"glenn" poems
Poems on a Mirror
~for Glenn Currier~
you don’t know me
I don’t know you;
poems on a mirror I ken
truly well
poems on the mirror saved, and then,
comme the seasoning of leave-falling,
poems dropping and drained...the post-it glue loosened by
the daily heat of watery tears,
making a space for
this one, for you...
there are poems and they arrive with fresh arrogance,
each an arrow demanding your all as a target regardless
of what the shooter really thinks or wants, other than
obedient acknowledgment and their self-loving flattery
but some render where no rendering should be allowed
those are the ones affixed - ones you chose to join the chosen,
slapped onto mirrors - so many that they almost
cover complete your image from presentation
almost only because these poems are yours, you,
they’re the truly accurate reflection even if not your words,
indeed especially because they’re not yours
but they start your day as a poem should
and in doing so,
become you
What a Hall of Fame, to be a poem on Glenn’s Hall of Mirrors
go pick the plums...
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 2:18 PM UTC
Again the time has come for all to gather round the fire,
"That time again", we say, while we assess the money drained,
The looks of disappointment from the ***** with stupid attire,
And truth will leak from drink fuelled mouths, with need to be restrained.
Your mum is singing drunkenly, while flirting with the vicar,
And dad is out the back sneaking a joint with cousin victor,
The dog is ******* aunt Jemima's artificial leg,
And someone just had a turkey fart,the kind that makes you sicker.
The christmas lights have fused again, so grandad's on the roof,
Sheer will power keeps him up there,and of course, martini vermouth,
Grandma's lost her teeth,and someone screams near the eggnog,
They're sent flying across the room and land in the fire on a log,
You feel your patience slipping as the pandamoniem mounts,
With thankless moans of "Oh well, its the ****** thought that counts",
And not forgetting Glenn, invited by your mum, but why?
So you and he can marry, and honeymoon in Hawaii.
With no idea that Glenn is gay, i guess the joke's on her,
I mean, what straight guy wears his y fronts entirely made from fur??
The night draws to a close,as bitter, crying family leave,
And relief is all too short, as there's still new years eve!!!
Dec 20, 2009
Dec 20, 2009 at 7:54 AM UTC
dahil wara katapusan an duon san mga mata
mabubuhay akong minamatay
san dating kaaway ko sa lawas na ini
sa lawas na ini naghambog an talawon
pinapagubtik an kaaluhan na nagpapamuda
muda na nagpupukaw saakon gurugab-i
kendi na nagpapahibi
mesias na naghahala-hala
magiging madalas an pagsid-ip niya sa bintana
para laen ko makita an liwanag
malaog siya sa kahon ko
laen para magkawat
kundi dagdagan an pagub-at
makasakat an pagbagsak
siya na ako
masurat tula.
~Written by Melton Balicano
(a bikol dialect)
since these eyes have been weighed down on unending
i shall live while being slain by an old foe in this body
this body where the craven had once boasted
surging chagrins that blaspheme
blasphemy that rouses this corpse in the dark
treats that shed tears
a messiah that taunts.
he shall constantly peep through the window
so that I see no light
he will break in my casket
not to thieve
but to burden further
the downfall shall rise
then he becomes me
penning a poem.
~a translation of Balicano's masterpiece
Glenn Sentes
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 7:59 PM UTC
Inside the bubble that is your mind
Revolves an endless cycle of war
The sting of your tyrannical thoughts
Launches missiles through your vile lips
Vilifying my dignity with hurricanes of syllabic outrage
Swiftly dispensing my emotions into your hole of egoism
Jealousy frequently consumes and controls your actions
Foolishly you listen to every whisper that blows your way
Tell me lady what do you want from me?
