Mom.. I think I might be homosexual..
CALM~DOWN !.. I just said THINK !..
It's not I fear
My multi~studded ear ,
Or that I look stunning dressed in pink .
I wont complain ,
As I sip champagne
Of my blemish~free youthful looks ,
Or how I enjoy the finer things in life ;
Like fine art , or poetry books .
NO !.. I never joined the Girl~Guides .
You're being silly...patronizingly .
I dont like damp
But I do love camp....
'Specially in Summer , by the sea .
I like being with Brad and Christopher ;
Young Lloyd is such a dear
And Mourice is such a sweet lad ;
Yes.. I'll always keep them near .
But , deep inside my inner soul
When push will come to shove .
For my own part ,
Who has my heart ,
Yes !.. It's Annie I really love .
But one thing that still bothers me ,
And will , until my dying day ....
Is , when on that morn....
Yes!.. When I was born..
WHY ! !.. Did you name me GAY ??...
Poet, stand up!
Your name is your seal!
Your works let their story reveal.
Though you be enamored by great poets,
don’t shy away or get disheartened.
Rid your heart of nervous anticipation and forget
about word-perfect dictation.
Through your internal debates and bouts of indecisiveness
Find a style that’s uniquely you.
Make your stance stronger.
Stand aside when it comes to gossip.
Stay away from petty jealousies.
Too much connectivity hampers creativity.
But by all means know when to pick up a fight.
Stand back, ponder, and align your ammunition.
Then be ready to stand up for
what you believe in and make a passionate defense for what is right.
Accept correction – it is the heart of positive retention and
the means to sharpen your abilities and enable your work to
stand up to
Smile at genuine curiosity but never tolerate ignorance.
Or how will you stand up to bullies intent on creating havoc and those
quick to impose their sense of ‘correctness’?
Build yourself up but desist from putting others down.
Identify talent and stand over a budding poet, gently giving
them directions but be careful to let them choose their path.
And when the time comes when your light dims
and all you can do is ruminate mentally on things already past –
Poet, stand down!
Yours is a life truly well lived!
Thoughts melt and distil under a green/blue flame,
Swirling down, separated out and mixed.
If you’ve seen it, it’s broken;
If you’ve heard it, it’s shredded;
If you’ve read it, it’s rewritten.
It's really quite unlikely to be fixed.
You’re cutting up holiday snaps
and pasting them onto card.
And you’re scrambling madly
to hide the mess on the floor
As your mum yells for cleanliness
From behind your bedroom door.
3001 puzzle pieces and you’re jamming them together,
No wonder your imagination is at the end of its tether.
You’ve got two pieces that are sun-kissed clouds
“What comes… what comes next?”
You’ve got two roots in the soil
“What comes… what comes next?”
Your mother is sitting in the hall
With a scarf tied round her neck,
Her back pressed up against the wall
As she deals the jigsaw deck.
3001 pieces in her hands,
Mixed with childhood drawings
And grains of sand.
She lays out seven in a line,
Which you place between the two and two.
“Oh, but that and that won’t rhyme!”
“Don’t you think that this one will just do?”
And your father’s disapproving in the kitchen,
“You don’t need no occult nonsense,
Or a system to order out your brain”
He just stands there “focussed”
Over a pot on a blue/green flame,
Subconsciously mumbling while stooped,
“Look here Son, look, I’m making poa-tery soup.”
But you would never tell him that,
Just like you’ll never be finished, ever.
No-one ever is
Even if they know they’re doing it or not.
My grandfather died last week,
The sourest stuck-in-a-rut-of-a-man
That you’re ever going to meet.
The diagnosing doctors were in for a treat.
They said that there was something wrong there,
Something wrong with his brain,
That there was something strange there
They said that he died - after scans - in a cubicle stall,
When his brain haemorrhaged and cracked open,
And jigsaw pieces piled up against the wall.
Globally, miners jubilantly jump for joy
Smiles on the faces of every girl and boy
The grins of a newly opened Xmas toy
Trade unionists bounce along the street
Music blaring and the tapping of feet
From nurses to Bobbies still on the beat
Street parties announced in the nation
Satan who brought economic inflation
Is deceased, now’s the time for elation
Its times like this I’m sad I’m an atheist
And can only shout and wave my fist
And then go to the pub and get pissed
A void of Facebook
Creativity dies here...
