#dozen
>crumbled, rumbled, street survivors,
paper scraps that took the rage abuse rap,
dead love notes, bills red with overdues,
these pre-poems have traveled wind currents
some in from Jersey, some hailing Minnesota,
ain't never see one that crossed the Atlantic,
but reckon it is not a theoretical impossibilty
unpretty city streets, like a museum, collects 'em,
plenty of exhibition space, forlon, historically
orphaned, disbanded, whose paths all got confused,
some sweet, all beat, balled and thrown, no home,
no more, each a reveille, each humming taps, now,
all scented by strret odors, none pleasant, each was
in its prior life, the meat, the grist, the meal of what
was, coulda been, a poem that would have survived
yellowed in care, tender glanced, tucked in books,
safekept, but slipped away, victims of friction, fraction
look down, be unafraid, unravel them slow, careful,
abused, all these messengers all need a good home,
a box in a closet, a book of tenders, witnesses to what
they've seen, places they've been, hand held, tenderized
by words spiced, variegated, ink, pencil, typewritten, like
their prior human authors, all sizes, all shapes, some on
colored paper, a l l astrayed, accidental, purposed, details
and detritus, once deemed essemtial, important, necessary
and needed, even believed, but times change
you're stuck, brain ain't cooperating, tired of staring inside
your self's self, pull on a sweater, it's a chilly spring overcast air,
that don't natural warm, more naturally warn, be careful where,
you step, your next poem is laying right there, grab a few, take
more than a couple, this is like a school dance, try a few, until
you bank the right one in the till, the connection made, a kiss,
in secret stolen, and the drive, the forces, the perspiration urgency
leads to you desk, nook, granny's cranny, and the world of words
overflow like seagulls in a harbor, so many spilling, hard is the
choosing, but excited adrenaline, free basing, in your veins and
**** you gotta just write again, right now, add a ***** poem
back to its rightful place in a heart, upon eyes, tongue taste them
syllables, clap and laugh as they symmetrically form, subtle rhyming,
the sleeping seeds have sprouted, the brown brain loamy cells,
fertile and potent, energize, impregnate, and you just can't wait
to walk the streets, in search of many, many more
it's ok, you have permission to utter a whispery nearly silent
hallelujah<
Apr 13, 2025
Apr 13, 2025 at 10:31 AM UTC
Your mother is sad, Adam.
I bumped into her the other day.
She was walking out of the supermarket
With a dozen wine bottles
Inside of a large paper bag.
And she was just a woman
With a smiling face
And a crying heart
Who was never going to see her son
Again.
F.Z.N
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 5:47 PM UTC
may you marry a millionaire
and born dozen of sons
and daughters will be as your suns
they will be like their father
have a millions of Dollars
their poor will be out of sights
may you live
hundred of long life
that will be happy
and you may see
your grandsons and granddaughters
who will have happy
by their rights
their names will be begin with letter M
and you will be the emperor of M
Mar 13, 2019
Mar 13, 2019 at 12:28 AM UTC
fresh coffee
bagel with shmear to go,
don’t forget the napkins,
oh, I’ll take a dozen lovers also....
mixed please
3 happy
3 ****
3 faithful and true
1 dark
1 light and
1 plain
a bakers dozen^ you say!
an extra lover?
ok!
if you will,
just another plain, if you please,
cause a plain lover is all
I’ll truly need
Oct 26, 2019
Oct 26, 2019 at 11:37 AM UTC