"choreo" poems
She can't comprehend my word trend
My blue pen and the dent it left in my hand
Not art she sees as she veers at my leaves
That I paint my heart's drawn blood on
She can't understand my word play
My mix of melody and irony combined in one line
The talent it takes for my brain to relate fate with mistakes
She doesn't get aroused at the spout of my mouth
Spewing words of hatred and love by the ounce
The effort I bring to depict love as rain
With no attempt to learn, she sends my confidence south.
She doesn't care to see the deepest creases of my poetry
But when it's her last call and her curtain falls,
I'm always there through it all.
Why should I watch her gallop and prance
On a stage of uniformed choreo- trance
And be her number one fan for her talent in dance
When my talents, she continues not to take a glance
I cannot love she who openly does not love poetry
For she indeed must not fully love me
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC
First Official s u m m e r Saturday,
weather personas correctly (!) advertise two hours of
sunny morning before the clouded
vanilla parchy brow of the sky
occludes any May
summertime fantastical notions
Sun low in the eastern sky crests at
acute angles,
and spills rays thru the tree'd
frothy cappuccino branches, which
under the influence of drunken
substantive gusts, shakes the rays
on the bright green lawn stage, casting a huge patchwork of shadows, and it's easy to conceive
many tall giant ballerinas dancing in a chaotic disharmonious modern choreography
Perhaps it's a Parson's choreo,
more likely the akimbo nature
of the motion motif,
a Body Traffic concoction
But the sun is gone by 9:30am,
the green stage is now just a
plain old green screen,
the shadowy ballerinas banished,
and my hand held porcelain mug,
frames the denuded scene,
only the invisible wind remains
to say:
*oh it's you human,
back in para-dise,
did you expect perfection
of hot sun & hot coffee
awaiting your return?*
*East come, Easy West go,
this version of my true unheated coloration disappoints,
but I wait in on/no human,
said the triumvirate,
that rule the sky,*
*on this island of perpetual sunsets,
we do not guarantee a seating
of matched sets,
but visit with us tomorrow,
with poem praiseworthy,*
and then,
again,
who ever knows?
May 25, 2025
May 25, 2025 at 11:50 AM UTC
Now i
can dance the bittersweet steps;
><
<>
without the music.
Jun 28, 2017
Jun 28, 2017 at 6:19 PM UTC