Posts tagged ‘American Prose’

September 12, 2017

pleasant cricket sounds

as beautiful
and pleasant
as cricket’s may sound,
sometimes
they sound like
a broken in car
a few blocks down,
or my alarm clock
after hitting hard
the snooze
button, … so it’s
not so beautiful
or pleasant
or a treasure to take in,
you hear me?
but sometimes.

Advertisements
July 25, 2015

Poetry Critics

Critics of today couldn’t take
away the feeling of the act.

No matter how hard they try,
no matter the American sentimentalism.

Or, the labels tossed
around as exactly absolute.

No matter what authority
or agency they promote.

It feels so good.
It feels so alive.

It feels like creation.
Pressing buttons to get a reaction,

from the black and white
and the dots and lines,

people see and they say.
Your cloudy mind turned

to someone’s bright-light inspiration.
It is nothing to not do; it is something

to believe in your actions.
No matter where you are:

on Hennepin or Hawaii, in Uptown
or on a bike in Southeast.

Critics of today do it too,
they just use other’s work for their muse.

In other words they describe yours,
without they would be nothing.

With, they have a job, or something…
Again, that is as good as to not do.

June 24, 2015

Adjusted Advantage

The world can seem so small
when assessed from the confines
of a one bedroom apartment.
A space tight, sticky, stuffy,
and near unbearably drab.
For a person to go outside and look,
to see all there is to see—to expand the expanse,
to imagine what one might attain
in the span of a lifetime,
at the change of a thought,
on the prospect of a whim, at the drop of a dime.
A perspective can be released
from its rigid boxy cage to stretch sore wings
and to grasp the once unthinkable,
for merely a chance thought,
and for adjusted sight, mercy!

May 20, 2015

The Cat and The Squirrel (55414)

The backyard squirrel foraged
Rolling through a thick grass,
Rubbing its underside on dirt,
Thin belly in a thin brown fur,
Moving thru sniffing, bobbing.
The cat watched from the sill,
On a makeshift dresser drawer,
Eyes darted at every twitch made,
At every moment of food found.
The two were close, intermingled,
Not viewing each other though,
Just seeing themselves different,
Obscured by a dripping window,
Staring at what could’ve been.

March 23, 2015

we are the same

You, me; us we—forward or backward,
together we are the same.

Parts of a carnal body, whole—
built of dust, thoughts, and air;
no scar is without a measure,
no action still unmoved,
shell of human being outside,
ghost of us within.

We are compelling a kind,
eyes peer to see;
from Franklin and Nicollet to NE,
Middle America to Middle East.

Still, forward or backward, we are the same.

February 6, 2015

The Endangered Writer

An endangered species is the writer,
In the truest sense;

We have people, “writers” who can talk about
Writing non-stop,

But do they write?
I am not sure.

Lesser animals do more.
I ask:

Does a bird talk about flying?
Does a fish discuss the idea of swimming?
Does God sit and tell his friends he will create?

Writers are an endangered species, because like the Koala Bear* they just won’t do it.
-Fuck.

***

*conservation status: LC, Least Concern.

October 30, 2014

Essen-tial

On this afternoon
Food is of essential;
As Essen is of -to eat
In German Language.

December 15, 2013

College Park Cold Stroll

Still chill-tempered air looms about spines of bare brown limbs.

A distant Sun present offers no reprieve with the light it gives.

 

Standing Street signs,

Power lines,

And snow piled high.

 

A winter witness bends to nature’s whims.

Blood slips through flesh in faint blue veins as we just live.

 

This, as chimneys send indecipherable smoke signals into the pale blue sky above the hills.

 

Molecules tighten, tense, and slow their course together.

Through the dark season we trod along willingly as we try.

 

***

Visiting that shoveled walk circumference portion around College Park, St. Paul, MN.  

October 7, 2013

Average Sam American

Average Sam American

 

We take what they have,

We grab what they grab,

Cuts covered salve,

We maintain by avoiding the drab of the average Sam.

 

-OTS

September 24, 2013

Songs to the City (piece 1)

Songs to the City (piece 1)

By Terry Scott Niebeling

 

Not affording a blank page…

These are words on what I love and where I live.

 

Fall to autumn, a promise of frost and harvest.

We are all locked into our preoccupations in the largest.

Thoughts we offer and give.

 

Cold as a late September Sunday morning snow;

Water droplets consume me where I stand in a china-white bath naked and whole.

Coming and going, some are strangers some we know.

 

Our teachers tell us to live.

 

Smelling of filtered cigarettes burnt-out in hand, smelling like wet trash; smelling of first rate-first class.

Egos swell and expand.

 

Remnants of booze adorn sweet on my lips.

Care for a kiss?

It’s like rose petals-rose hips.

 

Faint sting of headache, we pray for a sudden solar eclipse.

An aspirin, coffee, and water diet won’t buck these nips.

Stuff like this only proves that we live.

 

We sit, what have we done?

 

The sun is up and has been.

So have I.

The day has just begun.

 

Where shall we travel  under blue skies?