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The Ladder
My 2103 Quatrains Ranked by Your Votes (the results)

This is a dynamic ranking ladder of my poems that changes in real time as
votes are contributed. A poem migrates up the ladder in rank one step if it
wins a vote, and migrates down the ladder in rank one step if it looses a vote.


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Search My 2103 Quatrains      or show all ranked
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Rank    
#691    Beta fences. I'll put them higher.
That she should work so hard.
Here's my name. Read it feeling stumped.
Society's own-card.
_

#692    For seventy thousand dollars.
I'll kindly hook it up.
That's the one I gave her.
This brittle paved good luck.
_

#693    I'm assuming there are back-stories.
At least I think there are.
We'll have to start counting what-becomes.
Apologies attempting far.
_

#694    Have you read any magazines.
This time we'll need much more.
One fingerprint.
When I'm down to house good ore.
_

#695    Nice bathroom. Clean kitchen.
Moratoriums are made this way.
Rising above the tractor.
With hinterland in the way.
_

#696    Like a cueball scratches. After being mentioned.
By advertisements on the table.
That's cue speed fifty three.
The speed a shadow finds a mansion.
_

#697    A woman searching cupboards.
Her house And vast loved land.
Shadow "of man cloud" holding coffee.
Overcast moving bland.
_

#698    Ha! It was a laugh at seven.
That meanness, mountains crane.
Constructing nodes of valuation.
That, altitudes disdain.
_

#699    Breathe again and live again.
The shortcut to the fin.
Dark-towards hunter-nights.
The Savannah pushed within.
_

#700    Shoe the cobra. Cue the din.
That, lobsters never meet.
Bubbles like the sands of time.
Dreaming angels to a street.
_

#701    Torment bay, my little friend.
So small as look outside.
Where, lightning on one finger tip.
Has more within than shy.
_

#702    Framework, looks good on you.
Though, do-not forget the rains.
For deserts only never knock.
Until a light switch gains.
_

#703    A single playing card in a void.
Illustrating favorite things.
A mind missing fifty one cards.
And the wisdom that game brings.
_

#704    Crumple up, all years be friends.
Across one-page of climb.
FedEx in-betweens the mountains.
And mere decimals are only fine.
_

#705    People holding paintings stolen from people beside them.
Showing what they would like to be.
On that grid where all good art lives.
You can phone the less of me.
_

#706    But reciprocations are just as steep.
For two who sound like rhyme.
Have you ever tried to be so deep.
No thrill found you to climb.
_

#707    The greatest gift to give yourself.
Is nondysfunctionality.
What you say is your finest wealth.
I'm in love with your polarity.
_

#708    You should know I fear fast words like static.
So we should probably speak like storms.
The same way mammals discussing their feeling.
Honk their moan two horns.
_

#709    Gold and yellow and Whittaker sir.
And not less than a perfect ten.
Ouch a friend.
The hanging upside down boxer's den.
_

#710    A few dark clothes and beverages.
For the experimental king.
Trying to mine for mind again-
Some space, and resign to pen.
_

#711    Bold as even writing sins.
As much as heaven has no eyes.
And statement onward delivers "light".
Afterwards the meanest prize.
_

#712    And including all our muscles.
Please visitor do come in.
Wild-blueberries and the hush inside.
Onward let the trusts begin.
_

#713    And underlings.
Let's re-coast the shore.
To em-pass, the decadence.
And remind the floor.
_

#714    And how-has your music deserved such wine.
The big guy at your work defines.
Occasionally de-boarding, without stopping.
To begin the slips on time.
_

#715    And an empty Sudan from your mother.
From her Serengeti tray.
How many fingers are on the numbers.
That can lift the March that way.
_

#716    And even if a statue warms.
No sooner than we grave.
It is the wait through smitten winters.
That windows and nights have saved.
_

#717    And so begins such a story.
Because kinships contain no spare.
I heard that rockets run on money.
That lift your beverage there.
_

#718    Like Harper as a diligent.
Tired beyond all the escapees.
Unaware of skeletons-below.
While sleeping under trees.
_

#719    Where slow-alarm clocks never planed.
And deserving showers must rust "unmanned".
Waiting for gold's asbestus-sorrow.
Ingesting instead a fused-tomorrow.
_

#720    Ask me About That sand-flow!
I'll know with some simple luck.
Both the talk show, and the banjo.
Mere strings no man should pluck.
_

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