July 2012
121 posts
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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
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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
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Sunday Morning Haiku
heatwave’s brief reprieve
Easy Like Sunday Morning
plays upon the breeze
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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.
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find something lovely
get as close as possible
but don’t muck it up
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Garden Variety
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 ...
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gradient wash
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
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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...
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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 -
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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...
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Dependence Day
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.
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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...
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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...
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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...
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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…
The Ingenue
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...
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bandwagoning
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...
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l i t e r a lly (for Natalie)
here is your poem fun for all - now keep up your end of the bargain-
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self-reflection
man, i need to write a poem more lighthearted - perhaps a haiku
