poetry

poetic illusions

poetry

thought i’d filled this space before.
seems like just yesterday i found it empty and did what any self-declared writer would do.

stared blankly. then ran when someone came into the room and considered looking over my shoulder.

seems like i’d filled this space just an hour or so ago with something i was quite proud of.
but then i came back and looked, and it was still empty.
is it possible my mind is more poetic than my fingers? when all the evidence has proved my mind is incapable of poetry without my fingers.
until (that is)
poetry is written without ever being written at all, settling instead to be scribbled on the black board that is my mind. where no one can read it. where my memory allows me to forget it.

and as certain as i was i’d filled this space before, it keeps coming up blank. about every time my glass hits empty.

Hopeless, Hopeless Unromantic.

poetry

I knew a woman
one or many years
ago
(It pains me to remember)
and oh did she hold
such a flame.

Her looks and charm and such
were such that lesser
sorts of men surrendered
and it was well and good,

she was not hungry,
not once or ever.
She could carry nothing
but had it all
and oh did she hold
such a flame.

Her car went down
in a ditch on someone
else’s wedding day.
Her leg was broken
but only in one place,
but her dress was ripped
and where’s the
fairness? where’s
the justice? The
Humanity?

I saw her that day
but not since and
good riddance, I think.
She cared not at all
for me or mine but
oh, did she hold
such a flame.

Entrance of a King

poetry

When you came into our presence the room emptied into frenzy:
Our bodies contorted for a glimpse
of your sun-warmed complexion,
of your dirtied, sandaled feet.
The voice of the crowd ascended
as we lifted our hands to this king of the Jews.
Our voices crescendoing louder
cavorting arms climbed higher to a climax
our raised hands cleaved tighter around calloused fists
My mouth spewed malice.
My eyes holocausted with hatred.
I screamed bitterly through shredded throat:
“Guilty! Guilty! Guilty! Hang him on a tree!”

an ode, for what was done well, but could have been (in retrospect) done better. after all, a whole lawn of grey is eclipsed by the lawn with my ROGER spelled across it in all grey-dead caps. but that’s why there is always tomorrow.

poetry

for tomorrow’s grass is greener
in my own yard than in my neighbor’s.
not for reasons philosophical, but rather,
i, unwilling to stand and watch this
‘scotts lawn’ continue, took matters into my
own hands in scoop after scoop of
industrial salt.

(something much too cheap for the world
out there like me, of evil scientists, who are
unwilling to let jobs that need to be done
right be done by someone else).

if i could get rich today

poetry

i’d send this all away;
i’d walk right out the door
and never look for more.

i’d grow my hair long,
my beard would be fit for song,
and all anyone would see
would be the slightest resemblance of me.

i’d turn into a bum,
and shut myself in from the sun,
only coming out at night,
to protect my eyes from the light.

and no one would give me a thought,
i’d let me reputation rot,
glad to have finally disappeared,
glad to have finally repaired.

a message of pointless confessions to my fellow poets at the sieve and sand

poetry

I had sworn to never re-read stuff I have written, yet at around 3:30 am, I found myself doing just that. Only to realize the outlandish fact that it’s been three years since I have joined S&S Much to my shock and dismay (given the non-committal side of me ) you’re slowly turning into the freakin’ love of my life which is troubling to say the least (but in a good way).

So having (somewhat) known you guys for some time, I think confessions are in order:

# I have never told anyone about the fact that I write at S&S (nobody has actually read any of the stuff I’ve written-possibly because I have yet to like any of my scribblings- I am just glad/surprised you put up with it)

# I am secretly convinced that none of you actually exist (like I have never thought of you as actual human beings- you sort of exist in a parallel dimension)

# My shadow personality is like Foma Fomich (“The Village of Stepan-chikovo”), tyrannical, self-important, master of the universe, full of crazy antics [except my universe has a population of exactly 1, thus having no human beings/servants to malign or demonstrate my moral and religious superiority to (although I have no clear life guidelines/morals/ethics to speak of, I still insist that they’re the best), I am simply absurd]. In short, like Fomich, I am a person who lacks awareness and is not able to understand the disparity between what he actually is and what he believes he is* (I am paraphrasing someone from a blog I don’t quite remember the name of.)

# Candy is to me what fresh blood is to vampires

# I have imagined & written tons of recipes/scenarios for some of the Disney’ s characters ( I think Tweety could turn into a quite tasty stew for Sylvester, and let’s not talk about Road Runner, I have contemplated kidnapping executives of the Disney Corp and forcing them to produce multiple cartoon (cooking )shows where Coyote Rock catches, cooks and eats Road Runner in a souffle, or as a summer barbecue or kebabs over sautéed rice (ah, the choices… Don’t judge me, I think it is only fair- those creatures had it coming).

That’s it, I have no more confessions/trivial facts to share. Actually, I could have written this in an email, but I decided to trespass on the wonderful space reserved for poetry because that’s how I roll, I am a Rebel without a cause(what am i saying ?! oh the shame, the shame, it’s not 1955 anymore).

Signed
FreakyNewchild

“He was not born to shame.
Upon his brow shame is ashamed to sit.”

Defenseless

poetry

..when the outside breathes close to my window, and that the door squeaks
and the friends we don’t want any more invite themselves into our days
Behind curtains, dissolving in … I know I am in trouble
(each season gets harder climbing besides you)
my fingertips run words on your skin hoping to
trace and connect oceans of lights together in a gentle beat
But, you close your eyes floating in the distance
Tossed out into the mountainous region of your heart, I spiral into dizzying patterns
the headwind hits hard and I need control
over someone like you (looking for balance and perfection)
safe behind sturdy fences.

Of the World with Mr. Hugo, Part 4

poetry

Our northbound rambling soon took us
beyond the scope of either of our normal
driving habits. We were at a loss
and did not recognize the exit signs.

I wondered out loud that neither of us,
though well-traveled we had been,
had seen the places that were named
on the side of the highway.

He wondered for a moment, in a silent way,
and stroked his chin and tapped
the top of the arm rest in between us,
and he said it was no wonder to him.

What was there this far north, after all?
Why bother going to a place where
we had nothing?
What was the point? He said.

I replied that it must be the same reason
we were heading this way now, and that
we’d better come up with one rather quickly
to explain the money we’d spent on gas.

His continued to be a silent way, and
without further discourse,
as we finally took a pleasant-looking exit,
our quiet forced us
in to a further digression

Thursday.

poetry

Kind of quiet,
no?
’til she finds the corner of
the bench seat
but even then, not loud.
Not so much.

But she says what she needs to,
and isn’t that enough?
and what else is there, really?

The belts are not so tight
so she can move a bit.
She appreciates that, I think.
And when we took a short trip
in to the city, it was just enough
to stretch our legs.

The ducks were out that morning;
I heard about them, I heard.
I don’t remember.

There were other things on my mind.

18 dudes, 4 days, mountains. what’s missing? probably won’t be enough beer.

poetry

i’ll don strange shoes and put my hair (what sad little bit is left of it)
up into something my wife would never allow me to be seen with in public

trudge mountains and valleys
and cross a stream or two.

take in the sky. grunt. fart. make penis jokes.
i’m fairly certain our creator knew it was hilarious looking when he made it.
and generally enjoy yourself
this is man time.