I break my neck to fulfill your pleasures
But you repay me in grotesque fashion
**** on my pistol of revenge baby doll
By Glenn McCrary
© 2011 Glenn McCrary (All rights reserved)
Nov 7, 2011
Nov 7, 2011 at 10:56 AM UTC
-- we get woven into each other's life sometimes without realizing it
I felt it when the sun came up this morning
I knew that I could not wait another day
There is something I must tell you
A voice is calling to me
Until we find the bridge across forever
Until this grand illusion brings us home
You and I will always be together
From this day on you'll never walk alone
You're a part of me, I'm a part of you
Wherever we may travel
Whatever we may go through
Whatever time and space may take away
It cannot change the way I feel today
So hold me close and say you feel it too
You're a part of me and I'm a part of you
You're a part of me, I'm a part of you
Lyrics by Glenn Frey, English Dan
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 5:24 AM UTC
Who else in this inhumane edifice
can dance while the suspecting eyes stare
at his moistened armpit?
Pathetically unknowing music uplifts not just the soul but the intellect.
Who else got the fire in imparting?
or …
did theirs even start a single spark since then?
Who else brings out the best in these hopefuls?
It’s all the worse and worst that they see.
And you think San Pedro would be pleased
when you gloat you made all the priests, doctors, and engineers?
Woe to you who humiliate the chair by your indolent butts
while uttering kindergartenous blabbers you claim to be education!
Then you get all you want while tabula rasa remains tabula rasa.
And you
You seated on the higher chairs!
Why don’t you trample down awhile
and put your cataracting sight to use
before it even brings you to the death of light.
Has anyone of you even heard what your god told to Pontius Pilate?
Ha! The you-have-no-power-over-me’s have always been impervious to you bigots!
And you say to your kin let me handle it.
When it is delayed and their impatience grows
you see they’ll leave.
Did you ever fret about deadlines
of bills, of matriculas, of debts?
What do you feed to your clan? Feeds?
Get Ripley’s here!
Oh how divine to utter all the Fs!
©Glenn L. Sentes
February 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 5:41 AM UTC
Jackie Robinson is exalted
as the first Black man to play,
but far fewer fans remember Glenn Burke,
the first ballplayer openly gay.
Like Jackie, he played for the Dodgers-
(different coast and a different time.)
Glenn came up to the Majors
In the summer of 79’
Burke was strong and tall and fast
And some teammates called him “ King Kong”
Though he roomed with Reggie Smith on the road
most nights Reggie Smith slept alone.
Burke befriended Young Tommy Lasorda
which was why he was traded away.
Old Lasorda couldn’t deal with the rumors,
Nor acknowledge his own son was gay.
Glenn Burke rode the pines while in Oakland
Billy Martin never gave him much chance
When Burke injured his leg in Spring Training
That ended his time at the dance.
He drifted, his playing days over,
He used, he stole and did time.
An accident left him a *******
Unprotected *** ended his line.
No shock was the A.I.D.s diagnosis-
His sister had long known he was gay.
When she took him in he was dying
when all others turned him away.
Sandy Alderson, with the Athletics,
took pity on Burke in despair.
The team paid for his A.I.D.S. medication
and covered the cost of his care.
Sad is the fate of the Athlete unsung,
dying apart from his team.
Glenn Burke showed that a gay man could play,
That a Gay Athlete also can dream.
Glenn Burke passed a long time ago
But his story deserves to be told.
He said when your suffering, dying of A.I.D.S.
Even days in the summer are cold.
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 12:03 PM UTC
She saw the face of Judas in him.
The bearded kiss festered no truth
and the metallic breath
exhaled putrid faithfulness.
The trampled petals spoor no lusting stares,
redolent no more
even as the tongue creeps by the shoulders.
The razors have summoned from the stinking room!
A slit in the neck
could rhythmically go by the thrusts unnoticed
But the chorus of the beasts
as shrill as the gongs of hell
maiming vengeance yet
not in the loss of blood will you die.
Not in my hands.
His demonic pleasures went on as the voodoo doll
resurrected in the beat of my own gongs.
Keep stirring as this spindle rouses my anathema!
his chest hairs
pint of blood
vulture’s beak
stallion’s tails
bobcat’s eye
dead evergreen
Deborah’s tears.
