"monicker" poems
THE HORSE'S name was Remorse.
There were people said, "Gee, what a nag!"
And they were Edgar Allan Poe bugs and so
They called him Remorse.
When he was a gelding
He flashed his heels to other ponies
And threw dust in the noses of other ponies
And won his first race and his second
And another and another and hardly ever
Came under the wire behind the other runners.
And so, Remorse, who is gone, was the hero of a play
By Henry Blossom, who is now gone.
What is there to a monicker? Call me anything.
A nut, a cheese, something that the cat brought in.
Nick me with any old name.
Class me up for a fish, a gorilla, a slant head, an egg, a ham.
Only ... slam me across the ears sometimes ... and hunt for a white star
In my forehead and twist the bang of my forelock around it.
Make a wish for me. Maybe I will light out like a streak of wind.
2.6k
I'm a captured tooth nerve
amalgam appeased
restrained in containment
by my keeper
then I can be a prisoner
escaping the jail
my warder has lost
the keys of control
on dark days
my fathoms swirl
in murky mass
infused with blinding kelp
on good days
my porthole shows
clearness of eye
the glass reflects well
just to confuse
my ores composition
is misunderstood
the translation
metamorphic
changing
minute by minute
hour by hour
these ones are buggers
my microscope
isn't good with definition
will I or wont I
who knows
my borders are contested
being diplomatic
I make pacts and treaties
no monicker is required
the tried and tested
gentleman's agreement
that will do
my margins
can be thick or thin
comments fit in
usually they range
between
insult and praise
depending on the mood
I oft go to open cut mines
to find common minerals
which are useful on a daily basis
real effort is called for
when I delve into deep shafts
sometimes gems are quarried
precious ones to behold
well enough said
a letter is to be written
dear meditative home
we're returning soon
if we're delayed
after hours
p.s. leave the porch light on
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 5:52 AM UTC
The drudgery of not
The travail of unseen clot
A metaphor for naught
There must be a monicker to this lump in my neck
How much substance or material to tell the tale of this eminence fleck
We all pretend sentiment takes form
When vacuity is the fortune for all
Most feel dejected by this thought
I will take my pillow, comforter, and universes call
Mar 16, 2012
Mar 16, 2012 at 11:58 PM UTC
at top of poetic tree
the exemplary talents are located
they who have a monicker
which is gold plated
to gain access into
this rarefied sanctum
one must be willing to crawl
up the fawning ******
but some aren't seeking
a place at the table with the upper truss
they are quite happy
to stay aboard the common man's bus
sniveling and groveling
at the feet of the elites
isn't a feat which enthuses
those who are seated in the lower rung seats
the luminaries
at lofty vantage point
all go on about humility
they might like to look inside themselves
at the mirror image
reflected in their seas
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 7:46 PM UTC