Poetry to Ponder

Haiku #1

2010-06-25T14:49:00.000-07:00

Get rhythm, sad man.
The blues ain't good for your bones.
Tap your foot and smile.

Maybe

2009-12-27T20:03:00.001-08:00

Maybe I’ll stick around
And let you see it all
Maybe you’ll still be down
And be there when I fall

One day, maybe
One day, baby

If you stay long enough
You will surely see
My bad parts
My mad parts
My sad parts
My had parts

I promise I’m the same
The one you gave your name to
I promise I’m the one
The one you gave your life to
I promise I’ll be good
I promise I’ll do right
I promise I’ll be fair
I promise not to fight

Just stay with me tonight
Please stay with me tonight

Maybe you’ll stick around
And ache at what you see
Maybe I’ll see you frown
Then walk out on me

One day, maybe
One day, baby

If I stay long enough
You will surely see
My bad parts
My mad parts
My sad parts
My had parts

Just stay with me tonight
Please stay with me tonight

Bondage

2009-09-26T16:44:00.001-07:00

Who snuffed the light from your dying soul?
Why have you given the enemy control?

He seeps with vile deceit into your thoughts,
“You’re undesirable in your own thin skin,
So immutably broken in your vat of sin.
Keep comfort in your “living” den---
Away from people
I’ll be your friend.”

Who snuffed the light from your dying soul?
Why have you given the enemy control?

Once Upon A Nappy Time

2009-06-24T19:54:00.000-07:00

Once upon a nappy time,
In my kindergarten prime,
Each and every single day,
I was forced to silently and stilly lay,
Upon a mat stiff as a rock,
With one curious eye open,
Staring at the blackboard chalk.

Once upon a nappy time,
In my kindergarten prime,
I could never, ever fall asleep,
Nor could I even make a peep,
For the entire silent bit,
I “zippered” my mouth shut,
Unless I had to take a shit.

Once upon a crappy time,
In my Corporate America prime,
I drank tasteless coffee,
And ate the stale office toffee,
I dealt with the ignorant populace,
And gossiped with the office staff,
And in complaining found pseudo-solace.

Once upon a crappy time,
In my Corporate America prime,
I ordered office supplies each week,
Wondering how my life had turned so bleak.
I dreamt about a life other than my own,
Of a life in which stress did not abound,
And most of my day was not spent on the phone.

Him

2009-03-01T11:11:00.000-08:00

He has a tiny mole above the left side of his lip.
And when he gets excited, he chews the inside of his cheek.
He is a master of sarcasm--
When he has something clever to say,
the right side of his mouth curls up
like he is trying to imitate Elvis.
His chest is oddly misshapen.
I could eat Cheerios out of it if I wanted to.

Without his ribs cradling my back at night,
I almost feel naked.
His legs are lean and lanky,
but I feel secure when he wraps them around my body.
I do not have to wonder about all of this,
for i have inhaled him countless times.
And I feel alive.

For Mr. Harrison

2009-03-01T11:07:00.000-08:00

I hear that Mother Nature's son has passed along,
and as my tears mingle with the shower's rain,
I want to devour the soap impression I've made
of him on the tiles with my fingertips.

I have been living with my eyes closed--
Yes, I have,
and so I must fix this hole where the rain
sometimes gets in
because
it is not dying
but
it is knowing
that we are all only sleeping,
waiting for the game existence to end.

**I tried something different with this poem; I used lyrics from Beatle's songs for most of the composition, except lines 2 and 4 are mine.**

Nude Mood

2009-02-28T19:36:00.000-08:00

Pause and take a moment to ruminate
On your first acquaintance with the earth.
Yes, indeed, may I illuminate
The momentous occasion of your birth!
For in that very wrinkle in time,
Not one could replace the wondrous grandeur
Of God’s magnificent, crowning design.
Eyes gazed upon you with unabashed candor.

Foreigners rushed in droves to glimpse your smooth, satin bottom.
Fingers and lips probed at your every nook and cranny.
Your mother wore a tired grin, appearing like swollen flotsam.
Perhaps she brandished a pained look due to a throbbing fanny.
Within days, you were whisked away to your new, fluid-less haven.
Positive words surrounded you like alcoholics a bottle of booze.
The one who bore you was suddenly expected to be a selfless, motherly maven!
Yet, soon fatigue and frustration set in as well as the post-baby blues.

Oh, the joys of motherhood--of being responsible for a child!
Oh, the brevity of a mindless babe so meek and so very mild!

Holiday

2009-02-28T13:45:00.000-08:00

If I could have the perfect holiday season, joy would be irrepressible and not mistaken for fleeting happiness. Peace would abound from within and not be dependent upon worldly circumstance. Self-Control would be regarded as a noble sacrifice and not a silly denial of selfish desires. Love would be a choice and not merely based on temporary infatuation. Kindness would be genuine rather than some trite nicety solely administered for selfish gain. Patience would be humble submission rather than intolerant resistance. Goodness would be heroic rather than quaint. Faithfulness would be a trusted standard rather than a rare treasure. And gentleness would speak of a strong sense of integrity rather than a weak stain upon one's character.

My Evangeline

2009-02-28T13:39:00.000-08:00

Verse 1:

My Evangeline, so sweet and true,
why'd you let him do this to you?
He's stolen the light from your big, brown eyes
and given it to the gods of disguise.
What a gorgeous tale so sad and real.
My heart grieves to hear your appeal.

Chorus:

Evangeline, oh, Evangeline
You used to be so fine.
Evangeline, oh, Evangeline
The story you tell is mine.

