~for my northern exposure with a ;)~
when a lost muse is no excuse,
when the mundane and the profane
are away on summer holiday,
and the divine is currently on your
'u suck no write list'
nonetheless the itch in the private
spaces is driving you crazy,
write a poem, write a poem,
in the way a grandmother
(or a mother to a grown child)
whiny nags, its a nice day, go outside and play
with a strange man,
whatcha ya gonna do, the walls are all painted,
the good bad boys are out of town, all with the
other bad good girls, who got there first,
but we will write of
nipple-rings and other crazy songs you sing
it is not important you the reader understand every verse,
like Patton said, "it only matters that I know,"
which line is a joke,
which is the yoke around your neck,
which the plaintive wail to no avail,
which is the regret that never can be sated,
which is the frustration cratering inside the chest,
which is just, just enough to make a satisfactory smile
upon the lips appear
as long as you don't have hear me sing my poetry
but hear me smiling at the power of whimsy
and the return of my no longer muzzy
~for Catherine, the guilty one!~
do not be shocked,
'tis a truth of mine,
after all are you not one of
my ten thousands muses?
our magnetized vulnerability is our lodestone,
of what use is a single field
without a mutual attraction,
a living opposite to attract?
your writ ready and reserved
you need only ask,
some a nouveau Beaujolais,
some deep in the cellar aging well,
but first, need to know,
do you prefer your
apple pie poem
hot or cold,
a la mode?
recall my disclaimer:
anything you have said herein,
can and will be used in a poem,
you cannot amend reality by passing a law.
if we could, then we should have one requiring society to
guarantee a happy childhood.
every damn time I propose to myself a resolution
that I am an ok poet, I stumble on to a poet here
of whom I was unaware, and you were, correctly aware,
that brings a good light into the world,
vowing to throw in the towel,
the I'm ok resolution never passes,
voted down 2 - 1;
Against: Myself, I
In Favor: Me
which necessitates try try again
Einstein's Insanity Theorem fool
Exclaim! what a goodly word.
If we ex'd our claims (need, due, want) more,
walking in quiet contemplation,
we could climb on our roof (I can) and proclaim (silently)
glory glory hallelujah and it would not matter to
whom (which diety)
Outstanding! what a goodly word.
If I could satisfy the claims against me outstanding,
still unsatisfied, while I am yet among the living,
especially the one that are self-propelled,
that would be
I would rather the simple monetary motived corruption
of a dishonest businessman, than the cowardly silence
of the fools we elect to govern us, and gravely pretend
to know what is good for us. I call this,
My Theory of the Greater Corruption.
Word Salad: making crazy combinations of words,
i.e. eggplant smile, vegteable sunrise etc.
hell, I just can't make any up,
cheap and lazy crafty no craftsmanship, craftwomanship
but very self/satisfying and tasty too, I'm sure,
and authentic 100% b.s.
The apocalypse is always nigh.
Ironically, very true.
Let's keep it that way.
neigh neigh neigh.
I write many more words than I speak;
by a very wide margin;
this pleases me,
by a very wide margin.
(yes, it is a real word) and
rhyme because they both end in
In heaven, the following are outlawed:
yoga, exercise, dieting, crying; denying and lying.
the latter obviate the former.
glory glory hallelujah and hot damn
for Harlon Rivers
the river potion
the river portent
the river potent
it is all of these and not one
he is bank sided,
observing the false idols,
the image mirrored
in the glass of the river
he becomes something ferried frothily, forcefully
as if a twig or a small thing of human manufacture,
an object tossed up airborne repeatedly
the clash of particles at the many junctions
of objects and water, eddies and the currents,
searching revisionary pathways
prisoner of the flows,
servant to the wind's directives and the
earths magnetic indivisible undulating waves
thinking, this life,
its unsteady gait, the irreverent wavering of drunkenness
resultant from potent potions,
portents of inopportune position
my own histories, my poetic recordings also become
replayed back for me,
for erasure, censure and closure
is a tapestry,
a torn map,
drawn on broken shards
of silvered water,
living with all the others,
we, the untitled
we, the unentitled
We are members of a poetic society
A unique learning class
We may or not be good at other things
But mentally we kick ass
We value all our words
Cherish our thoughts not heard
We are on the road to self discovery
Choose only words that we feel tell our story
We see the world differently than most
The world makes us.... then breaks us
So we write for survival and to give hope
Some say our heads are in the clouds
It is safer there in our own creative playground
We are miles up and never want to come down
No use for conformity
We escape the constraints of uniformity
We break out from the box ~ find new ground
And Seize the day ~ Unbound
as promised, a tip for and to nolly
“Everybody is identical in their secret unspoken belief that way deep down they are different from everyone else.”
David Foster Wallace
it is as if I've been stripped bare and their is no air or
bankrupted by exposure of my less-than-clean dirty secret,
scrapped from under my tongue, my genuine creativity,
it is no different than yours or hers or anybody else, but
"I need to believe," he screeches, "say it ain't so!"
time again to tally up the wins and losses,
check the standings, the numerical columns,
nope, wasn't selected to be MVP or even loved by the
algorithmic ridiculous secret sauce
"poet of the day" blah blah blah
bottom line: "You’re Pretty Normal"
comfort or consternation, exhalations of relief,
or just another nail in the shutting of
your depression coffin calculation
this no longer unspoken arrogance undressed
brings me to a quiet place,
where you are welcome to sit beside,
this puzzle together, nuzzled,
perhaps more soluble
they don't make Advil for the mind,
so read the good ones,
and be reminded of this
your published spoken courageous poetry need satisfy
only you, and no one more
in there lies the rub, the vive la difference, we identically different,
no longer a secret,
every poem is the difference you make
in the sunroom,
Nolly's Haiku #17/#70
with good knowing that
distress and forethought,
are its mother and father
that this poetic output but a derivative
of your unique self,
maybe, you be
just wise enough
to curse the birth of poem at age seventeen
but just wait Nolly,
till you are seven tens, and poetry's folly,
make you even more practiced in cursing,
still asking, why
and getting the sendoff, kiss off,
of the one true answer,
so scribble a life time when you start at 17
and when the ripe and wizened answers in your old age
have yet to arrive
then you can call yourself an accursed
wizened but wise'ed old poet
A caring poet I am
in arms with bayonet of pen.
My bullets are letters
covered in words.
My words aimed to page
shoot out with verse.
The balcony I stand in
gives views to ponder
before poems come to life.
And when done,
I move with pen lowered
hoping they made their mark
to enter readers heart.
StarBG © 2017.pages