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Poems By Poet Mark R Slaughter  12/21/2014 9:47:43 AM
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  Best Poems From
  MARK R SLAUGHTER (1957)
 
 
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  5.     

Work, Sleep, Work, Sleep, Work

Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work:

Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work.

Oh free me please with gentle ease
From work, sleep, work, sleep, work!
This odium, pounding tedium
Of my work, sleep, work, sleep, work.

Just whisk me off to lands afar
From work, sleep, work, sleep, work -
That grinding train of rhythmic pain
Called ‘Work, sleep, work, sleep, work.’

Poor neural circuits fizzle and pop
In work, sleep, work, sleep, work,
In trying to make some sense of all this
Work, sleep, work, sleep, work.

But Hark! I see a golden gleam -
A saving spirit of hope:
‘You’re fired! ’ He screams. What news to bear,
This wondrous hangman’s rope!

So now I’m free, released from all this
Work, sleep, work, sleep, work -
Eternal peace and rest for me, no
Work, sleep, work, sleep, work.
 
Mark R Slaughter
   
 

   
   
 

  6.     

Wife to Be (Petrarchan Sonnet)

I stroll along a fragrant country lane
With honeysuckle perfume on the air -
And feathered crooner's warble to revere -
Then cross a golden sea of flowing grain
In empathy - it seems to sense my pain
Of knowing all was done with my affair -
Her empty meaning now the solitaire
She cast away - betrothment all in vain.
But oceans team with many fish to catch
So I must up and hoist another sail
And seek the one that really waits for me,
For soon auspicious breezes will prevail
In guiding forth to find a truer match:
The one to take my hand as wife to be.


Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010







































































marriage
marriage marriage
marriage marriage marriage
marriage marriage marriage marriage
marriage marriage marriage marriage marriage
marriage marriage marriage marriage marriage sonnet
sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet
sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet
sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet
sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet
sonnet sonnet sonnet
sonnet sonnet
sonnet
 
Mark R Slaughter
   
 

   
   
 

  7.     

Her Bum

‘Does my bum look big in this? ’ She glared.
I gulped and stared upon the floor.
I must escape; the bedroom door
Was open. ‘Run! ’ my senses cried.
But I was numb – nerves were fried!

‘Well? ’ She scowled. I sought a subterfuge.
‘It’s absolutely huge! ’ I thought –
But how to tell her that–? A short
And blighted life she’d wreak on me.
And so to Wife, on bended knee

I prayed ‘Oh please release me from this hell! ’
She gave a yell: ‘So is it big? ’
I looked again – a mammoth rig
Was hanging down – but how to say?
An honest man would surely pay!

I stuttered ‘Err... well, yes it’s nice.’
Her voice was ice: ‘But in this? ’
I tried diversion with a kiss.
‘I love you’ also burbled out – but
I was heading for a rout.

I drew a breath. ‘Be a man! ’ I growled
Inside this howling, quaking head.
‘Well actually love, ’ and now I’m dead,
‘It’s colossal – a real whopper... ’
The bedroom shook; I couldn’t stop her.

I daren’t publish anymore…




Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010





























































woman woman woman woman
woman woman woman woman woman
woman woman woman woman woman woman
woman woman woman woman woman woman
woman woman woman woman woman woman
woman woman woman woman woman woman
woman woman woman woman woman
woman woman woman woman
 
Mark R Slaughter
   
 

   
   
 

  8.     

Violin

She cried for all the broken hearts,
Painted everlasting winters -
Floral patterns etched in ice;
A frozen tear to
Soften up the bastard bones.

Bow made love to needy string
In cooing fling - wanton whispers
Fondled under pianissimos,
Caressing callous hearts.

Melodrama swayed in satin sound -
Yet the player wasn't there,
Only creamy song - soothing, yearning,
Teasing bitter minds.

I sensed her persevering loneliness
For beauty of an evening,
Romance of a tune - laughing,
Sobbing at the fire.

Then a climax -
Writhing passion cutting deep -
Wounding macho flesh;

And all in a work of musical art:
Ephemeral stories, yarned of music
Honed impossibly through her tones.




Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010










































music music music music music music
music music music music music music
music music music music music music
music music music music music music
music music music music music music
music music music music music music
music music music music music music
music music music music music music
music music music music music music
 
Mark R Slaughter
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet Mark R Slaughter