for your explanation. The context helps me to appreciate your poem more.

God bless,

Mark

kick and jerk
sooth or grate
many times…
I find me in your verses
A rehash preferred
to nightmares
a boo word
not used in context
as bad but adventure
aside from stale matter
where things in the past
are confronted
those same things that
choked us
releasing and the memories
that come flooding to us
rushing oxygen to us
leaving us to wonder
Did I just write that
will they like that
will it scare them
will they think less of me
I hope the answer….
in part is yes
but like fire
that warms can burn
but only up close
the warmth of a fire
doesn’t carry far
but poetry
aside from those offended
and some are
perhaps they will find
a poem for them
one that they can eat
with a soft spoon
and sprinkles
written on a card
telling them how great life is
me well I want the grit the
Between-the-lines poem
the poet without a box
may we never fit-in
to that box again
that memories burst the sides out of

got this ism of late
like im burning up

must-stop-writing-blather………

gotta watch those “ism’s” - they come like gargoyles sometimes, angels other times - something to whisper to you - only you know if you are writing blather - but it’s practice and you can’t stray from that too long now can ya? take a month off if you’re serious - nary a word - see what jumps out after you pass “go” again. “it” ain’t never goin’ nowhere - you’re stuck with you forever here. but who am i but another ism of blather…?
like you stripped down style - few word weight.
good luck and poems make great kindling - beats newspapers by longshot and the words just fly out the stack - birds listen.
wheel…

Hello and thanks for commenting on the poem…..
I will keep writting is my passion also painting and acting lol a have too many damn hobbies lol well ttyl
-Dominick-

in poetry and life and love.
So I dedicate this comment to you, which also happens to get me 10000 points on NeoPoet,
love, brother,
Jess

the grit the texture of all the grains
silica and stone adhering to the
whorls of print
the knuckle folds

hold it on the palm and watch
it cascade tumbling
like smoke reaching for the ground
gravity swelling it downward

thank you for the comment, sir! and for reading.
it’s appreciated :]

four a.m.
and birds are singing
in what we see as total
darkness

but they see something else
something far reaching
beyond the horizon
fingers of light thats
meant for them

it wakes them from their
curled wing
and brings forth brilliant
emotive song

trills and peaks
in backyards and straight
streets
curving manners of all
pockets of greenery

and thus I sit on a Sunday
morning chair
writing in darkness
bathed in the glow
of a LCD screen

tranquilized by the
tongue of the ancients
sky wardens
at the start of new
hours

O

old BLONDIE song title
but Yes thanks for comments everyone

I get three to four
sometimes per poem
a great amount I think and feel

Im getting to the point
now that Im wondering
how I can continute to
write

so much re occurence in
word usage
and theme

just keep going I guess

Its like watching
Napolean Dynamite
I love that movie

keep seeing new things
each time I view it

oh i cant write im so tired
right now

later….

A friend is coming over tonight to watch it again.

cheers,
Jess

the corner
where everything is tight
where air is thin

where voices ring

the medications help
sometimes

the subtle entity of soul
devours the light like
an eclipse

holds it tight
in belief

Prisons of war
they tested

and found this

They believed in themselves
their capabilities as a soldier
and a person

They believed in some kind of
faith Some kind of something
beyond themeselves

These were the ones that
survived the best
under atrocious conditions

And they maintained some kind
of contact albeit primitive
to other humans

Three brain levels
Primary
Tertiary
and Reptilian

I read all this somewhere
long when I gave up reading
and took up poems

the moon is cutting her path
company of planets
shinning like attendants
at a ball

the galleon clouds are
floating on flickering
waves

ballast dreams
bowmaiden watching

hi gag wats up

I’ve read some of Margaret Atwood’s poetry. I don’t think I’ve heard of Lou Reed or John Milton.What would you recommend by any or all of them?

I’m always looking for something new to read.

water moves through the pipes
the day is live
full of light
movement this sunday

no sleep for two days
sleep in day
in dreamfilled voids
i dread
people talking again
that are already dead

ponder the questions
the ongoing dialogues
the gargoyles and ghosts
of mind spirit and body

but errands will clear
me today
my ancient bike still
hanging together

i wait for winter
for the silences and
songs of snow
whispering and
hissing in the winds
where blonde grasses
bend their heads
in cold rapture