Poetoftheway

Mar 2015

ogdiddynash

Aging Poetry Well (proving the valor of writing poetry)

Aging Poetry Well (proving the valor of writing poetry)

no more write, post, establish
to your immediate satisfaction,
what you are
what you think
is an amazing piece of
just you,
plus+comprehending
the world needs it, you,
ASAP!

needy for the
cosplay contemporaneous sharing,
curse of our
instantaneous time

from now on
deep down, gonna let it
casket age,
let memory
of the intensity
rust sufficiently to
get some time~plied
rusted accurate actualized
perspective

maybe trash it,
maybe tinker and
spot-check edit,
but if it is going
to stand
time testing,
let it pass a
first Herculean
examination of
fire and forget,
returning later
to collect it,
the wounded
that,
refusing to die,
thus proving proof,
the valor of
red badged courage of
writing poetry

is it worthy long after
the internal commotion
has passed,
just like
an ordinary
but very first

"I love you"

forming and reforming
then blurted in
a wunderkind awkwardness,
that can't be
taken back,
well, *** and all that

put me aside,
could be weeks,
months,
researching
the thing I love most,
waiting for the day I
need it worse,
a lot less,
so I can
do it better

maybe even go back
look up them
odd old folks,
written in
longing ago high passion,
and come at them
differently
or wistfully,
not
and like me,
age
for better
or
for worse

Mar 2015

Still Crazy

watching the pain dry

watching the pain dry

you did not mistake -
no word play, not the product
of typo or errant
clenched eyes

labored writ,
the liver is failing,
the interval organs
a joint co-production
contribution,
the words demonized,
but truth cannot be
plausibly denied

all cast members
are rehearsing
preparing the last act,
interrupting with
exceptional,
expectorating refusals,
objections,

too*

this n'that

all their "too's"
are double O'd,
double ****** negatives
an overflow
bloodletting,
excessive overwriting
the playwright words,
maudlin can't be spoke in the present
of his
presence

revolutionary overridden by the
actors,
the words too hard,
to speak sob as long as I am
almost stilled but still
in the room

-wrenching a bemused grin
guiding them & pain to a higher purpose,
admonish them with pleasured pleases

needs saying
as it writ and
carrying the denouement
to a rightful conclusion
as

Feb 2015

betterdays

Variations on variations

" I would like to be
the air that inhabits
you for a moment only.
I would like to be that unnoticed & that necessary"*
    Variations on Sleep
                 Margeret Atwood

to be inhaled
into your essence
to become your
breath in this world

to  inhabit the marrow
of your soul

is but a dream

for we are,
different components
different aspects

needed to compliment
needed to inspire
the pthers aspirations
needed to question
the motive
to mobilise the heart
to gain forward momentum

we do not subsume each other...
we are become,
to one another
catalysts
gunpowder and fuse
lit.....to make the world explode...

we are not each others breath....
but,
we are each others,
reason
to breathe...

What do you dream of
my love...
I watch you twitch and murmur....
are you a big brave hunter....
or something less ferocious...
tis no matter to me....

i love you and if you could walk me dreams with me
you would know that there
you are a gentle hero

it is my belief that poetry
should make you feel....and think... birthing new understanding of oneself and ones surrounding...
these then are some of the thoughts that become progeny of this snippet of Margeret Atwoods work.

Poetoftheway Jan 2015

Rapid Rabid Disgorge - One True Employment

~For Deborah and Soul Survivor~

these words crash across
a sunday morning mind
gassed in caffeine solution,
rapid rabid?
from the hearted, heated tongue mis-issued
hard-scrabble words,
rabbled to demystify

would you like some oatmeal, babe?

love, love some

but first,
what I need
to feed upon,
more to discharge
is the
rapid rabid
good god, so many
poem~children
needy for
birthing

a litter to litter
the pages,
most to
look-live long quiet lives,
but they are all
whole and dear,
all my flesh,
surely of my blood,
rapid rabid disgorge
this my one true employment
my sunday labor,
my sunday prayer

Jan 2015

Third Mate Third

Notification: You!

You: it is 2:10 am
Me: Eastern Standard Mystical Time, yup...
You: why are you up, writing?
Me: the drugs wore off
You: *** the drugs?
Say it ain't so, kiddo?
Me: yup, I did engage
with some strong stuff
ce soir, the woman too,
and she is drowning in her dreams.
Easy and cheap,
scored some us some................
Asian Fusion
Thai Food, Indonesian small plates...

You: idiot!
Me: just answering your question
You: so where is this poem, shaman?
Me: You!
You: Me?
Me: yup.
You are my early morning poem,
which I have entitled Notification: You!

Notification

I am deeply unsure.

Am I notifying you,
or am I notifying myself?

Lost command of my
native language,
the emotions too strong,
Blue Java
the color of my word blood,
strong swirling,
uncontaminated by cow's milk,
but by cows jumping over the moon,
who have come to give me gifts of
Notifications.

Hey ****** ******,
The Cat and the fiddle,
The Cow jumped over the moon.
The little Dog laughed,
To see such sport,
And the Dish ran away with the Spoon

Perfectly clear to me.
I am the Spoon,
You are the Dish.

(Shaman, Shaman, hey man,
you still sound drugged,
we urgent need some clarifications!)

When I wake up,
uncertain about a slew,
a portmanteau
of important life~things,
(Example: when should I
Capitalize a word,
a life, a me, a You?)

there are strangers,
Strangers still,
yet strangers no more,
sending me uncoded messages
intended to decode me,
Notifications,
they are called,

and they
Explode me.

capsules of comments
that encapsulate me,
emasculate my speaking abilities,
reduced to rolling in the gutter,
guttural cries to emit and utter,
man, I got friends I never met,
and that's ok
we just notify each other
thinking of you
and no more words necessary

life is groovy...

Jan 2015

Left Foot Poet

The P in Poetry

is for:

*private, personal...
never public,
even if public displayed

oft, urgent,
burners on high,
committed
from body to paper
a battlefield commission,
*** boiling over,
passenger driver in the pace car

oft, hazy,
slow cooking stew
multi-flavored, spice twice
splendid blended,
meat for some,
potatoes for others,

always purposed,
sometimes even,
purposeful

pleasure two-folded,
twice arrived,
at birth,
given
mixed with hearty
birthing pains

given again,
when later reread,
stumbled on,
at a later time

you think,
albeit, quietly,
"****, ****,
prideful just enough I am,
claim me a title,
poet in the tradition!"

but the little voice whispers
poet!
poetry pride,
a deadly bromide!

satisfaction best when
the P is just
private, personal,
and the inner ear
smiles when you read your
words to yourself,
words you wrote,
to the cadence of thy heartbeats,
leaving you
smiling inward
and your harshest critic,
your biggest fan,
clap you on the back,
with the same hand