poet-on-the-roof - Hello Poetry

no can do the turning of water, the greatest magician’s trick ever, but turning words into wine, that I can do, ready your life, go get a wine glass, sit down, this is heady stuff, be prepared! you’re thinking, shoot, I can do that too, no, you just think you can, for if you could, you would be drunk already, making typos all over your shirt, thinking’ bout your next verse, a great love affair, the one you never should let get away, the wrong choices that fed on each other, living with a hateful woman for the better part of your whole life, the children who don’t even call to wish you happy birthday and you would be drunk already just like me, writing poems like this, a poet sitting on the roof, and you would have written this whiney poem, not me, pretending wine can wash your conscience clean <> “*I thought that I heard you laughing I thought that I heard you sing I think I thought I saw you try But that was just a dream*” Losing My Religion Song by R.E.M.

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Aug 24, 2020

Aug 24, 2020 at 12:31 PM UTC

turning words into wine

no can do the turning of water, the greatest magician’s trick ever, but turning words into wine, that I can do, ready your life, go get a wine glass, sit down, this is heady stuff, be prepared! you’re thinking, shoot, I can do that too, no, you just think you can, for if you could, you would be drunk already, making typos all over your shirt, thinking’ bout your next verse, a great love affair, the one you never should let get away, the wrong choices that fed on each other, living with a hateful woman for the better part of your whole life, the children who don’t even call to wish you happy birthday and you would be drunk already just like me, writing poems like this, a poet sitting on the roof, and you would have written this whiney poem, not me, pretending wine can wash your conscience clean <> “*I thought that I heard you laughing I thought that I heard you sing I think I thought I saw you try But that was just a dream*” Losing My Religion Song by R.E.M.

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My Heart is Drenched in Why’s :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: climb to my listening post, poet-on-the-roof, willing every step, climb way up to the top of the stairs, entrance marked POETRY, courtesy of the bldg. super, an olden friend, a concerned citizen, humorist, human, somedays nurse to his corona haloed tenants. the view of the ****** not laudatory, visible in a 360 degree perspective is of city grunched, scrunched, covered in in silent spoke poems, overused views, words that don’t change a thing, for my heart sees only dimly, being that my disheartened vision is drenched, diminished, disabled by and in why’s. ask seer~super what rhymes with why, smiling, an instantaneous poetry helper, having created, an officiel expert, as in everything, reply’s “why, why most famously rhymes with, why, everyone knows is try!” so I try, three times, try, try, try again to puzzle why, my heart is drenched in magenta, who has willed this, not I, my distilled voice, wants, does roof shout, but try as I might, the reverb of unanswered is the slap of more drenching, quiet silencing, and the weightiness of too many weightless words returned stamped “no forwarding address, and we know not why.”

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Jul 12, 2020

Jul 12, 2020 at 5:25 PM UTC

My Heart is Drenched in Why

My Heart is Drenched in Why’s :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: climb to my listening post, poet-on-the-roof, willing every step, climb way up to the top of the stairs, entrance marked POETRY, courtesy of the bldg. super, an olden friend, a concerned citizen, humorist, human, somedays nurse to his corona haloed tenants. the view of the ****** not laudatory, visible in a 360 degree perspective is of city grunched, scrunched, covered in in silent spoke poems, overused views, words that don’t change a thing, for my heart sees only dimly, being that my disheartened vision is drenched, diminished, disabled by and in why’s. ask seer~super what rhymes with why, smiling, an instantaneous poetry helper, having created, an officiel expert, as in everything, reply’s “why, why most famously rhymes with, why, everyone knows is try!” so I try, three times, try, try, try again to puzzle why, my heart is drenched in magenta, who has willed this, not I, my distilled voice, wants, does roof shout, but try as I might, the reverb of unanswered is the slap of more drenching, quiet silencing, and the weightiness of too many weightless words returned stamped “no forwarding address, and we know not why.”

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“They are an inexhaustible spring of delight. Their diversity corresponds to our most varied moods, from the state of quiet content in which all we ask of art is entertainment, exquisite rather than deep, the exuberance of animal spirits, the consciousness of physical and moral health, to melancholy, sorrow and even revolt, and to an Olympian serenity breathing the air of the mountain tops. The comparative uniformity which we notice between them at first sight disappears with closer scrutiny. The feeling is never the same from one to the other; each one is characterised by a personality of its own and the variety of their inspiration shows itself ever greater as we travel more deeply into them.” Cuthbert Girdlestone Mozart and his Piano Concertos, 1939

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Jul 12, 2020

Jul 12, 2020 at 8:42 AM UTC

Mozart’s Poetry

“They are an inexhaustible spring of delight. Their diversity corresponds to our most varied moods, from the state of quiet content in which all we ask of art is entertainment, exquisite rather than deep, the exuberance of animal spirits, the consciousness of physical and moral health, to melancholy, sorrow and even revolt, and to an Olympian serenity breathing the air of the mountain tops. The comparative uniformity which we notice between them at first sight disappears with closer scrutiny. The feeling is never the same from one to the other; each one is characterised by a personality of its own and the variety of their inspiration shows itself ever greater as we travel more deeply into them.” Cuthbert Girdlestone Mozart and his Piano Concertos, 1939

3

“choose your hugs wisely...(the hug has to spark joy.)” the pandemical advice columns arrive unceasingly, mostly repetitive, causing/repairing minor league glitches, but stumbled on the advice above, dumbstruck, flummoxed and yes, by god, even that poet’s favorite, gobsmacked, thinking wow, great advice, for the entirety of our remaining days! poetontheroof

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Jul 4, 2020

Jul 4, 2020 at 12:53 PM UTC

Poem #1: “choose your hugs wisely...(the hug has to spark joy.)”

“choose your hugs wisely...(the hug has to spark joy.)” the pandemical advice columns arrive unceasingly, mostly repetitive, causing/repairing minor league glitches, but stumbled on the advice above, dumbstruck, flummoxed and yes, by god, even that poet’s favorite, gobsmacked, thinking wow, great advice, for the entirety of our remaining days! poetontheroof

12

as the poet on the roof, ‘tis I, asking you Lord, would it have soiled a vast eternal plan, to throw some seasoned salt, on mes écrits? let this soliloquy make my case, my summer soul-on-ice, hungover from **the sorrowed sobriety that stayed, retained, the sense of loss that are the mainstays of my isolated days** long after I’ve left, the black velvet of my screen, and I, ***wonder where poems come from, ceasing to wonder, perhaps as simple as some sweet old critter being a human whisperer*** **** the czar and **** me too.

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Jun 25, 2020

Jun 25, 2020 at 2:07 AM UTC

poet-on-the-roof

as the poet on the roof, ‘tis I, asking you Lord, would it have soiled a vast eternal plan, to throw some seasoned salt, on mes écrits? let this soliloquy make my case, my summer soul-on-ice, hungover from **the sorrowed sobriety that stayed, retained, the sense of loss that are the mainstays of my isolated days** long after I’ve left, the black velvet of my screen, and I, ***wonder where poems come from, ceasing to wonder, perhaps as simple as some sweet old critter being a human whisperer*** **** the czar and **** me too.

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