Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
replacement of the rugged cross
cruel Aires morning fountain pen
not nearing what is truly lost
incomprehensible to men
you might have known the passion spent
if anything is close recalled
no curtain opened only rent
now tracing of the shroud is stalled
while my unlikely mind is wrapped
around the inconsistencies
of ancient echoed thunderclap
disturbing modern witnesses
who made this testimony mine
another hand, forgotten time
Krista said it well and then left me to tell the tale,
But the point was more elusive than these birds,
That swoop from out the sky of mind
to fall down some deep well.
Well,
The truth is hard to catch just right in words.

If I had half a twenty for all the times,
My words weren’t what I meant,
Or even less…?
Then all the meaning buried,
Beneath defaced US bills,
Would break my heart,
It’d be a ******* mess.

So, heads up poets, final warning,
The reader needs you now.
Best not **** it up, my friends,
And make to them this vow,

Please don’t preach,
And break no hearts,
Try not to show your ***.

Use plain speech,
Put away the thesaurus,
Let’s have a little class.

‘Cause out there words are spoken in vain,
In the smoky air they are forced to fill.
Talking heads make truth seem insane,
Finding meaning takes all of your will.

It’s hard to find the truth these days,
And even harder still…

When dangerous lies are sold as truth,
Common sense can sound absurd.
When empathy and integrity,
Are ranked in second and third…
Then the poet is needed more than ever.
The truth is hard to catch just right in words.
Here’s a clever poem about poetry-making…

If there’s one thing that I cannot abide, it’s clever ******* poems about poetry-making.  
They always feel like masturbatory exercises when we should be writing to capture the hearts and minds of people who don’t even like poetry.  Okay, rant off.
I do kind of like how the meter lends itself to some kind of rambling, Dylan-esque folksy, talking-blues format.

Hello Poetry poet Krista Dellefemine commented on one of my poems, “Loyal Hearts”, saying “The truth is hard to get just right in words”, which became a kind of a suggestion to be a poem in its own right.  I joked that I would do it and, hey, presto!  It only took five years to get around to it.  My inertia knows no bounds.
We are the poor.
We have no wealth.
Don't ask about our mental health
In fact walk past us.
Don't ask why
Just do not look us in the eye
Especially if you knew us before
When we wore socks and brushed our teeth
And hadn't given up and sank beneath
The awful maelstrom in our brain
Of fear, pain and damning shame.

We are the shadow people
But I see you,
And I know that you have shadows too.
Writing for someone
That’s not even there
Still add songs to her list
That I may never share
When she goes unresponsive
Not sure if she’s conscious
And lately
It feels like she’s fading
For good
I just want to reach out
But not sure if I should
For she wouldn’t
So comparably  
In me delight
Does not seemingly care
What I’m doing tonight
And despite all I’ve done for her
Leaves me in lurches
Just pondering plummets
From summits and perches
Desertion
Dissociates
Intimate friends
From potentially more
Than beginnings and ends
 Dec 2021 Krista Delle Femine
Em
This tomb is familiar to me,
A lifetime ago it meant a lot, you see.
Time weathered the edges,
The illegible text clings to the ledges,
Your name barely rings a bell,
The tide washed away your memory in the swell,
Thinking of you… wherever you are,
A distant dream that smells sweet from a far.
Sometimes One Needs A Personal God

The atheist soldier or sailor who, drowning,
Calling for mama, God or simple help,
Have mind-sets identical yelping for help.
Secular, temporal,
Pious and scriptural,  
Chemistry’s at the mysterious base,
Influenced neither by race or by grace.
The mind/brain’s the same when conditions are right,
The fact is that truth is the same, day or night.
Only the names are dissimilar.

Faith is a standpoint, dependent on hope,
Not on piety, dogma, nor doctrinal dope.
Everyone has wishes in one form or other;
Money or status, -isms or power.
Most neither useful nor lasting: a feather!

Faith is invisible, chemical: personal.
Often irrational but somehow functional.
No one knows how, why it works, but it does.
Therefore, it pays to have something to trust;
Something to go to when all’s a big bust.

Grown and mature, you see through illusions,
Knowing the platitudes, maxims and truisms.
Tired and seeing, you seek what is true:
Principles governing metamorphosis -
You’re seeking its purpose.
Change doesn’t fade.  No thing has ‘stayed’.
Sometimes one needs to believe in a God
That can house all of this.

Sometimes One Needs A Personal God 4.1.2019/re-composed 4.1.2021 To The Child Mystic II; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Circling Round Reality; Circling Rond Experience; Arlene Nover Corwin
shirtless screaming through
the heartland and I used
to smoke cigarettes
too.

she never wanted
to stay: the youth
she had
left demanded it.
now, I'll wager
she's somewhere
in an apartment with
some dandy that
wears sweater vests
to Thanksgiving dinner.

maybe she thinks
about me and my little
twisted heart every
now and again:
like when she's away
from the sweater vest
on the toilet
behind a locked door,
"be right out, babe!"
or toting groceries
through a parking lot
to her car,
or signaling a
left turn before
changing her mind
and deciding to
go straight instead.

and
maybe I need to
stop thinking
about her
especially after
three years
incommunicado

but what can I say?
I've never slept on
a bed of nails
I couldn't
dream on.
Next page