Stir and stir and stir!
Murmur satan’s prayer
mana mana mana boo!
ruba ruba ruba hoo!
Count the sands of the transient hourglass
expiring ‘fore tic tac sound.
Now her man froze,
bulging eyes, blackened pulse!
‘tis freedom, Deborah!
Free.
Doomed.
© Glenn Sentes
03-06-13
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
Let my lips trail across the soft, white surface of your skin
And straight down the tender bridge that is your spine
Allow my fingers to massage your body with pleasure
Unlocking the secrets of your dirtiest, lustful fantasies
The sweet, **** screams light my soul on fire
All sources of speech vanquish into thin air
My tongue drinks from the river of Hell's kitchen
Intensifying your castle of steamy, hot dreams
Gently I ****** each spot with caution
For each spot is dangerously tender
One slick touch of pressure and from her
Will erupt a ****** volcano
I whisper to her in devilishly, fancy tones
She whispers back in sensually, sacred moans
With no hesitation I move in for one final kiss
Our tongues rub each other sparking our taste buds
Birthing a marvelous ocean of ecstasy
By Glenn McCrary
© 2011 Glenn McCrary (All rights reserved)
Nov 7, 2011
Nov 7, 2011 at 10:54 AM UTC
You began as a dream
Dreamt by leaders with vision
Evolving to surpass
All of man's wildest ambition...
With adventurous men
Like Shepherd and Glenn
You stubbornly strove
To prove, once again
Beyond any doubt
That bounderies could be broken...
Despite mishap and fire
Alas, you did inspire
A generation to dream...
From Mercury to Apollo
The world, it did follow
Your steady pace
To Tranquility Base...
Via Viking and Voyager
Your efforts did prove
That exploration of the universe
Was well on the move...
To Mars, Jupiter, Saturn and Neptune...
You tenaciously endeavored
To, your accomplishments, festoon...
Your progress was sure
As you strove to endure
The incessent chatter
Of the grossly short-sighted
Their nonsense did clatter
Proving they were poorly enlightened...
With untold discoveries
Like non-stick surfaces and airtight seals
Through your numerous breakthroughs
You've shown us how it feels
To live better...
From Columbia to Hubbel
You've saved us great trouble
In our daily lives...
With your Space Station mission
You've shown the same vision
And, continue to lead in gaining cognition
Of our universe...
Lead on, great adventurers
Lead on.
Nov 1, 2010
Nov 1, 2010 at 6:35 PM UTC
each stroke of greased fingers on the mohawk
was a result of a genius work of art
an outlet where my soul barely peeks
yet you cut with your hypocritical shears and your rusty hand
and you call it discipline
and you call it concern
I call it ********
the shadows on my
eyelids were davincis and picassos
sketched in a magnificent representation
of inner self which you all want to see
yet suffocate by your rotten curricula
and you call it quality
and you call it excellence
I call it ********
the silver that glitters in these ears
conceals the tortures of my youth
the horrors that dwell in my every sleep
yet you rip from my skin you are unworthy of touch
and you call it decency
and you call it suitability
I call it ********
© Glenn L. Sentes
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 8:40 PM UTC
Painkiller by Judas Priest (Glenn Tipton)
and later covered by Death (Chuck Schuldiner)
-
Faster than a bullet
Terrifying scream
Enraged and full of anger,
he's half man and half machine.
Rides the metal monster,
breathing smoke and fire,
closing in with vengeance soaring high
He is the Painkiller!
This is the Painkiller!
Planets devastated,
mankind's on it's knees.
A savior comes from out the skies
in answer to their pleas.
Through boiling clouds of thunder,
blasting bolts of steel,
evil's going under,
deadly wheels!
He is the Painkiller
This is the Painkiller
Faster than a laser bullet,
louder than an atom bomb,
chromium plated boiling metal,
brighter than a thousand stars!
