The stream (all workshops)
Sleet shushes me this winter eve
and bounces off my old felt hat
as chill wind sneaks up my coat sleeves
stealthy as a stalking cat
With shoulders hunched I walk along
through white which barely dusts the ground
toward cows lowing their same sad song
beyond the barn toward which I'm bound
They spy me and come at a trot
as they do 'most every day
toward their familiar feeding lot
where I fill their racks with hay
you make my day
as no one else does these days,
people walk my way
as never before
so many do come
to secretly read
the sexier.. blushier ones
silently...
now at times
I evaluate what I've written,
nothing from the world
has anything been hidden
all my poetry is off the cuff
I ain't no celebrity
nor, that kind of stuff ...
having plenty of
in a wallet ,called time
I compose poems
out of sync
many times out of rhyme
Impressionable young women
encouraged to enter a trade
that oft belittles and degrades
detrimental to mental health
not worth the short-term wealth
people have become inured
forget the pain often endured
reality becomes obscured
to enter a life of vice
women can feel they have no choice
no other way they recognise
fed by their dealers lies
I always picture it seedy
making a living from the needy
pimps are just plain greedy
big men, in fact, weedy
I’m told its consensual
tremble in the voice
the night lair haunts
with empress mirrors
coiffed hair taunts
dream ember
sapped in turmoil
the golden age
unfurled
the parted world
in its weave
its magic
the last dance
in the bloody basket
Report Poem
First Evening (Première Soirée)
by Arthur Rimbaud
Her clothes were almost off;
Outside, a curious tree
Beat a branch at the window
To see what it could see.
Perched on my enormous easy chair,
Half nude, she clasped her hands.
Her feet trembled on the floor,
As soft as they could be.
I watched as a ray of pale light,
Trapped in the tree outside,
Danced from her mouth
To her breast, like a fly on a flower.
EPISTOLA FRATRI MEO
[Letter to my brother]
I am nothing more than who I am
I know my strengths and limitations
yet somehow I’ve failed
to meet others’ expectations.
Always judged but rarely judgmental,
I’ve spent a lifetime nailed
to one cross or another.
I’ve lived by my own golden rule
and I do unto others
what they have done to me.
My heart may be tender
My character of a nature kind
But I am no fool:
I am not blind to treachery
and can clearly see
a Judas trying to undo me.
My dead voice-- a mockery
Of all that see
A clear vision-- That strides
Above the green sea foam
The muted eye-- an inward glance
That hides among the black roots of forbearence
Disclose arterial reality-- Cains left hand
Lifts the ocean from its smoking earthen cradle
And amasses secret lies-- below the tidal
Weathers embrace
The weekly mad house.
Everyone in the “Ten Items
Or Less” line has more.
Dressed in finery straight from church or shorts
and flip-flops right from the morning hangover.
The week-to-weekers with buggies full of
plastic on plastic.
And an old gray haired guy
somewhere is smiling.
This is a long way from 1962
right Sam?
Exhale.
Long awaited and so in control of .....
All.
I read it.
It reads me right back.
Random music on
but
not
much
else.
His words speak heat.
He gives me language in degrees
that stick to my skin
like humid summer time, beg for some relief soon Jesus please...
Brilliant, blazing, softly crimson
Aglow against the midnight blue horizon
Fingers strong and gentle, dipping into the glory
of the melting twilight sun
Slowly streaking the reddish hue
Across the complexion of the evening sky
What wonderment to the eye
The Ultimate Artist, proving He still can
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