Category Archives: poets

That’s me

Bukowski, Rossetti, and Poe
All wrote good poetry, so
Drafting a page
Earned them a wage
Back when a writer could crow.

I write some verse nowadays,
No one knows me anyways
Posting on blogs,
I write and I slog,
My poetry sucks more than slays.

***************

Written in response to a prompt by Chelsea Owens to write a “terribly bad” limerick about a poet who takes himself too seriously.  I don’t really think this is a bad limerick, I kind of like it and there’s the rub.  🙂

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

 

Bring your own

I cordially invite you to make this sandwich order with me soon;

read  from the post-it note I found on my walk

last Tuesday, just before noon.

It’s for a cheese-steak sandwich on sesame,

using both American and mozzarella cheese.

Laden with onions, probably red, and banana peppers, yellow,

the pungent and acetous toppings combating the cheesy marrow.

And if this weren’t enough acescent taste,

with lots of A-1 sauce, as told, the sandwich should be graced.

Likely you will thirst upon it’s completion,

this sandwich activates the salivary gland secretions-

and since I cannot offer what you seek,

bring your own preference of beverage, then, to drink.

***********

This poem was written in response to #summerofprompts entry 3 by Mary Biddinger and generally inspired by a found post-it note.

Needlework

It is to admire, the dedication of Ireland to her writers and poets.

Stories and verse are held close and read in weekly doses.

The next writer featured from Oranmore or Kilmainham or Skibbereen.

All have something to be told.

Just as words born from Beckett and Heaney, Yeats and Tynan,

these are ancient and bold.

It is a patchwork stitched from ages of fabric and thread,

pierced with tales of loss and love and fairy trees.

Sometimes covered with gorse and rock, instead.

But almost always green and growing

beneath a cloudful blue, with the wind blowing.

Held fast in stone with those who’ve passed

or washed in crashing waves felt in the west.

Words that only come from those who live and die

stitched to their land with a needle through a feather in the sky.

Notions

In a gift for someone that I once knew-
A few moments wrapped
in crisp paper with string.
each one a mating of calm and called.

Intent on these penetrating emotions-
they are patterns of poetry from memories
underneath the neat taped corners.

They could be jumbled and incoherent,
but I prefer them pressed and bound
and self-contained.
Thumb-pressure creased,
Holding the pieces
firmly together.

Notions of affection
convened for her disposal
will be mailed
in the morning.

***********
A reworking of a poem that I first wrote in 2006.

Diligence

Encompassed by her stare
as she reveals a confident esprit,
and wanders in my mind to be omniscient,
salient for me.

Deluged by her rhapsodic reign
and drenched in love time and again,
a dousing seems a welcomed bane
upon my weary soul and stain.

Subject to her word and tome
complete and perfect, craved and honed,
every act a sin – atoned
and riddled cunning, bone-to-bone.

Roundabout

If all wishes were granted
the world’d come unglued-
some mountains would topple,
most governments too.

Would granting fulfillment
kill thirst on the vine?
No fruit of the spirit.
No waiting in line.

The songs about lovesickness
would drop minor chords,
and poets would dally
with limericks and torts.

To grant all the wishes
might invoke riots
where folks with day-yearnings
might want for the night.

Humankind’s never happiest
and not satisfied
unless something to strive for
is there to divide.

Yet, curious the issue
that lingers about –
this striving and conquering
leaves others out.

Their wishes pummeled,
Yes – they have them too.
If their wishes die
then the world’d come unglued.