"kaufman" poems
161 to 180 of 3251 Poets
«78910»Viewsshow detailshide detailsSort by
Margaret Kaufman
Photo, Brownie Troop, St. Louis, 1949
Deborah Warren
Marginalia
Regan Huff
Occurrence on Washburn Avenue
Anne Marie Macari
From the Plane
Gerald Fleming
There are no poems by this poet on our website.
Sebastian Matthews
Barbershop Quartet, East Village Grille
Charles Harper Webb
The Animals are Leaving
Zozan Hawez
Self-Portrait
Jose Angel Araguz
Gloves
Russell Libby (1956–2012)
Applied Geometry
Robert Haight
How Is It That the Snow
Early October Snow
Dan Lechay
Ghost Villanelle
James P. Lenfestey
Daughter
Robert Hedin (b. 1949)
The Old Liberators
My Mother's Hats
John Maloney
After Work
Kaelum Poulson
The Crow
Stuart Kestenbaum
Prayer for the Dead
Emmett Tenorio Melendez
My name came from . . .
Gary Dop
Father, Child, Water
On Swearing
Berwyn Moore
Driving to Camp Lend-A-Hand
«78910»
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 9:01 PM UTC
Abomunist poetry
in order to be
completely understood
should be eaten…
-except on fast days,
slow days, and
mornings of executions.
Abomunist Goldilocks
eats the 3 bears.
But the porridge gets her
in the end. It is just right.
Abomunists read pictures
Downside
skewed
to their children.
Abomunists sing
south by southeast,
but fly Southwest
through time.
Abomunists adore a vacuum
so they fill it
with Abomunable gifts
like chicken seeds
and rose guts,
and the vacuum fills.
Abomunists abhor a vacuum.
That vacuum said rude things about your mother.
Abomunists have no mothers
and hang around streetcorners
shaking the lights until they go out.
Abomunists are obliged
to change the bulbs once
they die and continue shaking.
Abomunists encourage
police brutality
and are cheeky
motherless ********
Abomunists go
hand in mouth.
Abomunists go
go go go go.
Always go.
Abomunists vote to
abolish
red lights.
Abomunists ride hydrogen
bombs to work.
Abomunists go to
bullet heaven.
Abomunists slay the dragon
only on Tuesday,
but chase him
through the ***** den.
Abomunists lick cold poles.
And pull their tongue
out sometimes.
Abomunists
cry to Billboard
revelations in Coca-Cola
and lingerie.
Abomunists listen
to the bottom 40 hits.
And drink the middle classics.
Abomunists drain
their cups
and never ask for more.
They just take it.
Abomunists scream hoarse
and horse
and pony
and the rattlesnake
guttural hissing
serpentine buzzing
bees. You wouldn’t understand.
Abomunists elect
their drones and
the queen eats all
the honey.
Abomunists run
from office
and hold sway from
cardboard towers.
Abomunists are bad
architects and they
fall from grace
- so to speak.
Nov 14, 2011
Nov 14, 2011 at 8:35 AM UTC
There is hope
hope of finding the right one
in a storybook nirvana the ancients
who built the world
wished they thought of....
There is hope
that a story written
a phrase turned
or word uttered
would influence a
change so great--
like Kaufman, Ginsburg, Burroughs, Kerouac & Smith...
Hope still exists
that light will never go out
the stars will still shine and
life will still be around
thousands of millions of years
There is hope
still left
my friends,
beating
beating in my heart--
ready to carry with me--
--solo until the day I'm the last
one standing--
ready to be executed
for my views.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 9:52 PM UTC
Read too much prose today
Kerouac, Micheline and Miller
And that old Bob Kaufman too
Tried to sell me their rhymeless lines
Child, Eyed, D.A Levy capitalizes all
Splashing bloods and vessels on the wacky paper
Airs of San Francisco, Paris and even…PAUSE!
Read too much prose for hours
On end, Kerouac, Micheline and Miller’s
And that old Bob Kaufman as well
Tried to sell me their rhymeless swell
Child, Eyed, D.A Levy capitalizes, he does
Splashing bloods and vessels on the wacky paper
Airs of San Francisco, Paris, and even… PAUSE!
Renegades and outlaws, Bible of the Outraged
To me rhymless poetry is like a hammer’s sledge
Ramming its fake fluid down people’s throat
And all is left on here is some ink one should blot.
