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On the pains, travails, and joys of writing poetry

poet Anonymous

New Year's Wish (I Hope that the Bard Might Approve)

Some might call it absurd:
I’m in bondage to words—
I get off on the words that I write!
Just a masochist nerd
grinding parchment with verbs
Jacking off in iambic delight!

…But sometimes anapest
when I fancy a jest
In my mind’s eye, a hot dominatrix
And she’s always undressed
but for bustiered breasts
And a whip, just to cover the basics!

Any verse that is free
doesn’t do it for me—
For I crave the strict rhythm and rhyme
Either rude repartee
or a ball-busting knee—
A tight poesy screws with my mind!

My more ludicrous bent
that requires I vent
Fascination with pencil and penis
For a fetish that’s meant
to transcend my consent
To castration of balls, but not genius!

A trochee written for
a girlfriend who is bored
With a boyfriend who’s under-endowed
And her wish that his drawers
held a cock big as Thor’s
I admit is just ground over-ploughed.

It is not much ado,
nor a taming of shrew
But I hope that The Bard might approve
Everyone likes a screw
so the words that I spew
Are designed to arouse and amuse!

Too much whisky and beer
knocks me flat on my rear
And by midnight I’ll be fast asleep
So I'll wish you good cheer
to ring in the New Year…
I’ll be fucking, not counting, those sheep!

May you each get more than you deserve in the coming New Year!

poet Anonymous

Poor Marlene

These are the birds  
that do not fly  
my compulsion to write  
huddled on this bough  
wings clipped
and frozen in time  
baring the mask
I dare not defy  
For I shall not play your  
social game  
competing with  
I’ll read yours  
if you’ll read mine  
or juggle my heart  
through some maze of minds  
when my soul knows  
it’s safer  
to snuggle inside  
like poor Marlene  
watching the snow  
create a silence  
of its own
poet Anonymous

Morning glory

Morning glory..
Mourning my glory..    
   
Falling from the Burj storey..                      
What would happen to this bag of bones in a human body?          
      
I compose this for the symphony..            
 To console my vainglory..                            
Lost in my train of thoughts struggling to turn pages..                            
Like the sages gone for ages..          
   
By Morning glory..    
Am Mourning my glory..        

So by Morning glory..
Am mourning in glory..   
 
poet Anonymous

THE BLANK PAGE

there was not a word in me  
not a syllable  

nothing  

i'd been scraping what i could  
from the very bottom  
picking at scabs  
running my fingers  
over scar tissue  
 
remembering  
 
anticipating  
 
still...  
 
maybe i'd used it up  
 
maybe it never existed  
 
who the fuck did i think i was anyway?  
Dylan Thomas?  
 
shit.  
 
i walked to the sink  
and stared at my face  
in the mirror  
 
i looked tired  
 
"what the hell,"  
i thought.  
"Geezus!"
poet Anonymous

The Last Laugh

 
I knew from the start
this poem was nothing but trouble
It left my washing
on the line in the rain
burnt my breakfast
chose a dirty shirt by mistake
and made me late for work
again

The second verse
was never a favourite of mine
It proved peskier than the first
and my boss was not amused
by the demands it made
when he caught me canoodling out loud
wasting valuable company time

Infatuated over lunch
and during a testy
train ride home
a horde of phantom phrases
spawned blizzards of word confetti
causing temporary blindness
while I missed my stop
and almost fatal results
as I carelessly crossed the road

In poet dreamland
one session's always enough
to write and edit the final draft
of even the mightiest ode
but this little brat
kept me up all night
until at last we agreed to sleep
on the title
it finally chose
poet Anonymous

Blind Mentalities

His peevish eyes were gliding lines,
bereft the meaning due
So closed of mind, he misdefines,
opinions thick as glue
and somewhere 'mid a biased glean,
between his jaded quips,
the meanings there are left unseen
like blackened manuscripts.

His tattered diction speaks of shade
upon neglected words
where meanings penned are misconveyed
as points are massacred
and 'mid his mind, beneath the bone,
a barren land is born,
an ebon place he walks alone
as understanding mourns.

His boredom curbed by hateful jest
as envy guides his hand,
just arrogance he manifests
when comprehension's damned.
An effort plyed in ignorance
as sullied ink is laid.
So blind to layered eloquence,
intelligence betrayed.

His hateful words, but written brands
that cauterize the joy.
They shake the pens 'mid poet's hands
in effort to destroy.
Their artistry embibing eyes
with meaning oft foregone,
a blindness born in full disguise
lest understanding dawn.

