The stream (all workshops)
More than a performance
your feelings start to jive
expressing rage and anger
that can't be satisfied
your mind is set on vengeance
to punish and deride
it started with a spark
and became a raging fire
the windows of your mind
were wild and opened wide
you pressed her for an answer
and saw it in her eyes
you railed with allegations
when something deep inside
a voice of reassurance
quelled your troubled mind
giving you the option
to simply hold your fire!
Joan was practicing her scales,
Her vocal histrionics,
Resounding down the corridor.
Help me
Help me please
Her ululations at fever pitch
Reverberating off the walls.
On the verge of hysterics
Help Me
Don’t leave me
Comically trilling
In half Italian or obscure German
Her shrill coloratura
Imperfect pitch trembling
An unknown aria
Please don’t leave me
As I went out for a walk today,
I saw three kids outside at play.
Their screams and laughter was of pure delight,
It made me smile at the very sight.
Then I wondered as I walked past,
How much longer will this world last.
Will the air they breath still be free,
When they become as old as me.
Will it still be safe to be out on the street,
And will they always have enough to eat.
Will they still be allowed to feel emotion,
Or speak their mind when they get the notion.
after reading the article
(published in the July + August 2024
issue of Mother Jones)
titled Raging bull - Donald Trump's
pugilistic spokesman has taken
campaigning to a whole new level of low.
Beyond the lookout
for Huyen "Steven" Cheung
(born June 23, 1982)
an American political advisor
Donald Trump's campaign spokesman
in the 2023–24 Republican primary
and served in the Donald J. Trump administration.
He previously worked in Trump's 2016
and 2020 campaigns.
The private poet, who sleeps so soundly in this bag of bones,
sometimes awakes, to whisper wonder words that I should pen - to please him,
since he is a poet after all.
He’s shy, yet eager to be read, sung or heard.
As if he were a soothing symphony or waves that swish and splash and wash ashore
a goddess girl for mortals to adore.
This poet, who's the peevish part of me, is tetchy, so I rarely rouse him up.
He slumbers, till my muse decides it's time
to raise a glass of rare reclusive rhyme.
I remember getting home from Christmas shopping.
I had just bought a lovely sweater for you,
when you called that afternoon and we spoke.
“We should stop seeing each other. It just seems
we don’t fit together all that well.”, you said.
And you were probably right about that.
But I occasionally think about that fucking sweater,
and still wonder if I had bought you the right size.
I’m sure it would have looked nice on you for a while.
irksomely chafe and dig
(analogous to a bit size backhoe -
contracted courtesy local builders
Gambone Brothers) inside lip
on left side front of mouth
not surprisingly creating
quasi irritated sore welt
(as if I got smacked in the face
from out of the blue)
achingly painful dilemma
particularly whenever I bite and chew food,
which compromised mastication
seriously prompted eating soft
(goo goo gaga baby) with no pablum,
or yours truly switching
to a liquified diet of worms.
My mind is surrounded with confusion,
my heart a broken vessel of glass.
The promises that I once held to
have vanished into the past.
I look to the heavens for comfort
there's nothing therein to be found.
The children that thou once gave me
are scattered as chaff with the wind.
I find no solace nor purpose
I no longer know where to begin
And though suffering does have its virtues
I long to head homeward again!
but will I meet your approval
or a railing accusation from within
Stuck in your same ol' ways
Smoking your lungs black
Drinking your liver to death
Risking everyone's lives,
Including your own
Just to drive home to me
Sometimes...
I wish you wouldn't come home.
The weight
Of carrying you from the bathroom to our bed
Cleaning the remnants of your sins off the floor
Watching you hold on for your life
The smell alone could intoxicate me
It's too much.
I can't stop you
I can't save you
And I can't unlove you...
Remember
Written by Kelly Ann Wilson
I see your once-golden hair
Losing colour
I see the lines
Growing deeper on your face
I hear the smoke alarm go off
When the stove gets left on
I hear the same tale told
Three times that day
I guess your perfume
Smells of days long gone by now
And there’s no crisp lilies you planted
In this new place where you live
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