Posts tagged ‘word play’

June 26, 2015

How I write poetry

Could they hear me at the desk oozing prose onto the page,
clipping hard at the keys for grammar,
few words and blank space,
giving my all just for free writing?

Had they known my walk through the pre-day skyway,
the negative eighty degree cooler I passed—I am like that: cool and old.

Had they been blinded by a window’s reflection
or kissed their love before exiting a truck?

Could they feel the concentration,
the poise,
the inspiration,
of each line, in each book
held in heavy hand?

White came black, black came red—what you read this heap (?),
red turned pale, then yellow, then green—the fear, coming out of me.

This was it,
the beginning of the end,
and I had just opened Word
to give my fingers a stretch.

How coffee, how Grape-Nuts, how banana,
how milk, how ab workouts and a tepid shower
had been the muse to it all.

My body in the morning, my morning.
They hadn’t known.

Or at least that’s what I thought.

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June 25, 2015

The places we’ve seen (have seen us)

Motion reflected between where you are and where you will be;

Void for a shadow where you were, ever lying in wait to reconvene.

March 27, 2015

Tomorrow Today

And sweet taste on the tongue
takes a person far; a lemon drop atomic bomb,
here and gone as Hiroshima.

Today is made up of
your wishes,
my tasks,
and some trivial thought
between purchases
and cognitive dissonance…

We love for the time, the moment to pass,
the time we sit and wait, we must hate.

Tomorrow didn’t come yesterday.

Never a gripe to regret,
never a sound to forget,
to the blind eye all gore is beauty,
to the deaf cacophony is glory.

Minutes make up days, as pennies do dollars.

Do you walk on by
or pick up and try?

Do you watch close the shtick,
or see the second-hand tick?

Prefixed we sit,
to sat at that,
a breakfast table slow,
and a radio loud,
a thought at mind:

no more cages.

Gone with smoke, I am last year’s joke,
last month’s hope,
and tomorrow’s unattainable dreams.

Now people eat trash,
like whose hands did grace it,
the name makes the food,
and the food tastes much better.

O’ Southeast in you do me;
my body feels the cold
while the waxy hung sun bites
my dry little face.

Laced up and tied down;
we brought the wine,
we brought the rye,
we brought the hateful words,
and the back-pats too—good friends,
how true.

Parts of me, are parts of we,
just in between;

while
on a walk an old car goes by,
it is another with another
life inside.

I wonder,
where do they go right now?

I am right here.