all of a sudden passion suddenly

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Perspective

They look so peaceful there in the grass,
The morning robins,
Heads bobbing up and down,
Heads bobbing up and down
While they chirp like a poem
And bob like a metronome,
So peaceful there in the grass.

Looking for another tuft,
They prance bobbing up and down,
They prance bobbing up and down,
Looking down
At the grubs
And the bugs oblivious
To the jungle above.
 
Notes from a Smoke Filled Room

What is malfeasance but some venial sin
for those who paid their dues and others who,
having teethed on gold, gained a seat therefrom,

and when you make the rules, preference
belongs to you alone to favor those,
my fellow knaves and whores in politics,
I may destroy or curry favor from,

who smile at me whose smiling I believe
or won’t, according to the difference
in how or when their smiling faces wince.
 
Steel for Paper

You had twenty three million dollars to give me.
You just needed some funds to get the cash flowing.
Basically, you were full of shit,
but I played along for the sake of boredom and vodka.
I'd be happy to provide you with a Western Union payment
of a few hundred dollars, I'm going to be rich soon anyway.

We played our game, I lured you to that Western Union office
a near dozen times asking for money that wasn't there,
there was always a good reason.
There were pangs of guilt when you let your facade slip just a bit,
when you weren't the son of an exiled prince,
when you were Abeeku.

I didn't sleep the night that your economy officially collapsed,
hyperinflation making the biggest bills worth less than the paper
they were printed on. You said your sisters and brothers
went scrounging for bottle caps because the cab drivers accepted them as fare,
and everyone had work to get to in the morning.

I never did send your money order, but I have a whole bag of bottle caps
from days when they were as collectible as baseball cards,
I'll email you the tracking number tonight.
 
Insomnia

There are times
in the dead of night,
or, I guess, the
very wee hours
of the morning,

'Pending on how you
look at it


when my whole body
feels like an echo
of Lili von Schtupp.

only more weary
-----
:cool:
 
A Red Wheelbarrow of Cement

So much depends on
not the wheelbarrow
(For it contains cement)

but the chicken
who cannot fly over
the honeycombed metal.

Even she is silenced
with how enclosures
masquerade closeness,

Puppet safety. Cocking
her head (and exposing
a delicate neck)

her eye shines on
each hexagonal noose
of quiet suffocation.
 
So much depends on
not the wheelbarrow
(For it contains cement)

but the chicken
who cannot fly over
the honeycombed metal.

Even she is silenced
with how enclosures
masquerade closeness,

Puppet safety. Cocking
her head (and exposing
a delicate neck)

her eye shines on
each hexagonal noose
of quiet suffocation.

Well, well, well. ;)


So much depends
upon

a dusty star-
poem

bound with wire and
cement

but wings cocked
for flight.
 
So much depends on
not the wheelbarrow
(For it contains cement)

but the chicken
who cannot fly over
the honeycombed metal.

Even she is silenced
with how enclosures
masquerade closeness,

Puppet safety. Cocking
her head (and exposing
a delicate neck)

her eye shines on
each hexagonal noose
of quiet suffocation.
Y'know, it is just really, really irritating that you can waltz in after so much time elsewhere and just burp out something brilliant like that.

Is it the water where you live? Is it bubbly? Aerated?

Or are you just too smart fer all that?

Yes, yes, I like the poem. Jeez. I'm more upset about how you toss that off after all this time. Well, jealous, more than upset.

Smart-ass. ;)


Dammit.
 
Y'know, it is just really, really irritating that you can waltz in after so much time elsewhere and just burp out something brilliant like that.

Is it the water where you live? Is it bubbly? Aerated?

Or are you just too smart fer all that?

Yes, yes, I like the poem. Jeez. I'm more upset about how you toss that off after all this time. Well, jealous, more than upset.

Smart-ass. ;)


Dammit.

Beans for dinner. Sorry. :eek:
 
don't believe we've met, dusty star - but your poem and i have. i enjoy sleek parodies/departures from an idea, and yours has me cocking my head, contemplating a new challenge. yes, yes it does :rose:
 
A Brief History of Time and Levis

There’s something easy about you. Something
comfortable, an old-pair-of-jeans-type
of getting into. Say it’s not time’s swing:
a habitual swiping of keys, wipe
of past histories and here you are five
years later. And here I am, too. Older,
not wiser; poorer, not richer. Alive
for tsunamis aren’t prairie-bound. Colder
because of Al Gore, wired on Apples,
organically aware and still jobless.
Not much has changed. And you? Do you grapple
still with the physics of Hawking’s obelisque
of bending years, nay, lifetimes to your means?
Or is it the snap on my pair of jeans?
 
