Tag: DMpitchford
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challenge poem 12
sometimes there’s a yearning. often. sometimesthe need hits too strong to submerge – you musthave a companion for your present debauch:morality does not figure in. Nojudgement -that is, condemnation, anyway –can touch the drunken, dancing sufi self.you dance and sing and no word is profane;you sing your song and dance life’s dance – profoundand sacred…
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Poem 9
oh historic asp of fortune, strike truemy breast and lay me low upon the ages!beside cleopatra, though no lowerpleb than I ever was born. strike true, asp!strike true that I may die with my beloved!strike true that I do leave this tortured worldbehind to the hands of anonymousothers who might or not love with passionall…
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Poem 8
what would a lion write of the hunter?what story would he tell – being hunted, didhe lead the hunter away from his pride?did he sacrifice himself to save his bride?what final thought went through his heart and head?did he think himself brave or the cowardas he fled from the realizationof a predator’s predator, his ownpredation…
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Poem 7
Too much knowledge exists to be truly wisein one lifetime. how were we to know? truthis but the carcass, feathers the facts thattailor the bird . . . what evidence revealswe all too often disregard – we of thesentimental persuasion, and victimsof formative faiths in our hostage years.Too much of faith remains to be truly…
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poem 6
it matters nothing that the screen is blankit matters nothing that the screen is filledthe flow of words, the stream of consciousness:do these matter? what matter? what meaningto find in these ancient letters – magicthat we scribble thus and it causes usto hallucinate in a predictablepattern we call reason or logic. yetreality abides not our…
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poem 5
searching for a couplet in the dim din of my mindjust a muddle and chaos do I find:too little sleep, too much worry, it alladds up to knock you down – a working stifffinds little peace throughout the week. you fallinto exhaustion’s ruts and wonder ifthe whole damn shitshow isn’t some viciouslie, some trick –…
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Poem 3: Prognosis
grieving from the prognosistrying to rest a moment(recovery is not yet possible)“Lay your head on my chest,”my darling wife invites.I do.“Sorry,” she whispers, “time andgravity have pulled my pillowsinto my armpits.”(humor always our drug of choice)“It’s okay,” I murmur, dimly amused in the darkness of grief.I don’t need pillows, Sweetest; what I needis your heartbeat…
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A Lilly for Willow
send a flower for our darling dogshe’s been our sunshine these stormy sevenyears but now the Cancer has her and Ican’t even breathe – the shear thought of her gonebleeds my heart to Black. Send a flowerfor my Sweetest wife – how her red, red heartbleeds as well to Black! Our mutual sunshineis ravaged, savaged…
Fringemonkey Scribbles 