continuing the suspected nativity

Oh but let not a sweaty
day deceive. Oh often dreams
get to dance to the beats tides carry
from a festival quite alive,
most robust, wrapped in a hot pink

careen, in the next door world
or the next world headed east,
mallets with marshmallow heads
ablaze call on the magical
cockatoo muses, gyrations

nearly nude totally eschew
steps and rule – only trying to say
dreams in gratitude bask when able,
though frequencies could easily align
happy under normal. Mojave

falling balmy. Sonoma. Might mean
Sonora. Whichever specific
the body would appreciate
snug blanket warmth for holing
up in on those oddly nippy nights.


About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
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