| Cowpunkmom's Poetry |
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| Please play with the dancing skeleton. May it help you ponder your own mortality! |
| My Treasures my Ivory medallion beautiful albatross of pain like a long-limbed lover wrapped around my neck my Scarlet trophies glorious and sacred scars like a precious treasure map etched into my very soul my Silver chalice sweet and heavy sorrow like a thick drop of honey sliding slowly down my tongue my Golden sacrifice priceless, glowing corpse like everything I long for burning on my grave |
| Comments and contributions are welcome. Some may be placed here for public perusal. E-mail me. All poetry by Cowpunkmom, unless otherwise noted. |
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| Model Perfect; picture-perfect disguise. What terror lurks inside long-lash eyes? (The flaws beneath the flawless skin, the hatred of what lies within.) The Mannequin that came to life, then rose to heights of fame and glory, falls now from the seventh story. |
| Dry Bones Dead bones long past decay Pure, white, almost shiny Neat and tidy No tendons slippery with blood No muscles or flesh or fatty deposits No lungs to hold the Breath No need for health food No need for a doctor No need to reduce or tone or clean up No fear of suffering No nerves to send the pain In empty skull, no brain Tidy and neat Stacked in a pile Waiting for the Water |
| Impressions Like a coin, I am impressed my natural self, like a leaf or an elk, alive in this world; one half of me. Flip-side, my loyalty to royalty rendering of who I shall render myself unto, Ceasar or God my heart so malleable that my true allegiance will be the lasting impression. |
| The Grey Squirrel Like a small grey coffee-pot, sits the squirrel. He is not all he should be, kills by dozens trees, and eats his red-brown cousins. The keeper on the other hand, who shot him, is a Christian, and loves his enemies, which shows the squirrel was not one of those. -- Humbert Wolfe |
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