Hurricane
You do not propose to unreel backwards,
Help me find where was my moment remiss.
There's no hesitation in your forwards
Or my descent into your dark abyss.
I was there and I was here, here and there,
Scrambling to find a log or a stone
To stop you from rolling to unaware.
Did you note you smashed my foot,
crushing bone?
That's where I lost my place, couldn't keep up.
What juggernaut notes any wounded voice,
Or even conceptualize breakup?
It wasn't I wasn't here, there--a choice.
It is that you are my
impossible,
My limping pursuit so improbable.
Weather Channel
The thing about our dream fatalities,
And Hollywood's eternal dark slaughter,
We bounce right back to these realities;
Wild flowers from whence was once terror.
It isn't by gravesides we stand all day;
There are wakes to intake, food, cold sodas,
Storied reliving with memories' play,
Songs sung around to D.C. al codas.
Monday we return to our workaday.
Redwoods in forests endure forever.
Heavenly light shafts dapple the pathway
Meandering fallen giants' slumber.
You see this crap? You've got that 'bout right.
Day or night I won't leave your restless site.
8th Floor
Forget? A show of hands who remembered.
Seeing no hands. I suppose you're infirm.
Deaf? A show of hands who has ears membered.
Seeing no hands. "Like babes" you all affirm.
What balanced judgment can be even made
By orangoutangs happily a tilt
Running about in the deep forest's shade,
Swinging into tree tops to their song's lilt?
My books underarm, I leave through the door,
Sad to see the morning end over town,
The coastal overcast today no more.
View taken--to the elevator down.
Oh, some reasoned sense is my incursion
To somehow stem your wild excursion.
DolphinWords
Notes:...(update: changed 'pace' to 'place') ...brb with notes...things momentarily to do...bk...last night I rolled over to The Gypsy Den...poetry slam contest night...sat at the bar and listened...snacked on half a turkey sandwich and tomato basil soup, and my one beer...twenty five dollars with tip...tonight, rolled over to The Ugly Mug...featured readers were a duet...and listened to the preliminary open readers, but didn't stay for the afterwards of the featured readers ones...too sleepy...three dollar entry and one orange crush soda...I can't recommend poetry readings...they're dull...participants persuade themselves otherwise...it's a bit like being in church and hearing uncensored witness confessionals...really uncensored...Kermit the Frog, Linus and Charlie Brown, some poor fellows seventy two year old genitals at the hands of his wife, etc. all took a hit...I don't know when confessional poetry got its start...brb...
quote
Confessional poetry or "Confessionalism" is a style of poetry that emerged in the United States during the 1950s. It has been described as poetry "of the personal", focusing on extreme moments of individual experience, the psyche, and personal trauma, including previously and occasionally still taboo matters such as mental illness, sexuality, and suicide, often set in relation to broader social themes.[1] It is sometimes also classified as Postmodernism.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Confessional_poetry
unquote
...and I don't know when it will button it up and end...hopefully soon...
:)
DavidDavid
DolphinWords
Notes:...(update: changed 'pace' to 'place') ...brb with notes...things momentarily to do...bk...last night I rolled over to The Gypsy Den...poetry slam contest night...sat at the bar and listened...snacked on half a turkey sandwich and tomato basil soup, and my one beer...twenty five dollars with tip...tonight, rolled over to The Ugly Mug...featured readers were a duet...and listened to the preliminary open readers, but didn't stay for the afterwards of the featured readers ones...too sleepy...three dollar entry and one orange crush soda...I can't recommend poetry readings...they're dull...participants persuade themselves otherwise...it's a bit like being in church and hearing uncensored witness confessionals...really uncensored...Kermit the Frog, Linus and Charlie Brown, some poor fellows seventy two year old genitals at the hands of his wife, etc. all took a hit...I don't know when confessional poetry got its start...brb...
quote
Confessional poetry or "Confessionalism" is a style of poetry that emerged in the United States during the 1950s. It has been described as poetry "of the personal", focusing on extreme moments of individual experience, the psyche, and personal trauma, including previously and occasionally still taboo matters such as mental illness, sexuality, and suicide, often set in relation to broader social themes.[1] It is sometimes also classified as Postmodernism.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Confessional_poetry
unquote
...and I don't know when it will button it up and end...hopefully soon...
:)
DavidDavid
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