here’s your plaque:
best in uniformity & public shaming.
no rooster crows without committee review.
no similes unless they match the mulch.
you scratch the dirt,
then vote on who gets corn-fed
when there's plenty to go around.
not every poem is a zoning dispute,
and I'm hard pressed to name anyone here
an expert in the field. get over yourselves.
she left.
what was the point of that?
you ran off a chance to learn something,
or worse,
ran off a chance to help a lonely person
in need, masquerading what they want to be.
we'll never know now.
all this for what?
the abject terror of an electron less
of validation? grow the f*ck up.
I see you,
paper-bagging praise like contraband,
while circling the coop,
searching for a beak to clip.
I'm going to bed now,
to dream of that first welcome
I had three years ago.
My sincerest hope
is that you'll meet me there.
The sun awakes him
Without worry or shame
Wish I could say I smell the roses
That my life is just the same
But he carries on
Enriched by nothing at no cost
I never had him in the first place
So how can I claim to have lost
His endless games make me alert
He's nothing in particular to achieve
I crash out amidst his callousness
I've really nothing up my sleeve
My silence is golden
My armour suited up to boot
There's nothing in particular I want to say
My distance now absolute
I have an empty page upon which
my scribbling efforts will scar.
I sometimes think if it would
like to remain unscathed as it is;
yet, what is a blank page worth
just sitting there...
lest it be crumpled to start a fire
just as scribbling often will.
Nowhere in Particular
David J Walker
Is it enough that
we once
shared the same sky
that we walked the
same streets and
greeted the same citizens
aimlessly passing by
is it enough that I have
cataloged and stored each
yesterday in a frame
of mind
easy to find
although
every page is dogeared and
smeared with the stains
of years gone by
is it enough to have
woken up
next to each other
wondering where
this was going
knowing
it was going nowhere
in particular
In my room, there are many objects,
most of them collecting dust.
I have an array of books, some I've read,
and some I fear I never will.
There is a window I gaze out quite often.
The hills outside my window are now full of houses,
where once roamed horses. I miss those days.
I wonder why man has such great tepees these days
and no horses.
But my mind is not as active now as it once was.
It's not that I don't care anymore, it's just that I've learned
to be more accepting of things. (To a degree)
I am not a man on a mission, I am simply trying to be at one with myself.
Man must first find inner peace to make the world a peaceful place.
A quote from Black Elk:
There can never be peace between nations until there is known that true peace, which, as I have often said, is within the souls of men.
The word spirit comes from the Latin spiritus, meaning "breath." So as long as we are all breathing in and out, the Awen will find its own way out.
(AWEN, Welsh for (poetic) inspiration).
No one in particular (in the wake of our dreams)
We don’t look like they do,
graphic replicas of a life in tatters,
drifting on lonesome clouds
Dove’s wing spread
capturing the wind,
waving goodbye to an existence
that dreams in black and white,
fashioning commercials
like chip and salsa dispensers
Camouflaged by sadness,
greens and browns woven in corduroy overalls
Contemplating the loss
before the beginning creates a title
and words have only meaning
for others who chose to read
and believe that each day
is a jewel in the crown of the month
Floating on seas of discontent
even though heart shaped sails
reflect on horizons
much closer than they appear
but still so far away
that silhouettes resemble unmentionables
as others keep a watchful eye
for anything that even seems
like a tide fueled rumor,
just because they can
Still, we don’t look like they do,
maybe because our visions come through
a brilliant sunrise and we realize
we do need somebody
and we won’t hesitate to cherish,
quietly of course,
those who come to touch us
in the wake of our dreams,
hiding in plain sight,
disguised as no one
in particular
I'm writing this poem about,
Nothing in particular.
It might be so, I don't quite know
If this matter can be quite the tickler.
As you read,
What I write,
Are you sitting are you standing,
Or are you leaning to the right?
Today I don't feel,
Any kind of sadness.
EEK! I'm talking to myself,
That's the first sign of madness.
I now that I'm sarcastic,
But I'm not very witty.
If you think you're so smart,
Sing a funny ditty!
HA!
I bet you diddn't sing at all.
I don't care,
If you're big or small.
Now whose smarter,
May I ask,
As I give you,
Another task!
Write a poem,
Even better,
And if you do,
Send me a letter!
I told you at the very start,
This poem may not be a tickler,
But one thing is quite for sure,
That it's about nothing in particular.