writing live

Outstanding

......
This posts on a new page of this thread. Please look at the post before to see an evocative and brow knitting poem.
 
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pretty words
like lips hanging from
a honey crescent
dig deeply
into the core of
one who felt
unabridged joy
for a moment
and then was returned
to the alone
maybe nothing more
than fuel for
a poet dumbstruck
by an eternal
dream.
 
Holy crap Smithpeter, cola beans
this Pepsi sure tastes good.
Today was one of those days
finished a project that should
have been completed straight away.
The ache across my shoulders
chastises my procrastination.
It's hell being crippled and older,
my right hand is sore used,
withered left swollen and bruised,
still, I'm filled with some satisfaction
at the reduction of my list.
 
Those dogs are barking barking
calling responding two next door
the poor thing across the street

who never goes in who I gave
water once now he is howling in
the chorus, more of a back-up

barker. He never solos for which
I'm grateful and need not beware
him like that malevolent duet

next door who have the papers
prove it every time I walk by I
say "Hello Boys now shut it"

they never listen anyway Billy
it is less orchestral you are too
too kind it's just cacophonous

rousting into my afternoon
to grab my preprandial quiet
and shake it in its slobby jaws.
 
Beethoven plays again
Poor Angie, poor Billy
Dueling curs
give me the willies
I guess I should be happy
when I look at the whole of it
a quarter mile from the nearest neighbor
I only have a soloist.
 
Rastafar-I-Am ism

Haile Selassie preserve me,
I and I (eye for an eye)
are brutal assumptions of guilt and innocence.
 
when no poem springs to mind
i find i
close my eyes
and listen . . . feel
the rush of blood through veins and vessels
buzz in ears and pump of heart
i feel and listen for some art
and follow pulse to fingertips
that fumble keys
producing
this
 
when no poem springs to mind
i find i
close my eyes
and listen . . . feel
the rush of blood through veins and vessels
buzz in ears and pump of heart
i feel and listen for some art
and follow pulse to fingertips
that fumble keys
producing
this

There is no poetry,
so sense of words written
as music.
Perhaps there is no music.
Except the sound
found only in the deepest silence.
Then words are silenced
because the temptation to write
is lost in the fear of breaking
quiet to be heard.
To be heard
and hear laughter in reply.
 
There is no poetry,
so sense of words written
as music.
Perhaps there is no music.
Except the sound
found only in the deepest silence.
Then words are silenced
because the temptation to write
is lost in the fear of breaking
quiet to be heard.
To be heard
and hear laughter in reply.

do not fear the falling of silence
words cannot take its measure

hear
the melody of silence
there
in the eye of a bird
rain on skin
a curling of toes
reflections in a glass of wine
the breath of flame
ink
drying on the page
in your lips
within your hands
driven ever onwards
in your heart
 
popcorn and a can of beer
carbs and water
sweet salt and sparkle
the stuff of life
 
enigma
in the heart of the rose
one tries to keep one's balance
on the beam
 
sometimes
when the flesh is heavy
reluctant to fight the weight of inertia
the mind dances free
smiling
 
do that thing you do
you know
where you look at a cloud
allow your thoughts
to . . . become

sparklingmistdampdrizzlinglight

and the tree
there
in the garden?

pithyrigiditysuckinguprightintoballetofsugarshimmeredsunglossedleaves

the river-pebble, slow and dull beneath the sun yet so so tactile?

coolwetbeneathwormdancedwarmshoulderedcontentedsolidyetstilldreamingofthe touchofrunningwater
 
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(should have ended that with 'become'. still, might be something i can work on)
 
Is Everything Art?

Marcel Duchamp challenged artists to decide,

What is Art? Is it art if I say it is?

It is Art, even if just Ready-Made.

Since Duchamp, Art as chaos is.

IntroDuchampFountainCOL.jpg
 
Oral

April's gone down
June's here with hot lips
and I've found
I miss sweet April's kiss
 
do not fear the falling of silence
words cannot take its measure

hear
the melody of silence
there
in the eye of a bird
rain on skin
a curling of toes
reflections in a glass of wine
the breath of flame
ink
drying on the page
in your lips
within your hands
driven ever onwards
in your heart


I've found that I am comfortable
with my silence.
No longer need the blues
playing on the radio,
I have my own song
in my head.

I no longer need
the cadence of desultory conversation.
Happy when she holds my hand
and squeezes it.
As long as she is smiling.
No smile requires more comfort.

Wild war whoops
went away when kids were born.
Passion can be kept quiet,
or quiet can be passionate.
Not sure which.
Low moans are nice though.
 
Holy crap Smithpeter, another one of those days;
it was a true rednec adventure of cannibal mechanics,
but damn son, turned out nice.
..
I'm thinking 'bout the shower
but my butt's square in this chair
too tired to make another rhyme
I've been sitting here an hour
See ya
 
I've found that I am comfortable
with my silence.
No longer need the blues
playing on the radio,
I have my own song
in my head.

I no longer need
the cadence of desultory conversation.
Happy when she holds my hand
and squeezes it.
As long as she is smiling.
No smile requires more comfort.

Wild war whoops
went away when kids were born.
Passion can be kept quiet,
or quiet can be passionate.
Not sure which.
Low moans are nice though.

this is beautiful
 
Holy crap Smithpeter, another one of those days;
it was a true rednec adventure of cannibal mechanics,
but damn son, turned out nice.
..
I'm thinking 'bout the shower
but my butt's square in this chair
too tired to make another rhyme
I've been sitting here an hour
See ya
cannibal mechanics? awesome :D
 
relativity theory

if you were only
as thin as one atom
one wide
one tall
one deep
you can bet your atomic arse electrons
would still think you're fat
 
i am sorry
he said
not meaning it...

but in relation to the rest of it
this fairly quashed
the deep black-hole.
he'd neither known what he'd done
when he'd done it
nor where the ripples would rip
when they ripped her.

there was nary a hiss now
of all that static.
it became quiet
and wrongly so.
 
Her Instrument

Every string pulled tight,
vibrated and shook as it sung.
Then tension popped, though
the music continued mellowing until fade.

I've never thought the violin sexy
until that last note drawn under
her bow curled like calligraphy.
Her melody, my lyrics, our song
a seduction. She's played me well.
 
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