"frieda" poems
A cool small evening shrunk to a dog bark and the clank of a bucket -
And you listening.
A spider's web, tense for the dew's touch.
A pail lifted, still and brimming - mirror
To tempt a first star to a tremor.
Cows are going home in the lane there, looping the hedges with their warm
wreaths of breath -
A dark river of blood, many boulders,
Balancing unspilled milk.
'Moon!' you cry suddenly, 'Moon! Moon!'
The moon has stepped back like an artist gazing amazed at a work
That points at him amazed.
7.9k
The Fillmore
It’s cold these days,
just ask a stranger,
saw a show tonight at The Fillmore,
Dave Chapelle with John Mayer,
Dave mentioned the show,
when I saw him at The SF MOMA,
John signed my Frieda poetry book,
that I got today from The SF MOMA,
how am I so in the In Scene,
yet at the same time such a Goner,
come on we’re,
trying to make Greatness,
so there’s no time for the Procrastinators,
and all of their lateness,
got Volume 2,
of The HH Trilogy,
coming soon,
5/5/17,
thought I’d put you on notice,
I’ve noticed,
they’ve noticed me,
more than they used to,
before The Trilogies,
came back to America,
from a few months in Australia,
now I find when I go out,
people recognize me,
not sure when it happened,
when my works became bigger than me,
all I know is it happened,
now people approach me like they know me,
“Haven’t I seen you before?”,
that’s a common one,
I guess I’m somewhere between,
Famous as Fck,
and quasi-obsolete,
I’ll probably be,
gone but not forgotten,
pardon me,
I’m lost it happens often,
caught up in the moment,
high off life and coughin’,
in the light trying to focus,
off my head and on one,
God ****
God blessed,
on with the show,
and off with his head,
and that’s cold,
cold as a guillotine’s steel,
cold as Chicago in the winter,
when it’s 20˚ below before the wind chill,
for real,
it’s cold these days,
just ask a stranger,
saw a show tonight at The Fillmore,
Dave Chapelle with John Mayer,
Dave mentioned the show,
when I saw him at The SF MOMA,
John signed my Frieda poetry book,
that I got today from The SF MOMA,
how am I so in the In Scene,
yet at the same time such a Goner,
come on we’re,
trying to make Greatness,
so there’s no time for the Procrastinators,
and all of their lateness,
got Volume 2,
of The HH Trilogy,
coming soon,
5/5/17…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
author of multiple best selling poetry books and publisher of more poems than any other living poet.
∆
Jul 30, 2017
Jul 30, 2017 at 11:13 PM UTC
The Beetles
I will now write a love poem and will include
heart, souls, roses and a box of chocolate with nuts inside
but a song by the Beetles keeps getting in the way
“Will you love me as before when I'm sixty-four?”
It was in Tokyo when heard the song I was visiting a girlfriend
who was a stewardess on a liner, the song said it all.
A few days later I met a cook smelling of ***** and underarm
sweat, he told me my girlfriend had a lover on the ship
a steward, I confronted the man we had a fight and I was thrown
ashore. She had stolen my heart, but I had the song;
so I will not write this love story after all,
perhaps tell you a story of Frieda, who collected monkey poo,
kept them in glass bottles and inhaled the scent
but she produced wonderful paintings.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 3:40 AM UTC
" COLLABORATION Jack & Frieda "
A hush does wake this early dawn
in whispers formed on breathless dreams
Sunrise of horizon’s glow
through flowing curtains on opaque glass
*I sense in the distance, a tingling
the air crisp with Fall's spinning
a tangible scent of warmth is mulling
like hot cider's comfort beside a fire*
Crimson and ochre paint the valley
in a tapestry of nature’s desire,
gently woven in patterns of bliss,
collecting thoughts in blue tinted jars
*Memories of far away encounters
as if captive in snow globes embraces
Topsy-turvy recollections and reminisces
painted in hues of yesterday's resolve*
Secured neatly with plaid and gingham ribbon,
set upon the sill amidst cranberry ornaments
Reflecting past love and new day wishes,
scented by a heart longing for autumn’s sweet kiss
*A gentle sway of a zephyr sweeps my hair
I'm reminded of your touch at the nape of my neck
a season of whirling calyx in sweet surrender
I sigh in this moment, for I wish you were still here*
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 6:10 PM UTC
*I fell for you like amber raindrops
burnished by the sun's satiation,
golden in my heart you will remain
our love story as sinister storm clouds,
turning sapphire skies to bleak trickles
sank in drowning pools of our own undoing
baubles of lust dissipated on the horizon
yet I still swim in you on dismal days*...
© 2013 Frieda P
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 12:59 PM UTC
Both Freddy and Frieda Flea
Had an itch and felt the need
To leave their home on Beagle back
So they packed their bags while Fido napped
They'd heard magical tales of the Big Top
Since their larva days on top the pup
They weren't here this time to clown around
As they found themselves circus bound
They hitched a ride in a hobos beard
Too no telling who knows where
But one thing that is perfectly clear
Both those fleas are outta here
Along the way they purchased needs
In a market place made just for fleas
Like underwear and mint toothpaste
Soap on a Rope to wash their face
Plus deodorant, quite a bit
You need a lot of it when you've got 6 pits
The rumor mill can be very mean
Fleas after all are fairly clean
After a day of personal shopping
It was all aboard for more beard hopping
Riding that hobo from coast to coast
In this their new hairy chateau
As circuses go they started their own
Advertising on the hobos back cause he never turns around
Over time their acts they've modified
As the flaming hoops set the hobos beard on fire
Now with Freddy as Ring Master and Frieda on trapeze
They are the Greatest Show On Earth, at least among fleas
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 5:57 AM UTC
Retreat into the palms
my dearest red-haired siren.
(It's always red hair isn't it, Ross?)
Back turned
away from steamboat thoughts.
Play your lovely instrument
(is it a guitar? a violin?)
its soft tones lifting up
with the birds of Paradise.
God
cannot see you
or sees you better.
Yes, you are more aware
of yourself away from civilization
that heavy burden
we beg for.
You could forever be my lovely here.
Blazing in the sun.
Paradise's Artemis,
A Goddess hiding in the Garden.
If you were me, or I you
were we each other
could I turn away from
Steamboat thoughts?
I could lure Ulysses
I could sound dangerous music.
Don't call them back,
tired of your island,
your handmaids of Paradise.
I don't want to have been wrong
to trust your image
if you are not a Goddess at all.
I might hate you
or I might love you
now that we've been ****** together.
Maybe I should have studied Elvis or Frieda
but I retreated into the palms
with you.
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC