The stream (all workshops)
On an island
on the intersection of
Washington Street and Comm Ave
sits a large square
stone monument
It is gated off from
the rest of the world
with black cast iron fencing
Grass and flowers
grow all around it
two American flags
waving in the wind
next to it
on both sides
PFC Stanley N. Kaplan
engraved into the stone
along with other symbols
and epitaphs on it
Patterns on the Wall
by: c.m. mattison
When first you awaken
to the patterns on the wall,
They'll take you down the back stairs,
they'll lead you through the hall.
Like Alice's "Wonderland"
falling down a hole;
Then back through the looking glass,
in search of your soul!
And who could tell by looking,
at those patterns on the wall
That it really never mattered,
no, it mattered not at all?
blowing strong winds
a Jersey City King of Kings
everything . . . to cast his spell
yo! papa Obatala touching tentacles
chance upon this poet on an open forum
inside Harlem Botanical shops
beating for her lost voodoo box
enshroud earth, Virgo oils and pearls
adorn the day happen on
present Oshun crystal mojo, Vodka, chicken wings and Russian suicide writers
© 2011 Lepadah
At my grandfather’s
final resting place
lays an oval shaped
white marble headstone
looking as if it belongs in
Arlington National Cemetery
This slab of carved stone
marks many of the things
that have happened
during my grandfather’s life
including his date of birth
as well as his death
Among other things
it marks his service
in World War II
with the Sea Bees
of the United States Army
His career as a
founder and owner
of his own newspaper
with the moniker of “Scoop”
I've never read a Harlequin Romance
nor fucked the group-mind-think that
thought the Republican agenda
with Democratic pitch-the-dog-a-bone
and let-the tail-wag-but-say-nothing-drones
of-the-corporate empire that begat the
son of God. Jesus. How fucked up does it
have to get? And I'm lost in a bitter tea, swirling around
doomsday with nothing more to say except
that Bukowski should be raised from the dead
and piss away the last poem of the earth.
breaking bread,
breaking waves,
breaking the light
in prisms
of affection
what energy
suffuses
the moments
before
morning breaks?
a songbird lingers,
I do too.
HONEY
He slipped his number
In your hand
“A handsome man
Of sixty-two”
Said you.,
Honey.
You were only thirty-three’
You liked his Lauren and Armani
Were impressed by his Tommy
“Never saw nails so clean and shiny”
Said you
again,
honey.
“Must have loads of money…
”
That was the end of me
Now he’s screwing you
And you’re “screwing” him
Just like you screwed me
Honey.
By the way.
Did you know
I still cry over you,
Honey..
What do you stand to win?
Everything
And what will you lose?
Everything
Why challenge yourself?
It will be worth it in the end
Even though they doubt your skill?
I will prove them wrong
After all the times you failed?
I will get back up
Though you know what lies ahead?
I have gotten this far
To slay the greed of others?
To approach a dream
Why even try?
I stand win
To fall
To rise.
out here the wind knows all the names
of gesture
and shadows swallow the blue that
cries from the vaulted crown of night
swathed in fire
we creatures stir
awake from ghost dreams
with plans itching in our souls
the blacktop drearygrounds
spun in neon and skin
like the last tail
of sin to wash away the
sunwet kisses
ribbons of velvet darkness
and course street laughter
canyons of fear
deep and falling
forever
A strap of yellow with words of black should tell you that something's about to happen
But you're never around to see that any way, not many see that side
This place is a grey area, but arguments are welcome; we like to hear people out.
Welcome to a different side of the moon, a side you could only guess at before and might never understand
Still you’re here, so that’s encouraging
Maybe you’ll be the one to close your eyes and see me today.
This is my world where all are crazy and some have ink in their veins
Pages
(c) Neopoet.com. No copyright is claimed by Neopoet to original member content.