"unrhyming" poems
America, you don’t need us anymore
so we’re going on vacation.
You’ve got religion to whisper in your ear
and sing you to sleep at night,
and culture of homogeneity to get you up
and going on cold Monday mornings, coffee in hand.
You’ve got plastic prophesies to keep you alive
and sick on medicines from unrhyming
peddlers of purpose.
You’ve got assumptions and science to teach the kids now
so long as the chemists abandon their really significant digits!
You’ve got calculus problems and practical things to scribble
on the back of the wornout canvasses of Monet and the recycled
papyrus of Parmenides—nothing’s changed.
You don’t need metaphorical ice cream.
You don’t need symbolism of green ideas.
You don’t need moonlight anymore.
You don’t need breezes on summer afternoons
unless they’re part of a lemonade ad.
You don’t need stars.
You don’t need hope or purpose or prosperity
that can come from the meaningless lines
of poems.
You don’t need us anymore, so we’re leaving.
That’s it.
We’re done.
Goodbye, America. It’s been
fun.
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 8:58 PM UTC
You
do not rhyme
with me,
and I can see that.
-even from here-
One day I passed you
-or you
passed me-
but only I know
that you did not see
me
-only I know
the difference-
you looked
but did not see.
We do not rhyme,
-you and me-
together
we make
-dissonant-
harmony,
we make
-useless-
eye contact;
we do not
-wish we could-
rhyme,
you and I.
One day I saw you
-not just looked
but saw-
and
it scared me,
the
-obvious-
thoughts
in your head,
the
-unrhyming-
poetry
written on your face,
the
-unfailing-
-unwavering-
-unrelenting-
-untamed-
knowledge
that side
-by-
side,
we do not rhyme.
And so I wrote
-one day-
-one afternoon-
a ballad
for you and me.
It doesn’t rhyme.
It can’t be put to music.
It can’t be
what you might expect,
-never-
but
this is how I am.
Unrhyming.
-sorry-
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 12:41 PM UTC
Free verse is an addiction
A fully encapsulating feeling
Of emotional disarray
Being confined to set ways.
Why do I feel the
Urge to write?
In uneven lines,
In unrhyming ways?
It's pure, it's harsh,
It's memories incarnate.
Spontaneous streams,
Creeks of consciousness.
Sep 22, 2019
Sep 22, 2019 at 1:41 PM UTC