John Lyday

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.
...

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 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.
...

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,
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I visited a garden,
smothered in frost and snow,
limbs draped with icicles,
leaves with frozen glow.
...

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.
...

rickety man, rickety house
quickly ran, saw a mouse

stately woman, in stick hut
...

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.
...

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
...

Three times the whistle blew
past sirens of fire trucks and cops.
Passenger or freight-no clue.
An animal on the track.
...

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.
...

I want to write a poem
light and fluffy,
with the texture of a cloud,
not dark and ominous,
...

Jack Acosta died that day.
He swung slow with a gentle sway.
Around his neck was a bathrobe cord
tied around a basement board.
...

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.
...