Andrew Siegel
I do not expect everyone to understand or like all of my poetry. I don't even like all of it, but I hope you will keep reading until you find a poem you do like.
I am working on a project called "My Native Tongue" It is a collection of poetic prose about the everyday.
What are you working for?
You sit on your swing, skirt flapping
Enticing weak minds, you look at me
You ask me a favor I cannot give
though others think you dirty
the dirt you wear is not your own
it's the wicked seed another's sown
High heel, short skirt, cheap chat
You look at me to throw a ring
but you wont reach to throw it back
Beauty and love spent so wastefully
Why don't you save? What can't you see?
Your broken heart bottled for nickle and dime
You need to be honest if you want my time
but I will hope and wait for the day
When you exchange for diamonds that earthy clay
I want to hold you dear to me
but you sink so fast in that sad sea
little girl, weary and worn
find a heart that isn't torn
throw off the jade and don the gold
what you really have cannot be sold
Silent cries
azure skies
soft goodbyes
bring them in black
to their feet...
heart skips a beat
when sorrow sought
with white tissue
cheaply bought
and thrown away
to decay
with pine and earth
...
and no delay
the leader prays
a benediction
a psalm a hymn
that whittles at
the hearts of men
and tidings heal
warm tears on cool cheeks
that they may know
which way the departed go
Still streets stir
with metallic whir
and pop on black top
with strips of rubber
wiping wet windows
and pine pollen
Oh! how they have fallen
the Cypress Creek
sacrificed for a paved path
that bares its name
without shame
and reminds dazed denizens
of all that it once was
I wont survive the winter
in your English garden of love;
where rosebuds melt to thorns,
and benches turn to bound splinter.
Nothing left except to part
with hollow sentiments exchanged,
silly words rearranged.
No substance in them, no heart.
You aren't even there anymore
with empty concrete bird baths,
choked by brown vineyards.
No paths left to explore.
No real goodbye, just a note
explaining why in so few words,
empty even when bursting seemless.
I wonder why you ever wrote.
The darkest shadow of last November
unwinds around too calloused hearts;
until black crows flee chilled.
No summer heat left to remember.
No moon or stars beneath the cloud.
No slanderous words thrown at our feet.
No simple hymn to hum defeat.
No one even to wrap the shroud.
What sort of writer
did I aspire to be?
Where a lion tolled stories
I was doesty, bakov;
in America a twain wolfe
who frightens the wilde dickens
across the pond. London built a
flare in '66, and a hem weighed in
quite earnestly. A silver plate
served cool dessert and a sues zeus
struck me with penn warrenting a
note and then...
I wonder what David diddled to Beth
my country has a kinky king
and pickled dillon stars
poured in bubery bars. I always
felt I write by the hand that I was dealt.
Far too much time to think;
so little paper, so much ink.
The draw
the prick
the swift enduring rush
Of the draw...
the prick...
the rush...
Silenced now the world around
silenced but never hushed.
And all the things you hated
lay there restless while you waited
for the draw...
the prick...
the rush...
And the ones who kept you fed
only cried and shook their head
for you the dying nearly dead
the draw...
the prick...
The swift and endless hush!
Not to the gods of wicked men
or to the prophets of Baal
but everything for the God of my salvation
who opened up the waters of the Jordan
and spilled them into the bayou
where he called me by name and said:
Go do my will.
You throttle me
with warm pink eye
and grit your teeth
as if to cry
but you arch instead
and throw your head
Why didn't we do this in bed?
Soft beret, libelous libret
your naked heat
is sickly sweet
long lazy love
hot rain above
spills out below
and though we go
we came together
like a thunderous row
or a blushing feather
Man
The manor borne
ought be well mannered
especially to he called man
Woman
Your name is life
your inheritance is blessing
for you were made of that substance
which is closest to man's heart
and I am merely dust
To the beauty of your veil you wear
that of my heart you may repair
I seek you there, in the light of love
Selah
I wonder if you belong
to someone else, to someone strong
I want to lust but only long
to know your gypsy heart
Dark whorls, black curls
excite me, entice me
I do not think of other girls
when you sit next to me
Gypsy heart when will you learn
not everything is yours
I search and look and still I yearn
for what I wish were mine
Let
Pride
defend
the
weak.
Humility
will
guard
the
strong.
Truth-tellers revelation is only the beginning.
In your hearts burn the fire where word is refined.
If you come across a fool who makes sense listen to him
If all fools you come across make sense, then you are a
student of foolishness.
How can you be so wrong for me
when your words feel so right
waiting I saw you glance at me
before you stepped in my light
I know that I've known you before
and your smile is devilishly sweet
The lines in the skirt that you wore
funneled wanton eyes to your heat
And though they sneer at you, or stare
it is my eyes that you meet
with that soft, salacious lust you bare
it's antidote, sickeningly sweet
The heat of that passion burns bright
setting fire till desire must barter
Your eyes smile but your teeth bite
with passionate, playful ardor
Reckless | reflection
the rear-view road fades | highway hypnosis
dictionary wandering | discern and disseminate
For beauty is vain and capricious |
but she loves a poet with a mirror
the Dictionary is filled with poetry
Denotative expression so precisely written
with a pen so sharp that it would cut
mere ordinary paper
We set it aside. How dare words be so audacious!
stands next to truth they
embrace each other
and look at me and say Write!
"Earn an MBA in 12 Months - Study & Earn Your MBA at AIU Houston! Program Length May Vary."
-- add seen on LinkedIn
To see poetry in the everyday, one only need to learn the art of cut paste and edit:
"Earn an MBA in 12 Months - Program Length May Vary."
innocent of her own beauty
sometimes shy, she is coyly
extroverted and gracefully
obscene. She never plays
games except when she wins
and then she will soften
the blow with a solitary
joyful tear of empathy
she sees herself in me
she laughs and cries with me
and my heart is glad to see her
You can not leave a shepherd in his field too long
without forgiving him for something
He will begin slaughtering goats out of guilt
