Best First Person Poems
I'M A PACIFIST AND WILL KILL THE FIRST
PERSON WHO SAYS I'M NOT
The moon was in the center of the sky when I heard her scream
so she told me about her horrible dream
it is a venture I am forbidden to describe to anyone
but it involved and ex-lover, tears and a gun
the gun, in her dream, was as real as my friend freds
and in the dream someone ended up dead
who died is something I cannot reveal
all I can say is the dream to her was ultra real
so I heard her scream in the middle of the night
she doesn't remember what she told me about fright
my sweet put it out of her mind and Rolodex
and if her dream had been real he would be more than her ex
I would have stood up for my lover even if she was wrong
because i'll bet you dollars to donuts he's not that strong
let me meet him in the street somewhere someday
and her dreams like that one will fade away
© 2012....PHREEPOETREE...~free cee!~
The first derriere shot,
that killed everyone’s appetite,
came from a second-rate,
light tipping looter
A no-class hothead bum,
who had bun fiddy no-good burger
burglar instincts
Amateur night out
introduced a new bottom bang-bang
beatnik on the back end drum —
A queasy gut alley cat
addicted to
the sugar:
white powdered yum-yum
Twitchy turned into a bad olfactory rat,
when he got glutty on the job ...
and belly forgot to pack his Tums
Intestinal spastic shock
sent the masked night hooter
crooning outhouse slop jar
bullet belch serenades:
Involuntary gastro scattershots
First person pooter,
behind-the-back six-grunt shooter
Separating good friends and loved ones
from their paid ambience indulgence
First person pooter,
fast sphincter sewer hole Roto-rooter
Giving fatal flatulent body shots:
a culinary coroner table experience —
Breath held, back bent ... restroom sent
Unfiltered air
on a cadaver nose, dead zone blast
Collecting all fine dining tips,
with a rancid mist that withers grass
Amateur Rooti-toot Tooter
got a bad air attitude
Graduated last
in How-to-be-a-Crook class
Now he’s Number One Most Wanted
First person pooter
Cold dish crook with blazing cheek guns —
He’s such a quick draw
backdoor shooter
Written In First Person
By: Tom Wright
Feb. 5, 1998
Filled with joy, you heart won't be,
until surrendering your life to me.
a gift was I to all mankind,
I healed the Leper and the Blind.
The lame I made to rise and walk,
caused even Balam's Ass to talk.
I know each time a Sparrow falls,
I know each voice that on me calls.
so many things you've seen me do,
yet doubt my doing the same for you.
What will it take to make you see?
To turn from sin and worship me;
I gave my life on the cross that day,
so you from sin could have a way.
Through contrite heart you can receive,
if on the name of Jesus you believe.
The air smell cloudy,
With a hint of rain.
Come all this way by trustin’
In a thin white cane.
If a wink is as good as a nod,
What’s a brotha ta do?
Should Jesus come again in glory,
Wouldn’t chance to see that, too.
Can’t read the street signs
When I’m walkin’ home.
Don’t never ask directions,
Gotta make it on my own.
Oh, the speck in thy neighbor’s eye…
Some be never so blind.
An honest man in Orleans Parish
Ain’t no easy thing to find.
It’s a game of countin’ footsteps
When I stroll down Rue Dupre
And the landmarks I rely on
Ain’t the kind the eye can see.
My woodstove crackle
When I burn the mail.
The magic wind of radio
Done fill my sail.
Gotta reach for the bulb to tell
If the table lamp on.
A moonless night and empty skyline,
All the brilliant stars are gone.
Sweet voice on FM
Bridges time and space.
You know I’d give the world
If I could touch her face
In a gentle and sensitive way
For to know how she feel.
Get to the pearl inside the oyster
At the bottom of the deal.
Sense desire in her fragrance,
Feel the fire in her skin
Taste the ocean’s salty wonder
When the levee’s giving in.
Don’t say no prayers for me, padre.
When the lights go out,
My soul can find its own way in the dark.
And pretty mama, when I git ya,
I'm gonna lick them ashes off.
I, the holy spirit, sat on my branch to watch my seed of light
This song came from me, and I made breath for my seed to eat
I fluttered to where they now live, which is the land of the five trees
Inspired by this section of the Trimorphic Protennoia: “The voice came through me. I created breath in my people. And I cast the eternally holy spirit into them, and I ascended and entered my light. I got on my branch and sat among the children of holy light. And I withdrew to where they lived."
First-Person Personal
By Sy Roth
Here adrift wrapped in a coat of heebeejeebies
Fearful of using the first-person personal
Masking it instead by holograms of itself,
Playful non-entities cavorting among the semi-living.
Used to squirrel the words away like nuts now dormant in a tree’s hollow
Used to look for them wherever they could be found tail-fluttering into the hollow
Liked the slippery sound of them as they glissaded off a silent tongue
Dangled them before hungering nonentities like low lying fruit
Their future use, buried treasure, gleaming like cold stars in a vast firmament.
Unemployed laborers eared, waiting for them to scissor-jump into a cold lake
Befuddled the inattentive of their existence when readied
Finally, to spring into action and gut them with their rapier wit.
Not this un-notable vessel wrapped in this veneer of corpus colusum
They won’t dare come out of the shadows at this stage
They are muted heiroglyphs, attempting to grab at the fruit
That stare back in disbelief from their hidey-holes after vacationing far too long.
They’re toying with their elusive selves while the world has grown quite deaf
To the speech they could have generated
Metaphors they could have been imagined
Trapped in brains flooded with desiccant, afloat in hoary-icicled valleys.
The words are now muted and elusive
They bellow for release,
Walked across the bridge of tears
No more to paint the world in umbers and lilac.