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False Poets Dec 2019
~for patty m.~
and all the others that surrender their truths
word by word by word

get paid by the word.

nothing particularly relevant-familiar to a poet-revenant.

we the Falstaffs, the literate fools of the world,
pay and pay on, pay forwards and backwards

once eons ago, in a confession blurted,
in a moment of spent outrageous misfortune:

”what you did not ask was this!

With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.”

this is our only pay-out & pay-meant methodology.
JA Perkins May 2019
What a divided people -
like an eagle with wounded wings
lost in a consumer world
chasing shadows of silly things.
The downside of "prosperity"
and we're sliding down fast -
like every other puffed-up
political power in the past.
This is what it looks like to
have entirely too much -
ravaged in the heat of battle
with ghosts we can't see or touch..
Bathing in lavish luxury..
steeped to our necks with waste -
defending sinking sand castles and
casting stones through cyberspace.
The dawn of a new age and
everyone is entitled to an opinion.
Everybody and nobody's wrong,
and many words are ways of winning.
The implosion of a nation,
but it's all the government, right?
No need to blame consumers
fueling fires we claim to fight.
What a divided people -
like an eagle with wounded wings
lost in a consumer world
chasing shadows of worldly things.
A poem for perilous times
Lucrezia M N Mar 2016
It feels like walking on
the wrong side of the street
to know what I don't want
and the one I want
could rather belong to me
but to the other side of the world.

Sometimes things are so clear,
It's so much easier if I'm out of touch
I won't lend , the evil it might seem,
by chance on my feet standing up.

Like a negative, reversed I see
a simple truth in backlit design
that you'll always mean to me,
nonetheless, that I'm alive.
Memories of meeting a black and half white special guy.
III Sep 2014
There was a love
Living deep in the
Melting plastic of
Molding bottles of water,

Barely breathing breaths
Of spray paint and
Rusting needles,

Bond only by the
Yellowing, lip-like cracked
Pages of a story

Written between the margins of a novel.

— The End —