January 19, 2016, 7:45 pm
Guillotière
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 1:55 PM UTC
~_I look at the buds still wrapped
on the ripening kernels. I want
to be in there, unhatched and unpolished._
—Shirley Kaufman, "Poem in November", _Gift of Tongues_
Death's wings
written January 10th, 2021
The Angel Death
wraps his wings around me
I feel him there
when I stop suddenly
Death's wings
jostling around me
settling into place.
He holds his breath
so I won't have that proof
of his presence
or any other
reassurance in this life.
Are his wings protection?
or curse?
Their silence wrapped around
is my well known company
these many years
Death's wings my comfort in life.
Feb 15, 2021
Feb 15, 2021 at 7:48 AM UTC
“Everything is more complicated than you think. You only see a tenth of what is true. There are a million little strings attached to every choice you make; you can destroy your life every time you choose. But maybe you won't know for twenty years. And you'll never ever trace it to its source. And you only get one chance to play it out. Just try and figure out your own divorce. And they say there is no fate, but there is: it's what you create. Even though the world goes on for eons and eons, you are here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born. But while alive, you wait in vain, wasting years, for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes or it seems to but doesn't really. And so you spend your time in vague regret or vaguer hope for something good to come along. Something to make you feel connected, to make you feel whole, to make you feel loved. And the truth is I feel so angry, and the truth is I feel so ******* sad, and the truth is I've felt so ******* hurt for so ******* long and for just as long I've been pretending I'm OK, just to get along, just for, I don't know why, maybe because no one wants to hear about my misery, because they have their own. Well, **** everybody. Amen.”
-Charlie Kaufman
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 1:48 PM UTC
For Andy Kaufman
Ha ha, ha ha ha, ha, ha ha ha ha ha, ha ha ha
Ha ha ha ha ha ha, ha ha ha, ha, ha ha ha ha, ha
Ha, ha ha ha, ha ha ha ha ha, ha ha ha, ha
Ha, ha, ha, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, ha
Ha ha, ha ha ha, ha ha, ha ha ha ha ha, ha.
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 10:45 PM UTC
Mi corazón tiene aliento a vida y sol
en los días cuando se repira calor
El céfiro por dentro refresca mi existir
Por fuera la luna, luna
está en resplandor
Hoy vuelve a morir Lorca
y el manto cubre a mas que una cara
en más de un país bajo esta misma luna
Vivimos
Hoy frente al monitor el deseo de dejar los barcos de Kaufman zarpar
existe profundamente en el mar de nuestra colectiva conciencia
En tu corazón existe aliento y una vida con una sol.
El céfiro mueve barcos.
No importa si salle la luna, luna
Sep 1, 2019
Sep 1, 2019 at 8:24 AM UTC
somedays i'm more scared
than the others
more susceptible to the
diseases of the mind
that lay their bare hands
on my chest and
weave it down
hammer on the uncertainty
of the coming morning
meld the steel that dangles
from the ceiling
waiting to pounce at any
suffocating moment of
failure and dread
in the dead of the night
when the sun awakens
and ever so suddenly
the moon burst into flames
have all the stars fall in a
fiery ball of madness
circling the streets sniffing
at the despair of the
crying children
perching on the threads of
looming crisis of faith and
all things miserable
the melancholy of which is
lost on the swaying trees and
the singing birds
that is all over the news in
small fine print
while an angry man on the TV screams at people for not paying attention
over and over
again and again; until
it is time for the magic
of make belief:
only if magic was a real thing
so many things would have been
possible
the kind that lives in your
head and prospers in your mind
the kind Charlie Kaufman
knows about.
Nov 16, 2021
Nov 16, 2021 at 5:27 PM UTC
My heart’s breath smells of life and of sun
in the days when heat is inhaled
The zephyr inside refreshes my existence
Outside the moon, moon
is in glare
Today Lorca dies again
and the mantle covers more than one face
in more than one country
under this same moon
We live
Today in front of the monitor, the desire to have Kaufman's ships set sail
exists deeply in the sea of our collective consciousness
In your heart exists a breath and a life with a sun.
The zephyr moves ships.
It doesn't matter if the moon, moon rises
Sep 1, 2019
Sep 1, 2019 at 8:38 AM UTC