The Ladder's too Tight for the Altar

The mother ship's got the mother load
But earth is on the lamb.
The weather's changing slowly.
I want to hold your hand

The rings out by Saturn
Have turned to lakes of salt,
But electricity's in the window.
They say its all our fault.

I dreamed I had blue underwear,
Grey and orange and black,
But the house still smells of onions
And mother earth is coming back.

We're waiting for the banker,
The admiral and saint
To tell us what was up
Before the heavens faint.

There's no way to conclude here,
While the Shores still drift away
From Penobscot, Cary, Willamette
And all the flowers of May.

Edited 2 time(s). Last edit at 02/17/2013 12:45AM by petersz.

This is a stretch and stretching makes one feel good, n'est-ce pas?

Like I say: breathing exercises.

Thanks for visiting, Les.

You may have to change your sobriquet from Peter the Poet to Peter the Rhymer(lol). It's good to exercise the brain...or should I say exorcise? Either way, this was as enjoyable as it was unexpected.

Joe

I never said that I don't do rhyming poems because I can't. I always said, why do that if it has already been done better than you can?

Anyway, its all John's fault.

Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 02/18/2013 02:48AM by petersz.

It's always John's fault....unless it's Bush's fault.

Shall not my Shallots be used in your pan?
More subtle than onions for those not a fan
I'd offer you Scallions fresh out of the can
but then it would be like who did it and ran

Are the Shores still receding?

"I would not trade the tempering ache
Of withdrawal when my desire overreaches itself

For the purple tinge
At the edge of an orange-red oak leaf

Or the secret whispers of the gods, frightened,
In the darkness before creation

Or the hesitancy of time itself
As the moon decides to recede."

The Capulets, usurping Heine, they slew
The underestimated few
When Seminoles drank Gatorade
Along the Georgian shore they’d wade
But Balder really had more hair
As mistletoe flew through the air

"Thanks for the memories."

The ladder's too tight for the altar
and there it goes, screaming in tongues
It's rocking as if it's Gibraltar
and feet never rest on the rungs

There's no way to conclude here.
The ice is getting thin.
I heard the sky at midnight:
It sounded like a pin.