joe-thompson
American
It is all about telling stories. I love to tell stories. Plays, poetry, illustrations, songs - whatever gets the job done. I came across this way to share my poetry. I would love feedback. Some of my work for children is at my website: Imaginesongs.com. Thanks.
When all the people
I am, or have been
Finally meet up with the people
I ought to have been,
I hope there are are no angry words
Or bitter accusations
Of betrayal or cowardice -
No self righteous pronouncements,
or objects sent careening across the room
to smash into a thousand shards against the wall.
No, I hope we celebrate
the infinite variety of our imperfect selves
Each of us formed out of circumstance and necessity, fear, dreams, love and chance
Though not necessarily in that order
Joe Thompson 2022
May 18, 2022
May 18, 2022 at 1:18 PM UTC
But you're dead, I said.
From which angle, he asked.
No, I reiterated, I mean that you are literally physically dead.
He laughed.
Oh that, he said. It's just a phase I'm going through.
Dead is dead, I argued.
And art is art, he answered, and went back to his work.
Apr 3, 2022
Apr 3, 2022 at 1:19 AM UTC
There once was a girl named Clarissa May Drake,
Who was very afraid to make a mistake.
So she only did things she knew how to do,
And she never tried anything wonderfully new.
Then when she grew old Clarissa May Drake
Said what do you know?
I made a mistake.
Joe Thompson 2021
Apr 1, 2022
Apr 1, 2022 at 12:25 AM UTC
Age
Confounds me.
Yesterdays mixed randomly with tomorrows;
Pain interjected into simple daily movements;
Memories that slip and slide from my grasp like a wet bar of soap.
Yet somehow
I am supposed to smile through it and say "better than the alternative"
(Which I suppose it is
Because I fear leaving those I love, the way I was left when I was little)
So I will watch my cholesterol, my blood sugars, my blood pressure and I will try to exercise more
I will atone for my sins
By getting older and older
You're all welcome.
And perhaps after all, it does beat the alternative
You know I remember when there was a field here. Or did I already say that?
Joe Thompson 2022
Apr 1, 2022
Apr 1, 2022 at 12:20 AM UTC
Some folks are clever and witty,
While some are disarmingly pretty.
But to truly be elegant,
One must also be eloquent,
For if you are not, mores the pity.
Joe Thompson 2022
Apr 1, 2022
Apr 1, 2022 at 12:05 AM UTC
Whatever you do,
Don't feed the poet.
You don't even have to pay attention to their
rambling diatribes and self important pronouncements.
All you need to do is look up from your phone
Every now and then and furrow your brow.
Really. That’s pretty much it.
(A furrowed brow is actually quite a fashion statement-
Unless you are a highly paid supermodel for whom such expressions run the risk of marring a gloriously smooth and exquisitely pampered forehead. But come on now. Chances of that are negligible. Right?)
A furrowed brow gives the illusion
That you care about the effort that has been made.
That you have parsed the poet’s carefully curated collection of words and discovered a small kernel of truth,
Or the translucent shadow of a new idea.
Or a fresh perspective on an old idea.
Or perhaps an amusing juxtaposition of phrases and sentence fragments.
Trust me, it’s better than food to a poet.
It’s what they live for.
Just furrow your brow.
Then maybe they’ll shut up for a while.
Joe Thompson 2022
Mar 31, 2022
Mar 31, 2022 at 11:49 PM UTC
When all the people
I am or have been
Finally meet up with the people
I ought to have been
I hope there are are no angry words
Or bitter accusations
Of betrayal or cowardice.
No Self Rightous pronouncements
or objects sent sailing across the room to smash into a thousand shards against the wall.
No, I hope we celebrate
The infinite variety of our imperfect selves
Each of us formed out of circumstance and necessity, fear, dreams, love and chance -
Though not necessarily in that order.
Joe Thompson 2022
Mar 31, 2022
Mar 31, 2022 at 10:53 PM UTC
I have stumble danced across the threshold of memory
Into the museum of personal mythology,
Where the actual has been replaced by representation.
Images of images -
Ossified narrative abstracted and streamlined
through repetition
With each regeneration introducing new elements
And loosing old
As they evolve
Into a synthesis of truth and lies and misrememberences -
amalgamations, the component elements of which
Are fused at the molecular level.
I have heard that the originals still exist
Locked away and archived in the unlit basement of my mind.
But I am comfortable with these
And doubt I would recognize those.
Dec 30, 2020
Dec 30, 2020 at 12:05 PM UTC
I am streaming some old Jazz (Mingus, Duke Ellington, The Modem Jazz Quartet)
From my phone via bluetooth
As I drive
To the store
When my brother Dave's ghost
chimes in:
It would sound better coming from a long play stereophonic record, he says.
No doubt, I tell him
Surprised that I am not surprised
That he is in the car with me.
We call it vinyl now, I tell him
I think he nods
Though I can't really see him.
You know, he says, it is all about the intervals and the timing.
We listen for a while, then he says :
Something nobody really understood about me
Is that I was a jazz improvisation
While I was alive.
I think, this makes no rational sense at all.
Though I don't say it outloud, my brother responds:
No, it isn't about being rational
It's about the intervals and timing.
And suddenly I understand him in a way I didn't when he was alive.
I love you, I say
But he's gone
Jumped to an unexpected note.
Unexpected
But perfect.
Dec 18, 2020
Dec 18, 2020 at 6:16 PM UTC
Someone left a barrel of laughs
At my front door.
I was suspicious, of course,
Not knowing who sent them
Or where they were from.
So instead of opening it
I crouched down and put my ear next to it,
Listening - to guage what sort of hilarity might be contained within.
Guffaws might indicate cruelty.
A self satisfied chuckle might be ironic.
A mwah haha would surely indicate - well, I think that's pretty obvious.
Were they the laughs of a person
With nothing left to loose?
Or the laughs of a person
Who knows knows he can only win?
Were they the happy byproduct of joyous celebration?
Or the giggles of a child who feels anxious and embarrassed?
A few of each, perhaps,
All jumbled up together.
I looked up to see my neighbor
Standing next to me.
Seems It had been delivered to the wrong address.
He rolled the barrel over to his house where his family didn't waste a second before letting them all out.
It was total laugh-fest over there.
**** I could have used a good laugh.
Nov 17, 2020
Nov 17, 2020 at 9:11 PM UTC