Tag: writer
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Song for Her Majesty the Ex
We were legendary, dear, doubt it never King and queen of fourteen-liners and verse Time moves on, yet in the reflection of that moment Printed in books with our names . . . we were great How was it we lost admiration for each other? Competition? No. Complication. Life Got in our way of living.…
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Reading Joy
How sad it is that half a century I have walked briskly with impatience past my own story. . . Where I have no loathing for it, I find mostly passive contempt. Failure. Loveless hubris overriding whatever achievement felt too little to mark, insubstantial like my self as during each beating my mother and step…
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Challenge Poem #53
I get itchyif I go too longwithoutwritingas though . . .the world can’t revolvesans wobbleuntil I spill wordsinto lines . . . no matterhow unbalancedor unartisticperhaps this is someancestral ritualmy dna demandsperhapsit is madnessor addiction dm pitchford 12/24/23
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challenge poem 39
this may be hard for some to understand;though it seems, it is not suicidalideation: there is sometimes with mean urge, a strong impulsiveness, to die,not for the sake of forsaking life, no!but because curiosity and longingpull me toward that which comes after lifehas gone its course – much, yes, because this lifehas shit itself and…
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challenge poem #20
No harbor for delusions,I have only a fly-by-night operationwhere all such things pass through dmpitchford 12/10/23
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Poem 16
Words: something from nothingDan calls this Cognitive Alchemythis combination of disparate threadsinto articulations of verse such miracle of nature, thissystem of symbols from gray matterto black on white – ink on pagepage to book – book to library poets are alchemistscreating gold in crucibles of thoughtmining the heart of self and societyfor lead and tin…
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Of Death She Stays Aloof
she always was an odd child, fascinatedwith death and dying despite her shelteredlife early on and into adulthood;never lost a friend or close familymember to it, not even so much, orlittle, as a pet goldfish; she had nouse for dead things, things she said were merelydiscarded clothes, the truth of life beingsomething merely disguised by…
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Aubade
We all want to be beautiful, Liza beneath some argent moon in her fullness, at daybreak with its pink-lined clouds and sky pure as mountain springs, bright as topaz and us waking from dreams of golden streets . . . Liza, paradise is deep within, resides here within the placid soul, the restful mind. Each…
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Breakdown
you’ve lost all hope of reason, she says. her hypodermic is that for which I came. what the fuck ever happened to refuges, to the sanitaria of yesteryear? I need a peaceful stroll upon a lawn unwired and without the green threat of work, the soft voice of a sympathetic soul. my dreams are meaningless…
Fringemonkey Scribbles 