If we could write a motion memento
Just a couple of sentences long.
Just long enough for people to stop and live
the moment along.
If we could stop and tell the world the point of it all,
many eyes of disguise would laugh as they think they already know.
How could we forget and loose our point along the way,
And keep on walking breathlessly, as if the secret has never been told away.
We share our memories and our tears
We live in an irrational emotional fears.
If we could write a motion memento
Just a couple of sentences long
just long enough to catch attention
in this fast living world.
Just long enough to remind you
that all you have is NOW.
Be careful all you free-versin’ poetic hook-up artists and practitioners of unprotected textual intercourse. There are pernicious poetic maladies out there online. Casual cruising of sleazy sites might infect your soul with bad verse. The wages of sin is death; but I would spare you AND your muse any viral regrets.
Random coupling with unstructured lines you just picked up at some postmodern poetry site is NOT a healthy lifestyle in the long run. Go ahead–-call me a Victorian prude. Make fun of meter and rhyme schemes. Hoot at message-oriented versification. Throw inchoate drivel in my face… but when you come down with a compromised semantic system or an embarrassing case of nihilistic verborrhea, don’t come crying to me.
This has been a poetic public health reminder.
Your poems read as staggered prose;
the rhythm of the words escapes you.
One assumes, un-mused, you chose
a free-verse prison to run into.
You are modern. And it shows
in lack of structure, meter, beat.
Your emperor, set free of clothes
meanders on unsteady feet
exposed as naked, fending blows
from anarch subjects bored to tears
by cryptic, existential woes
and dreary imagery. One hears
within the verbiage you compose
a load of godless free-form tripe.
The lyrical ebb achieves new lows;
the scent is somewhat over-ripe…
from my poetry blog:
the bottle twists
glass falls in drifts
and air parts like flesh
there’s a terror beneath this city
trucks enter from out of town and shake the power lines
passing without pause
sometimes birds gather for days
chirps grow exponentially
before tailing into silence;
heather and brimstone
little bodies roll to the edges
and burst on the streets in red regalia
a somnolence keeps the city forgetful
time flows in fits
a streetlamp; a raven; ten gravestones
it all runs without moving
hands hold themselves
there’s nothing to breathe with
an empty chalice, turned on the hour grants
heaving clenching writhing
an ocean of rust
bulb shatters, blood spills out her
mouth cave head turn faith
the world remakes itself
the colour of sunflowers
emptiness over emptiness
act without agent
lack lack lack lack lack lack lack lack lack lack lack
peel the flesh and find flesh
always more flesh
don’t stop they know better
chirp chirp chirp
the broken frame; the endless egress
Free verse was captured,
confined to a cell
by readers unraptured
in modernist hell.
And there he did languish
while chained to the wall
and desperate in anguish
gave forth a last call:
“Listen and read me—
my muse is the best!
Applaud and then feed me,
your starving guest !
Don’t fall for that beat…
Please ignore their old line.
I’m here. I’m effete.
I’m a modern divine…
I like it in prison
No, really — I’m free!”
(But his lock was awaiting
Your Readership’s key.
For the moderns all lie,
as your readership knows;
Modern poets don’t die—
they just decompose.)
the present is the only girl worth living
for in her bed is where you
time brings about the decay of perfection
and lend half a knee to the ground
to send naked prayers to the sky
we are supposed
to be our ancestor’s sci-fi.
What if I took some words
From Pablo Neruda
Copy and paste
The most beautiful of sentiments
What if I took his words
And said they were mine
And you didn't know who he was
And you didn't known who I am
Would his acclaim
Would if I felt the same
As Pablo Neruda
And my imagination saw a rose grow
From a young woman's hands
And through her lips
I could hear it blooming
But you don't know who he is
You don't know who I am
If I used his words
You would think me just a fool
And not a poet laureate
Not a Nobel prize award
Not a voice throughout the ages
Just a young man
Wasting his time......
I wonder sometimes
why droll observations;
recollections of a personal and
sometimes confessional nature,
(interesting enough in themselves – if well-written),
get called “poems” when broken up by
weird line spacing. Nothing against
descriptive prose –
but I don’t think it is truly
Poetry. You can call it that
if you want; I don’t