a Lad on Fire

Being young and young in
green growth already being
in a struggle to understand
insanity and never understanding
the nightmare of burning the
finger like a green branch,
While the sap screams, and hisses
lost untill the smell is covered over
by her knowledge of him, and no
sorrow it was not in piety nor,
when the bubble was pierced,
and the tears flowed out and
that by giants could such be done
and death claiming him and sorrow
by her a great mountain of guilt that
even with my debt of forgiveness,
I cannot move and the guilt made
her worse, and no one knew it but me.

poem by Is It Poetry
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Such a Rose In The Heart Of Rose

Such a Rose In The Heart Of Rose) it
blooms in my heart that rose(upon
me that grows, no matter where I leave
my heart dear(it loves on me to grow.
Bound up in thorns my love, I lay on beds
of them forever waiting to grow, with you
dear, as I bend to smell, that one red rose.

My heart is your rose, it climbs, and beats
when pricked, by the thorn, to be carried up
to every rose on the bush.My rose, your heart,
it blooms in love, each beat lifts to crown the
the heart, as the sun heats them both, to feed
each root that folds my heart back into the rose.
Such a Rose In The Heart Of Rose;

poem by Is It Poetry
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Summer Of The Unlocked Door

It is raised up from the dust this earth of the silver maker,
her for me it was higher than the arm could and yet
infused as the rose I scented, starry nights stretch out.
O dresses flowing silver, towards me, therein you reach
and it faces to each of us.
There is the petaled flower of which,
and you open freely as the sun without obstacle.
May the white leaf, the flower did not run off nor divide the silver
from that kind of rare silver; O it is white, it does become you,
your cluster, thickly with the veined branch,
summer of the unlocked door
and it has the fruit which it matures, do.

poem by Is It Poetry
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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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