Flying high on rapture
Stronger free and brave,
nevermore encaptured.
They've been brought back from the grave
With mankind ressurrected,
forever to survive,
returns from Armageddon to the skies!
He is the Painkiller
This is the Painkiller
Wings of steel Painkiller
Deadly wheels Painkiller
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 5:12 PM UTC
Pixelated bitmap e-mares
Digitized be mementos cached
Her 8 bit vocal vintage freeware
Transfers recurrent electric draughts
The bitrate of virtual seduction
Intrusively hacks my bones
Taste be my lips of data eruption
Elicited from her tone
Physique a stimulating software
Upon my Ethernet she crafts sparks
A gem society deemed quite rare
Though she possessed a vibrant bark
Her bandwith I yearned to fiddle
'Twas encrypted with die-hard lust
She moans in esoteric riddles
Keen I decode them whilst I ******
Pizazz eclipsing our veins
A billion megabytes colliding
Satiated we crash free of rein
Unforeseen servers uniting
© 2012 (All rights reserved)
This poem is featured in the poetry collection “Technicolor” as written by Glenn McCrary
The collection is currently available in paperback and hardcover editions for purchase on Lulu.com
.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 4:09 PM UTC
The Poetry Barn wasn’t really a barn
It was merely an old farm house,
It sat on the acres of Eddington’s Farm,
Surrounded by sheep and by cows.
But Poets came over from Stuttersby Dell,
Drove over from Scatabout Wood,
To write in the air of the Poetry Barn
About things, when they ought and they should.
They came from Great Orton, they came from Rams Well,
They came from Glenn Wheatley and Grey,
The best and the worst of the poets you’d find
At the Poetry Barn, every day,
The rooms had been empty for many a year
So they all sat on bundles of straw,
And when they ran out they would send up a shout,
So some would go out and get more.
The mornings would see all the Elegies worked,
The Epics, the Odes and Quatrains,
The Poetry Barn would then grumble and groan
As the Dirges would enter the drains.
By noon the fair Sonnets came into their own
With just the odd wanton Lament,
When poets would seek out the culprit to find
One grinding his verse in a tent.
By evening they’d work on the Pastoral,
The Sestet, the Roundel as well,
And those at a loss after losing the toss
Would be stuck with the old Villanelle,
They’d all settle down when the Moon came up round,
And the stars twinkled boldly in rhyme,
When one asked the other, ‘pray, what rhymes with brother,’
And he’d say, ‘your Mom, all the time.’
The poems would stick to the inside walls,
Would tear at each other like knaves,
They’d fill up the aisles and lie flat on the tiles
And would damage the old architraves.
At night you could hear all the horses hooves
As they carried the good news to Aix,
And in came the wedding guest, him with the albatross
Counting his many mistakes.
I saw that they’d burned down the Poetry Barn
With one sad, incendiary rhyme,
A poet called Glover who wrote to his lover
‘My candle, you light all the time.’
The straw caught alight in his lover’s delight
And they fled from that bastion of verse,
I just penned this missal for someone to whistle,
The one that he’d written was worse.
David Lewis Paget
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 6:25 AM UTC
Took 287 South
to a Borders
Goin Outta
Biz Sale.
Books may be
anachronisms,
relics from
yesterdays
analog age,
but literacy's
bankruptcy
does have
advantages.
Take an
additional
30% off on
any orphans
pleading
release from
the discount
racks.
Snooping down
the literature isle
Samuel Beckett's
somber face
arrested my
roving
eyeballs.
A stern stare
printed across
5 spines of
his shrink
wrapped
oeuvre
commanded
my arm to rise
to liberate the
face from the
dismal shelf.
In mid flight
my reach
was hijacked
by a Kris
Kringley red
snow flaked
trim tome
standing
open face
next to
earnest
Beckett.
It was "The
Christmas
Sweater"
by NYT
Best Selling
Author, Glenn
Beck.