I stand solo, aloof in the snow, a precipitation
of words cascading from a nebulous eye
Fathoms wide, forever dripping like wax onto
a punctured paper serving a Sanskrit sky,
and spreading into sibilant sentences swiftly
sliding from syllable sorcery to soulful serenades
so silent in the shunting shout of white. Poetry
fills a churning void where novels cannot wade,
Phrases solidifying into idolisation of emotion
itself, isolation of the isometric individuality that so
Crushes my keeling cavern of thought, ever
careering from caustic career path to another new low,
Which so seems to crumble into crazy paving’s
counterpart. In this first freeze-frame we can all grasp
A fraction of the familiar, oh so fractured by the
fumbling nature of enforced form. Freed by the gasp
Of a photo-opportunity glowing phosphorescent
with firsts, I am no longer framed by the festering
Constraints of non-fiction, and folding my fond
farewells carefully, I hesitantly face a vision pestering
Me, fearing the fiend that would open maw and
gnaw beneath my feet, evoking an avalanche of the
Vernacular, but I am further past this unfed
existence now, loosened from the fickle friendship of a
Winter thaw. Focus not your gaze on the grinding
gauze of the greats, for the pressing pestilence of
Perishable poetry is elsewhere pondering its parallels
in posturing and post-modern pining for forlorn love.
Praise no other; I am poetry.
Some poets write with a rapier blade,
meaning to cut a thing down
to its bare-boned ism.
Others write of fanciful affairs with a voice
as silk is,
to a fair maiden’s slip.
Some write from the void (the out world expanse)
of truth and secret gatherings
of white wind warriors!
Some write of the gut wrenching horrors
of abuse, pain, and mutilated soul;
where every word written is a cathartic expulsion
of venom from veins -
a bleeding of the darkness within, meant
for the healing of self and others.
Yet, others write of the red beating pulse of love!
with the force of eternal motion,
in one long unstoppable exhaled breath (the fall of time
of holding ones breath in
either tortuous blue-faced death, or the splendor
of knowing the everlasting meaning
Other poets write their fingertips;
a caress felt with a lead tipped touch,
(for they are the ones whose minds
have stolen heart –
replacing it with the numb of page)
their only place of refuge,
for pages do not scorn, nor look in places
where they aught not look (where love dies).
Some write simply what comes:
from the breath of a new day on their lips,
to the touch of a kindred spirit’s words
upon their heart - to make sense of a memory,
or share something discovered –
yearning to spread.
Parchment just wishes to be stroked,
no judgments made unto its scribe –
only love, only love…
Some poets paint their words –
A union both exact and beautiful –
where visions blossom within the mind
instead of on a canvass.
These inner pictures rise from the garden
of each poet’s depths;
each beheld a little differently, than the next
soul to read, the poets eyes.
There is no other form of art that can bring souls together,
from any age, life, reckoning or century,
like the written word.
We write each others lives,
for we are of our maker’s words.
One breath upon first parchment, wrote
one word within the stars –
For, we here are all bringer’s of truth;
spreaders of seeds (for good or otherwise)
we are all extensions of the whole –
the will of God, Gods, Earth and all that is,
reaching out with verbal arms
into souls that wish to be SEEN!
To be understood! To be heard!
And so we write.
Thank the heavens above,
© Kristin Reynolds 2008
A book of poems
with my name on it
is my ambition, someday.
A book of poems
with my name on it,
with something, inside, to say.
Not a big book, not thick, not mushy --
not that kind of book for me.
My book must be lean, must be spare --
though pithy and strong --
and stand free.
A small book of poems
with my name on it:
all that I need
to leave here of me.
A Bluto is not that Disney dog
It was when a mewling
that I would scream
Should they wet my body
And then apply cream
Ablutophobia – fear of bathing, washing, or cleaning
Achluo the demon that lurks
In darkened corners
The long toothed life suckers realm
I am scared as the sun dims
It seems to bare my soul
Achluophobia – fear of darkness
Acro what did they do
They called me acrobat
This will not do
I get giddy standing on a matchbox
Please get a net to see me through
Acrophobia – fear of heights
Agora just shut that door
I am staying here forever more
Bring me food put it on the floor
The letter box is just for you
Don’t, Don’t, try to get through
Agoraphobia, Fear of open spaces or of being in public places. Fear of leaving a safe place
Agrap stole my feelings
He caught me unaware
I am now afraid of sex
don’t ask me anymore
It frightens me that’s for sure
Agraphobia – fear of sexual abuse
Agrizoo an angry gorilla I knew
Wild as hell was kept in a cell
As all his kind, even a timid Hind
They scare the crap out of me
Please let them run free
Agrizoophobia – fear of wild animals
A gyro is just what I need
I will fit it to my trusty stead
He will fly straight across that band
A tarmac nasty throughout the land
I cannot face the walk you see
Agyrophobia –fear of crossing the road
Aichmohe got in a hell of a fight
They killed him with a pointed knife
It will come for me just you see
I cannot even mend his cloth
Won’t touch a needle at any cost
Aichmophobia – fear of sharp or pointed objects (such as a needle or knife)
Ailuro he lived next door
The bastard sits on the fence
To me he snarls not a purr
A Persian he is supposed to be
Frightens the *****out of me
Ailurophobia – fear of cats
Algo, Away, I am pain free
This morphine is the best
First day of pain free rest
Been told that it will return
Got some gas, peace I yearn
Algophobia - fear of pain
Andro I’d rather be (android)
I am metal and plastic you see
Electric person not man or woman
That would be so sad
If just a man I would go mad
Androphobia – fear of men
Antho the pologist got the plan
He put concrete throughout the land.
