Best Rounded Poems
I’ve got no beef with McDonald’s or Jack
‘n the Box weighing down American towns
with greasy sacks in thin hospital gowns.
They’re just a couple of clowns selling crack
to cavalier carnies who’d like fries with that
six thousand calorie corpulent noun
with a large diet Coke to wash it all down.
Where I live (Houston) everyone is fat.
Me, you, black, white, brown, yellow, straight, gay, trans:
fat, fat, fat. Even the bum, with nothing but
a cardboard savior and his corporate name,
who begs from corners with two open hands
that dropped Vietnam, is blessed with a gut
that knows for greed to starve would break the game.
If you give a man… a rounded stone
He throws it at something
If you give a woman… a rounded stone
She grinds grain to make bread
If you give a man… a clock
He takes it apart to see how it works
If you give a woman… a clock
She displays it on the mantle
If you give a man… a full can of trash
He tries to cram one more piece into it
If you give a woman… a full can of trash
She empties it
If you give a man… the phone
He says, “I’ll call them back,” and never does
If you give a woman… the phone
She talks for hours and hours and hours…
If you give a man… a piece of land
He turns it into a recreation area
If you give a woman… a piece of land
She creates a beautiful garden of colors
If you give a man… a new car
It becomes his pride and joy
If you give a woman… a new car
She drives it until it stops
If you give a man… a bunch of pillows
He throws them on the floor
If you give a woman… a bunch of pillows
She piles them on the bed
If you give a man… a piece of gold
He locks it away boxed and labeled
If you give a woman… a piece of gold
She proudly wears it for display
If you give a man… a pair of shoes
He needs to break them in
If you give a woman… a pair of shoes
She needs an entire new outfit
If you give a man… hope
He suddenly strives to be his best
If you give a woman… hope
Her attitude is one of belief
In this we are the same, and with faith we will prevail… together.
Rounded edges soon taking shape
shine once glitter meets the seams
year old troubles washed away
but still fractured in empty dreams
Colours dipped in virgin sand
search out pebbles not yet missed
distant glances roll from the sea
send in surges sealing nature's kiss
Night time dwells with lunar drifts
shoreline pushed back with the breeze
midnight memories soon dispersed
rounded edges overcome life's bursts
I would like dark chocolate, but I need you
Cadbury alone won't do
I'll climb the Himalayan for you, because
When I'm with you, really with you
Grand Central can come in, yet fade thin, as
I bask with touch of you
Fierce, yet mild well-rounded honeybee
A die-hard Christian man forever, because,
From Okinawa to Timbuktu,
History's fiercest touch to your faith you've faced.
You're continental, universal
Unforgettably cultural
You're my drug of choice
Sweet chocolate could sedate one's voice
But you! You're not terribly sweet
Your bitter changes to firm treat,
Then I know for sure,
You're my Don Juan.
*
Rounded earth appeared
when populated caravel
of argonauts, dipped
was in seas never before
browsed ...
Behold, going up to the North all perceived
the sun little by little rising
from the edge of dawn ... apparition
ghostly in the deep blue ...
On-site verification, halo
vaulted earth ...
Primal phenomenon
sphericity of
planet... !
In the twilight of a crystalline night, under the rounded silence of moonlight,
my thoughts flow like a river struggling within the banks of a poet's heart –
they become an endless stream of melancholy, of extinguished stars and untouched dreams.
There, where the echo of silence speaks, the inner voice whispers fragments of hidden truth,
and each word breathes in the rhythm of my troubled soul's pulse.
When I looked into the mirror of time,
I felt the unshared desire of the world to become the poet they would wish for,
to answer the call of a faceless crowd, but then, in that moment, I knew –
true poetry knows no compromise.
For in a world of cheerful or sad merchants, you encounter empty faces, without luster,
without true love for forms sculpted from the soul's sighs.
A merchant of illusions, clinging to the demands of monotonous days,
loses the priceless joy of pure creation,
of living each drop of color spilled on the canvas of oblivion.
In the depths of my troubled heart, unattainable dreams dance,
I paint imperfect but sincere images, for deep truth cannot be bought.
And I find myself, poor in wealth, but rich in the joy misunderstood by many,
that happy poverty that nourishes the entire universe of my own thoughts.
The light in the gaze of an authentic poet shines in the darkness of the world,
for he creates not for the pleasure of others, but for the eternal fire of his own passion.
I weave my wings from the fabric of my dreams and fly freely,
above a world that may never understand me,
but I, deep within, know that true poetry seeks its own language and rhythm –
without chains, without demands, simply, sublimely.
Reality is painfully sweet, a scent of melancholy soaked in the twilight of each lost day,
and thus, poor but happy, I remain a poet –
a wandering heart, a soul searching for itself in every word, in every note, in every color.
Responding to James Frasers' "Lips of Velvet Touch"
With eyes of beauty
Powder blue rounded petals
Silky is her bum
Jared Pickett........8/28/09
our rounded sycamore
symmetrically sound
waiting to be drawn
photographed by many
the perfect model for a family tree
in my grandma's yard
I feel reverence and appreciation
rounded sycamore