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 Oct 2020 Sasha Paulona
Traveler
Please don’t block me
For what I’m about to write
You need to know the truth
About me and your poetic wife...

Oh! it was just an innocent poem
Well, maybe more then a few
Nothing personal
Nor ****** in nature
Nor poetically lewd
It's just...
Her aesthetic covering
I can see right through!

Her words
So soft, sweet and sensual
I crave her lasting continuity
Into my being into my soul
She flows so fluently!

Forgive me Sir
For my part in hellopoetry’s role
If she were mine I would take it real slow!


Sincerely Traveler Tim
Sarita Aditya Verma Inspired this writing!
Dedicated to all you  married Poetess.
What is the colour of love?
What is the price of pain?
The answer lay within the blood
Pumping through his veins
The best of us comes out when the rest of us is gone.

At least,
I hope that's the case as I just want to save face and get away when my days face me with the longest ways around.

The depression sets as I attempt to find my faded song's wasted namesake.
Looking for a better view of the days whereupon my incessant sighs are drawn.

Drawn like a depressive sketch,
With the pencil marks parked along the secrets to peace's faded spark.

My fallacy, you see,
I'd rather breathe within the seas than have to see these things the way they've gone,
Strung me along the heartstrings stretched so thin as to nigh be my patience with this broken masterpiece.

And so,

The best of us are broken when the rest of us are gone.

But, the best in us comes out,
When the rest of us is wrong.
La España de charanga y pandereta,
cerrado y sacristía,
devota de Frascuelo y de María,
de espíritu burlón y alma quieta,
ha de tener su mármol y su día,
su infalible mañana y su poeta.
En vano ayer engendrará un mañana
vacío y por ventura pasajero.
Será un joven lechuzo y tarambana,
un sayón con hechuras de bolero,
a la moda de Francia realista
un poco al uso de París pagano
y al estilo de España especialista
en el vicio al alcance de la mano.
Esa España inferior que ora y bosteza,
vieja y tahúr, zaragatera y triste;
esa España inferior que ora y embiste,
cuando se digna usar la cabeza,
aún tendrá luengo parto de varones
amantes de sagradas tradiciones
y de sagradas formas y maneras;
florecerán las barbas apostólicas,
y otras calvas en otras calaveras
brillarán, venerables y católicas.
El vano ayer engendrará un mañana
vacío y ¡por ventura! pasajero,
la sombra de un lechuzo tarambana,
de un sayón con hechuras de bolero;
el vacuo ayer dará un mañana huero.
Como la náusea de un borracho ahíto
de vino malo, un rojo sol corona
de heces turbias las cumbres de granito;
hay un mañana estomagante escrito
en la tarde pragmática y dulzona.
Mas otra España nace,
la España del cincel y de la maza,
con esa eterna juventud que se hace
del pasado macizo de la raza.
Una España implacable y redentora,
España que alborea
con un hacha en la mano vengadora,
España de la rabia y de la idea.
..
she
closed her
eyes and took
a very deep breath,
crossed her fingers then
w  h     i     s    p   e    r     e   d,
"I long to see the   o n l  y
man who made me
shine in his
darkness
..
There is no Dulcinea
But there is a Catteleya

They might not understand
Help me to be true

Orchids in the forests
Tulip springtime pray ya

Thousands and thousands for me
But one masterpiece for you!
blossom rain
on the crook of haven
a statue of woe
changing haiku/Senryu style
 Oct 2020 Sasha Paulona
Traveler
If I were to believe in God
I know who I’d become
A servant and a slave
Equivalent to God’s son

Obeying all commandments
Fearing eternal fire
Never giving in
To forbidden desires

They say they believe
But what prof do they have
Living their lives
Like mice in a lab

The mazes we weave
Of our own beliefs
Eternal prostration
For the sleepwalking elite

If we were all-things and nothing less
There would be no reason to fear our deaths
What faith, what hope, what reasoning
Would we have left?

But yes
I do believe
We’ll be here tomorrow
To dream of happy or simple sorrow
To appreciate all We can
Living, loving
And being
Human!
.....................
Traveler Tim
 Oct 2020 Sasha Paulona
Wanderer
Is it the words whispered
in secret corridors
i love you

are they proclaimed boldly
from roof tops
I LOVE YOU

Or maybe love
sounds like laughter
giggles shared only between two

what if love has no noise
its beauty is similar to a sunset
seen and felt
but never heard
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