His heart sinks to his boots
at the mountian of work that suits -
much are rejectable at first glance -
but some needs a second glance.
The majority is best described as 'fortnight tea'.
Getting to grips with diffent registers,
varied poetic voices and levels of growth,
make for a couldron of flavours
catering for differnent tastes -
editors are expected to wear many hats.
This is before rhyme can be checked -
mistakes are argued away as poetic licence -
and getting to grips with dialect
and varied stressed syllables ...
This is just scratching the surface.
AI can be helpful - up to a point:
It does not 'get' idiom and many metaphor
which the more seasoned poet employs.
Poetry is a living, breathing medium -
it can't be difined by an algorithm.
“If you were to live forever or die right now, which would you choose?”
That question sat with me all afternoon
I tried to justify living forever
Which is easier said than done
I argued that I haven't lived enough
This book is only a quarter full after all.
The words form a puddle on the ground as they sputter from my mouth,
When I saw my reflection in the puddle
I realized I could die at any given moment
Nothing is promised.
I guaranteed myself just another moment
If I continue to sit here in silence.
If I don't move,
If I just listen,
And breathe
Maybe the clock will think twice before ticking.
Yesterday, we sat and watched
A sitcom on TV
From early in the 70’s,
But what was strange to me
Was hearing Archie Bunker’s rants
About the U.S.A.
And things that he was saying
Echoed words I hear today.
He argued with his son-in-law
About the government,
Defending Richard Nixon
To his daughter’s discontent.
That show reflects some current themes
But somehow in the past,
It made us laugh; those same thoughts
Uttered now leave us aghast.
The new normal says:
to pluck a flower without getting in trouble,
do it from a bunch,
'cause the crowd covers the action;
it retains the innocence.
A lie—
a masked tool,
surrounded by many words,
easy to make anyone a fool.
Best way to present any stupid thing cool.
But when it embeds on our tongues,
so sticky,
it won't leave.
Who first needed it?
Why couldn't truth fit?
Perhaps it's the fear
to see those expressions
when they hear
what the actual words are.
They might find it sour.
But the actual event is uncarved;
no one knows what truly held.
Why not serve a different tale
everyone wants to willingly hear?
The plan succeeded.
No one knew.
It felt like a weapon;
the word spread among a few.
The legacy continued.
"It's self-defense," they argued.
Reality depletes,
the façade highlights.
No one can prove
if you lied.
Pulled to align
The pendulum argued.
But the plumb bob knew
what's right and not contrite.
To be poised, centered,
upright, steadfast, sure
adroit, proud but not trite.
Dangling right on
the plumb bob line,
a pendulum perpendicular
pondered,
then answered
to prim and proper,
with ample sufficiency
now certain.
Gravity assured,
swings swung, spun run,
seesaw done,
all daft drafts
exhausted,
the bob plumbed
to settle on
aplomb.
Pearlescent skeleton with bones of white
was stirring the brew on this Halloween night
His wrist was steady, his spoon was sure
Best brew of all I bet, said a witch, Demure
But he’s not a witch, I argued with her
Don’t be a bigot, she told me, his heart is pure
All you have to do to make the perfect brew
Is to want to do what this skeleton can do.
In the tiny panel room, there’s a distant sound of thunder:
we huddle together, instinctively even though we are not acquaintances
two people caught in a small space while Armageddon happens around us
We exchange first names; I know this is the end
I have already seen several colleagues leap to their death
the woman has torn her pantihose; there are remnants of sash in her hair
her forehead has slashes of soot across it
I never expected this, I told her
an inner voice told me we had to get to a stairwell
We are 82 floors up! I argued. The voice was insistent.
I lift her with me, and force her to head down those stairs
It is dark and dreary. Evil is lurking around every corner.
My heartbeat has never sounded this loud.
That was 9-11-2001.
We are still good friends 24 years later.
The squirrel council gathered
beneath the old oak tree,
debating this year’s acorn tax
with wild indignity.
Red Tail argued loudly
for equal stash for all,
while Gray Tail filibustered
by climbing up the trunk and stalling.
Chiptooth formed a committee
to count the winter stores,
but half the nuts went missing
before they reached the floor.
White Tail, the Treasurer (a clever one)
insisted on a vote~
but bribery with hazelnuts
kept everyone barking a troat.