Verse 2:

Gentle dear, your words do pierce
an aching heart that once was fierce.
Your spark so quickly disappears
and gives way to lost hopes, birth to new fears.
Your tryst with love so divine
has dimmed your eyes that used to shine.

Repeat Chorus

Tainted Love

2009-02-28T13:37:00.000-08:00

I'm sorry for bad timing.
I'm sorry that life happens when we least expect it.
I'm sorry that people don't go away just because you lose touch.
I'm sorry that feelings don't go away because your heart locks them up tight like juicy treasure-secrets
that constantly haunt your gaping soul.
I'm sorry that obsession hurts and stings and sears.
God, I'm sorry that mistakes are made and never forgotten, but worse, never forgiven.

Paramour

2009-02-28T13:34:00.000-08:00

If you ever fall out of love with me,
please let me know
so I can let go of this aching hope
that burns my skin into my soul
that scatters the notes around this gaping hole
that once was a pulse-ridden lifesong,
a joyful relish of experiences to come,
a God-glorifying heart bursting with promise..

I'm exhausted of these awful, strife-long
years that blur into vulnerable inevitability.
Please take this from me.
Please take this from me.
Please take this from me.

Megalomaniac

2009-02-28T13:30:00.000-08:00

Your selfishness grates on my nerves
like nails on an old school chalkboard.
You're totally unaware of your
self-absorbed,
gluttonous horde--
a smorgasbord
of wasteful grunge.
Oh, how I'd love to take a sponge
and rain
on your parade--
your meaningless charade.
Then that new dew smell
can permeate your vain-ass brain.

Let the gravel drain
through a colander of humility...
then a confrontation of pain
will stimulate your ability
to finally regain
a sense of unity.

Absence

2009-02-28T13:27:00.000-08:00

She's not around anymore.
And would she ever dare
to comfort and console
your sudden swings of flare?

Does she love the sound
of your lonely pout
or does she even notice
you're completely crushed with doubt?

And if she's such the perfect fit,
why am I putting up with your shit?
It's not that I mind dealing with you,
but can I get some love and acceptance, too?

Idolatry

2009-02-28T13:25:00.000-08:00

Do you talk to me
when I am not around?
Is this just another way
for you to reach the ground
and feel the dirt between your toes
and have false comfort be your clothes
when you've got a cloak of skin
to console you in your time of sin?

I'm flattered, but the TRUTH may be,
there's nobody as AWESOME as HE;
and until you tattoo this on your brain,
your relations will be false and solely in vain.

LXXXVI

2009-02-28T13:17:00.000-08:00

How do I loathe thee? Let me count the ways:
I loathe thee for thy hobbit-like feet.
And how, when I approach, thou then retreat
Into a morbid and intoxicated daze.
I loathe thee and thy purple haze
That surrounds me throughout the night.
I loathe thee and thy obstinate might;
I loathe thee every one of my days.
I loathe thee, for thou are quite obtuse
And miss the drift when I request thou remain.
I loathe thee, though thou art my muse
And inspire my art--
I loathe thee in vain.
And though I ask myself, "What is the use?"
I cannot loathe thee to my disdain.

Peas or Mushrooms

2009-02-28T13:15:00.001-08:00

She's so indecisive.
She has this habit of pulling her hair,
and then gnawing on it some.
She closes one eye, perhaps thinking
this might enlighten her.
She pushes her finger to her lips and
hums really loud like she's meditating.
She pulls out her finger and points,
twirling it round like a witch casting a spell.
She asks what I think,
but doesn't even listen for my reply.
I hate Bonnie.

Arrested

2009-02-28T13:07:00.001-08:00

She is that phone number I dial from hearing the buttons,
not looking at them.
Her eyes opposite her mouth--
closed.
The corners are moistened as if she sliced an onion.
Her tongue is strained upward at those two hole punches of skin.
Her breasts are swollen as if she were pregnant.
They are ripe as I push my hand to her chest for support.
Her heart throbs like an infected finger.
Her back convex; her navel stretched--
The inside resembles two daisy petals.
Her stomach is a heating pad.
Her hips, small blocks of wood, knock against mine.
She digs her fingertips into my back,
pinching and making me burn hotter than candle wax.

From the Beginning to the End

2009-02-28T13:02:00.000-08:00

Beatnik, black clothes
Bette Midler was The Rose
Smoking pot and moccasins
Daisies and balling friends
Did you visit Scarborough Fair
While wearing flowers in your hair?
Stringing beads and talking rhyme
Burning incense any time
Hip huggers, platform shoes
Janis Joplin sang the blues
Poetry and guitar picks
Bob Dylan on politics
Woodstock and tie-dye
Being sober on the Sly
An Angel on a motorcycle
Arlo didn't want a pickle
A record spins The Crystal Ship
Leary invents the acid trip
Pet rocks and Stevie Nicks
Penis casts and Hendrix
Volkswagen Bug, the peace sign
When we get back, I'll drop a line

Praise the Lord for the Billboard!

2009-02-28T12:45:00.001-08:00

What’s the purpose of a prodigious sign on a stick in the air?
What’s the pull that inevitably draws the driver’s eyes up there?
Is it for the dangerous type that dares to avert his eyes from the road?
Or does it serve to distract the passenger from his alluring urge to drop a load?
At the next Krystal Burger commode?
Perhaps this towering placard is to serve as a pretentious proposal to the one he adores.
Or to showcase the next town’s “finest” whores.
Maybe this public posting would predict, “If you’d flown Baton Rouge, you’d be home by now.”
Suppose a self-righteous church sign should depict a judgment on the small-town lowbrow.
At any rate, the billboard is an American standard that grabs the attention of the apathetic onlooker.
Much to the chagrin of the desperate and forgotten, hitchhiking hooker!