Talking:
Blab, babble, chat.
So money does, they say.
But bullsh*t walks they other way.
Ole!
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Talking:
Blab, babble, chat.
So money does, they say.
But bullsh*t walks they other way.
Ole!
ole!
margaritas!
cha cha and bachata
as we poets dance a tango
of words
Of words
I shall discourse.
And if you but retort,
It's called, politely, "intercourse."
Discuss!
discuss!
sure, if we must
and lust for homework giv'n
though nunneries might well rebuff
i trust
I trust,
The money read.
But when the bust up came,
They dusted off their cuffs and said:
God's dead.
"God's dead"
the naysayers said
with their head in the sand
just look around at creation's
wonder
Wonder's
An expression
Childhood never questions.
Adult repression cannot now
Guess how.
Guess how
the goddesses
messing and healing there
tease me with gentleness, torment
and care.
And care,
So we are told,
Is less than hope or faith,
But for me somehow, it never
Grows old.
Grows old
but cannot die,
at least not yet. That’s why
the rainbow left me wet: to dry,
forget.
forget
not Darby, Joan
they drank the summer wine
tho' love & devotion were etched
in time
In time,
So life reveals,
All of our wounds are healed.
But the cobbler cries that time wounds
All heels.
all heels
satan seeks smite
turning our light to night,
our love to hate, and our peace to
peril
Peril--
These straits are dire.
We're over a barrel.
Frying pan? Fire? To which shall we
Aspire?
aspire
lest ye expire
into a stagnant pool
of boorishness and slothfulness
desire
Desire
Is cupid's barb,
Who, barely garbed, inspires
To stupor chaste and marble saints
By feints.
By feints
we kept it hid
then we forgave. We did
release our fearful slave, got rid
of it.
Of it,
Of course, I've heard.
I've thought it, done it, but
I dare not speak the dire "F-word":
Free verse!
Free verse!
Is something worse?
Should I rehearse a rhyme
to curse the gods who tolerate
free verse?
Free verse?
Nay, mull and nurse:
Eschew prosaic mess!
Torture the meter till your poems
Confess.
Confess
They do until
They’re through and I as well
Confess and tell my lies to all
Through rhyme.
Through rhyme
An act concludes,
A bawdy bum is rude,
A sonnet soars to love untold
Through prose.
Through prose
I used to speak
my mind till finding that
with rhyme I leak less sense to those
I meet.
I meet
Her in the dark
Our faces marked with care
Our hearts held to ourselves against
Despair
Despair,
Delusions of
The opposites of care
When we stay dulled and unaware
By fright.
By fright
A child's delight
At autumn's chill is piqued
As winter comes, though, every fear
Grows bleak.
Grows bleak--
The winter wilts
my will. I’ll speak, then I
will keep my opened eyes awake
and peek.
And peek
At a fairy
If you dare take a dare:
Glamor denuded reverts to
Nightmare.
Nightmare,
delightware, and
low-down uptightware have
made me start wondering what do
I care?
I care!
Damn it, I care!
About your sad affair,
About your dirty underwear.
Please share!
Please share?
The night was dark.
Without good light I was
So unaware because nothing
Was there.
Was there?
Then was there not?
The buttercup is dead,
Yet lingers on the song of sounds
Unsaid.
Unsaid
but not unthought.
What’s said in silence is
still led through words that play more than
they ought.
They ought,
These thoughts, to know
That silence is the cost,
And when love's lost, though gold, it turns
To dross.
To dross,
but still a win?
Perhaps a lovely sin?
I’m tempted now to pick the cards
again.
Again?
I think it's been
A day since our night of
Unoriginal sin. Okay,
You win.
You win.
I’ve won and sin
is overcome within
recycled with the rest then done
again.
Again?
We'll soon run out
Of things that rhyme with sin.
Let's ban the word, mein Irisch Kind.
Begin!
Begin,
began, begun.
Though fun, she said she’s done.
There’s nothing left for me to do
but run.
"But run,
Paramour mine!"
Quoth Circe, who reclined
On skins of tiger, fox, ermine--
And swine!