Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
 Apr 2017 Joel M Frye
Still Crazy
~~~

how to cook a poem/poetic theology

so many ways,
but one favored

after oh so many trials
after oh so many errors

taste tastings, plenty,
some good, some feh

some inspired, some liared,
but it's the process

the methodology,
that becomes your
poetic theology,
of

how to cook a poem

slow simmer,
as if it was
a hearty filling stew,
with the red wine,
you flavored,
for style unique

stew
over it,
add pinches of
contradicting adjectives

icy hot,
bland spice
and not everything nice,
bitter herbs,
fatalistic flaws

make it
to
make the left and the right
side of the brain
argue and engage,
let it taste of the foment,
of unease, disease,
and the
coming to terms
with the
alternating au courant currents,
of fashionistas

don't forget
the final seasoning, the finishing
reasoning,
the perfect certainty
of momentary
peace

uncovered, derived, home grown,
after a thirty years war,
and the
perfect uncertainty,
you still aren't sure,
which side won
and why

some fry in nastiness,
some broil,
flaming to burn away,
some boast to roast
of the average angst
that breathing
seems to
require

some peel,
some imbibe the raw,
all get sorted

for even what
writ in haste,
all sourced from ingredients,
taking years of seconds,
in the assembling
the trial and error
the preparation,
required for living a life
cooking poetry
1/17/16
east coast
Wondering
if I'll ever find my place
in the world
Maybe
I'll live long enough
to find it
or just die trying
Perhaps my only goal
is to orchestrate my death
with my last breath
and not
when my spirit dies
leaving me more lost
and alone
than I feel right now
Perhaps that
is what peace feels like.
You are so dynamic, darling
I fear your flames
might be raging too fiercly.
You are a fireworks display.
The light and noise
can astound, and dazzle
but you spread yourself too thin.
I would rather you focused
on the blindingly beautiful bursts
you show me every so often,
than burn your fuse at both ends
and bury your gorgeous sky flowers
under barrages of bottle rockets.
I understand that your displays
are not crafted for me alone.
But, I know the spark
 buried inside you
and it is that fire than ignites my desire,
but the packs of jumping jacks
you toss at my feet
only serve to distract me
from your far more brilliant offerings.
I know I cant afford the ticket,
but either way, I will watch the show
from the other side of the tracks.
And launch one of my mortars
like a sympathetic shout
whenever I can do so,
without sacrificing my own sound.
Sorry for the pun title, and lame extended metaphor. But, I can only work with what I have.
A simple man is what I am
I went to no university
Or college of theology
And no doubt that's why I'm confused

It occurs to me, when we see
Leaders and generals of all countries and creeds
Celebrate their victories with smiling pride
Shouldn't they be weeping with shame
For all the innocents who've died?

They all believe that their god is on their side
And quite often, the same god at that
All down the ages, our venerable sages
Have killed, tortured and oppressed each other
In the name of the wishes of god

Now I'm just an ignorant sinner
So can someone please explain
What kind of god do these people believe in
That needs the destruction of his own creations
And all in his holy name?

                                                          ­­­  By Phil Roberts
 Apr 2017 Joel M Frye
betterdays
It is longer spring here
down at the bottom of the world
(if I were being truthful
at the very bottom of the world
spring is a mere matter of degrees)

Here in the land of Oz
we are in Autumn,
yet driving today,
the sunshining through
the last  of the clouds and
the waratahs red and vibrant
competing with the yellow
sunshine cascading drops
of the wattles , all outdone by
the bougainvilleas with their
bursts of deep, deep purple

the smell of lemon myrtle and eucalypt,
giving a zinging zest to the air
you could well believe that
nature did not get the memo...
It is cooler and it has been very wet where we are....but today when the sun came out the world arounds us looked newly washed and the lush exotic nature of the plants, shone through....
 Apr 2017 Joel M Frye
betterdays
it is true
that until
some one
has gone from you
you do not know how will
miss them...

i miss sitting quietly
with you after a day's work
tea cups in hand, savouring
the fragrance of smoky tea
and the silence that comes
from a deep sense of compainionship

I miss, coming upon you sitting on a bench
face turned toward the sun, hands spread wide
i  an act of joyful worship, a smile lighting up
your face,

I miss the itense look of concentration, as you
described a new thought or concept to others
and the loosed limbed wonder of you as you
came alive upon the stage....

the generosity of heart and spirit,
your allocentricity...

all these things i miss and more
and most days I find some new
thing that I miss...

but...
my missing you
is a living elegy

I miss most
the sound of your voice in my ear
...but I hear the echoes
that tell me....
you are stronger than this
....just breathe on through
and wait
for the sun to shine for it will, it will
Todays prompt: write an elegy, incorporating a phrase or mannerism of the subject
Next page