Tag: poet
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For All Our Erudition
she and me and a bottle of red wine,questions of cosmic significance tossingback and forth in a hotel room afterthe symposium, philosophies ofstruggle and economics, of art andpsychology, of class and caste—we tossedaround expressions like disenfranchisedand plebeian and bourgeoisie; concepts:opportunity and entitlement,under-privileged and . . . and in the end,it was all words to open…
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Night After Night
night after night in the twilight of dreamsyou stand beside a brightness blindingits jeweled hues string my heart intobright realms and I wonder at the truthof love glowing from your presence likepromises of succor and rescue from deepdepths of evil times when the world seemsfull of dark enemies and hateful, mercilessfoes who trample thoughtless what…
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All Bosched Up
QUATORZAIN 41 In the garden of freshly pierced hearts,I’m doing time with a shadow of you,thorn quivers in your hand crimson blood-stained;and I stare hollow-eyed all bright withsoft admiration and honeyed words beggingyou to forgive my tenderness in lightof your crystal ice delicate touch. Youpirouette in time to music I’m deaf to,and I misstep cloven-hoofed…
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Your Church and Mine
driving through this rainy morning Sundayyou in your puritan dress and humming hymnsand me trying to remember when last I wentto service, to the gathering of the faithful, whenlast I broke bread with the brethren andfeasted on the flesh of a two-thousand-year deadsavior, heard the word beat into the pulpit straightinto my mind and soul,…
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Sophist on a Soapbox
Let us dance among clouds singing of Deathsuch mornings as we awaken to predawnand dancing fall from heaven, though it’s merelysky, and drub our heads against anotherday as the planet turns on its axischasing this eccentric path around our sunspinning in Earth’s backwater neighborhoodin a galaxy we call Milky Way –and what is death? merely…
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Working on this Sonnet
SOULFUL?How much in our lives do we give away?And for what? To whom? How much love we spendunwitting, never counting returns untilbroke and wanting with hunger-angered fistsclenched in supplication. Some say poweris the social currency, but I arguehere that suffering buys all resourcesmeaningful to the soul – and what is ‘soul’?Some may ask – young,…
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THAT GREENBAUM DAVE
back in the day, was a cat named Dave Rossused to come ‘round to Yella Dove with freshcut grass – no one was ever sure if he grewit in his greenhouse over by Quincyor in some nearby field, but it was eitherthat or his ice-fishing expeditionsto Canada – anyway, they called himDave-the-one-hit-wonder; he was mythicfor…
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Theodorian Rhapsody
future uncertain but certainly – brightangel on my shoulder, lucky cloverfilling my pocket with wishes I ridelike horses into unicorn meadowsovergrown with posies gathered from allthose forgotten nursery rhymes . . . o Seussianlife: how can I unstar my belly to strideproud among these lovely other sneetches? scrape from these foolish eyes all delusion,o father…
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Another Lost Sonnet
If Furies were muses, what poet would dare the empty page? tongue stuck in dry cheek, brain electric with fear, yet thrilled to seek glory against their rage. what laurel could then suffice to crown our versed heads? or should we boldly sing our yawp for silent bleak awards of empty lauds? no longer chic…
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Picking Back Up…
From my apparently unrecoverable blog bitterhermit.wordpress.com The 1000 poem project was completed some time in 2013. Time to start another challenge. Perhaps a bit less ambitious? My day-job pays the bills, but sucks the soul out of me; I write in fits and starts these days. We’ll start with a hundred-poem challenge and see how…
Fringemonkey Scribbles 