#lora - Hello Poetry

poetry with two spoons and a salt shaker ~for poet, writer, Lora Lee, unexpectedly~ my symphonic orchestral accompaniment today, musically unlimited, except by lack of disowning skill, a voice unkempt, spoons and salt shaker, there in-nate rhythmic opinions off key, worse, my manly word-smithy, out o’town in June, July, August too? He, having an affair with my she-muses, left me bereft & berated, helplessly hoping, the timpani of my words clashing, overrated, woeful under-something, betraying my need for spicy sriracha, poetry, sans hamburger helper, no-tasty, even less-than-average everyone comes rushing in to the kitchen, hearing my to-sky-voices howling, thinking something wrong, the four instruments rack up a cacophony of rhythmic-less noises, words emerging, to-a-person, they announce, “you’re no Allen Ginsburg, ppp-please not so early next time” alas, they don’t know the poems are coming hot and heavy, guess I’ll go outside, serenade them birdies in the trees, the striped bass in the bay, the rabbits procreating/sleeping/eating under their (our) dock the squirrels know better, have skedaddled to the next-door-neighbor who feeds them classical stuff with a dollop of jazz creme mixed in, but I don’t care, cause I got all day, the rest of my life, to amuse me & you too to refine the qualitative, to improve my creative, I’ve gone “native” and the rush is the best, the wind beneath my spectacles (haha) drives my rhyming to lowlight heights of prosody, besides seems everybody has gone to a different beach, so it’s just me and the giant blackbirds cawing holy hell noises, and I’m thinking seriously about baking pie, but they just don’t get the hint, how annoying is that! harrumph! BESIDES GOTTA WRITE SOME SERIOUS STUFF...

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Jul 4, 2020

Jul 4, 2020 at 10:13 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

poetry with two spoons and a salt shaker (Lora Lee)

poetry with two spoons and a salt shaker ~for poet, writer, Lora Lee, unexpectedly~ my symphonic orchestral accompaniment today, musically unlimited, except by lack of disowning skill, a voice unkempt, spoons and salt shaker, there in-nate rhythmic opinions off key, worse, my manly word-smithy, out o’town in June, July, August too? He, having an affair with my she-muses, left me bereft & berated, helplessly hoping, the timpani of my words clashing, overrated, woeful under-something, betraying my need for spicy sriracha, poetry, sans hamburger helper, no-tasty, even less-than-average everyone comes rushing in to the kitchen, hearing my to-sky-voices howling, thinking something wrong, the four instruments rack up a cacophony of rhythmic-less noises, words emerging, to-a-person, they announce, “you’re no Allen Ginsburg, ppp-please not so early next time” alas, they don’t know the poems are coming hot and heavy, guess I’ll go outside, serenade them birdies in the trees, the striped bass in the bay, the rabbits procreating/sleeping/eating under their (our) dock the squirrels know better, have skedaddled to the next-door-neighbor who feeds them classical stuff with a dollop of jazz creme mixed in, but I don’t care, cause I got all day, the rest of my life, to amuse me & you too to refine the qualitative, to improve my creative, I’ve gone “native” and the rush is the best, the wind beneath my spectacles (haha) drives my rhyming to lowlight heights of prosody, besides seems everybody has gone to a different beach, so it’s just me and the giant blackbirds cawing holy hell noises, and I’m thinking seriously about baking pie, but they just don’t get the hint, how annoying is that! harrumph! BESIDES GOTTA WRITE SOME SERIOUS STUFF...