well, poetry begins by suspending reason,

unnaming and renaming everything ,

taking apart the small parts and making one big metaphor.

calling a flower your lover,

or pain as a roses thorn,

a smile as the sun,

a frown as a crescent moon,

and of course stars ,

they have to be included,

as sparkling,

butterflies are forbidden in modern poems,

as are roses, to which I alluded,

my bad , though,

I see poetry as anything

you feel deep enough to

try to write a poem about

and makes you feel

A friendly Story
He the modest farmer was cutting green juicy spring grass
those that had spring flowers entwined it was for his donkey
that had been in the stable in the winter
He put the fodder in a jute sack and when it was full carried
it home to the donkey now in the yard
The animal ate and ate alas there can be too much of a good thing
its stomach full of gas it took flight over the mountain to Spain
where it landed outside the famous cathedral in Seville
Its arrival caused some uproar the believers looked up and said
but where is Jesus?” An *** and Jesus they had read their Bible.

For one day there was not a word about presidential election
In the USA, but a story of a beast that had eaten too much spring
grass and was full of gas but the story ended well the donkey was
sent back to the unassertive farmer in Portugal

"That which is not attractive therefore must be repulsive."

David W. Clare

It's a new Her this week
an emma from a building up the street
met in the line of a bar
caught eyes from afar
felt my knees arms and heart go weak

the rest of the night was a haze
we left the bar in a craze
carried through the door
undergarments on the floor
before moving onto the next phase

one more drink from the bottle
and she brought out her novel
she read with such probity
I ripped up my poetry
and turned from a lover to apostle

patterns
numbers
laws

stand
alone
miracles.

outside
other
unexplainable.

Breathe fresh and crisp air my love.
Let go, hold not a single worry.
Spread your wings and fly like a dove,
Open your eyes, there’s so much beauty.

I remember
The first “hi” from a stranger.
That first approach from someone I only know by name.
The day my silent moment was interrupted by a phone ring.
You have no idea how my heart race when its your name I saw on the screen.

I remember
Those early good morning messages to late night talks.
Every deep, even stuffy conversation, sends shiver down my spine.
The burst of laughter. How you’d crack a joke to keep me entertained.
And how you’d try to annoy me to catch my attention.

I remember
The exchange of thoughts and ideas.
Giving bits of details of what’s running on our head.
The photo messages you sent me. Letting me know what’s going on with your life.
Sharing the good things you see.

I remember
How these moments turned into a memory.
As inevitable as it is, things suddenly change.

I remember
The silent goodbye.
I remember
How it all started and how it all ends.

An empty pub is the worst place to be,
In a city, Where even gods stay a bit longer every year,
Perhaps persuaded by the halcyon laughter of that half dressed street urchin,
Who has learnt to celebrate her comical existence,
In the pregnant underbelly of a false saint,
Who refuses to give birth to anything but naked poverty.

Small wonder the gods have never chosen to intervene in the city of joy,
After all its the fault of these urchins  who refuse to abandon their filthy smiles,
And have the audacity to peak through the walls that we annually paint,
With the victorious colours of human values.

But why do they peek,
Isn't their world filled with the unmatched profoundness of black and white photography?
Isn't their world the home to poetic muses and romantic poverty ?
Indeed, why do they peek ?
Before the label on the bottle in front of me,
Makes you judge the potency of what I utter,
Let me tell you why.

For them our world is a constant theatrical which has run different shows annually,
Yet the only complaint they have perhaps is that the genre of the shows,
Have somehow never changed.

Its always been the darkest of satires,
Like the running satire in which half our society,
Sitting safe within the beautiful walls ,
We built around our indomitable prosperity and culture ,
Indulges,
In the hysterical condemnation of a man,
Who wants to build a beautiful wall on a different continent .
To protect the same

You know, I don't speak urchin-tongue,
But I have always had the gift to read feelings I shouldn’t,
And something tells me the urchins have titled this theatrical,
“Moral *******”.

But that’s not all,
An empty pub is the worst place to be in a city which refuses to let you give up hope,
And gently reminds you with every drink
That even when the rest of the world is out there dancing,
To the drum beats of happy endings and ephemeral farewells,
There’s one place that will never close its doors on you.

The only thing is.
The place isn’t the home you never ended up building with her,
It’s just an empty pub.

And that is why an empty pub is the worst place to be.

I wrote a poem
hoping to give
it to you, will you
even read it?

I wrote it with an aching
heart, will you
ever read it?

The poem I wrote
was given a melody,
will you, will you
even hear it?

I am not a singer
nor a great writer
but will you
even hear my
heart?

will you?


© Pax