or anybody can be a poet
from observation it occurs to me
anybody can be a poet
all one has to do is write a paragraph
any paragraph
even nonsence is allowed
break the sentences into unequal parts and stack them
on top of each other
throw in a blank line or so
only use small letters
play fast and loose with the tab key
ignore any kind of rules
like rhythm
like meter
like structure {not needed]
only worry about ‘free’ expression as
o p e n is well--------great
that is all anybody seems to want anyways
these days
oh me a rhyme gasp
these efforts can be only marginal prose ok
even the few that occasionally rise to eloquence
r most definitely not poetry
underneath the lazy tree
oops
egad i made another rhyme, silly me
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 12:25 AM UTC
Out on the ends of my arms are more handles than hands,
unable to pull in, easily pushing away.
Afraid of what other people will say,
I have evolved this sad display
while lass orifice seems to open, slipperier grows the sand.
What writing on what wall predicted this particular disaster?
My surname in the thick of it and brothers
who practiced not the tricks of others
whose principals life quickly smothers,
drowned in precious oil by some precious oil master.
Another leapfrogging tyrant amid predictable heads and tails;
many of them have been so spoiled;
congressional aspirations foiled.
Temptation around their ankles coiled;
deflecting towards evil gets easier when Good Intention fails.
Just for you an intervention was selected but your unkindly input rankles;
your handles aroused in some an unreasonable alarm,
despite your obvious charisma and peculiar charm,
among rumors of people you had personally harmed;
accusation’s thinnest trousers have fallen down around their ankles.
Crimes against me somehow revolved now were seen as
threats to them.
Acting on omens, reacting with their toys,
fail to realize this intricately grown up boy
no longer indefinitely in longevity’s employ;
this story will stain history before report of my demise
ever gets to them.
Out on the ends of my arms are more handles than hands;
unable to grasp, easily pushed aside.
Still afraid, sometimes I cower and hide,
my scarcity of tricks not already tried;
hourglass orifice seems to open, somehow slipperier
grows the sand.
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 12:47 AM UTC
We hunker down and shudder
at how pale the dawn appears
as it leaves the city of evening behind;
we were not looking, so could not find
any reason there for all the tears.
All of the sadness worn here,
thin overcoats against hurricanes
to protect our shoulders from the storm,
fail to leave us feeling warm;
unhappiness remains.
We hold our voices back from cheering,
afraid of being proven fools,
left blind within the heart’s surround;
music playing that makes no sound.
What’s not been lost cannot be found,
dawn plays by these rules.
But in among the foolish people
a spark glows every now and then;
A soul that reaches can be touched;
heart that listens, just that much;
dawn that does remember when.
We held our spirit up before that wind
to let cobwebs be blown away,
to dance for some undetermined while;
like an unexplained but honest smile,
one dawn before a brighter day.
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 1:41 AM UTC
He floated free that small warm day,
and stands accused of poetry,
from underneath the whisper tree.
Its limbs lean down close, as if to say
his only chance has slipped away,
gone.
Like happiness after failure tears
your pride from you and lets you find
the rows of heartache left behind
by others who refused to hear,
and have been gone ten thousand years.
Gone like the smile that pity stole.
Like puppet strings left hanging loose,
by hands and brain that could not choose.
The heart as dwarf, the mind as troll,
the stringless puppet with no soul.
Without the hands the puppet slides
too far down for healing light.
Though he tries with all his might,
no wires to help him stand upright,
he finally quits and soon decides
that crying goes on when cutting is done.
While far away the assassin watches,
and the fire inside exactly matches
the burned out place his fear is from.
No phoenix from this ash will come.
No memories of the finery,
no angled light on sleeping face
in this broken empty place.
These missing crooked lines will be
the last thing that he does not see.
Gone like the words to happy songs;
The puppet knows his time has passed.
The dance he danced has been outclassed,
the gravity was just too strong,
will make him dust before too long.
He knew all this before he wrote his tune,
the whisper tree was quiet then;
He was about to try it when
he floated free that small warm June,
lasted too long, over too soon.
The sadness wins, the winter steals September.
He tries to see ahead for reasons
but it looks the same for many seasons,
as it has been as long as he remembers.
This will be the last thing that he sends her.
And nights, no matter how he tries,
the images so fiercely staring down;
the frightful smile, the menacing frown.
Weary and weak, he still sleepless lies,
no phoenix from this ash will rise.
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 1:16 PM UTC
Always Wonder, Never Know
Nothing can remedy loneliness once beloved is gone.
Nothing can soothe the burns of frustration and
longing for a thing that can never be restored or
verified as ever having existed at all.
These are the sacred words of never and always, the absolutes.
Their only valid usage; not tossed casually in with mundane things
nor wielded so carelessly by so many weak thinking humans.
No, these are the sacraments of eternity;
never knowing happiness or never knowing why,
instead always wondering.
No descent into any inferno will relieve him with substitute punishments,
not ever.
No failure, however spectacular, can again be used to club him numb,
not ever;
only infinity will again embrace him,
ever.
None of this will stop him
from praying to gods he does not believe in
for an insanity that won’t be granted;
he will remain on edge at the abyss, abandoned even by gravity,
unable to fall in.
Even death might not clear this from poor soul the memory
of the few who loved him despite his many failures,
fewer still whoever understood him,
nor prove release from one single thing.
He will revisit Distress and Dismay
at home; there no hero will save him.
No omnipotence will forgive him,
no time will heal him, not ever.
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 5:43 PM UTC
Death of a Monster
The gargoyle of Suffering, having gorged on my defeat,
rages when I am found silenced.
Feelings drowned, thoughts incomplete,
intentions unknown, still intense,
now what shall the gargoyle eat?
When the sun deprived the hours last,
fistclaw fates had taken hold;
hatred’s was the only shadow cast,
growing tired of getting old.
Frozen, becalmed, dispassionate,
emotions wilted at my feet;
with grief lined passageways collapsing,
where shall the monster eat?
An empty shell of reasoning
borderline of being alive;
teeth of night have picked me clean,
how shall the fiend survive?
In a Father's peace, let time emboss the sage in me,
confusion dissolved.
Pale away this wires-crossed image of me
around which such sorrow revolves.
Cast iron mind once time defined as intellectual;
insight arriving too late;
long suffering is over, it is not yours anymore;
leave the monster to his fate.
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 5:38 PM UTC