Weeping willows wip, weave, wow. While wise women weep, wither, wish, wonder, weathering wage with war.
By Jovia Barnettabout a year ago in Poets
There was a very small man with a very red nose. Who stood on stilts until he rose, rose, rose. His job was to be funny, But when he couldn't make any money
She was old and meek, smelling of rotten ham and leak. Constantly glued to the table, Oh poor Miss Aunt Mabel. It was just another day of the week.
A frigid blue sky in desperation for warmth, wakes with spring fever.
Blistering winter winds whip and flail against my blue frostbitten lips.
Even a blueberry must find delight when it is squished between your thumb.
Wallowing in the Mighty depths, I tread water to keep from pale blue.
Tranquil tears trickle through turquoise thistles tried and true therapeutic.
Eyes like kyanite, Worrisome waves of delight. Submersed fragile soul.