"sandberg" poems
Evening falls like an old friend,
And all the dead poets have arrived,
It is a gathering of all their spirits,
For another try at stirring the muses.
We see Keats, and Shelley, and Sandberg,
As they slowly materialize before our eyes,
Then Woodsworth and Dylan Thomas,
Both simultaneously step into the light.
Shakespeare wants to come, too,
But his turn of a phrase won't do,
Because we want Dickerson and Frost,
And the bard must wait until his time has come.
The bonfire is roaring, the starry, starry skies,
A cool evening breeze steps lightly across our faces,
Then Shelley begins to step forward and write in the air,
Such phrases and sketches once again a delight to read.
And, I, a poet want to beam in a trance of worldly proportion,
I can not speak, or utter even the barest of grunts or utterances,
Then Shakespeare, never to be outdone, begins a love-sick sonnet,
While the crowd of hosts take notice and smile out loud.
This gathering of dead poets seems like a dream of dreams,
As they stand proudly upon the dampened ground of forest leaves,
And Walt Whitman wants to recite from "Leaves of Grass" once more,
While I, a student at the beginning of life, take copious notes galore.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 8:39 AM UTC
Look closely at your dots and periods.
You'll see this...
. Bob Dylan .
. William Shakespeare .
. Maya Angelou . Emily Dickinson .
. Ralph Waldo Emerson . Robert Frost . Ai .
. Max Eastman . Thomas Hardy . William Blake .
. Edgar Allan Poe . Pablo Neruda . James Joyce . Ovid .
. Carl Sandberg . Anne Sexton . Taigu Ryokan . Sappho .
. Ogden Nash . Dorothy Parker . JD Salinger . Rumi .
. Dame Edith Sitwell . Mary Wollstonecraft Shelly .
. Anna Swir . Sara Teasdale . JRR Tolkien .
. Alfred Lord Tennyson . John Skelton .
. Dante Gabriel Rossetti .
. Dylan Thomas .
Soul Survivor
2014
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 7:45 AM UTC
He sat with Michaelanglo
a stirring butress, a rife old glutton.
Seething, the temple may be doomed.
And Jude, 'rich' as HELL,
beaming of priesthood. Cursed him
with mired lucher, saying... 'When do
you think our work will be done?"
The stars that shine about the church
over our heads are beauty,
in the Cistene Chapel are the same
stars that line the apothecary of our souls.
How then do we touch a theist?
With brooms over our feet,
with chicken bones to old to feed
to dogs, with lyes that burn the soul.
Tremulous attrition, and godless neoteny.
All munitions to the decks. For
Jude, the job is never finished.
And to a deity, man is completeness.
And the poet says to the unbelieved,
'Why so true?'
"No one will believe in God,...
if no one is in this Church."
The Sandbergs, the Blakes, the Jaynes's.
Here we have felt poetry, awakened to poetry,
and loved every minute of the poet.
What record could democracy create
by Judas? When does the account of
men try femine reason?
'Ill tell You',.. says Mr. Sandberg,
'Ill tell You!,...that naught one of us can forgive a
great poet.' And Jude, replied,... "Whom then
can I believe?"
Carl Sandberg leaned way back and answered,
'You can believe the Truth; she is warm
to the touch and cold for the feature of
treason.'
"Carl why then do we argue in 3rd person?" says
Jude.
Repling again, the Cistene Chapel is open
for marrage, the ceiling is finished because
no one can account for all of the stars, but who
has to pray with us for forgiveness.
My hands prean lust for wisdom with a
pen, my hands pluck keyboards as do
Aeolian Flutes. My heart is a broken sorrow
and my life is just a poet.
