"poeting" poems
I've been trying to poet off and on
now for awhile - but it's hard for a guy
like me, born and raised in small towns.
I've never really learned to swear,
not like a poet anyway. Not like Bukowski.
I mean, what kind of poet would
the world expect me to be? Except that
I'll admit I can drink with the best.
A Huffstickler I'm not, or a Bukowski,
or Etter, or Kerouac - guys who knew the
big towns, the ***** the dives, the rehabs,
the back alleys, park benches, soup kitchens,
flop houses, drug pushers — Humm, come to
think of it, we got all those here. But not
the all-important big town poet attitude.
I'm just this hick, delusional perhaps,
trying to fill a blossoming hole inside
of me that grumbles and claws for more,
and there's gotta be more to life than this crap.
In poeting I used to try and rhyme, like as
in "poor" and ***** but there's
no rhyme to life, just grab it and clench.
Just life, death, burial and maybe a little
something for the dog afterwards.
The preacher says there's more,
the devil tells me to forget it,
(I'll listen to him occasionally).
So, for me, I'll probe a little deeper and
scrutinize a little harder, perhaps drink a
little heavier, and maybe find a plug
out there that'll fill the hole inside me.
Maybe even put it in words.
Become a poet.
--
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 4:53 AM UTC
sitting at mcdonald's
I clicked 'add poem'
and I thought about
all the words I have
today
impatience and anger
blue blues
I think I better go home
and clean the bath tub
no poeting today
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 8:59 AM UTC
My love is like a glass jar filled to the brim with entire oceans:
Impossible, irrational, and deeper than you could ever imagine until you see it up close. Wading in it is an impossibility. If you go for a swim in my waters, you're sure to drown. But you won't die.
When a writer loves you, she will spend most of her waking poeting hours trying to capture some essence of you: a touch, a smile, the color of your eyes...She'll wrap them in pretty words, similes, and metaphors and hand them to you like pristine Christmas gifts, sparkling and waiting for you to tear in. She hopes a bit of her own passion will seep into you in doing so.
Likewise, when I love, I am willing to give you my world and everything in it, even if that means that I myself and confined to a single shadow in a small isolated corner of it. When I love, those seas seem to expand inside me until my heart feels swollen and ready to burst. When I love, it can feel overwhelming, difficult to wrap your head around. I tend to gush.
My love is like glass oceans: I am fragile but far too stubborn to ever break.
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 4:26 AM UTC