John Lyday

A lithesome youth takes to the field.
A stouter heart no man could wield.
Alone he stands against a host.
In front, a single guard they post,
...

A dog named Pups and a cat named Kitty,
together they roam the city.
But it’s not really a city, is it?
Two blocks of main street is all they visit.
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America has traded in his Mercedes
For a beat up, General Motors car.
It has a fender and door of different colors.
It leaks water, burns oil and won’t go far.
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I sift meticulously amidst the clutter
of my rational thought and irrational flutter,
where my hidden fissures of knowledge wind.
Some words organize and flow off the tongue.
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I visited a garden,
smothered in frost and snow,
limbs draped with icicles,
leaves with frozen glow.
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My pencil does not fit the sharpener.
Although I can expose a little lead,
the tip is flat and wears out quickly.
A dull tip pencil can describe my head.
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rickety man, rickety house
quickly ran, saw a mouse

stately woman, in stick hut
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I listen to the gurgle of my coffee maker,
knowing that my morning will soon end.
Daylight is temptation to stop sleeping.
Night and day soon begin to blend.
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Do not leave me because I lost the knack.
I’ll learn the tricks of foreplay that are subtle.
Give me just one more chance in the sack.
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Despair, I cry to you.
Comfort me in my sorrow.
Clasp me to your sultry breast.
Soak me in your tears
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Three times the whistle blew
past sirens of fire trucks and cops.
Passenger or freight-no clue.
An animal on the track.
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Half pint of Jack Daniels and diet coke.
Piece de resistance and a half a smoke.
Going to heaven or going to hell.
Is that brimstone, what’s that smell?
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Quiet is the brightest sense,
stimulating our cognition,
prime conductor of maxim's grace,
devoid of all restrictions.
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I want to write a poem
light and fluffy,
with the texture of a cloud,
not dark and ominous,
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Jack Acosta died that day.
He swung slow with a gentle sway.
Around his neck was a bathrobe cord
tied around a basement board.
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An old green bag, a cold weather coat,
walking in sunshine down a road
meant for traffic, not for feet,
aint no bus, for a cab – too cheap.
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The girl pokes a ring in her nose
and one in her lip,
dresses in black, loses
her boyfriend and calls
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Angie Headley wrote this poem based on some prose I wrote. She was kind enough to let me post it here
.

He brings her beer, she fondles it with
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When you took off to Mexico
after leaving me to die,
it was one more item on the list
of your betrayals and your lies.
...