Carl has answered a question,
Jude has lies to tell, and a man will finish
painting the chapel with the sound of
Liberty bells.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 8:31 PM UTC
This was my favorite bear Cubs alliance
Dunston, Sandberg, and Grace
Who almost did it, but were stopped by the Giants
Dunston, Sandberg, and Grace
Mark was so clutch, Shawon sure could throw
And Ryno of course was the main show
Spring words that could make me forget about snow
Dunston, Sandberg, and Grace
© Christopher Chronister
Mar 18, 2020
Mar 18, 2020 at 1:53 PM UTC
Though reading horror stories (macabre),
an only every now and again
genre crazy wave
washing over me like
a killer tsunami,
(subsequently fueling
desperation) to save
thine scrawny ****
(a derriere laughing stock,
and hence cheeky of me to rave),
those rare occasions satiated, when
hung over insomnia heavily bulging,
rheumy myopic blood shot eyes
nonetheless lock into
critical opening sentence determining,
whether adroit kingly author
nimbly setting the stage and pave
ving what thenceforth, pro
misses tubby a cell out ace
in the hole captive audience
(me, this apt pupil), doth brace
himself (by all counts once
a bad little kid) deserving, well...now...
just a bag of bones,
who fiendishly cackles
when leaning in (Sheryl Sandberg like),
whereat after opening sentence, an instantaneous
possessive gnarly hand
forcibly grabs my attention
presaging and frightening
yours truly (juiced in case
ye did not know),
where within the bazaar
of bad dreams epic,
which seems like forever,
when I finally erase
and exorcise the bogeyman who,
masterfully, immediately,
dramatically got woven
lady chattery teeth and all
withering wicked warp and woof
establishing (proof positive),
an excellently crafted
Chiral Mad heavily shades
of night are falling
gussying haunting place,
where the color of evil permeates
every cerebral space
with darkness, said
sub rosa prime evil punctuates
the mind this dream catcher,
whence after four past midnight
the reaper's image appears
sending adrenaline rush,
viz flight or fight blind
did, when firestarter alarm didst grind
passage of time manifesting dark forces
blaze zing atavistic fear itself lined
up battleground formation
from the borderlands of my mind
this even before turning
the first page where the eyes
of drag'n my afterlife shined!
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 4:23 PM UTC
Where have all the writers gone?
Where are all the poets?
Where is our Sandberg with his easy lines,
our Jeffers with his discontent,
our Frost playing tennis without a net
or with a net it doesn't matter?
Where is the greatness that defines us?
Where is our crying Ginsberg
our Bukowski with his rough blackbirds
and our Cohen of the Modern Miracle
(we're still waiting)?
Where is the voice of the internet age?
It'd better come soon.
Because it's lonely here with no one to read,
no modern sage to turn to
and I wonder how many people today
turn away from their windows
to their keyboards,
like me,
and type this in.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 4:36 PM UTC
Realize eminem was lust but Kim has it..
Lock down.. on a love madness...
Hell thats sad practice...
If sad meant immaculate gravity
Of happiness...between a mad man
And a divine enchantress...
So I grab.. james mckokis
And transition...
Into woman from a bad habit...
Practically a man click
With a bad ****
Definition... claps the light in
Darkness of Sandberg
Time of sand between two
Sand hands shift...
My mom is spacial cosmic passion
Its wise to grab your chance
And he... Andy... sand man... sand berg
Has the last word....
Is it dog or dmx I love
or is ******* dog **** become my tragic matter turned to bad word...
*** im rath rapture
In the last saturated hand of black dirt...
Before I bless half earth
With magnetic aura...
Poring black dirt
Through ashes in a Moira...
Sanctum
My God will be the last verse
Last word
The son asks never the rapture
Oct 10, 2020
Oct 10, 2020 at 6:41 PM UTC
struggling to read
this week’s choices…
Sandberg was smooth, interesting
a poet which I truly found enjoyment
both reading
and contemplating
and then came Dylan Thomas…..
can I read another poem with the word “worm”
please….
can I stare at rambling whine-fest
any longer….
I find myself opening word doc after word doc
trying to write away
a mind full of someone else’s ideas
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 5:31 PM UTC