National Poetry Month Celebration 2019 - Post Poems Here!

[ajduclos]

Early Spring chores demand attention
and my muse is taking vacation -
perhaps there may be a connection

Day 16

Urge To Write

(I wrote this whilst in the midst of a writing deluge, my muse finally stepping forward out of the dungeon, allowed the light of day - a huge cathartic explosion from decades of witnessing and concealing, suppressing, self-destructive behavior of a most dear loved one.  I finally could take it no more and with the help of my muse deemed that person "Dead To Me", one of many poem/songs written in a very short period of time. 
Anyway, I wrote this to try to get a grip on all that writing that simply had to happen.
I share it now, with you... and I apologize for any sensibilities I may offend.)
 
Like Willie Nelson says
when he writes
it's cause its just gotta get out
it might be a brain fart
but it's just got to get out

when I need to write
it starts out
like it's all backed up
all stuck and bound up
like brain constipation
a shut down of the cranial-thought tract
stopping all easy thinking
yet
demanding
insisting
commanding
to be released
excreted 

after much pain
and dread
what is puked out
comes out
in a diarrhea rush
that splashes
on the page
raw emotion
and feeling 

not very complicated
far from refined
just simple stuff
a brain system flush
from the gut
thru the hand
onto paper
a core dump 

I leave the intricate
sculpted stuff
to the Van Gogh's
who must cut off
their own
ears
to colorfully elicit
artistic magnificence 

I'll just continue
yo pull my pudd
and let the sputum
splatter willie nilly
how and where
it may   


Feb 24, 2013  
 

[Lecram06]

MEET ASIAN GIRLS NOW

I had a love for you big as China,
and I have stopped fighting for you.  

I am not from
Singapore or Siam,
 
some small village in Vietnam
where they sell their daughters

all day long
to buy rice. 

The last time I made rice, I burned it,
and you are not going to find me 

posing by a palm tree,
wearing nothing but a coconut. 

Nobody should be forced to dress in husks,
go down on a drink straw 

for the camera,
as if the light itself

could be traded and poached.
I am a white oak, 

rooted within shouting distance
of hurricanes. 

I don’t get rug burns from doing it
doggie style,

but I carry
the salt of the earth on my tongue, 

my open-mouthed kiss, 

something you wake to
between scrolls. 　

Oh the stanza "I carry the salt of the earth on my tongue," and the closing words!  Marcel
 

[Lecram06]

#16

Nowhere

I assumed it was alive and I assumed
it was human, the figure curled
fetal on the front steps of the shelter.

Later, a blue-shirted man walked toward me
wearing food service or first responder
or surgical gloves.

He carried a Styrofoam cup
as if it were a urine sample.

I crossed the street in mid-block.
He did too, and soon passed me,
then waited at the corner for the light
despite there being no cars.

I crossed and kept walking. When
the light changed, so did he.

By the middle of the next block
he caught and passed me again.

Papers protruded from a back pocket
of his black jeans – could have been
boarding passes, tax notices,
or blood test results.

I once had a blue shirt - work shirt,
and once my beard was dark
like his.

An orange in his left hand–he carried it
like a dead sparrow, or a cup of fruit,
or a vitamin pill bottle now empty.

I am certain that he did not regard me.
I am certain I have never been him.
We stand side by side, traffic
from both directions.


~

Tracy,

I read the poem feeling that I was an observer in the poet's dream. . . and the details captivate. Marcel
 

[Tracy Mitchell]

Thank you M.

[ajduclos]

Thank you M.

I concur - this Frenchman was watching the same dream - nice bit of writing !!
Aj

[Dave]

Tremendously vivid Poem. Tracy

[Gyppo]

Tracy,

It put me in mind of walking through a city/town which was once familiar but you haven't been there for years.  The geography is the same, but everything else has a dreamlike 'offness' to it.

Gyppo

[Tracy Mitchell]

That's a thing about cities -- the buildings always outlast the people, rotations of people, generations of people.

T

[Sharon Leigh]

You are the hornet
humming
near honeysuckle vines

I mistake for
honeybee

The still log with eyes
floating
patient
in Florida waters

You are the shoreline
blue and frothed above
which tugs below
cold
dark
strong

The funny mole
on nose or cheek

The Bolton Strid

The Box Jelly
water in water on water
invisible

The Blue Ring
cute and tiny
in the shallows




.

[Tracy Mitchell]

Lovely, Sharon. Layers and layers, and yet very personal
Bolton Strid -- new to me. I love the education I get here.

T