Poetry is a prison
Capturing
Things
Onto
Pages
Leaving
Every thing
On the
Shelf
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Poetry is a privilege
Turning
Things
Into
Words
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Poetry is a gift
Giving
Things
To
The People
Saving
Things
By
The People
Remembering
Things
Of
The People
Record š¯™”š¯™¤š¯™Ŗš¯™§
surroundings
Report on the
mundane;
Everyone write a poem
Even if it’s
Insane!
Tell me
All about it
Paint the picture
True
Shout out
For your
City.
Just
Let it flow from you.
The Birds are
on the move
Snatching up the
Last mating
Bugs of Summer
Slow
Oblivious
Fattening up for
Winter’s rest
Or supper.
Anytime I Go
Anywhere, I know
Exits and barricades.
I have to know
Where we are to go
If youā€™re on a rampage.
Your second privilege becoming our existential threat.
What do I tell my children?
“There there little one, don’t you cry.
Thereā€™s ‘thoughts and prayers’ for us when we die.”
“Now, now, there there, donā€™t you despair.
Run for the exit, itā€™s over there.ā€¯
Itā€™s easy to see
Why Georgia Oā€™Keefe
Landed in Abiquiu.
All these cowboy clouds
and sunshine smiles
So much painting to do.
Rosie red arches
And sulfur burning
With Yellowing tongues
Rising, Lashing out
Lapping up lapis
Skies, with brushes swung
Heavy oil to evoke
American dream.
A land growing lost
To the lush beauty
She acquired on
blank sheets of canvas.
ā€¯Stone of lumination.ā€¯
“This is it!
We’re done.”
Morning shadows
Got the Sun
Edges browning
still green leaves
“Autumn’s coming”
Says, the trees.
A poet is a book of silent
words on a shelf
A poet is one voice
screaming from the street
stifled by the sounds of the city
Poetry is a prison ||| || /||||
Poetry is a privilegeā€¦
The poet stands sentinel, memory of the City.
I am needed in the streets. Town crier. Breaking Muse.Ā Calling forth the words of this generation. MindScribe. Writing into the minds of the people; making them remember to be free.
We must compose a new poetry.
Democratic verses
aspiring towards
our words in
common.
We call for a new poetry!
We call for a new eulogy!
We call forth the Speaker for the Dead.
He will understand the lost as only the Ender of
Worlds can begin to grasp.Ā He will tell us who they
Were, where They stood.Ā You do not know nor could.
They never wrote it down for you. Never heard them say.
Admirer, lover, blinded still,
your pining overwhelming, what was real.
Their stories told without the Makar’s mark.
Stripped away, our own projections of glories old
And say the truth, no matter how dark.
The funeral can no longer be your poetic elegy.
It must be a poem of record telling the life of the
One who will be remembered beyond the grave.
Their stories a collection of Cities and States.
Old promises(*) of Love should be
taken from their dusty shelves
and Burnt!
Every autumn, like the raking
and the culling of the leaves:
stale promises!
Burning! Giving fertile soils to
new beginning and renewing vow
breaking ground
eternal flower
prescient poesy!