yet more swimming Siamese cats

A lark for a pussy-cat, getting something for nothing
Siamese cats swimming Southward
Swallowing the small birds they seduce
Whose titterings seem
Like non-sense
'…zmzgbzn…? ' mangled consonants
Murmurred together 
Throat to throat. 

27072014poem

The news is grim
For the wild old world
Long black veils
Dim the skies,
Forest falls as
Chimneys rise.

Yet may we live
And the years unfurl
Reams and sails
Tangled rope,
A wilderness
Of change is hope.

Upon reading 3/4 of Michael Crichton's "Sphere" and reviewing blog history.

This alien monster appears to have a pulse.  Your readership keeps it alive.  First it nibbles away at your eyes.  Then it burrows into your brain.  It may hide away in there for a time, ruminating, making cud of your lost memories, regurgitating them as your dreams, masticating them over and over again until they form a tiny doorway into your heart.  The creature will try to squeeze its bulk through the orifice.  It will clutch its jaws around the organ.  Your heart and the creature will entangle and become indistinguishable.  You have given it life.  The story is within you now.  May your alien life also find a pulse, and spawn in others.

Grassed

He wrote a new poem today
Composed after hours
There in the middle-distance
Down the street half a block
Then straight up half a mile:
In the diminishing place.
I arose on a green, reedy carpet
Adroning
And stole it away.

Uncertainty

Poetry or prose?  Nobody knows.  Do you sometimes want to write everything in riddles?  Language is a game.  Writing is like playing solitaire with seven-eighths of a deck.  The cards you cannot reveal might be the most important.  But, it depends on your point of view, or what it is you are trying to achieve in playing the game.  Maybe you are building a house.  It could be that you are practicing a magic trick.  We just don't know.  Please will you tell us though?

number sine pome at sine Steussie

#pomes ar dum
excep teh juans i mek
sais all le franch
an tou les poemetieres
@Steussie

web pepole for space plankton

Web people Live in a web But those who Pull the strings Clip their little wings And suck their juices

Grandma

First, a singular spirit who
Comes to us now and then
Goes without saying
Goodbye

The second, now lonely and
Briefly, a magistrate,
Spied from a disc
In the sky

Here Jill, a fine girl
There Jack, a young cad
Elsewhere, a place or
A thing?

We souls who are searching for
Meaning may find it
In our own
Desiring