Clasping at Beck's
book, it inflicted
a nasty paper cut
to my ring finger.
My mind recoiled,
thinking, "serves
you right. Like
Martha, I shoulda
chosen the better
thing."
I'll never
make that mistake
again.
Borders Books
Riverdale
2/20/11
jbm
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 3:50 PM UTC
With every breath that escapes your lips
Another soul collapses to its knees in shock
With every touch you attempt to place upon purity
Leaves the tears that fall to freeze into loveless icicles
In the wake of your presence Mother Nature asks for peace
Roses beg abundantly for forgiveness in gentle tones of suffering
Though being the criminal you are you don't possess a heart
And if you do it remains covered in shadows of narcissism
It must get extremely lonely living in vain memory of your existence
Without hesitation you impose your chokehold of tasteless agony
Around the delicate throats of the angels that attempt to help you
A cold, grim grin spreads across the surface of your wounded cheeks
Entertained by witnessing humans be stripped bare
Their bodies serving as the canvas to your steel blade
In the air you wave your hands just like a magician
Sliding the blade back and forth across their skins
Carving death upon their foreheads
The echo of your laughter being the pistol
That pierces their skulls with fierce pressure
As they drop dead with cowering fear
Fuming from their lifeless corpses
By Glenn McCrary
© 2011 Glenn McCrary
(All rights reserved)
Nov 7, 2011
Nov 7, 2011 at 10:44 AM UTC
On the mental ward,
there is no "Lord,"
no "Savior."
Only society's leftovers,
shuffled to and fro and
around and around we go.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 3:51 PM UTC
Yea verily
The Movers and Shakers are society’s paveway makers.
They recognise a need, feel a cause and initiate action.
These people make things happen, they are the driving force in our society.
By virtue of their very nature, they are rarely perfect,
they have backgrounds and have, invariably, at some some stage of their life,
trodden on the daisies.
Our society could not do without these people.
They are a rare minority and because of their positivity and momentum
They make enemies.
The enemy of the Movers and the Shakers are the Naysayers and the Finger Pointers.
The Naysayers and Finger Pointers are the reactive side of society.
They rarely initiate and rarely expose themselves to the spotlight.
They fester in the shadows in their masses and froth into braying criticism
Which may, or may not, develop into righteous finger pointing and condemnation.
(Depending, of course, on the issue at hand and the degree of hysteria generated.)
The Naysayers and Finger Pointers are society’s negatives.
(They would say that they are society’s necessary checks and controls…
Which perhaps, to some degree they are.)
The realm of the Tall Poppy Syndrome is the perfect territory for Naysayer/Finger Pointer operation.
It provides the right mix of avarice, envy and vengeance to blend clandestinely beneath a covering cloak of righteous indignation.
And it provides the symbiotic platform for mass reaction from the great unwashed.
I note that Mayor Bob Parker and benefactor Sir Owen Glenn are the latest recipients of negative onslaught.
The Mayor has just announced that, after many years of public service, he has had a guts full of the braying abuse and is throwing in the towel.
I sincerely hope that he retires with wealth and lovely wife and that he bathes in the satisfaction of his many, many achievements…well away from the accusing crowd.
And if I was Sir Owen Glenn, I would abruptly cancel the offered, generous, $2 million finance for the Anti Domestic Violence Campaign
and with fierce eye tell the Naysayers and Finger Pointers of New Zealand society to go stuff themselves… then turn and walk away, never to return.
