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Blame it on the countenance
Of the cloud…
Inflated greyness,
Spat it’s rain,
In cold hard chains
Down
Splat.
Indiscriminate,
Upon
The
Hat
Of
Countless
Heads
Or
Garden beds
Vista’s
Raiment
Makes steady
Payment
At the wish
Of mother nature.

Benjamin Thomas

Detestable Buzz

I loathe the whizzing buzz
of mosquitoes stammering about….

Hunting….
Seeking….
Waiting….

Like miniature vampires with wings,
and hypodermic weaponry protuding
from it’s face (those bloodsucking bastards).

They’re probably ecstatic as they slurp down multiple super-sized blood smoothies with their pals over the summer.

The cricket’s synchronized symphony,
is natures nocturnal orchestra.
A sensational winged performance for all to see.

Simplistic winds shoulders song of the wooing male. In the sound of their music, a courting love shimmers, happily sets sail.

The flight of orchestral attraction flies blind, unto the wilderness, to woo a bounding female.

The festive spirit
hastily ignites a nation.

Ever burning brightly,
sightly, without hesitation.

Rident with red, white, wise barrels of blazing blue.

Tis famed report; a storied three, yet single mingled hue.

LET HER FOLLOW ME

“Beauty crowds me til I die”
Emily Dickinson

There is a crowning beauty that crowds me; conceals in ambulant glory. It shields me on a day of rain,
and from the uprising countenance of Sun.

It presses vigorously upon old wounds; impressing it’s new name, causing me to wield new joys, and liberates ten loads of shame.

There is an excelling beauty that crowds me; that leaves me breathless, yet fills with a buoyant hope, until every cloud covets the ascent to freedom.

Let her beauty crowd me until I die;
Resisting the slow dissipation, reject her every wish to flee, and object every temptation.

Let her follow me when I rise again,
then crowd me in resurrection, with exemplary beauty in that day, basking in myriads of satisfaction.

© Copyright 2014
Benjamin Thomas

Magnificent Throng

“Beauty crowds me til I die”
Emily Dickinson

Shall beauty crowd the shames of wretched thorn? That bear my name, etched and wrought? How magnificent the thrusting throng, well donned, worn and wrought. Upon prickly, injurious spines, that ever find it’s way to vex hearts. Yet, “beauty crowds me ’til I die”.

© Copyright 2014
Benjamin Thomas

 

 

Lies hinder the healing of the wound;

truths suffocate,  buried underneath half truths.

Misdirection of words, fester only deception

stealing genuiness and spreads infection.

 

 

 

 

This is a music compilation I made on behalf of my grandmother who recently passed.  Entitled MARCH TO NOSTALGIA :  http://wp.me/p1F4VT-T

 

 

 

 

 

 

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