the page seemed innocent on the screen play of life
not yet computed and sterile but what better adaptation
of blocked writing by an innocent censor of apathy
for an empty cartridge on the blank canvas called reality
and yet what a relief that neurons had exhausted themselves
firing at invisible problems and surreal contenders for
thought of the moment and contempt fixed in time
synaptic displacement idiosyncratic only in absence
refuge or incarceration straitjacket of nothingness’ boredom
or maybe serene uneventfulness unfolding in languished arrest
framed as reference point of perplexing perspective
and finally an outburst of words with whatever elusive meaning there is …
wide computer screen
white copy paper
folders and files
markers and pencils
large laser printer
pack of gel pens
swingline stapler
green plaid scotch tape
purple ruler
paper punch
paper clips
ink cartridge
scissors
pushpins
desk
Oh poetry,
why do you not feel me.
I was once your poetic percolate,
the assonance to your consonance,
spilling in silver ink,
upon Earth's raw fibres,
but in your quest for perfection,
wanderlust words are now waterless roots,
resembling a mediocre muse,
cursed from rose tinted glares,
exposing pages of bad grammar.
Since the feather in my quill
set adrift with fireflies in the wind,
conflicting choruses echo
in an acoustic refrain.
In this musical merry go around -
I'm only composed as a last thought.
In chapters of contemplation,
wondering if you feel the art of my heart;
I ponder if I am a
vacant vowel in your 'why?'
An unexplained myth..
A rhythm not seen in your rhymes
or do questions only bring bitterness?
But without the reason for answers,
will there be anything left to express?
I'm just an empty cartridge
abandoned from your fountain pen.
Now only aches and angst alliterate,
as invisible ink slowly dissolves.
I'll forever be an unfinished masterpiece.
A long forgotten poem. An anagram of listen.
There is no metaphor for this grief,
so I say goodbye to poetry
and farewell to my muse.
An Empty Page- Free Verse
Empty thoughts loiter in his mind
As new words he tries to find
But shackled by an absent muse
No words come forth for him to choose
His wizened face now wears a frown
And the cartridge of his ink has dried
He searches the silence for a clue
But it fails to elicit a response
His mordacious muse now prefers
To leave him without a horde of words
To trifle with him at this stage
And leave him with an empty page
-----------------------------------------------
An Empty Page- Triolet
An empty page, a poet's woe
In panic mode as muse departs
The moon and stars have lost their glow
An empty page, a poet's woe
Thoughts come and go, no words to show
Just a line and a verse jumpstarts
An empty page, a poet's woe
In panic mode as muse departs
Not For Contest
..
1.A misfire is when the primer fails to ignite the powder.
2.Hang fire is when the primer has struck the bullet and cause delay.
3.That would depend on why the cartridge failed to fire.
4.Did it fail to fire because the primer failed to ignite?
5.Did it fail to fire because the powder fail to ignite?
Note.There are dozens of reasons why a primer struck cartridge wouldn’t fire.
A frustrated poet had a paralyzed pen.
She wailed, “When you will move,when!”
The pen with sad eyes,looked up in dismay
“Mistress,my brain cartridge is empty this day.”
She knew there were phone calls to be made.
Plus,had to hang up a lovely,new blue shade.
Clothes to be washed,her hungry cat to be fed.
So~she with joy, jumped out of her poetic dread.
5/3/2023
What have been sayin’
It's only Saturday
Thinking in cliches is itself a cliche
Father in the kitchen
Eats his check away
Thinking in cliches is itself a cliche
Don’t you shake and shiver
When the hounds of order bey?
Thinking in cliches is itself a cliche
God is dead, or in Toms River –
Any dumb excuse to pray
Thinking in cliches is itself a cliche
Island people don't get ready
Wherever there's tsunami
They wait until that drawback gets all flushed
But back to your studies
Back to Bloom's Taxonomy
And the camouflage of sophomore girls’ first blush
It’s cartridge, pump and filter
It’s the dose in the ashtray
Thinking in cliches is itself a cliche
All the post-its in your Rilke
Will not my respect sway
Thinking in cliches is itself a cliche
Thinking in cliches is itself a cliche
Your hopeless, guileless, wretched pact of clay
The family-brand is over –
Say whatever you want but not “gay”
Thinking in cliches is itself a cliche
Thinking in cliches is itself a cliche
you release my quill from dried out surrender
spell from a fountain of compassion and hope
poet tree in motion when blanks fill my space
book end of beginnings you balance my words
weave reason and feelings into joined script
calligraph meaning kindness caring and love
when my ink seems spent you release the flow
skin onto skin like a full moon and a spoon
canvas and tapestry with passion and trust
once I was empty mere parchment and void
agonizingly close to oblivion of mute emotion
smudged charcoal from a cartridge of nothing
scribbles turned into librettos of craving
engraved my lost note pads with crayons
coloured my shadows with indigo dreams
without you my worlds held no promise
was shredded by life’s cynical silence
now the pencil swirls once ever more
28 th May 2020
That cartridge in a sniper’s gun,
true Poets kill with only one
The shooters bullet marked by him
one word to kill—what lies within
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)
You tell me…
“the structure gives strength to my writing”
I tell you…
“it’s nothing but crutches in waiting”
You tell me…
“the order brings a beginning and end”
I tell you…
“the sequence does feign and pretend”
You tell me…
“the form—the most important of things”
I tell you…
“the truth rides on Seraphim’s wings”
You show me…
the prison you’ve build with your pen
I show you…
a cartridge empty—no ink from within
(Villanova Pennsylvania: August, 2016)
Took height as a gunman but not a terrorist,nor a hero,no harm to anyone my gun is innocent as I,do no harm gun my.
A small piece of bamboo a through,the stick from Areca the trigger to push.A small wild berry cartridge to shoot with my gun.
To a berry rolls into gun,the stick shoots to press.A sound together with smoke flows out.A thrilling experience my gun added to my youth to win.
The wild berries aren’t wild as says, innocent not killing,these blue berries aren’t so why?
High caliber verse
the cartridge hand loaded
A new target centered
all focus then squared
Its barrel’s been filled
with red molten fury
Whose trigger awaits
—a desperate will
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)
Guns don't kill people
But bullets do
So keep all your guns
But make bullets taboo
Restrict cartridge sales
Like any jet flight
With proof of ID
& registered right
Limit each purchase
To registered guns
Make mothers happy
With long-living sons
Bullets kill loved ones
& people we know
So give every shooter
A tough row to hoe!
I think we've all had that feeling of feeling
nothing.
Emptied
like the dustbins used to be
and
yet full of foreboding
as if someone is loading
a twelve bore with a cartridge
and your name
is on it.
And feeling that way which is one way
to feel
do you feel like kneeling and saying a prayer?
can you get in the midst of the others who are
there?
does that mean you are no longer alone?
This feeling cannot be right,
that not feeling is
just like the night without stars
dark,
forbidding and back to
foreboding.
Trying to keep it in real time
when all they do
is steal time,
the only thing left of mine
is
this feeling of not feeling
and I'm hanging on to it.
Like a cocked cartridge
drawn back in her wizened and mordacious sneer
she let fly upon him such an elicit horde
he was left to loiter
shackled
a trifle ............in her dust
5/7/2017
Written for a contest using
the following words
1. CARTRIDGE 2. ELICIT 3. MORDACIOUS 4. HORDE 5. SHACKLED 6. TRIFLE 7. WIZENED 8. LOITER
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