Not one shrub or flower seen
Not one blade of grass green
A flower would make me scream
Anthophobia – fear of flowers
Anthropo was a lonely man
Wouldn’t mix with others so
He lived in a cave, well just a hole
You would see his eyes peeping out
A shaking frame if people were about
Anthropophobia – fear of people or the company of people, a form of social phobia.
Aqua marine or even the wet stuff
Is enough to drive me mad
I stay in when there is rain
Just wait for the sun to shine again
A damp tissue that’s quite enough
Aquaphobia – fear of water. Distinct from Hydrophobia, a scientific property that makes chemicals averse to interaction with water, as well as an archaic name for rabies
Arach no, and know the score
Those creepy creatures on the wall
Send shivers up and down my spine
Six legs and venom to drive you mad
I am running already it is sad.
Arachnophobia – fear of spiders
Astra my name you would think of the stars
My gaze goes up but not that far
To the first cloud there in the sky
If it’s the shape of an anvil I will fly
Fear grips me and I don’t know why
Astraphobia – fear of thunder and lightning
Atychi that was about the size of me
The others would just make fun
I was no good to anyone
A failure of the first degree
Nothing my goal, was all I could see
Atychiphobia – fear of failure
Auto matic I will seek people out
To touch to play as long as they are near
Don’t leave me in this place alone
A singularity is my biggest fear
I will hold anyone you see I care
Autophobia – fear of being alone or isolated
Automat o no it’s not true how could you
An advert that’s telling just lies
Don’t all the others realize
What you say is not true, put it right
It will drive me crazy I’ll keep out of sight
Automatonophobia – fear of anything that falsely represents a sentient being
Aviat o if you think I am going in that
No I am not a scared ***** cat
If we were meant to go fly
Wings we would have from him on high
Fold your machine and put it just so.
Aviophobia, Aviatophobia – fear of flying
Chaeto he was a Greek of old
Bald as a badger so the story is told
But why you say is there no cure
For him to grow some lovely hair
For him it would give such a scare
Chaetophobia – fear of hair
Chemo therapy keep away from me
Chemicals scare me I know they are free
But to have them coursing through my veins
No matter how good they are, and that jar
The fear of everything for what they are
Chemophobia – fear of chemicals
Chirop to or not too so I am told
They stick in your hair best to be bald
Now I find that my nails are made of hair
Chirop is what I fear not chiropodist is that clear!!
Just shave my head and cut my nails dear
Chiroptophobia – fear of bats
Chromo shines bright in my eyes
The fear of all colours I realise
Now I am safe from a troubled day
Into my dark room, I have found my way
Knock when that sun has met its demise
Chromophobia - fear of bright colors
Everybody knows her,
yet she comes in all sizes and
She takes the form of desire -
Gold, diamonds, pearls –
Blue and clear stones on fire!
Rainbow colored eyes,
Seduction is her game plan,
she begins kind and tender.
Obsession is unisex – She will
devour both genders
She seems wise,
giving counsel and tips.
Toxic and poison is coming out
of her deceiving lips.
Her feet goes down to the
and her ways are a highway to
Addiction to her aroma -
is like a single dose of Meth –
Bitterness is the honey's
She is hot and fervent,
She is smooth and cunning like
With a single kiss she swallows
and into the pit you fall to
become a servant -
with no point of return!!
one more victim to the harlot..
in fire they all burn.
Run while you can!!
Run away from her.
It is said that the fruit don’t
fall far from the tree.
But a truth I tell you, CHRIST
CAME TO SET THE CAPTIVE