Last Poems

The Village Voice, Last Call, Act 2

Matt Stevens, New York Times,
 Meets, 
New York School of Poets
The Invention of Pitch
Growing up
I was talked to about a few concepts
Consternation was my recent result in poetry
But back tracking to graduation in Santa Barbara 
I began an intern position 
Studying movement of our times
It shifted drastic in tone 
A lift of press powers
Prowess entertained

The Last Indulgence, Or Maybe The First?

I butter the toast as if it were a pardon,
its crust breaking under my knife
like a sealed envelope.

The coffee is bitter ink,
a confession cooling in its cup.
I swallow it fast,
as if speed could trick the executioner.

When I buy myself flowers
I imagine them lining a witness box:
petals trembling,
each one swearing I once existed.

I take long baths,
the

Sailor - One Last Trip

One last trip
Into the moon of your soul

With my last-made ship
Washed up on some shore

Calmly sailing in
Rowing standing on the bow

And from the line where the sky meets the sea
The horizon takes me and I don't even know where I go

All alone in the middle of the ocean again
The moon spilling it's magic potion to

A Lasting Marriage

I dreamed of vows not spoken once,
But whispered daily, leaf by leaf,
Like moss that clings with tender strength
To stone that would not seek relief.

The years are gentle in their weight,
They press us close, yet keep us free;
Your hand in mine is steadfast earth,
A root that steadies trembling sea.

We live in words that will not fade,
In

To the last sunray

The sun caressing our skin
summer days come to an abrupt end
~ lingering sweetness turning to memories



Wordku: 5-7-5 words

AP: Honorable Mention 2025

Hands Are Buried Last In Quicksand

I breeze through endless of the trees,
I lose my way in which I choose,
Broken souvenirs will appear,
Fears jam and stuck in first gear.

Hands buried last in quick sand,
eyes focus to ears whispering,
silver stars, captured in jars,
glittering like your eyes, focusing.

There's a horizon I can't reach,
A cliff that hands can't withstand,
A hawk soars above my shore,
As

The Last Days of Autumn

It was a mild autumn day
far enough from summer’s heat
 awaiting winter’s cold bite

The brilliant shafts of sunlight
ignited the vibrant colors 
of autumn’s falling leaves

I watched them as they fell
tumbling down
all around me

Like outrageously large confetti
every color
from vivid scarlet to warm brown

I ran through the leaves
tossed them in the cool air
then sat amongst them on

Home at Last

I found today
I found a start
Along the way
I found my heart

I felt the pace
I felt the beat
I saw her face
I felt the heat

I fumbled nouns
I fumbled verbs
I mispronounced 
I slurred my words

I felt her hand
Caress my face
I understand 
I found my place

The Last Poem About Us

25th high school reunion 
Big Beaver Restaurant 1997

You somehow found 
the seat next to me.

Showed me a picture
of your husband

Doesn’t he look like you?
--No—well---maybe--No

Later, I wanted to talk to you
--all night--

Hands in my pockets
by the dance floor

Unrestrained, we might have 
taken a room out on Rt. 18

But that’s only me.
The next morning

my wife at the

Huh

'Sweet are the uses
of adversity,
as the heart grows fonder
by diversity,'
as, hoping to raise a smile,
yet nutty as a fruitcake,
I spoke none too fast
at someone fun to poke
but slow on the uptake,
and it took quite a while,
for he who laughs last,
to finally get the joke.

Last Thoughts

I thought I heard "Watch out you fool",  
and now I'm lying in a pool. 
"It must have been a hand grenade", 
I thought as senses began to fade. 
The angel who was floating there, 
then disappeared into the air.

Poetry Slam

2025.08.23
A very good afternoon to everyone.
We are here for this event
In a library, "Poetry slam".
It was the first time for me,
I never heard of it and had no idea,
That this has happened for years.

We were here with different interest,
Some loved poems, others might not be the same
Some was curious, others were serious.
This was the poem

the last puzzle

The last puzzle

When the last piece of your life's puzzle
finally fits, and you have outgrown the old man
who still crave recognition
He spends his, what might be his last summer
in his den editing and editing 
not to leave alone work done when young
He cannot be what he once was
A new life walking on soft sand and a

Last Dance - TSF

Present
Flowers
Before
My hours
Fall in
Darkness
Rightly

You watch
Idly
Come near
With songs;
Sweet drink
Calming
Lightly

Hold back
These parts
From him
Who hides
In wind—
Hunter
Seeking

Close by, 
Black eyes 
Tighten
My heart
Repines,
The beat
Creaking

Last Resort

      Can’t fly, no wings
        no voice, can’t sing

      Can’t act, no passion
        wardrobe's out of fashion

      For music, no ear 	
    

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