John Lyday (Chicago, Ilinois)
John Lyday Poems
rickety man, rickety house quickly ran, saw a mouse stately woman, in stick hut
Prayer To Despair
Despair, I cry to you. Comfort me in my sorrow. Clasp me to your sultry breast. Soak me in your tears
Fallen Fruit Of The Persimmon Tree
I have stowed away my coffee spoons; marching time engulfs my gloom. Once I was the dandelion,
The Suicide Of My Young Friend
Jack Acosta died that day. He swung slow with a gentle sway. Around his neck was a bathrobe cord tied around a basement board.
If I Could Write A Cloud
I want to write a poem light and fluffy, with the texture of a cloud, not dark and ominous,
Silence, Sleep And Serenity
Quiet is the brightest sense, stimulating our cognition, prime conductor of maxim's grace, devoid of all restrictions.
Half Pint Of Satan
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?
Avocado On Ritz
Three times the whistle blew past sirens of fire trucks and cops. Passenger or freight-no clue. An animal on the track.
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.
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.
One More Chance (A Villanelle)
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.
Why I Don'T Write
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.
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.
I visited a garden, smothered in frost and snow, limbs draped with icicles, leaves with frozen glow.
I visited a garden,
smothered in frost and snow,
limbs draped with icicles,
leaves with frozen glow.
Once filled with warm activity,
now still with cold tranquility.
Pulsating, lush, foliage,
now a dormant virility.