Guy lives down the street from me

[PrinceMyshkin]

Guy lives down the street from me
so queer he makes most politicians
look straight.

Not talking about his sexuality:
in fact I can’t imagine him doing it
with guys or girls or bicycles!

Dreadlocks thick as young oak trees
down to his a*s*s*
and the habit of touching each tree trunk
as he walks by.

Something surly in his eyes,
or lost.
I hesitate to smile at him
lest that might violate his privacy.


Jerry Newman © June 9, 2007

[ampoule]

Jerry Jerry Jerry. It's strange that I am reading this here for I just posted a favorite poem in the poetry section way up there at the top (beginning section) of the forums.
Have you ever seen 'As Good As It Gets'?

You have certainly painted a vivid picture of this guy and if I were to visit you, I would recognize him right away.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Jerry Jerry Jerry. It's strange that I am reading this here for I just posted a favorite poem in the poetry section way up there at the top (beginning section) of the forums.
Have you ever seen 'As Good As It Gets'?

You have certainly painted a vivid picture of this guy and if I were to visit you, I would recognize him right away.

"As Good as it Gets"? Jack Nicholson? Helen Hunt? That one? With that gloriously funny moment when Nicholson arrives at his habitual restaurant, finds people seated at his usual table and exclaims in outraged amazement: "There are Jews at my table!"

Cracked me effing up!

Not sure which poem you're referring to though I looked for it.

[ampoule]

Under Favorite poem
Under Poems, Poets, & Poetry
Under Reading
Under Literature Network Forums

Way up there near that religious text thingy. ;)

[motherhubbard]

I see this fellow with a colorful wardrobe and a rhythm in his step. He seems almost familiar to me. What a vivid image you have created.

I touch the trees as I pass them. I touch most things, really. I enjoy texture with an almost, well, naughty delight. Maybe that’s why I enjoy your poem.

[PrinceMyshkin]

I see this fellow with a colorful wardrobe and a rhythm in his step. He seems almost familiar to me. What a vivid image you have created.

I touch the trees as I pass them. I touch most things, really. I enjoy texture with an almost, well, naughty delight. Maybe that’s why I enjoy your poem.



Touch is the noun and verb of the heart.
Not all the words that you or I
can murmur, sing or shout
-–hoarse with eloquence, mad
with truth--words that beseech
or beckon or command,
can equal the touch,
in passing, of a friendly hand.


J. Newman © 2006

[NikolaiI]

Ha, both great poems. I love especially the rhyming of the second one. I think non-exact rhyming (I don't know another term for it?) is the greatest thing English poetry has to offer.

[symphony]

Touch is the noun and verb of the heart.
Not all the words that you or I
can murmur, sing or shout
-–hoarse with eloquence, mad
with truth--words that beseech
or beckon or command,
can equal the touch,
in passing, of a friendly hand.
wow :)

[Virgil]

Touch is the noun and verb of the heart.
Not all the words that you or I
can murmur, sing or shout
-–hoarse with eloquence, mad
with truth--words that beseech
or beckon or command,
can equal the touch,
in passing, of a friendly hand.


J. Newman © 2006

That is excellent Prince. I really like that. Is that a standing poem or part of some other?

[PrinceMyshkin]

That is excellent Prince. I really like that. Is that a standing poem or part of some other?

Self-standing poem and one that I wrote with joy.

[Pendragon]

Your first poem brought back a memory. About three years back, an Australian Aborigine hiked through here, a fine big strong man, wearing nothing but a long loincloth of denim. He had two dogs with him that carried his packs. That man could make time, I tell you. But he smiled, and often touched the trees, he drank from the creeks, and I saw him eating nuts beside the highway. I had to go about 150 miles one way that day and back, and passed him twice. He’d covered almost 60 miles, and looked as fresh as a daisy. I knew he wouldn’t accept rides, because he’d turned me down. There was something like a big child about the man, though I knew he had to be at least 40.

Good poem, Jer!

Pen

http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/Smilies/PuppyLove.gif

[PrinceMyshkin]

Your first poem brought back a memory. About three years back, an Australian Aborigine hiked through here, a fine big strong man, wearing nothing but a long loincloth of denim. He had two dogs with him that carried his packs. That man could make time, I tell you. But he smiled, and often touched the trees, he drank from the creeks, and I saw him eating nuts beside the highway. I had to go about 150 miles one way that day and back, and passed him twice. He’d covered almost 60 miles, and looked as fresh as a daisy. I knew he wouldn’t accept rides, because he’d turned me down. There was something like a big child about the man, though I knew he had to be at least 40.

Good poem, Jer!

Pen

http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/Smilies/PuppyLove.gif

Thanks and I'd be happy to see it if you made a poem out of this wonderful vignette.

[firefangled]

Guy lives down the street from me
so queer he makes most politicians
look straight.

Not talking about his sexuality:
in fact I can’t imagine him doing it
with guys or girls or bicycles!

Dreadlocks thick as young oak trees
down to his a*s*s*
and the habit of touching each tree trunk
as he walks by.

Something surly in his eyes,
or lost.
I hesitate to smile at him
lest that might violate his privacy.


Jerry Newman © June 9, 2007

Maybe we all have someone as you describe who has daily passed us. I lived in Boulder for awhile in the 70's and every morning I went to Mother's Cafe to have coffe and breakfast. Every day there was a Rastafarian who came about the same time and sipped coffee at the counter. He would occasionally look over at me or the others in the cafe as if we were to him equally strange.

Paul Simon called this person the Most Peculiar Man. You have painted a much more flesh and blood portrait, very much, as Ampoule has observed, to the Vinegar Man and Pen's Aborigine.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Would there be heaven if there were no hell?
And God minus Satan would not show so well
as He does against his evil twin
extricated from him like the rib
from Adam’s side.

The believers scratch their messages
on Heaven’s gate
But a voice from within calls out eternally:
“Wait! Wait!”

[ampoule]

Would there be heaven if there were no hell?
And God minus Satan would not show so well
as He does against his evil twin
extricated from him like the rib
from Adam’s side.

The believers scratch their messages
on Heaven’s gate
But a voice from within calls out eternally:
“Wait! Wait!”


I like this, but I have to admit, once I read the first two lines, I wanted the rest to rhyme. Wonderful, thought provoking line, "And God minus Satan would not show so well"

[PrinceMyshkin]

An iron economy governs us all.
You, who measure each cent,
will have nothing in the end.
While you, who are outwardly profligate


--who spend and spend: money and time
and love--and count nothing lost,
will have hearts that are in balance,
and joy without cost.

J. Newman Sudden Proclamations © 1992