0 thoughts on “Write Your Own Poem In the Comments.

    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.

  2. 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

          1. 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.
            –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
            random observations of a part-time poet
            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.

  3. 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

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