Posts Tagged One Shot Poetry
My bird, she’s
back. She loves me big-
time. Mouth wide
but my window won’t open.
I’m stuck, helpless toad.
Mind fuses empty prairies
with blurring confusion,
shrieking of the morning commute.
Trees, higher than the Rockies,
with crowned top hats of
barbaric branches blowing terribly
in Kansas wind
while lower shoots
remain sane and statuesque.
Tin can with carcasses of cushion,
floating, aiming for oblivion.
All of the structures disappear,
melting in tanks of tan cereals.
The cement far below
is icy air.
Tree tops whip messy, red jello
through my ears, out my eyes,
baking my brain.
sift through dust above the trash,
only some half mast,
many ragged like the city,
sitting in the boiling crater,
allowing no escape.
The city I swim in
while glowing orange
with a determined
but massively unconscious
Is it Wednesday again??
Not yet, but it is One Shot Wednesday #49! Go check out the fine work this week!
but being immersed in my book
or by the music
from my creator,
swelling purely with life flow.
I am droplets
of air freshener
falling to the rug.
A Tom-Tom and
pound inside my mind
I am the worst behavior
of a lion, sitting in some
spot, some throne, some
observing the hideousness in the world,
seeing through clouds to beauty.
When the entirety of human rubbish
I am a smoke alarm,
perfectly placed, meant
to reach out
but when the fire comes,
there is no sound,
I believe I’m a terribly late, it being late on Wednesday, but I thought I might submit this one for One Shot Wednesday. I love all of the good work over there.
I want to love people
when lights flow, when sun warms
but does not bake.
When the rats bring the dark,
I want people to stay on other streets
in other cities.
I want to love people
It’s the only reason I’m here.
When it is dark,
people spark dry kindling of all my sunken fears.
I’m ashamed of the realm I create
All of the fork tines of my misery
stab my enthusiasm and I crawl away to hide
in bad, three-story caves with front terraces,
where it is dark,
where only my sickness keeps me company,
awaiting necessary painkillers,
awaiting necessary death,
awaiting my desire to love people.
I want to love people.
This one will be a contribution to One Shot Wednesday. I’ve missed a couple weeks and this week I’ll be #999, but what the heck! Go check out some of the fine poets over there!
proving to you that I can manage flying powerfully
through the friendly universe,
listening to a spirit from tall balloons
telling me freedom allows me to travel anywhere,
and happiness might always lie there.
Dreaming of brooms with sharp Michigan tornadoes
rolling through steamy purple clouds running uphill
toward a castle made of velvety moss and soft stairs
in greens and pinks found only in South America,
allowing me to encase myself with the most
intense passion, compassion, kindness,
and love for you without any regard for anything else
in the whole bag of tricks, all of which being irrelevant.
I long for your forgiveness and I may be deserving.
I thought this might be a good submission for One Shot Wednesday. Go check out all of the wonderful work happening over there.
Under canopies of concrete barriers,
seeing your pain rip through full buildings,
knowing our words melt those beastly structures,
staring, holding your wisdom, wanting belief,
running makeshift humility, knowing your truth,
falling and finding your Band-Aid, hearing your softness,
understanding katat can be good, hiding in the security
that you are pushing me to sanity, keeping me alive,
forcing rats and blankets to fly straight up and get lost in the
swirls of flaky, delicate clouds that you have created,
knowing that tomorrow I might create and it
might soothe my soul and you might see that.
It is One Shot Wednesday AGAIN! It seems like it’s only been a week since the last one. I decided to put this one up on the board. Go check out what others have to offer at One Stop Poetry – It is a marvelous group of poets.
I don’t think I can Live.
I don’t know what that means.
My day went away.
there was a blistering
charcoal light to my world.
Snow was still falling.
I felt ready,
but everything was off.
I don’t think I can live.
I don’t know what that means.
I hear people say I’m stupid,
I’m crazy, I’m mean.
This, not what they say
but what they intend.
I do as you say
and look in the mirror
and say, “Carl, old boy,
you are a good man and
you are doing your best.”
But my face melts
and my eyes see
in my own eyes
and see the evil of a liar.
I should do my best
to go away.
I don’t think I can live
but I showed up to work.
I am submitting this for One Shot Wednesday. Check out all of the great work that gets listed out there. Sometimes, living in modern times provides us with such wondrous treats such as immediate electronic access to people who are beautifully creative beings.
It would be most appropriate to write about Japan right now, but I am afraid I would not do well with that. Carry on.
Millions of strands, perfect shape, coffee-brown, curls for play,
ecstatically-sharp passion with big eyes which were calm but so powerful.
Her power pulls all of me like fur from huskies into a vacuum.
She loved Respighi, louder than all the other sounds. I love loud.
She wrote to music. I would have shivered and written with her.
We would have moved our hearts to the music and locked eyes.
Pines of Rome. She of the Pines would have been my lover.
I would have licked every part of her. I wear droplets
as I air-conduct the Pines with perfect knowledge, institutionalized spirits.
I want to mix batches of Roma with her, making her shake tight curls,
watch her eyes as she smoothly places both palms on my cheeks
with these tasty fingers that meander in the most affluent way.
Tough fingers that know all there is.
She loved Neruda. She was marvelous with surreal etchings.
Surreal is what I hunt for, even when my dark, wet, wool blanket
has me stuck in bundles on floors who don’t care for me
and sneak stabs of shark teeth into my tough fat when I finally sleep.
She would have hung from the fan and sprinkled poems on me,
blowing kisses and shaking her tight curls, laughing mouth open.
Women of letters suck me in with habits that make them sick like me.
Women who are all about writing, painting are the ones that drive sexuality
that is deep in my soul, unmovable and unstoppable, always-moving trains.
She killed herself and I know I would have saved her, resuscitated her sharp eyes.
I would have saved her for me. She would have written for me – Deep, hard poems.
She would have held me and blown in my ears while I soaked in her words.
Women who love art, they are my chocolate mousse.
They charge me back to breathing air that keeps me moving and dreaming.
I wish she were next to me now. I would stay on earth for her.
I cannot ever write again for she has said everything that is stuck in my heart.
When I die, I will go where she is. I will search forever.
Still sappy, this is a revised version of the original. It is Wednesday again and time to share the experience of One Shot Poetry Week 36! These Wednesdays come along so often!
My purplish-red curtains preserved me, guarded me.
The thickness of coverage needed never be pulled.
I warned you, I cried, I hid, I held my curtains tight.
But you, the curator, the rescuer, pulled them open.
Look at the dinginess, the lines of wreckage of my soul.
You can see all of the rottenness, molds and a sick tree.
You cannot remove it, cannot clean it, so you swim in it.
while I run away to spend my days in lakes of shame.
Water flows fully, undisturbed stream,
clarity and I want it to fix me.
In the next room, meditating, breathing,
praying to some powerful entity,
requesting peace, begging for removal of pain,
feeling I could see the flow,
sensing it is so far away, knowing I can’t get there,
seeming silly, bitter I would not fit in the washer,
wondering why clothes can come clean,
and I stay so massively messy.
I put this one up for One Shot Wednesday. I love all of the things that happen over there. Take a peek at some of the good work. We are lucky to have a community like that.