Marshalg
Pukehana Paradise
AUCKLAND
5 July 2013
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 4:28 PM UTC
The dark and devilish nature of her words
Strike my soul with bone crushing impact
Delivering me to unfathomable heights
Soaring beyond valleys of unspoken truths
I swear I could feel the searing pain secreting
From the puddles of ink unmercifully ***********
From within her little black pen of revenge
A cold, hard case of poetic justice iced my veins
Slashing fiercely through the tender tissues of my heart
Leaving a dreadful scar of excruciating scorn
Forever embedded in what was once a sacred home
It was as if a voodoo ritual was taking place
Possessing every inch of my flesh successfully
Soaking my skin with tsunamis of fear
Compelling my body to dance with the spirit
As I danced to the rhythm of the drums
A cloud of smoke was blown to distort my vision
In the wake of the smoke I began to hallucinate
The image of a **** harlot equipped with a machete
Appeared before my eyes taking me by surprise
Ready to slaughter and **** all who oppose her
And rob them of their oh so precious manhood
She pressed her lips against the blade then blew a kiss
The kiss caressed my lips with the taste of honey
By the swift blow of a gentle breeze she was gone
When I returned from this coma of entertainment
A severe addiction was unmistakably evident
My taste buds craved for more of this woman's literature
I had fallen victim to her powerful hex of poetic justice
By Glenn McCrary
© 2011 Glenn McCrary
(All rights reserved)
Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 6:28 AM UTC
In a sphere of infinite narcissism
Wicked homosapiens tread the horizon
Daunting threats of turbulent tragedy
Dawn upon the hopeless, roaming souls
Sheathing them with treacherous shadows
Of atrociously, covert crucifixion
The elite coquettes hearken
The tumultous sound
Emanating from multiple, acrid massacres
Tainting these notably wounded hearts
Within a satanic plethora
Of acrimonious equivocation
By nightfall a harrowing suicide
By daybreak a dreary mourning
Catastrophe is all that occupies
This infamous wasteland of avarice
By Glenn McCrary
© 2011 (All rights reserved)
Aug 29, 2011
Aug 29, 2011 at 7:15 AM UTC
I want to be friends with Glenn Danzig.
We can conjure up some evil.
No lesser imps
or minor demons though.
Only a meeting with
the capital “D” Devil
because Glenn and I would command such an audience.
I want to be friends with Glenn Danzig.
We can giggle like schoolgirls
when Chuck Biscuits sits on that whoopie cushion we left out for him or
finds a fake, plastic eyeball floating in his coffee mug.
I want to be friends with Glenn Danzig.
We can go on the “Punch America’s Face Again” tour.
We wouldn't be singing in our slimy baritones on this road trip.
Just passing out black eyes
like Halloween candy.
Leaving a trail of busted noses and
broken hearts
in our wake.
There would be sleepovers.
Glenn and me
with Iggy Pop, Johnny Rotten and
the ghost of Peter Steele in attendance.
Ouija Boards and light-as-a-feather.
Peter Steele would always win.
He is a ******* ghost after all.
We could give each other nicknames:
Goodboy Glenn and The Big Dill.
maybe a secret handshake…
Nothing too elaborate.
Just cool, y’know?
We would text one another
after the season finale of The Walking Dead:
Darryl needs to die he’s not even in the comic but it’ll probably be Michonne there’s no justice on T.V. for cool black girls this show has just been a study in emotionally manipulating its audience since the beginning anyway why are we the only ones who see that
Why are we the only ones who see that?
Are you listening Glenn?
