Best Lather Poems
liberty in verse
atypical on the Soup
born a free-spirited caballero
I’ll not dangle
from another poet’s noose
jigsaw puzzles presented
by contest sponsors
jump through hoops
win their accolades
who’s to say what makes good verse?
flash your PhD at me
“Oh yes, oh yes, you are the best,”
most wholeheartedly agree
those who compromise
win a nebulous prize
preset rhyme patterns
syllable and word counts
twisted forms, multiple forms, mega-forms
atrocities created
messages secondary
to prescribed presentations
poetic constipation
forced by over-regulation
Alison weeps at the fake Senior Prom.
Alison creeps out onto the lawn.
Alison’s skin turns to purple from pink.
Alison’s flesh beginning to stink.
A stench too great to look away.
Poking at the children who’ve come to play.
Poking at Alison with a big long stick.
Flies alight with each small kick.
Alison floats above the field.
Amongst the birds and clouds to shield
her from the view of those below
who move through life ignoring the glow
of a vacuum in midst of spring air.
Gliding and growing beginning to tear
through the surface tension of a calm morn.
Swirling the tempest, igniting a storm.
Driving rain drops pelt the surface
of grass and concrete and metal, with purpose.
Cleansing the stains of stigma and pain.
The dirt drains away. Crispness remains.
Who will remember poor Alison?
When time has passed and we’ve moved along.
Who will remember the lessons she taught?
Lessons engraved, but I guess you forgot.
Jim Graham
2010
I want to scrape my hands raw,
peel away the loops and whorls,
make it scarlet
Scrape it
as you would fish scales,
but bloodied
Pour antiseptic on it
Let. It. Sting.
Then wash it away,
letting it flow
down
the
drain.
.
.
Let it form callouses
to numb it,
Then start anew.
Scrape. Lather. Repeat.
***
Me in a funky mood.
Written while waiting in line at a bank.
For one whole hour.
We sure were one bunch of bored people there.
235p24008122013
For hygiene no hope,
No recourse to soap,
Cleanliness for rope
Germs no longer grope;
Easy patrols: lope
To those who hate soap
Do you ever cope?
All Catholics Nope!”
For I could tell Pope.
Soap is Next father
Of laundry’s lather
Dwarfed only by surf
But to Dirt still rough
Use it no odour
You’ll smell the other.
the way-there channel...
is for casting
-3 0 3 3 3 0 -3
the next-even days
we-lather tempers...
at yer 'some-day' to
set-a-turd-day...
for casting pat
urned and numb...
brrrr'd assss' into
a favor-ripe fishing spot
stan sand