession to the winter: peace.
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More