As such, his squinting eyes abide
the target 'neath their view.
A heartless soul unsatisfied
with ev'ry curlicue.
He rants above the soulful poem,
his notions quite absurd,
just echoes 'mid the catacomb
as voices go unheard.....
poet Anonymous

Swinging & Dinging

I've acquired the same epiphany as Donald "Duck" Matthews
Our core must suffer more in order to wear an artist's shoes
Infused with heartache and pain to become great writers
Finding comedy within tragedy as well as sides that're brighter

Gotta be a fighter and inspirerer through bouts of life
Through the rounds of turmoil and strife that're rife
Back stabbed with a knife can cause icesicles to form
Engulfing a heart that no longer wants to conform

Storms can change us if we don't consciously reflect
Every action has a reaction; it's the cause and effect
Sanity ejects when psychological jets begin to descend
Gotta keep swinging 'til the final bell is dinging at the end
poet Anonymous

Poetry is a dish best served

 
over the course of an evening  
for guests to savor
---be digested in liesure  
suited fashion  
where the line at the  
all-you-can-treat
buffet becomes blurred
as diners are the chefs
in their own way  
finishing your plates  
without being asked  
 
They are the ones tasked  
after all; you do not cut, chew  
and swallow their food for them  
 
nor do you conjure up associations  
or the sensations washed down  
with libations of joyfulled elations  
and ephinephrined epiphanies  
 
So it comes as no surprise  
these same people over easily  
leggo the Eggo wafflings  
popping out of your toaster oven  
often in a hurry for the front door  
 
When having gotten their scarfs on  
I certainly wouldn't want my  
readers to linger in the foyer  
quickly forgetting such measley  
mealings as hastily prepared  
as such are  
 
 
poet Anonymous

When Poetry was an art

 
Instead of having cups of coffee  
and conversations these days  
perhaps due to being so busy  
minding our own busy-ness  
we tend to holler across grainy  
monitored fields of Internet, Hey!
This is my life at the moment!
 
 
Technology has introduced us  
to more people across the planet-  
ary landscape than we can physic-  
ally connect with one-on-one  
 
And while such is a wonderful arena  
for poets aiming to bounce their craft  
off public walls in rubber ball fashion  
when finetuning writing techniques  
 
it's in the best interest of your readers  
that you don't confuse them with  
friends, associates, followers --- whatever  
you prefer to call those other people  
picking away at the low hanging fruits  
of your app'led-orchard Facebook page  
 
because as already established  
Life is being lived by those  
out in the real world  
and not online 24/7  
/365  
 
Does anyone actually giving a damn  
about you ( and your poetry )  
have the time to be mired in a boggy  
blog of ambiguous mumblings  
informing people about what  
may be going on in your life?  
 
Or to suffer through long-winded  
rants metaphorically directed  
at particular individuals  
( supposedly existant )  
you're trying to shame  
( because you somehow feel more  
engaging with a war helmet on  
when spouting off )  
but won't name?  
 
Seriously  
couldn't you just post a selfie?  
 
At least then  
we could voluntarily zoom  
in at our own discretion  
to more thoroughly examine  
and determine for ourselves  
what THAT trivial pursuit might be  
stuck in your craw  
( spinach ..? popcorn ..? )  
that you're trying to spit out  
 
Please.  
 
Consider being more considerate  
---don't expect everyone  
to drop what they are doing  
walk all the way across the room  
street, parking lot, block, or office  
and besiege you with requests  
for clarification because of  
an inability to be forthright and honest  

cravings for attention  

or you simpl[e mindedl]y  
had another brainfart  
 
I guess what I'm trying to say is  
There was a time when  
Poetry was an art
 
 
Now? I'm not so sure  
 
 
 
poet Anonymous

The Dark Age of Literature

 
Enough!  
   
Dispense with these    
feudal attempts; your poetry    
is not up to snuff    
   
Get it through your head    
---I am a dragon!    
 
Not in the business    
of blowing smoke up your ass;    
   
here to light a fire    
under it instead    
   
 
poet Anonymous

For All the World to See

Shall I wonder
if you smile or laugh
Will I cry
if you fail to understand
or find meaning
deeper than my intent
Do I care
if you stumble upon truth
discover riches I did not own
or worry over lines
whether they be art
or entertainment
No, not I
for when the poet fool
pens words to the wise
his heart already knows
'tis but expression
softly beguiling the soul
















 
poet Anonymous

Deep Cuts

.
.
.
.

I come from a time when we delved deep
Into a band’s L.P., Cassette, or C.D.
There was a ritual to opening a package
Then listening to an album in its entirety

The radio friendly hits were like appetizers
Songs which raised interest and curiosity
But an album gave a complete perspective
Discovering a recording artists’ virtuosity

In these deep cuts you’d uncover their talent
Compositions that displayed magical ingenuity
Hard work and passion poured onto projects
Into sessions where they showed creativity

I still dive into works that are not so popular
In awe of their brilliant musical abilities
I’m not a connoisseur but come from a time
When discovering music had many possibilities
poet Anonymous

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