The stream (all workshops)
I post this every year in tribute
Merry Christmas Mama
Merry Christmas mama
I'm sorry there's no tree
And I feel kind of bad
With no present to you from me
Merry Christmas mama
You should see the lights
They're so beautiful this year
All of them so bright
Merry Christmas mama
I'm blowing you a kiss
Trusting that an Angel
Will see it doesn't miss
Merry Christmas mama
From me, your youngest child
Clutching tight to memories
Of the many times you smiled
That little stable in Bethlehem,
had Gods almighty love.
For He sent angels there,
praising from above.
That little stable in Bethlehem,
had a star above its roof.
That star shone with great light,
for it served a mighty proof.
That little stable in Bethlehem,
was where Jesus was born.
That left angels singing
till the star of morn'.
That little stable in Bethlehem,
affected us it must.
Angels singing, "Glory to God in the highest!"
Those heavenly hosts we trust.
I wanna wing my abstractions in flared brushes
dipped in frightening rays of fiery flight
soaring above your passionless pit of poetic posturings
and shit some sense into your unopened view,
because We sir, are your peers!
I wanna misuse your precious language
until it's not only accepted, but expected.
I wanna fuck Plath in her silvery mouth
after pounding Ezra's stale metaphors
up his racist white ass, all while watching
your reactions, glory in your disgust and the
ill attempts to look away.
I'm taking off my robe and unpacking my street clothes,
I'm trying to get into the Christmas spirit,
ever the Grinch after his heart had broken open,
but you see, the red kettle isn't big enough to feed
the starving world, and there are children living on the streets
without even a manger to lay their sleepy heads.
I think about fishing and fisherman at times like these,
the pristine summer sun and all that green, the smell of the wind
as it blows through the forest, juniper and mushroom
Love is a biochemical reaction,
The heart is just muscle and blood.
The brain's a swirling mass of convolution;
Confusion sweeps in like a flood.
The world's a metaphor for odd fantasies;
Reality is the great killer of inspiration.
Mad men are they who dwell on revelries;
And eccentrics will die of starvation.
Love is a biochemical reaction,
And lies are the tales we love to hear.
The world's a canvas for sour dejection;
The painters are those who can no more bear.
the muses
their bodies writ
with mystery
their minds
a wander of sharp
twist gardens full
of winter birds
I smelled your oranges
gathered in the bowl
the warm wood floors
you were writing
then
like all the yesterdays
drifting in the drafts
about the window
frost
Christmas time is here!
Our hearts are full of cheer!
Baking pie with mom tonight,
while Santa makes his flight.
Decorating trees!
We worship on our knees.
Our Savior loves us without end,
our cuts and scars He'll mend!
Our stocking Nick will fill,
our agony he'll kill.
We pray to God throughout the night,
that He will cleanse our sight.
Who’s rock
Who was first to throw the rock then spear
starting war to sate man’s hunger for death
Creating a mindset of mistrust and fear
that denies a friend a peaceful last breath
Was it hominids who beat the Chimp or Ape
launching boulders that allowed us to reign
So soon to perfect the art of slaughter, rape.
that brings this world so much bloody pain
i am a pot-hole
for broken ankles
the words i print
are insane and meaningless
but flow from me they are
though, in a molasses thick trickle
mediocre, overthought
and underachieved
my handwriting is terrible
can this even be read?
will it ever be read?
the girl i love won’t write
the girl i love used to write
until she wrote
“do not reply to this”
i write her no more
and that
was that.
so…
During this late time of year
Everything both far and near
Carries scars of frost and freeze
Even frostbite from cold breeze
Most if not all leaves are shed
Blown from trees to forest bed
Evening sunshine brings no heat
Rains too often turn to sleet
* haven't seen an acrostic for a while
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