Classic poem of the day
The hairs about his muzzle tipp'd with wet;
The last sun glinting on his tawny mane,
And burnishing his hide; veil'd eyes that yet
So slumbrous-solemn flash and slowly wane.
Veil'd slumbrous-solemn eyes, that half-asleep
Seem utter-careless of the wild around;
Soft seeming-careless steps that seek the deep
Gloom'd bush, — but give no shadow of a sound.
Loose-limb'd, he slouches shambling in the cool;
Head down, hide rippling over lazy might;
Thoughtful and terrible he leaves the pool —
Shumba the Lion, passing to the night.
A grass-blade breaking!
Swift, in awful calm,
The mighty limbs at length along the ground;
Steel muscles tightening —
A sense of harm,
Intangible... no shadow of a...
member poem of the day
I gaze in awe into a wondrous
haze that shrouds an imaginative
city, full to the brim with active brain wave boffins,
with this potent yen to unleash their meteoric
energy in the direction of every circulating
orbit one can visualise.
Self-doubt is anathema when a crystallising
hub turns goal strobe apparition into
tangible commodity, from boulevard to boulevard
where phenomenon devised in coffee dock
is the essence of continuous spectrum.
Against this backdrop, sleep is frowned on by
the motivator clan who yearn for
wide-awake perpetual bustle
Every trending current somehow driven
by a turbulent footfall with no off switch