Had too many glance and click away.
I thought you were here to find out:
my life story;
or why I write poetry;
or who is this person? ?
for anger or delight.
But those things, like tabloids and
stale chips for the unworked brain.
Dear, I do not want to bore
but poems I do not whore.
So read, read, read some more.
But do not ... more »
Click here to add this poet to your My Favorite Poets.
Doyen Lingua Poems
A Poem Is
emotion condensed into a paste smothered onto buttered toast giving life a taste
The pencil just sat there. Not being chewed, or sharpened. Not on the verge of a great novel. Unused. Unnecessary.
On the Back of a Napkin
I found a little poem crying on the floor whose dark-chocolate eyes were filled with tears whose center was cleanly torn
Pathways unrecognized send me in circles. A thousand ponds, bridges, and trees identical. The baroque fractals of emerald hue; wandering gnomes that stare with eyes of death
Andy Warhol x30
Beaten ‘round its river home, the icy current on its bone. Resting shade of passing icthus, does nothing for its deepest wishes.
Away and Apart
Sitting down, face to face there is no bandaid, there is no brace. I am 1,800 miles from home, staring at you through a screen. Missing you with an aching pain.
The gargoyle frowned with his permanent face and scuffed at the birds perched on his carapace Even more he despised the humans below causing a ruckus and a clamorous row.
God, My Lover
You are a mystery to me, God my lover, the poet with velvet hands and a heart like a war-drum.
Love unrequited, please throw me away. ‘Cause I'll never leave you, and I cannot stay.
Fly on wall...
Thought peculiar that brother's smear (which smelled like him but did not move,
At some point, Siddhartha ate pork, Though he thought it was rice Because it was.
ATTENTION DUTIFUL READER: You are invited, o those so devoted, to join the ranks of my friends. To drink with me, the immortals on pages.
The crystal mountain The white tombstone The surfing hills
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
A Poem Is
condensed into a paste
smothered onto buttered toast
giving life a taste
are kept inside a jar inside the fridge
taken out for soup and salad
but never out to binge
just for celebrations
and wrapped with ribbon fare
not even philosophy deserves
this kind of special care