April The Joy of reading and writing poetry

           
             
             
             
             
this brush (call it fifty)            
dripping enamel            
gloss              
oil based              
dark and sultry              
             
that brush              
(call it nine)            
soaked acrylic              
matte            
light              
vibrant            
             
a third brush            
(call it two)            
damp            
in soft hues            
watercolor              
infused            
       
and fifty so dedicated to nine            
found steel              
to mark with fine lines            
meticulous              
care              
with a thick, shiny              
glare      
            
nine         
so in awe of two         
dedicated      
impressionistic          
canvas      
       
and two      
painted a landscape              
in soft pale blue      
waves upon newsprint         
gifted to fifty            
the sea view            
             
while in the city          
nine arrived with fifty
whose eyes locked in two           
they stood in the gallery          
thinking          
why    
just why    
does nobody love me?  
 
 
 
 
.
             
 

 

"the best often die by their own hand
just to get away,
and those left behind
can never quite understand
why anybody
would ever want to
get away
from
them"  - Charles Bukowski (Cause And Effect)
 
 
 .
 

 
I heard the twitter-tattle
of your life choice  
the opinionated self-righteous
calling "coward" to the wind
-smiled at the irony of one
to damn fearful to admit
they've continued the same
process of degrading
towards  
the after-life, dammit!
 
Thought of Marie Antoinette  
wishing people without bread
would just eat cake!  
 
In that moment, that moment
evolution ruled the calling to end  
your pain ridden heart
I imagined you smiled
a deep, calm, beautiful,  
smile of relief, with the  
last remaining
 
-breath .
 

 
 
Respect!
 
 
 
 

        
       
       
put pen to paper        
strip the ego        
breathe        
intended words        
slipping emotions        
with devotion        
       
writing        
is a personal moment        
time for self reflection      
to gift your voice        
of reason        
if you do it often enough        
the air in your lungs        
exhale "lines"        
while blood is pumping        
metaphors        
you'll find yourself        
personifying doors        
        
editing        
is like the sun        
the more you stand        
the warmer you'll get        
proof reading        
is a necessity        
it's the best school        
words can get        
       
poems        
are never finished        
the more you work them        
the closer they get        
they're there to find a mind        
to relate and        
become        
their friend        
as you lay the words out        
respect the reader's eye        
and give 'em some humanity        
before they say      
goodbye        
   
ask a person kind enough        
to read        
and tell you how they feel        
say "thank you very much"        
while using their view    
as a review        
trying the ideas they throw        
at you        
       
       
.        
       
       
you'll see a gray bearded chap        
arrive        
revving        
a chrome shone Chevy        
you'll call him old        
think he's a dork        
for the words he writes        
land like a fork        
-use the time to write some lines        
about how he is a tree        
with branches full of leaves        
where each is an experience        
that teaches        
learns        
and breathes        
       
then        
when you're done        
       
-just write again!        
       
       
       
       
       
       
       
       
       
       
 

  
 
hold onto your knickers, this may roar  
 
   
   
   
Some things are underground for a reason  
Much mush  
pretty make up  
and half dressed    
mannequins  
have throughout history    
tried to turn    
the hardest    
of the underground movements  
into pretty-tinsel-laced  
e v e r y d a y  
environments  
It makes    
as much fucking sense as    
Michael Jackson  
being headmaster    
of kindergarten  
   
So while you read this  
thinking  
"yes but"  
I'm sorry  
-NO!  
If you're wanting to hear  
"hit me baby one more time"  
expect an axe guitar to the temple  
   
There are a million  
commercial    
pretty poetry websites  
There are thousands of  
publishers willing  
to print    
your wrecking ball  
   
But only one fucking  
underground  
that welcomes  
your cutting poem  
your sex change  
your death wish  
your hard core  
your heartache  
your heavy  
the love  
and the    
dark in  
YOU!  
   
Now I'm not saying pop  
shouldn't feature as an  
appetizing act  
I am saying  
we can't turn  
a death metal festival  
into grandma's  
peach-panty-tea'party  
    
While Karen  
and Justin    
arrive putting    
vases of daises  
on the toilet cistern    
-a mirror ball above the mic  
and a crop top on the drum kit  
   
pull out your leathers  
hold true to your heart  
swap it out  
for a skull coffin    
filled with    
black-fucking-roses  
   
Hold your own truth  
-apple pie  
has no place    
in suspenders  
and chastity devices!  
   
   
   
paint your love, in poetry as our forefathers did, but do it, just do it the underground way  
   
   
   
< end rant >  
   
 

 
Everyone remembers their first times
Some are sweeter than others
And many are unforgettable
 
A first kiss
A first dance
The first you saw that one person
You knew would change your world
 
These and so many memorable moments
Stay inside you
Dormant one minute
Awaked the next
When I hear Roberta’s song
I’m taken back
Closing my eyes
Remembering fondly those first times
 
Those first times
They quickly come and go
But some
Linger deep in the heart
 
 
61 Unique Words
82 Total Words