Hollow Jun 2014
So bold in fields of cotton
Clad in trousers of a poor man
It's those times
Fire on his back
Hands callused with toil

He bends like a bow
Pulled tight across the horizon
The sun sets low
No dinner tonight

Hunger the diamond motive
Freedom the faintest dream
Awareness frightens him

Hope beaten out
Long ago
I got these scars
But they still burn

Marks to wear until death
Take me soon

*Freedom came at that price
Segregation and slavery are horrible things. It sickens me to believe this was a custom.
Joshua Haines Sep 2015
We melt like aborted McDonald's ice,
on top of a blistering, gum-stamped lot,
under the sour heat of the Sun.

I'm boy wonder and you're, 'Boy, how is he alone?'

Olive-skinned cardigan, pearl pores.
Hair like ink and a jaw-line sharp enough to cut an umbilical cord.

Vintage Nikes come to a point,
the swoosh as red as the cherry at the end of your cigarette.

I watch you smoke and choke,
before calling phantoms over.
It begins like October:
The leaves fall, like your friends steps,
the bronze sweeps the air,
like the curls of their smiles,
the air is silent,
like your words as they condense and drop into the mouth of a tanned canyon.

What could they ever do to conquer you,
my dear, fantastic frenzy?
Ashland, Wisconsin

Also, special thanks to my girlfriend, for her blessing.
Wal, Thanksgivin’ do be comin’ round.
With the price of turkeys on the bound,
And coal, by gum! Thet were just found,
Is surely gettin’ cheaper.

The winds will soon begin to howl,
And winter, in its yearly growl,
Across the medders begin to prowl,
And Jack Frost gettin’ deeper.

By shucks! It seems to me,
That you I orter be
Thankful, that our Ted could see
A way to operate it.

I sez to Mandy, sure, sez I,
I’ll bet thet air patch o’ rye
Thet he’ll squash ’em by-and-by,
And he did, by cricket!

No use talkin’, he’s the man—
One of the best thet ever ran,
Fer didn’t I turn Republican
One o’ the fust?

I ‘lowed as how he’d beat the rest,
But old Si Perkins, he hemmed and guessed,
And sed as how it wuzn’t best
To meddle with the trust.
JoJo Nguyen Feb 2013
What an odd duck.
Reading his mead is like
drowning in sweet
annoyance. His criticism,
reference to Greek
heroes; I know but don't care
as much as my sister,
My look-a-like; Die Zwilinge.
Who am I to question the genius.
A genius of his craft,
but blind in sanity.
Who am I to question us,
Deaf to the genius
of our own Muse-ick.

It is just us three:
#, Brel and me.
Trois Faisans,
# 6 ft under self,
Master Brel sings
still of Les Bourgeois,
and me toolin around
still JoJo.
SassyJ Apr 2016
Hello my alleged old friend
In caved streets I walk alone
In paved paths I hold in ease
An exile with an orthodox esse

All scripted in Hebrew tongues
Written in the tunneled lounges
Priested in elixir like scrounges
Translating  this Torah in ounces

Duplicated in Andy Warhol visuals
Capitalized cultural art expressions
Controversial and radical conscripts
Recruits of a revolutionary adversary

Escape to the streetlights with a view
A lake with a praise that use and muse
Misuse art, get torn, spirit flow in prints
Encompassed in the beauty of tainted hills
For Ezra Warhol : Hello My friend
Mike Essig Apr 2015

These fought in any case,
And some believing, pro domo, in any case ..

Some quick to arm,
some for adventure,
some from fear of weakness,
some from fear of censure,
some for love of slaughter, in imagination,
learning later…

some in fear, learning love of slaughter;
Died some, pro patria, non dulce et non decor..
walked eye-deep in hell
believing in old men's lies, then unbelieving
came home, home to a lie,
home to many deceits,
home to old lies and new infamy;
usury age-old and age-thick
and liars in public places.

Daring as never before, wastage as never before.
Young blood and high blood,
Fair cheeks, and fine bodies;
fortitude as never before

frankness as never before,
disillusions as never told in the old days,
hysterias, trench confessions,
laughter out of dead bellies.

from *Hugh Selwyn Mauberley
WWI was the greatest catastrophe to befall European Civilization to that point. This is what Pound had to say about war, soldiers and after. I don't think it has been said better. The emphasis is mine.
kerri Aug 2016
it's no doubt that we are truly one
when we love each other with our bodies

but even when we love by ourselves
we never split
Terry Collett May 2012
Ezra in a tent
typing out Pisan Cantos
madness saved his butt.
Mike Essig Apr 2015
Portrait d'une Femme**

Your mind and you are our Sargasso Sea,
      London has swept about you this score years
And bright ships left you this or that in fee:
      Ideas, old gossip, oddments of all things,
Strange spars of knowledge and dimmed wares of price.
      Great minds have sought you — lacking someone else.
You have been second always. Tragical?
      No. You preferred it to the usual thing:
One dull man, dulling and uxorious,
      One average mind —   with one thought less, each year.
Oh, you are patient, I have seen you sit
      Hours, where something might have floated up.
And now you pay one.   Yes, you richly pay.
      You are a person of some interest, one comes to you
And takes strange gain away:
      Trophies fished up; some curious suggestion;
Fact that leads nowhere; and a tale for two,
      Pregnant with mandrakes, or with something else
That might prove useful and yet never proves,
      That never fits a corner or shows use,
Or finds its hour upon the loom of days:
      The tarnished, gaudy, wonderful old work;
Idols and ambergris and rare inlays,
      These are your riches, your great store; and yet
For all this sea-hoard of deciduous things,
      Strange woods half sodden, and new brighter stuff:
In the slow float of differing light and deep,
      No! there is nothing! In the whole and all,
Nothing that's quite your own.
                  Yet this is you.
The original "Portrait of a Lady," although Pound refers back to Henry Jame's long and boring novel. Pound, along with Eliot, Williams, Stevens were the poets who created Modernism.
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
Haiku by Ezra Weston Loomis Pound (30 October 1885 – 1 November 1972)
jdotingham Apr 2016
My life consists if a smokey room
Writing words as my only muse
I wish I could laugh like everyone else
Not saying i'm depressed, but i'm under a spell
I'm such a distant kid, but people say i'm pretty
I don't see the the hype, i'm just so fitted
About what I say, not what I do
Creating beauty, mystery to name a few
So living life in a smokey room
I'm not a banshee, it's a writers muse
So join me on this adventure I have
To a wonderland where life is less sad.
arubybluebird Feb 2015
I felt like writing
A haiku for you today
But I decided

To write these piece of shit lines
To you
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