this is great too!Quote:
Originally Posted by alakungfu
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this is great too!Quote:
Originally Posted by alakungfu
thanks Il Penseroso :)Quote:
Originally Posted by Il Penseroso
Whirly
Twirly
Swirly
Curly
I am
A pretty Girly :)
Thank you, Riesa. :blush:Quote:
Originally Posted by Riesa
Though this is published in the "weird poetry" section, I wanted to say that it flows beautifully, and there is even something Hendrix-ish about it, if I may compliment you in this fashion. :nod:Quote:
A Wasp Brings Music in Spring Clouds
A day like today with all of the windows thrown wide,
a new wasp near the rim, appearing to want out,
the window open so near, it seems a trick, as he somehow overlooks the exit.
I spatula him out.
The new wasp, lost, with no thought of life, but to life,
Caught on new blooms, the clouds and the wind,
the wind won’t stop, nor its music in clouds.
To play music would act against the wind,
would disturb the look of the clouds turning in on themselves,
no music, but a new wasp’s wings, the clouds, and the wind.
The wind sings of long-ago hills, a wild queen riding bareback,
breathing crushed clover and sunned horse,
running heavy and relentless as a mountain falling,
past the hut of an old mountain man,
an old man living on raspberry tea,
keeping warm by the blaze of peacock feathers,
the blazing eye of peacock tails, his mirror.
Sleeping in a circle of mushrooms,
dreaming of wild queens,
haikai on his tongue, like health.
A wasp lands in his tea and drowns.
No music on a day like today, but the wind sings of
the pallor of winter, the sorrow that strays over all endings,
no matter how anticipated, or welcomed.
In hours like these, nothing means more than the lyrics of clouds.
No cars,
light coming up
with the radio-
Lenny’s here, really here.
Do you cry
when you play him,
where the fret moves into the music box?
I dance inside,
sometimes I risk it driving—
bow my head and shake
where the clear notes sound tenor up the neck,
bass in a tin can like a kick
oh my!
Muffin for my sweetheart—butter me—
whiskey’s too early, but those cigarettes
sleep in my heart like a snare vibrating
in the red rising sky, coffee me, it’s all I’ve got
left.
Here now, people come and go,
Lenny’s low loud lingering me in the parking lot—
I can’t leave you in this radio,
staring into the space behind the world,
your fingers walking like yellow pages—
not for sweet love or even neat coffee.
March 2009
Aloft
Light
And
Urgent
Grazing
Hummingbirds
The constancy of youth
Prompts the eons of their truth
And renders beneficial
The ranks of celebrated ritual.
The fortitude of chastity
Weaves a rustling rhapsody
That salvages the reputation
Lost in a tippling libation.
The essence of response
Is chagrin when more than once,
Because time will not tarry
And we're lost after we marry.
The cost of peccadilloes
Is the tax of waning paramours,
Missing when you reach them
And innocent if you teach them.
Provocative vulnerability
Spewing from
Groomed tendrils
and costumes
and accessories
Tenderly outfitted
Premature felines
Frisk freely
or haunt the sidelines
headily
In the prime
Of their attractive
Natures
tares from
the frumpy mousetrappers
Waiting in their
Round middle-section-
Pampered frames.
Too kewpie;
cutie coos,
"What's to become
Of you?"
Cultured fantasies
Have a proclivity of the eclectic,
Tend forth a frenzy
In fear of the apopleptic,
Hold down a bazaar
Of serially typecasting
Living to breathe
And wanting what's lasting.
Occupy a stage
Where the hot theme is roasting
Ferocious likenesses
In genres politely riposting;
Occurring in positives,
Preventative denial
before the mercury deadpans
Quickly scares up the dial.
The excitement will cconfounnd you
In your regalia of conceptions
And muddle your perspectives
With your tinctures of deceptions.
The drama will afford you
Opportunities and disaffections
And a timetable's worth
Of disavowals and exemptions.
The wiser for experience
Without a doubt
But never much closer
To crass tedium's antidote.
Rule Number One:
Jump the gun;
Rule Number Two:
No rest-cue;
Rule Number Three:
Rut in glee;
Rule Number Four:
Work the floor;
Rule Number Five:
Toast of the town live;
Rule Number Six:
Internet flicks;
Rule Number Seven:
"Motional revvin':
Rule Number Eight:
Watching walls undulate'
Rule Number Nine:
Crashing dates refined;
Rule Number Ten:
In denial again.
Here I was, about to stake everything
on one card
when it dawned
on me
that the game was off
and the philosopher butterfly wasn't circling me
because he liked my hair
but to defend his territory
and he tumbled on and looked for someone
else to defend it against.
Superpeople move mountain
flashy *****slap the terrorist threat
with lightning palms red skin or surging
with the coolness of the toothy dead
the smily happy blooddrinkers,
shoot me round corners back to the capital
before breakfast, arm flying up boldly Yo ho!
Dayday kungfu practice makes us supremely ultimate
eight hour training is best
or cybernetic enhancement perhaps, having money,
also taking lots of super drugs
better to test first on people, be nice to animals.
But watching magic wonderbattles
soft in pleasant couchdom
only needs cost/energy of lifting a finger
or by online subscription or download.
***** like butch, but itchier.
refer to my post in personal poetry, all my works are really weird
Dear Sir,
when you are finished pondering
man, language and the question
of free will,
could you please remind the person
that goes by your name that the one
who goes by mine is a concrete
entity bounded in time and space,
the time being here,
the space being now
for any value of IF.
Or, in conclusion,
this is you and me,
with probability on the horizon
and my question is "yes."