7h Liz Balise
I say fuck the old poet reviewers…piss on the New Republic,
Publishers Weekly, the Southern Review, and the New Yorker, too.

What the hell do those MFA mother fucking assholes know
about the soul of the poet, the pain painted in the words
of the farmer writing a letter to the bank to stop a foreclosure?

The nights that farmer stays awake counting his oats thinking
of a name for a new calf, makes him a better poet than most.

So, again, I say, fuck those MFA reviewers of the neo-poets,
those Molding Fucking Antiquarian poseurs wouldn't know
a good poem if it bit them on their sour old know-it-all talk holes.

Those exploiters of the truth, the black man, the white, the red,
and all colors of women, too. I know all this but none of it enters
my mind when I write my poems, I have no stand other than that
I write about what I know, what is the truth; yes, you may think
I am fucked up with my non-rhyming words, my imagery, but
you see, I've always known that I was a poet; my father told me so.  

Because I know what I know; and I've seen most of the truth up
close, and I've lived long enough to see the beauty of the poem.

And the truth has never known a better poet than we poets
who struggle every day to put to paper our pain, our shame
for mistakes long past, love lost in the high grass of the range
of our knowledge, our experience, our struggles, you know?

So, again, I say, fuck those MFA mother fucking assholes who have
never met people like us, we, the neo-poets of our own poetry.
That's us, folks, the community of neo-poets of Hello Poetry.
Yellow is
a high-minded mood
the extravagance of sunlight
to be touched--
before long
by colors of play

It is of hair
tendering golden sun
brown pennies for lemonade
for a child of eight

Yellow is
bumping into the screaming end
of a lit

Yellow is
dripping from the eaves
onto an empty soup can

It is
spindling sparrow song
from highest perch on roof
his pitch can aspire

Yellow is
in rattled doorknob
an infant's sweet
voice wanting – in
Reciting menu
above mattress
edges into sleep
two dark eyes
for yellow
Mother into morning--
“juice.... eggs”

Yellow  _
opening a car door
at the shore's
Smells of life  
warmth and breeze
touching strings
those kites  
of sense
above the tone
octaves of excitement
to see to hear to touch to taste
to know
again –

the ocean of my mother
as she calms the waves,
ignores the pouts of us
with stuff to lug out to the beach
the towels, pails and shovels
Picnic basket, cooler
lotion, comic books, her magazines

Mom looks out
She is a good swimmer
Her glasses, dark
reflecting beauty –

“Take your sister's hand.”

Yellow are the squeals
Feet thrashing sand
of cannot wait
Can't figure out why there are italics in this.
The blind man too,
enjoys birdsong, sun on his face,
pungent scents of spice, the
perfume of flowers.
Even the flute pipes sweeter when

In solitary silence
taste the freshly peeled orange,
enjoy the citrus spray,
remember this spaceless,
pin-wheeling sensation.

Savor the memory of
of morning gold rush,
summer blues in lazy sky,
rose and amber dusk falling,
nights when the moon hung so low
light brushed your cheek with slumber
and you saw heaven through the eyes of a dream.
  3d Liz Balise
maybe i wasn't meant to be the girl
with wind blowing through her hair
laughter twinkling through her lips
gently parting to make way for another
held gently in their grasp

maybe all my destiny holds
are drunk nights and forgotten memories
fleeting glances saying
"text me.
8 am bus rides in last night's clothes
never spoken of again

sometimes i'm okay with it
air finds a way in
i can scrape my body along the dirt
and the bruises don't hurt anymore

but sometimes i start to bleed
it fills my lungs
i ignore the drowning
but sometimes i get tired
of not being able to breathe
“To touch great loneliness
is to be lonely”
or so they think

“Such things rub off in ruin”
so they say

Or does fear think at all?

Avoidance of approval's wince
Reading shadows wrong

as startled, leaping splotches
Then drool down walls
in wakeful pools
Relief dissolved
in wee-hours black

Missing life at the threat....

As if there were somewhere else to be!

The knowing of it all would be the curse
Except for carving little hopes from realish dreams

Where once the mourning woman felt
the treasured, fearless touch of one
who laid his sorrow 'cross her knees

Forgetting all-- but love

Nothing more to do when all is lost
But watch the birds and buds emerge
by swollen streams

But speak your mind
But wait and see
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