The stream (all workshops)
If I was a zombie and still wrote poetry
it would be filled with shuffling feet and stumble just like me
Like me, it would have little meaning
and irritate like low pitched keening
It would wander aimlessly.....about
on reading it most folks would SHOUT
then run away in private fear
that such a thing had gotten near
I suspect typos would run rife
from fingers now devoid of life
at least I would have an excuse
for all of my present miscues
The kids are failing.
I work with them after school
once a week, at least
the most I've ever been scheduled is
four times in one week,
this week.
Now there's a big fat paycheck
of forty dollars,
not taking away taxes.
My job is to help with homework
and walk the kids down
to their lockers and classrooms,
respectively,
so they have what they need.
Some of them need a stable figure in their lives.
Those that do don't get one.
................................................................... _ " "
quote tracing bush path empty apathy
the cheapest house available empathy
of federal concrete pitch impeaching
> < x
opposite worn shoes idiosyncrasy
power to forgotten eagle eyes
flight tattered gaze gazelle
/ undetermined by outcast
fish out lightening to cul-de-sac
weary and nodding vehemently boisterous
opera tenuous vociferous
I am drawn into
the flowers form,
its petals curl
as a colour purls
with gentleness,
through the shreds
of my ripped heart
Evidence of decay
is tinged to its glisten
to last just one more day
is its only mission
This is a bloom
being finally set free
from living each day
nature’s own mortality
inhaling light as air
picking Lichenroot there on her walk
insect-lonely,
she watches the stiff verdant boughs
lit by dawn beneath the wild rose sky
tonight she’ll warm Moonhoney
in her brew of Lichenroot and Whispergrass
and finally exhale
Today I don't feel so good,
Let me live like a man in the midst
of being hit by a bullet train,
screaming deformed last wishes
to the rails that speak in the scatter-brained ecstasy of orange sparks.
Let me wash away the grease of
money that soaks through the skin
forming obtruse deposits that replace
the marrow of each bone
until one wakes up as the sun hits first skyscrapers
in the horizon watching as the dollar rises
over your forehead, over your friends,
over your city.
She didn't own a gun;
had never even pulled a trigger,
but this would be of little consequence
given the short range from the target.
A pattern sprayed across the wall
from the brush of a painter
gone lazy with achievement
casting the silhouette of a ghost
onto the hurried concrete
to be outlined with chalk
starting a game of hopscotch.
Passers-by tossing bits of skull
with fragments of hair
and brains still attached;
skipping and hopping with a skill
that says
Love is
the beauty in poetry
the fire of desire
as two souls unfold
Love is
emotion in devotion
sacrifice and commitment
the strength supporting a union
Love is
sweet surrender.
You need find another gender
and then defend her.
Do we hear their call
when they bloom to get noticed
craving to say Hi
Do we hear their call
when they sway on gentle breeze
in colorful frocks
Do we hear their call
when they flirt with butterflies
in a play full dance
Do we hear their call
in their mute prayers and songs
in wreaths and bouquets
Do we hear their call
when in silence they emote
a tiny dew drop
Do we hear their call
while they bid us their goodbyes
and fade from our lives
darling shutter
grieve flick
the luminous slick
voice
rain falling
the vortex ground
capturing the stutter
glimpse extension
you gimme captures
for captivity
mono
chromatic
emphasis
startling breaths
stained
in the hues
and vivid
depictions
sleep heart against
heart
in rooms of strangeness
dreams
roaming
wireless
searching
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