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Brandon Jan 4
He barks in the distance
Howling at the moon from jagged cliffs
Anxiously waiting for her response,
Dolefully widened eyes grasp for her
With a warmth withstanding gelid air

Her symphonious ocean drowns his cries
She illuminates her inconsolable sea
Her waves absorbing his mournful song
She reaches for him from high heavens
How terribly she yearns to be with him, just once more
I see
the roses
in you, the
petals of
of being
the thorns
of us have
the chains,
our feathers
glide when
to down
the soar
of our
glide from
loud howls,
up to the
place we
call as
Lawrence Hall Apr 2022
Lawrence Hall

                                     No Howling, Please

                                   A rebuke to Ginsberg
           While acknowledging that the typewriter is indeed holy

I saw the best of my generation
Refuse to howl, not in the situational poverty
Of their birth, not in others’ noise and drugs
Not in their elders’ go-fight-our-wars-for-us

I saw the best of my generation
Doubling up in unfurnished rooms
Doubling up on the day and night shifts
Making each sweated-out life into a poem

I saw the best of my generation
                     and thus rebuked for their privilege
Mark Wanless Nov 2020
the timber of my wolf voice
scares me

i cannot back it up yet
i keep howling

i hear just words from lips
thought to be wise

my own voice included
in the nothing

what came before now
is imaginary

i know i am just here
i howl
The wolf looks at his companion
Thinking, "I'll be her champion."
Dazed by her beauty and majesty
He can't help but to howl, so loud as to shake the bowels of Hell,
Or perhaps to ring a bell
How else should he tell her what's inside
Or maybe it's beside?
The wolf knows not where it resides
He knows only how it feels as she unknowingly heals his broken soul
She heals with her wolf and he knows
The wolf finishes his serenading song
Thinks does the wolf, to himself,
"Now it should not be long until she knows all meanings in this bellowing song."
When a wolf hunts at night the moon lights his path, not knowing that he seeks an offering to his beloved
Search and search does the wolf, for his prey to fill up her tray, with food and jewels
As the wolf finishes his hunt, he sets a table for a guest he hopes will come
For he desires her lovely fluorescent glow
She peaks out from behind the clouds to watch her wolf and how he's grown
The wolf sees her and can't help but to serenade her with the song of his howl
Cries out does the wolf, 'Come here, I promise not to growl!'
The moon, she accepts as the stars dance behind her eyes
The wolf knows what her heart desires and says in promise, 'My love for you shall never expire!'
Marco Aug 2020
Here, starry, open road
   the promise of finding God or Yahweh or Buddha
   on the highway,
the roof down, wind in our hair and dirt,
   red sand of the canyon vast around us, setting sun and personal American dream,
   drifting further into your arms and our souls mile by mile,
the burning blue of the sky ahead, inflamed by all the reds and oranges the dying sun can
    possibly bleed,
and my hand, drifting on the driving wind,
   finds its way into your heat-swept hair, soft and dark and handsome,
   all memory of cold end of '47 erased in the face of your warmth
as we fly down the street -
   I'm sorry I only gave us six decades,
   I would have aimed for more if I'd known about your untimely nightfall…
-but this Cadillac is stolen, fast, free and green;
   wheels burning hot in their devotion to carry us anywhere,  
   the leather backseat our warm and welcome marital bed,
for this, surely, is our honeymoon -
Yes, indeed, we got engaged in that small cot in Harlem,
   said "I do" on the cool, cracked asphalt of some nightly Texan road.
You promised me forever,
   swore me eternal love & friendship in your own voice,
  with your own words -
     the sweet, darkest-soul-illuminating true Western twang of your blue-eyed,
     full-and-clear-hearted vow.
What of it now?
   Where your voice? Where your face, your knees, your hands -
   Where your shoulders made strong by carrying all of
   Where your feet glued to gas pedals and roadside sand,
   where your soles -
Where your soul but up in Heaven, surely?
   Up in Heaven…

And us - him, me, her -
   left behind, to drown in ***** or go mad with longing,
   to be forgotten by the dead.
And nothing of you now
   but highway ashes and lovesick poems, black-and-white camera roll…
inspired by Allen Ginsberg's writings about Neal Cassady
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