There’s something easy about you. Something
comfortable, an old-pair-of-jeans-type
of getting into. Say it’s not time’s swing:
a habitual swiping of keys, wipe
of past histories and here you are five
years later. And here I am, too. Older,
not wiser; poorer, not richer. Alive
for tsunamis aren’t prairie-bound. Colder
because of Al Gore, wired on Apples,
organically aware and still jobless.
Not much has changed. And you? Do you grapple
still with the physics of Hawking’s obelisque
of bending years, nay, lifetimes to your means?
Or is it the snap on my pair of jeans?
Now would I write a sonnet here,
But I am a poor Sonneteer.
Our Mr. Corndog has the chops
Quite properly to snap the stops
Of your poem's Hawking timeliness.
My sonnet was untimely mess.


(Oh. One more thing, not to obsess.
We Merkins spell it "obelisk.")
:)
 
skin

if I had a choice
it would be you, soft
and moist
beneath a layer of opaque fuzz
and like the starving bee
I'd buzz
until you ripened, pink
with blush
I'll peel your skin
and whisper-
Darling, hush
 
So much depends on
not the wheelbarrow
(For it contains cement)

but the chicken
who cannot fly over
the honeycombed metal.

Even she is silenced
with how enclosures
masquerade closeness,

Puppet safety. Cocking
her head (and exposing
a delicate neck)

her eye shines on
each hexagonal noose
of quiet suffocation.

I like your "answer" to Williams' original poem, which starts almost exactly like yours, of course you know that, but I just wanted to say, it made me smile.

Maybe you could post his, so others might understand your poem in relation to his? or is that illegal here....

just a suggestion

:) btw, missed you around here
 
(Oh. One more thing, not to obsess.
We Merkins spell it "obelisk.")
:)[/QUOTE]

Yeah but it ain't so French and you know, what's the word? La Poem-y. :rolleyes:
 
I like your "answer" to Williams' original poem, which starts almost exactly like yours, of course you know that, but I just wanted to say, it made me smile.

Maybe you could post his, so others might understand your poem in relation to his? or is that illegal here....

just a suggestion

:) btw, missed you around here


Thank you! It's good to be missed. Almost makes going away worthwhile.
 
Double-glazed Life

A single smeared-pink contrail scarred the
perfectly empty evening, but the
trucks and sirens defiled that
blissful vacuity, so I went indoors and
hurled the sash down and
slammed the inner window and
shut out the drubbling noise that
spoilt the soundless sky.
 
Don't put on the light, it
kills the mood and shows how
grey I have become and how
long a shadow a wrinkle casts.
 
Butts

Is there an end to things? Can you feel it?
Rounded and smooth or
jagged as though broken off
roughly, or in anger?
Maybe they’re just butts
trodden on outside some
seedy joint from which
we are excluded.
 
Happymealius

I met a traveler from an antic land
Who said: "The patty seems to be of stone,
The bun uncrumbly. And the fries! Oh, man!
Some punk, whose clownish visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of gold command
Us that his fry cooks well our passions read,
We that survive, stuffed with these lifeless things:
The hand that cooked them and our heartburn fed.
And on the colored box these words appear:
'My name is Ron Mcdonaldus, King of Pangs:
Look on your lunch, obese ones, and despair!'
Untouched, the food remains without decay.
E'en dogs won't touch this meal. 'S houndless. We stare--
The desiccated meat matures. Beware!
 
Flowers

Attuk prays to Spirit Moon
And burns my flowers for Him
While he smears a suid’s blood
On claws of the short face bear
That Krah and he killed tonight.

But I think that all of my flowers
Should wear their wet every morning.
They smell sweet and they make me happy
While I weed my new flower garden
With seed that he left on the altar.
 
Heartbeat

hammer beats on
taught, drawn canvas
thump
heartbeat to speed and slow
cover the course
run the race
smell the sweetly growing grass
unmentionable
obsessed over and unknown
questions swirl like candy cane stripes
fresh, cold, too sweet and lingering
not for Christmas mornings
keep the stripe striping through
hammer beats
on taught, drawn canvas
thump
heartbeat
 
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