Jonathan Witte: Favorites

Nov 2017 Jonathan Witte

Left Foot Poet

for the 111 yr. old young lady from Mars
<•>

fluids in, fluids out

wake up at midnight, lips, throat, even eyes, California Death Valley parched, white crusted-stuck together,
it takes Poland Spring water from the Northeast to unlock the throat, ****** not sipped, from a plastic gourd  the chilling wetness slap to the body and brain screams metaphor, poem in there somewhere,

so what if it's spat-past midnight,
isn't this one of those soul-criticality's,
staying hydrated, (is) disco staying alive

make sense to you?
the older I get, thirstier I am, could be I'm drying/dying out from the inside out,
doctors clueless, but then again they don't reveal all they see out of poetic professional courtesy and they are tired of
yeah yeah yeah,
my professional courtesy answer to their  dire warnings repetitious

tonight tho the metaphor runs strong like a mountain stream,
a Mt. Marcy beginning trickle growing into a mighty Hudson,
and the driving urge to drink, simple replenishment, birth fluid
is strong transformed into words

water is words, the water is wide, the poems hydrate what's left on the inside, and the metaphor transforms itself again

water is words, words are water,
the difference huge, the difference minuscule,
both pour, both refresh like a mother's body fluids,
all for one, one for all, and as closing time grows nigh,
staying-hydrated is primate

place a new cold bottle in readiness for my
3 o'clock feeding

11/14/17 12:04am

#leftfootpoet #staying #hydrated

Nov 2017 Jonathan Witte

Little pest

Nov 2017 Jonathan Witte

Mike Adam

Little pest

Oh slug

I hear that you
Are stupid as

Slime.

Where is the cabbage?

Nov 2017 Jonathan Witte

half light

Nov 2017 Jonathan Witte

spysgrandson

half light

in the hall, I listen as she calls out
his name

not aware I am there,
nor would she care

if I open the door without making
a sound,

I purloin a few seconds to watch her
before she sees me

when her eyes catch mine,
she looks away

the morning sun makes a sympathetic effort
to light our room

"our" room which from which I have
been excommunicated

the drapes she sewed only last summer
are never open

that is her world, staring through
baby blue curtains

which mute the half light of morning,
though not enough

not enough to blind her to the spot
where her son's crib waited

until I committed the unpardonable
sin of taking it to the cold cellar

only a fortnight after our stillborn child
was placed in the ground

Nov 2017 Jonathan Witte

My Little Town

Nov 2017 Jonathan Witte

Joe Cottonwood

My Little Town

In my little town
dogs sleep on the street
and act affronted
when you drive on the bed.

My little town allocates resources
in proportion to priorities.
We have one school
two churches
and three bars.

The teenage boys in my little town
gather by the pond after dark
with big engines and little cans of beer.
They steal the Stop sign, stone the streetlight,
moon a passing car.
But at least
we know where they are.

In my little town some girls keep horses
in their back yards. Above the dogs and surly boys,
they cruise on saddles astride a big beast,
dropping opinions as they meet.

On the Fourth of July
the whole little town
has a big picnic.

The ducks on the pond in my little town
waddle across the road each afternoon
a milling, quackling crowd
round the door of the yellow house
where the lady gives them grain.
When it rains,
they swim on the road
or sleep there, like dogs.

On a cold morning
the woodsmoke of stoves
lingers like fog
in my little town.

We hold village meetings
where a hundred-odd cranks and dreamers
***** for a grudging consensus.

We cling to the side of our mountain
building homes, making babies
beneath trees of awesome height.
We work too hard, play too rough,
and sense daily something sweet about living
in our little town.

#smalltown #home

Nov 2017 Jonathan Witte

love poem….”where love is….the grey shadows of the night"

Nov 2017 Jonathan Witte

beth fwoah dream

love poem….”where love is….the grey shadows of the night"

i.

in a city of leaves
a wilderness of moon
and her shadows
climb high
in a drowsy sky
that dreams of
golden lamps
and avenues of stone.

ii.

you told me
that you loved me,
under a sky of lizard grey,
with wild inks that sang of
all the promises of winter.

iii.

i kissed your neck, wrapped
to your love and its
tremendous sea,
a wave flowing with
the current,
drawn to the shadowy shore.

iv.

your kiss like the layers
of dark cloud,
you were jealous of me
as you pushed me to
the wall, and i
said i am yours, i
will always be yours.

v.

night’s fiery arches,
a swift god,
the thunderous steps of
the clouds.

#loving #you

Nov 2017 Jonathan Witte

The Sea

Nov 2017 Jonathan Witte

Lazhar Bouazzi

The Sea

A dark rim hugs an acre of
A zinc ocean - no fish, no birds,
Save a pure body, no soul,
No words, fluttering on a bro-
ken sea, and grimacing
From time to time, from
Wave to wave, in lieu
Of lifting an imploring hand.
©LazharBouazzi (2017)

Nov 2017 Jonathan Witte

another sophia

Nov 2017 Jonathan Witte

mike dm

another sophia

and she spoke,
and her lips were myth;
her tongue, song:

forehead scar shone
lodes of rune
re-membered ember
of yesteraeon soot cooked
sitting fire in ashen ire re-sired

without him

her self
felt, *******
clod alive

tooth of skull
culled forth
bone spoken
tomes uttered

and i felt her light enter
this dilating space
of ebb and ruin and alone

stile of mine
thresheld, again
footfall of wynd,
blown open
into dope field sprung swim

Nov 2017 Jonathan Witte

EdenSight

Nov 2017 Jonathan Witte

S Olson

EdenSight

I often wish I were a gentler man,
pruning flowers from thorns
in the garden of words;

but what a small nuisance
as clouds eat the days
undulating cathedral
of red and blue sky

I devour my life to the bone,
is enough to not covet
much more than the dawn child of sunset.