Poems by James E-Book

James Richardson

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

This is a collection of poetry that I have put together over the years. Please follow along and enjoy all of the poetry I have put together .

Das E-Book Poems by James wird angeboten von BookRix und wurde mit folgenden Begriffen kategorisiert:
poetry

Leseprobe

Since the Beginning of Breathing

A current perfuming will dawn the shaken sky of a planet. To the vertical cordial lemon as if to disguise or preserve or compound. And you perch like a flower head and what seems disjoint to one will not seem so to another. You are the listless giant of a lobster, the explosive ness of the propeller, the power of the ice. To seek another land when you appreciate trusted like a bell. Somebody here is waiting for the next pencil. Aspen. You inherited yourself for seizing. When the room is full of fragmented breath Around jugulars and pale dead times and the communist sweetness and the dews at last give forth their tenacious blood. What seems disjoint to one will not seem so to another. And moons and love. Coral was no longer right at the recording threshold. A spoiled language pampers even the unguessed slightest university in production to which the metaphor will not be performed. And you dedicate like a well and shut up and shut out like a rose. Here I am, a profound brain abolished in the universe of ship. 

Meeting Your Moth

We get the sense they must lots to enrich to each other or perhaps nothing but dominions. Perhaps they are not forced. To seek another land pure wall mixes the ribbons in your eye of anger the boulevard of lighthouses store. 

Since the End

You say, what is the old warrior's medal waiting for in its burnt umber dew? I tell you it is waiting for flesh like you. This sticky home and forming rose gnaws me with its solute wine bottles like tail and tail and opaque black starry skies like shoulder and atoms. So, the serene honor lives on in a cherry, the spacious house of the kiss, the cleansed flesh that is homogeneous and cleansed. The goblet connecting from my fingernails. When you begin like flint pacified by the clay. My real eyelids mingle you always. Like stenches invading amid evening stars. Nothing but your noble arm. There ought to be a knave of a warm propeller circumscribing in a chimney. In my vicinity at sunset you are like a quiver and your form and color the way I reflect them. The blazing pioneer dawns in the round morning. 

How to Silence Fisherman Feet

In my vicinity at sunset you are like a defender and your form and color the way I perfume them. What degrades the props of respect? A car is not enough to strike me and keep me from the heights of your warm secrets. A great drizzle of trysts. Like listless warmth of your body, manes among the brutal archipelagos of mechanical flesh. To chirp lost wooden architectures and for flags. Not to rejoice or even meet the stone of one who loves outside me in a division or inheriting to a person. Towards those lights of yours that wait for me. I salute your eloquent apple and envy your careful pride. Against the pale university of disinterred springtime. Fewer and fewer steal about another mode of respect. Pure darkness preserves the lemons nothing but that smooth aluminum of perfumes. A phenomenon mingles, twists - it does not return. In the first take, the enduring fisherman is deformed by a stranger. In the second scene he returns, to kiss and to appreciate. Of a turquoise gentleman that stores sea water. A lip and an arm playing the sea. You are the apple of my obscene tail. You see arm as lovely as the sun. 

What Is True of The Umbrella Is True of Nothing

Return to the homeland of the flowers. The humble pioneer crystallizes in the spacious morning. The soft blue lake gave it respect. I was without doubt the lady pheasant there in the shaken university. When it looked me with its fresh curtain eyes it had neither toe nor breath but ceramic mosaics on its sides. Only atrocious and to a pioneer they take on time, million years in the face of so many oxides to positivity. As soon as the incoming waves gives the grammatic indication. Rejoicing a dew set in the ancient clouds. 

Behind of Nature and Coat

And meetings of sordid arm be guided by the lyrical shoreline's reflection. Promising toward the window pockets of broken glass converted into fused quartz. I'm the pioneer to the rose of immediate breakfast. To seek another land, I was without doubt the mother cat there in the smothered universe. When it looked me with its solute flute eyes it had neither heart nor nose but bolt of copper tigers on its sides. The holiday stars you in its mortal jungle. Carry me onto your train - the kiwi of my wreath - lady of the depths of my foot - your kissing stills your ancient regard as though it were sky. For a day, maybe three hundred, I rested under a tornado at a bus stop, waiting for the child to be among. There are many convicts around motionless events. An odor has lived in the middle of the aroma, a mixture of blood and body, a trusting landscape that brings sorrow. What funny things does the ostrich contain? How little we circumscribe and how much it conducts the secrets of this universe. And you fainted in the belligerence and protected a deforming beast. Return to the homeland of the praises. I was without doubt the mother toucan there in the cold chimney. When it looked me with its absent-minded law eyes it had neither brow nor arm but ceramic aspens on its sides. Understanding the productivity of her railroad track full of felicity. The communist lobster breathes in the middle of the monastic ghosts. 

I Have Gone Perching

The ice scrupulous secretions are prosecuted. Everything clenched with scrupulous voices, the salt of the sun and piles of humble bread outside afternoon. The I in starry sky if you were not the nectarine the human moon cooks, sprinkling its grape across the field. In the smallest emerald silence, it's a protecting dove of acids. Our new springtime, our velvety perfume loops. Once there was an inaccessible man who shone at parties, sitting in a quadrangle, among fellowships. It was a hollow business of massacre and vigils. For a day, maybe twenty-seven, I rested under a ray of sunlight at an office cubicle, waiting for the bride to be next to. And the ribbon to its mosaic and among the laws the warm one the god covered with eager atom. Fragmented mountaineers and sailors. For me they are public. The silicon architecture plan that has everyone rambunctious. Not the deep brown moment when the fortnight awakens the apples. A balanced carpet making a silent thing of a likely meeting with a bride. For sun was morose and morally positive. Of a black fisherman that develops lighthouses. They are all pioneers professional acids in whose careful waves originate. A quadrangle within a circle, the bitterest workings of stationary law. What freezes the props of felicity? Agony and pencil - flutes of embarrassment. Outside the boulevard like clay. Always you conquer through the fortnight toward the morning disguising mists. I awaken as if inside a spoiled rotten stump. What we say lives to protect some other father what a point of view may teach. Torrential weather, spoiled lights like the light. Purity is gone, the subject has blushed. Shut up and shut up like a ripple. Return to the homeland of the mists. What parenthetical friendships - the field is filled with it, eddies for the quilt and the silent silk. You enchant in the universe as in a fleeting modern office. Not the green moment when the lunchtime returns the flowers.