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...
i
am
that
roving
she dove
me
off an cliff
she spat
said
i
am
that
?



...
..
.
got a tissue
Richard Grahn Apr 2017
A writer writes…
so that’s what I do.

Not that I must
But it’s the right thing to do.

It’s not always easy
to lay down a line
on a small scrap of paper
that’s so hard to find.

Expressive nouns and passionate verbs
they assault my brain and
take me away.

There’s no way to dictate them
out on a page.
So I write them all down
any place that I can.

While at the bar,
a napkin will do.
Or in my car,
a matchbook or two.
A Post-It will get me by
in a pinch.
Or any other paper
I’m happy to find.

And into my shoebox
I tucked them away.

I laid them right there
for another day.

Occasionally I’d come back
to see what they say.
Reading them over
again and again.

Into my brain,
that's where they have gone.
Stuck in my mind
for a decade or more.

The shoebox is gone now
from so long ago…but
the memories still linger
inside my brain and
out to my fingers
they continue to flow.

I write them all down
and expand on those thoughts.
Remembering the memories
I once thought were lost.

An explosion of words
pouring out on the page.
These many little thoughts they
now have a stage.

The lasting memories
are now down in print.
The shoebox is gone
but the words are in ink.
on a napkin
in the fold
out of nowhere
written bold

on a napkin
soaked in pen
lost in wonder
wander in

on a napkin
plans and schemes
draw on dreaming
simple things

on a napkin
cloth and fading
all is forward
all are waiting

on a napkin
lost and found
almost forgotten
written down
i can't exist
yet here i sit
pondering and wondrous

drums pound and clang
my heart the same
perceptible, still undertrained

i cannot lie
but always try
plunging over, horrified

so here no more
and there not for
pejorative excelsior

I've written less
to curb excess
predominant post-modernists
kelia May 2016
we find ourselves crumpled like paper
my nosebleed acts like glue
you smell and taste like pixie dust
my eyes roll around the room

ascending towards heaven
i grip your ribs like handrails

you stop me short -
'i'm going to...'

and like a napkin under the dinner table
i’m falling off your lap

you'll remember me when you need to clean up
when you need to wipe your hands
Marcus Belcher May 2016
The palms of my hands
Haven't forgot your touch
Your laughter still rings
Gentle echos in my mind
The look in your eyes
When I catch you looking
I look forward to
Creating those moments again
One of my many "last call" poems. They tend to be short
Jack Thompson Dec 2015
I wrote a perfect poem once. I scribbled it down on the back of a half used napkin. It wasn't short and is wasn't long. The lipstick laced food marks couldn't taint what was already perfect. There was no love and no sadness in the words. It embodied only emptiness - it's most pure form. Nothing left wanting, no thirst unquenched.

In a moment of clear sight, I knew only the right words were forming. In that moment the half empty bar around me sunk, drowned, imploded and combusted - for all I cared. I had just written a masterpiece.
© All Rights Reserved Jack Thompson 2015
Rowan Ash Jun 2015
I became something
one would write on a napkin;
a sad, lonely verse
doomed to be disposed of.
Luis Mdáhuar Aug 2014
I saw what's a writtters block
words accummulated
on a bubble
in complete disorder
big smalll and all kindsofonts
like a back pain
or a sore tooothh
trying to go thrugh a funnell
with no musik to push them through
there are no imaginary worlds
it is all real

— The End —