Sarah last wrote a poem
Around  New Year's Eve
I wonder where her poems are
They seem to have drifted
Very far
She has not been seen
Nor her words heard
Around the world
As they were
Last Year
I hope muteness is not
Her New Year's resolution
As a solution
To something
I wonder how is Sarah
The angry Poet
And how are the men
At the end of her pen

Sean Hunt
Jan 9, 2016 Windermere

good weather
is like
good women-
it doesn't always happen
and when it does
it doesn't
always last.
man is
more stable:
if he's bad
there's more chance
he'll stay that way,
or if he's good
he might hang
on,
but a woman
is changed
by
children
age
diet
conversation
***
the moon
the absence or
presence of sun
or good times.
a woman must be nursed
into subsistence
by love
where a man can become
stronger
by being hated.
I am drinking tonight in Spangler's Bar
and I remember the cows
I once painted in Art class
and they looked good
they looked better than anything
in here. I am drinking in Spangler's Bar
wondering which to love and which
to hate, but the rules are gone:
I love and hate only
myself-
they stand outside me
like an orange dropped from the table
and rolling away; it's what I've got to
decide:
**** myself or
love myself?
which is the treason?
where's the information
coming from?
books...like broken glass:
I wouldn't wipe my *** with 'em
yet, it's getting
darker, see?
(we drink here and speak to
each other and
seem knowing.)
buy the cow with the biggest
****
buy the cow with the biggest
****.
present arms.
the bartender slides me a beer
it runs down the bar
like an Olympic sprinter
and the pair of pliers that is my hand
stops it, lifts it,
golden **** of dull temptation,
I drink and
stand there
the weather bad for cows
but my brush is ready
to stroke up
the green grass straw eye
sadness takes me all over
and I drink the beer straight down
order a shot
fast
to give me the guts and the love to
go
on.
from "poems written before jumping out of an 8 story window" - 1966

I met a genius on the train
today
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.

it was the first time I'd
realized
that.

Poetry gives the magic back to words
and makes words flesh again
as it was in the beginning
till our quantum-leap thoughts
spurred on by incantatory rhythms
often like latterday Gregorian chants
materialize into the dancing silhouettes
of solid but surrealistic forms in fantastic hues
thus the poet is the custodian of creation from nothing

he came in the house
in a panic
out of breath
turning all the lights on
maybe the hounds of hell
were after him

son, what is the matter?

     somebody said 'boo'

foggy sleep addled reply
was something like
that could be anything

I notice though
that he stayed close
that he left all the lights on

and this morning
in the light of day
i wonder

do spirits of the other realm
think it is fun
to say 'boo'?

your kisses were like sprinkles on a just-baked cupcake
and boy did they fall ******* me
leaving us both breathless by the end
laying there in the dark
wishing my eyes would adjust to see yours staring back at me
wondering if you enjoyed our time together like i do
or if that was the last taste

and then you said goodnight