"ganglions" poems
Acerbic antagonist alliterates agonizing accusations,
blasting ******* backbiter butting beautiful bombastic brainy blond bomb.
Cumulative cranial casualties cease caveman's cognitive coherence.
Doom digger derides Daddy's dangling dire dreary ****
Eclectic esoteric eccentric egotistical estranger;
Forthcoming fathoms fetch faithless fleeting father.
God given goblins gather gossamer ganglions;
Hell's hairy harlot harpies hover heeding Hyperion.
Ignatius imbibes irrevocably insisting,
"Jesus juggles justice's joy jarring jams."
Kindness kindles Kilimanjaro;
Malicious mountains melt, Mmm, morning marjoram.
Nothing negates Neanderthal ninnying.
Overt obsessions obfuscate original object of
purest passions, paltry past pinings,
quickly quieted, quelled,
resisted, relinquished, readily, ruefully, roundly
saturated, suffocated; surreptitiously silenced,
terribly torturing the thrashed tamed tormentor:
Ugly, ungrateful, unapologetic,
Vanity,
woefully wallowing, wailing, "Where's
Xanadu's
zeitgeist!?"
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 12:09 AM UTC
~~~
Postface: This Thing Called Poetry
postface - a brief explanatory comment or note at the end of a book
or other piece of writing.
~~~
*more and more will come,
'tis the nature of,
'tis the burden of,
this compulsion,
this undeniable, irresistible,
emotional chain,
a synapse from
connecting ganglions of nerves,
what we call poetry
each poem
a winnowing,
a narrowing,
the landslide of a moment,
a perspective erected,
a momentary monument
intended and left out overnight
for perpetuity's sake
a finished poem is
a broken telescope,
stuck on a single view,
a broken kaleidoscope,
forever flash frozen
upon a
permanent fruited plain,
a still life salad
walk a few footfalls
to the sandy beach,
humbling,
this vastness,
this billionth universe of
trillions of grains,
each a microscopic starship,
each a poem uncovered, exposed,
weathered and worn,
living among friends
a few taps onto this tablet,
table scraps,
leavings of chalk marks
of poetry,
same,
grains,
metaphoric, meteoric,
a billionth
of something both
dead and living
yet,
still and always,
a simple postface
still required,
a must have,
a necessary
a 'the end' official
sign your name,
your truest signature,
emblem
not of ownership,
but of completion,
here I was done
here I wax spent
sign my work,
so I know this grain came from
my weathered and worn
work, still living
and will be so known,
long after this body's form
as week is but
a few grains of sand*
~~~
July 2, 2015
NML
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 4:19 PM UTC