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Louise Apr 26
Sweet envy,
I'm envious of how she was blessed by the gods to have looked into your eyes, eye to eye. To study their color and watch how they look when you lie.
She knows the way you blink and how you close them when you sleep at night.
I hate thinking how you've both spent some nights.
The thought of her taking granted of breathing the same air as you boils my blood.
I'm jealous of how she was able to graze her fingers upon your skin, let them travel across your back
and how her hand once held yours... only to foolishly, finally and thankfully let them go.
I curse and bless the day she broke your heart.
I curse each day that I have to live with this jealousy.

Holy jealousy,
I'm jealous of the kind of jealousy you've made her feel, like when you would glance at another girl when you're together.
Or how you'd talk to a girl in a cafe or bookstore when you thought she wasn't looking over her shoulder.
Or how you'd talk to anyone about anything at all without uttering her name.
I'm jealous of how you two probably used to stand across each other in a room and throw blames.
I could imagine countless of scenarios but then
I also imagine I'm the one feeling that too.
I can take that any day, as long as we're together too.
Because the only jealousy I feel is jealousy of your past. This fiery envy towards your history.

****** history,
I'm reading into every words you said like memoirs and piecing every excerpt trying to look for answers. Answer as to how and whyㅡhow she broke your heart and why she did it.
Would you change a thing about everything you did?
I ask and scream these questions to the moonlight.
Yet if you tell me and show me the answers yourself, there's not a single battle that I would win and fight.
Yet I search for clues in every old photo, in every message and through my sly, secret ways.
Must I scour every corner and highway?
So I can come up with answers to my own 'how and why'? How can I mend your broken heart?
Why do I love you this much?

Because above all, I am a revolutionary.
I acknowledge my envy, work through my jealousy and respect your history.
But then again, with every dark history comes the need for revolution and change.
And I am the catalyst who will spearhead that game.
I am your new age.
I am your renaissance.
I am your vengeance, nirvana, revolution and everything at once.
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                     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
Work
                     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
   America?
   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
Chandan Shersia Jul 2020
Captivated by the moon
Ignoring what surrounds her she stood
Under the midnight moonlight
Her silhouette shining across the lake
Longing for the moon
She howled to the night sky
Soon a ray of white light travels
Gold rays melting the lilac sky
Streaks of amber spreading through
As the shimmering sun rose high
There was no darkness
All the stars faded from the sky
And just like stars
She fades away gently and softly
As sunshine takes hold of the air
Poetic T Jun 2020
You were my little snowdrop,
             but with every howl
finding courage
to become a
                   blizzard

           of  transparent strength.
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