you are
you were
you will be
you will
fill my need
the sexuality
of poetry
the true kiss
of inspiration's lips
not of
the body
but of the flesh
the air you breathe
you breathe into me
with my perspiration
in anticipation
orgasmic words
perhaps abstract
and absurd
towards
total
disbelief
that concrete
shoes should sway
me
disway me
weigh me down
so in the end
tell the boatman
to ease me in
it seems Styx
and stone will
take my bones
as i swim
with the fishes
perhaps i might
bump
into the
lost and found
of
the body
of Jimmy Hoffa
Categories:
hoffa, muse,
Form: I do not know?
Leave you my tears?
I didn't.
I took down the
'For Sale' sign.
Threw in the
white flag.
Embalmed it
like a stiff in a fridge.
Sealed it
with a musical lick.
Packaged it
with airplane black box tape.
I hid it
it’s sitting with Hoffa.
Finished,
over,
took its last bow,
curtains closed.
I wrapped it in wire
barbed!
This heart of mine.
Maurice Yvonne
September 7 2014
Poetry II Contest
Sponsor: gautami phookan
"Leave you my tears"
Categories:
hoffa, depression,
Form: Dramatic Monologue
Jimmy Hoffa Found at Last
By Elton Camp
Though well-known by name and face
The union leader vanished without a trace
Reports claimed he was here, then there
Authorities have looked about everywhere
“If you will thoroughly look around,
Under the stadium he will be found.”
“Very soon after he was dead,
We buried him under a shed.”
“Even though it was a little rude,
We ground him up into dog food.”
Turns out his killers took a delight
In hiding Jimmy Hoffa in plain sight
In a museum his skeleton on display
But a deceptive phrase on it did say
“A Neanderthal Man is hanging here.
Please don’t touch or come too near.”
A cave man he resembled so much
For decades he easily passed as such
Categories:
hoffa, satire,
Form: Rhyme
Jimmy Hoffa Is Buried There
By Elton Camp
For decades, Joe had been in one prison or another
When one day he received a letter from his brother
“Joe, I wish I could dig up the old garden space
I’m now living on a pension & it’s poverty I face”
“If I could produce a crop, it’d held me get by.
But my back’s so bad that to dig I can’t try.”
Joe wrote back, knowing his letter would be read
“Don’t dig there. It’s where I put Hoffa when dead.”
The next week, authorities with shovels came in
And when Joe heard about it, he began to grin
About what happened, he never once ranted
“Brother, it’s ready for the garden to be planted.”
Categories:
hoffa, funny, garden,
Form: Rhyme