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 9:10 PM UTC
In a street swamped by
An abundant sea of darkness
Illuminated by nothing but
The concrete glow of the moon
The shadow of an amorously dangerous man
Came into existence
His ****** aroma heavily polluted the air
With opulent seduction
Making helpless slaves of
All the women in the valley
As well as heightening
Their remaining four senses
He prances around in his
Fancy, black leather jacket
With a pocket chain
Dangling from his waist side
Jet black shades occupying
The masterpiece that is his face
He blows a royal kiss of glitter
Trailing after the runaways
A swift touch to one's forehead
And in seconds she'll be on her knees
Begging and pleading for more
Simply because she can't get enough
It's as if his body was a delectable tower
Of chocolate covered strawberries
Dipped in an ocean of the most
Exquisite tasting honey known to man
Each woman who had been cast
Under his precious spell
Was now imprisoned within
A mind controlling coma
They couldn't seem to lift their inquiring eyes
From the creamy complexion of his skin
Severe urges to kiss and **** his flesh
Possessed their bodies with great power
He lives the life that most men would **** for
With thousands of women wrapped around his finger
Fulfilling his every single wish and command
Tackling him with avalanches of never ending pleasures
In the eyes of these women
He was an icon of majestic worship
They bow down before him
Massaging his toes with kisses
Leaving trails of roses to rest at his feet
And to think this persona was conceived
From his supernaturally seductive abilities
The strangest thing about this man
Was that nobody knew of his name
Nor where his audacious soul
Had so suddenly escaped from
Only that he was unimaginably handsome
His charming hex of temptation
And superior intellect alone
Had transformed stainless virgins
Into despicable nymphomaniacs
Jeopardizing the entire female gender
With his smooth talking scandals
A luxurious craft of extravagant gold
A tragic truth yet to be told
This man was known as
The Poet *** God
By Glenn McCrary
© 2011 Glenn McCrary
(All rights reserved)
Oct 24, 2011
Oct 24, 2011 at 1:40 AM UTC
I am a man regardless of what you say.
I am a man regardless of what I see in the mirror every day.
Alexis Elizabeth Glenn...
That name will be reserved for someone who wants it because it sure as hell isn't me.
Alexavier Edward Glenn...
That name I only hear in my head.
Yet when I turn that big one right it will be the only name coming from people's mouths.
When I turn eighteen my life will get better.
Alexis Elizabeth Glenn...
This name doesn't mean anything anymore.
Soon it will be a distant memory a horrible nightmare.
Alexavier Edward Glenn...
My future daydream.
Don't worry this isn't the death of Alexis.
It is the birth of Alexavier. Yet most of her will for out.
Yet she will always be part of me.
I won't cross out that name.
Alexis Elizabeth Glenn
From my memoir.
Alexis Elizabeth Glenn is the prologue for Alexavier Edward Glenn.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 11:44 PM UTC
Pictographs concoct
Quaint flavors
An appetite blooms
Ginger locks descend
Passion skates
A micro death sparks
Pixels synthesize
Collections
Of synchronized whines
Lips laced with temptation
Eyes descending sunsets
Elements of resolution
© 2012 (All rights reserved)
This poem is featured in the poetry collection “Technicolor” as written by Glenn McCrary
The collection is currently available in paperback and hardcover editions for purchase on Lulu.com
.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 4:14 PM UTC
If you’ve only ever smelled fir trees covered with freshly fallen snow-
then you haven’t smelled it.
It’s an acquired smell, for sure.
It comes just in between the whiffs of
mashed potatoes
mashed carrots
mashed peas
mashed turkey
hell, mashed ginger-ale for all I know. . .
Somewhere amongst that microwaved menagerie, masked with the smell of eau de toilette,
it lives, and smells sweeter the longer brown sugar bubbles on top of caramelizing yams.
If you can’t smell it, maybe you can find it.
Not many can, or do.
It hides in plain sight, though.
A lost and found box with accumulated cobwebs - everything still unclaimed.
A flyer for free puppies that no one ever took because they were “too much responsibility.”
Maybe there aren’t enough seekers in this game of empty rooms and blank guest books.
But keep looking, until bingo prize hand-me-downs after school plays look like Oscars.
You won’t see it until it makes you believe that plastic Mardis Gras beads are Tiffany-blue boxes.
It’s not so much in the nose, or the eyes as it is in the endurance.
Endure the voiceless Glenn Miller until his brass bellows become her voice -
whispering “I love you” to the effortless rhythm of “Moonlight Serenade.”
And imagine her,
swapping her orthopedics for black heels,
elegantly taking Pop’s hand as he helps her up from her wheelchair,
to join him for just one more dance.
Watch as they become the sepia-colored couple in every anniversary photo.
That black dress. Those fake pearls.
The crescendo of the band.
It’s hard to miss when it’s screaming at you.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 11:38 PM UTC