"stanzaic" poems
I don't have any emotions anymore
Sometimes, I don’t know if I’m having a feeling
Or I am dreaming, while I am awake?
Some might think that my mind
is exploring my emotions
while looking for happiness,
So I decided to bake a melodrama cake
Nope! I meant mel-o-cream butter pound cake
The ingredient is my path to getting my feelings back
Egg, butter, flour, sugar, raisins,
baking powder and a little milk
I just want to transfer my feeling,
with some logical thinking..
Somewhere, deep within a non stanzaic,
and syllabic poem forms by the minute
It’s going to trend like this cake,
which is going to be bake with love
Poetry is everywhere,
creaming my butter and sugar is poetic
because butter and sugar never stick together. It also
reminds me of Nana’s golden brown patties, tasty and spicy
Adding the eggs, nutmeg, baking powder, brings out the
natural female traits in this Island girl,
without my empowering dreads
The raisins and the baking powder remind me of
The Rise of Radical African American Activism,
And all that rises, rise in due degree
so poetry is everywhere
it's in everything we say and do.
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 9:03 AM UTC
How strangely coincidental,
it is, how nothing inspires you
with age,
that a shy, withered leaf parting sedentary waters,
is dewy-eyed dead yet unconsciously graceful;
such profanities of nature,
no longer expands your soul
like a burgeoning bubble which whisks you to write
carelessly-composed poetry over forgotten dinner plates....
it's a tragic symphony of desperate piano keys,
a blurring condition of blacks and whites,
age, and nothing but overused, age, is.
And so on lonely train journeys,
you craft a smattering of shorthand poems,
about how crackled, aged people on trains only have capacities
for whimsical jokes,
and nothing but dear,
dear whimsicality as life's
gilded philosophy,
when their bodies are no longer covered with
magic leaflets of hand-strung poetry,
for they are barren,
and if gods were gods of stanzaic hymns,
they'd open bloodless wombs of literary nymphs,
or so boldly believed,
the aged once-artist say.
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
What’s this, again? My favorite!
Whiskey and ink, pen and drink
And blood to punctuate
It all.
Cross-out the L’s and dash off the I’s
Filling the spaces where tears used to fall,
Fill up the keys, drained arteries
And I give them to my stanzaic-self
Who weeps on command, is a comedy
Since these dramas of the mind
Often too risky for poets’ traverse
The grey imprisoned between the words
Is home and salvage for us bleeders, but
Too often
A delight
For you readers.
Can I write drunk? And let the truth come out?
I could be at the end of the barrel of my own words,
Absolve the guilt, art itself or no,
I could find the beautiful truth at the end
—And hope I misfire.
What if I’m not strong enough?
What if this kills me?
The whiskey and the pen are the friends
As much as they are paring knives
—But, never have the dark times seemed so bearable.
I get drunk off the tears I hold back
All the faces I wear,
Who, like fantasies, from inside rend and tear
To get to the top
Until the hole of suicide surfaces…
And I stand a stare, pretending it is beautiful
And write a poem about it,
********** myself to become the empty beloved poet
The suffering aloof homework assignment
The voice of sadness
The joke
The cliché,
Always and ever
To hold me over till the next day
Distracted by a different kind of self-loathing,
Through that, I can go on
To forget it
Again.
Tonight.
Tomorrow.
And then again,
Till death.
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 12:44 PM UTC