Write Your Own Poem In the Comments.
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THE DAY SPRING POPPED
The dead hand of October Thirty-first
On April Thirtieth has come alive;
Hawthorn, Magnolia, and Azalea
May flourish white, pink, and pink-violet,
But Maple’s skeletons along the road
Display new fingertips of hazy green,
Enough to cry, Look there!, as often as
In vibrant, variegated Fall, the bud
Become a flower, however tender, small,
And overlooked, compared to blooming yards,
Its intimation of a leaf is Spring’s
Manifest being, that of verdant promise
Continuing its color to fulfill
The plenary, widespread, sun-nourished tree
Which suits our nature to behold and be
Thriving throughout our Summer’s enterprise,
But now abuzz with all the visitors
Flown from the south to warble in its midst
Midway, or build a nest for younger ones
To carry on their parents’ trek when fledged,
And us, putting this day aside to drive
Up County 12, to see what we can see
The day Spring popped, and all the nourishment
That went into a Winter’s dormancy
Exploded in another population
Of growth and animation, spirit’s spring
Into the long-awaited prospering
Of a new life, just like the old, yet sold
To the highest bidder, this that splendid day
Not to be kept inside, but out and gone
To bring all enterprising nature home
To one’s own soul, let like a migrant roam
In search of everything fresh and abounding
To the extraordinary appetite
For the uplifting—happiness in sight
For those with the ability to see
For savoring their expectation known
So many past returning springtimes blown
To such miniscule omnipresent glory—
So happy she, back from an errand grown
Nearly to occupation, came to me
And said, “Today’s the day. Let’s go,” we went,
And that became our livelihood again,
Which may, at any season, reappear
To catch our deepest innate fancy: nature
At some ephemeral but conscious full
Not ever to be shrugged off but embraced,
As we have done now over thirty years.
Circle of Willis
inside there in each of us
a halo throbs hidden behind
the passing electric drum kit
our magnetic beat pounds out
symbols crash there unperturbed
sight crosses underneath scent
passed over by sounds of hair
to the seat of a lizard tongue
at the point all beltways meets
the waterfall of self control
feeds the rhythm the halo sets
poured loose upon the creature
this junction learned by example
a song made up of pulse and pause
memorized so early in contraction
the loop enshrines it as divine
an audience to it we broadcast
converting strangers into partners
just as witnesses firsthand each
to a dance beholding God inside them
Is this the scaled down ‘electronica’? sweet Jupiter!
yes- still not happy with it though. I think it is getting better. Three more chews should have the hubba-bubba moist enough to blow.
Rainey Street Blues (Haiku)
Never-mind the homes
buried by the hipster bars—
high bids bury them.
‘Your Own Poem In The Comments’
Write your own poem in reply.
‘Your Own Poem in reply’.
Write.
oh. ok.
Grilled Cheese Bushido
by Quasimofo
______________________________________________________
Meh, bleh, and Japanese twat.
The sybian carpet-bombs
her one-shag love-throb
into lack-of-want
rug-burned kneed.
______________________________
i watch ‘Yidl Mitn Fidl’
mulling vini viddles vici !
{the bafoonery of a baboon playing
the bassoon may be better termed ‘baboonery’}
______________________________
A poem can be a time-capsule or a chocolate suppository…
______________________________
Semper Fi Cystic Fibrosis.
i have a mexican jumping
beanbag for composing kick-start
indie bass-line
ommm-ing like a vu-meter
of EKG life outlook.
_____________________________
???? ???? ???? to the
constellation pin-ups.
‘why?’
–oh, just askin’ to ask.
…and basking in the task…
_____________________________
When you’re at the end
of your gut-wrenching wits,
tie a knot in the entrails
and ducktape one’s self
to the commode al la mode.
_____________________________
In my own post-ragnarok
Museumnacht i wooze from
dreamy booze as a Kafka microwaving
potpies for Kierkegaard who
knits woolen speedo for Dostoevsky
who nose-hair trims Nietzsche.
_____________________________
Show me the worst death scene ever
and i will tell you:
“the slow-mo and over-dramatic
drawn-out ‘ahhhhhhhhhh’ lent
to real cinematic flare for the ruination
of an antagonist overflowing with tragic
70’s character flaw.”
______________________________
At this juncture in the poem,
readers will be ready for cogency,
closure, and 1 more asian allusion
to help them believe there’s a centrally
planned and enlightened theme rather
than the mere cut-n-paste
make-it-up-as-you-go
random observations of a part-time poet
truckdriver:
_______________________________
With Godzilla pomade, kimono, and katana
i surf in the wake and spray of human misery
i-podding j-pop while munching sushi pop-tarts.
–Poetry is the assembly of battery
into one-battery-flashlight..
..and hoping to hell it works.
raggle fraggle says the
rat furiously scrubbing
and bruxing as I tickle
him behind the ears and
his brother tears apart
an expired coupon for a
box of cereal that they
could eat if rats could
eat chocolate but all I
know is they: are great
survivors tireless when
they put their minds to
it can swim for miles &
I have buried dozens of
them pets & friends all
and the grass & flowers
grow like wildfire thru
their skulls and I know
their dreams are shades
of green seen through a
dark eye rimmed in blue