Yet somehow, through the chaos,
a compromise was made:
each squirrel keeps their acorns
but must share one… someday.
And so the forest functions,
in its nut-based parliament~
a jittery, tail-flicking congress
forever in dissent.
My friend just finished
clearing a table when I
came up the register.
We argued the time before
but this night was still.
I always savored a late hour
when it would be just us.
She asked if the food was good—
it was. I placed a ten
on the counter, and she
looked at me.
The restaurant was still.
I broke the silence
by telling her about my favorite
song, as an entry point
to say something more.
We’d known each other
for so long.
I used lyrics to say
that I tried to love her
but I was only a man.
For so long I’d shared
my life with her.
Her face glowed
when she said
she felt the same
a resonance I felt
I had waited for
all of my life.
I stepped outside
to a neon glow.
A streetlight shone a star.
Slippery, an obstinate ostentatious otter
was determined to date my lovely daughter
I was against it said the pompous potter
such a silly idea, on which I threw cold water
There are worse men said the Potter’s wife, Cotter
This made his indignant anger grow hotter
Slippery is a good guy, argued his cousin Blotter
She is a professional scribbler, a true jotter
He is no slacker agreed his great grandma Knotter
But no one had asked the Potter’s lovely daughter
She came into the kitchen to get a drink of water
Slippery who? She asked the Potter and Cotter
They hemmed and hawed like a teeter-totter
Acting a bit stuck up like some kind of snotter
I decide who I date, stated the assertive daughter
Laughing hard now was her outspoken grandma Knotter
But Stan is my bestie, little jack argued that day.
Your whole goal in life, son, is to keep crows away.
But he makes my life complete, his humor is the best.
Could you try not being friends for one day, for a test?
No, said Little Jack. I would rather not be a scarecrow.
Stan is my bestie, he knows when I am ready to blow.
He keeps me calm, listens to me and teaches me stuff.
Like what? Asked the father, his attitude in a huff.
He says to be good to my mom and my dad.
Jack’s father got quiet. This did not sound very bad.
And he says to help you around the field if I can.
His father suddenly liked Jack's bestie crow named Stan.
No one ever heard of a pink polka dotted pumpkin we said.
Well, I have one said Grandma, come by and bring your Uncle Ed
Uncle Ed and I laughed about this in the car on the ride over.
Until we stopped and saw the painted pumpkins of Grandma Dover.
You didn’t tell us it was a painted pumpkin, we argued with her.
She laughed at our refusal to give her the win, not so very pure.
You did not ask me, she reminded us, assuming the win.
We groused on the way home, she had beaten us again.
The library in the woods cannot be seen by all
You have to be looking, and you cannot be so tall
It is down in the crook of a sycamore tree’s edge
Under a blackberry bush, inside a wall of a hedge
But it looks big in the photo, argued the biting red ant
Because it has been magnified by a hundred said all-knowing plant
The library in the woods has stayed a secret from most.
Hidden away by a large bullfrog, who serves as her host.
We left a note with instructions inside the room
With a rotary phone, which was left over from 1962
This teenager was used to Facetime, Instagram and Zoom
But with these two items, had no idea what to do
Didn’t she read the note? Someone asked me
It was in cursive, something she could not read, you see
Why didn’t she dial the phone? I was asked by another.
She did not know how to dial; she pushed one number after another
Why didn’t she just walk out of the room? Asked the queen.
We told her we would give her fifty dollars, if she could make us come in.
This was told to another couple, who thought we were being mean.
It was kind of fun to watch on a monitor, argued me and my twin.
living in snow-capped Boulder was Mrs. G. Golder
Her personality persnickety and colder
fourteen juicy pepper jack cheeseburgers would not hold her
Six candy bars too, Mrs. Molder whispered to my pal Soldier
Mrs. Molder was a snoopy neighbor of Golder
None of us ventured to guess which crone was older
Their birth certificates flagged inside a red folder
Kept by the F.B.I. in weather that was colder
What’s your guess? My sister asked, nudging my shoulder
I guessed Mrs. Molder, but my sister argued it was Mrs. G. Golder
To find the answer, we broke into the F.B.I. office in Boulder
Discovered they were twins; it was unclear which one was older.
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