to whom it may concern
boss just spied a notebook on my desk and pressed with questions numerous ‘you are not drafting a letter of resignation i trust…?’ i didn’t have the heart to tell him - every poem is a letter of resignation
the universe wrote you a poem scribbled in sight of the moon it is neither burdened with past regret nor riddled with ‘i love yous’ verse with a peculiar sweetness tempting you to peer within best memorize its cadence, love it won’t be read again
Sunday Morning Haiku
heatwave’s brief reprieve Easy Like Sunday Morning plays upon the breeze
miscreantsandspiders: her mind a stone of sake, though free pon’ mine alone awake at sea in awe where bore a naked me and saw therefore my fate, did she for bide he come to steak my tree and died he one that take of me and there becrossed my wraith, did be her prayers now lost as faith in me Ah, lyrical poetry. Wonderful.
find something lovely get as close as possible but don’t muck it up
Adam’s splitting atoms in the garden late one eve while Eve tends to the laundry and irons the fig leaves so the only one that’s missing is our adder who deceives who is busy making apple sauce in a clearing of the trees with a little something extra he knows the taste will surely please the fire dies so the adder lights it with a record by the doors he digs that Rock N Roll so much ...
dimasmoonbeams: a fine line - assuming one even exists - between adoration & indifference yet still more defined than the space in between a sadness & a fondest dream the self-same stuff after all that makes up diamonds composes coal
im p l os i on
agape and awestruck at constellations yet stars too have their gaze and that peculiar sort of wisdom i’m told can only come with age don’t you find they think us petty if ever they look down from above at wars we wage with lovely weapons at mockery we make of love at worth ascribed to wayward scribbles as if they were words with weight at the procurement of excuses how habitually we...
dimasmoonbeams: the years have past I’ve heard them all like the tolling of Poe’s Bells - each it’s own syrupy-sweetness in drops from Heaven fell I’ve made attempts to slow ascents - take a brief breath in reprieve but failed with all but memory A Single Moment to relive -
in the end it does not matter if a poet penned the words if a liar sung the sonnet that the fool once overheard for the truth is where we find it not where the event occurred and the flame is a formality when we set to burning words whether a freezing or a failing all are falling in their turn if i thought that it could save you, love i’d tell you what i’ve learned but when rhyme...
holiday over back to grindstone trading hours for dollars weeks for dollars years for dollars years quickly amass into a lifetime company slogan is ‘don’t count the cost’ where is my Walden Pond? American Dream.
print is dead
newspaper faithfully arrives with no witness to its coming though i’ve been up late saturday night and early sunday morning it appears like a car wreck a single second here - then gone the same way its most awful crimes are a moment lived - then done i’ve taken pains to stay off the front page maintain an air of innocence that leaves only the obituary and one faithful friend to...
One Last Lovesong
dimasmoonbeams: we made love without removing clothes both of us so young, you were afraid God would know despite inexperience you kept summer’s glow you were - quite unusual from the fall of your hair to the taste of your kiss & the tension of being you held in your lips- dark eyes that conspired to keep the midnight til morning a severity of soul that betrayed both your...
the battle field stood empty as if it were christmas day all soldiers forgot for which side they fought all banners bled to grey though of war the world takes notice doubtful stars or moon ever will for though blood is shed it takes so much red to stain a blooming field so ensure your fight is an honest one your cause of great import be careful for what you live or die death will take...
Nothing with a Twist: Where Things Once Were →
nothing-with-a-twist: There are places where things once were like the water ring on my coffee table, the extra space between the pages of that book laying on my bookshelf, the hard pencil etchings still left after erasing, a broken nest on the frozen branches of a tree, the drawings on the car… The book image got me. And of course Chernobyl…
woetry: I am typical. Thin lipped, cellulite thighs, Brown hair, baggy eyes, Bit nails, fallen curls, “A nasty habit for little girls” Languor books on etiquette, I’m languid with the ghosts I’ve met, Ingenue, muse to Mr.Warhol, Just another plunge in a bathroom stall, So capture the red of this coke can, Or the red of the typical Chain-Smoke-Ann, With her nails digging in to her...
i have stared down the train upon the tracks its simple secret might i share i have peered behind the looking-glass though i had no business there when the choir sang of such tender grace sending each faithful true believer reeling the artist’s pastel palette bled though the audience was past all feeling i would have touched my Mona Lisa except for a barricade of glass but after Peruggia a...
l i t e r a lly (for Natalie)
here is your poem fun for all - now keep up your end of the bargain-
man, i need to write a poem more lighthearted - perhaps a haiku