Long Alternate Poems
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My car stalled in the restaurant parking lot.
The waiter ran out,
To give me back my wallet.
I saw him waver from behind the restaurant window.
I have two identities.
I called the tow truck.
The driver told me what he thinks.
I feel the bumps in the rental car.
With me.
I’ve never been in the alternate dimension.
But the gravel I drive over has.
Driving in an unfamiliar car.
Becomes closer.
Slowing down but I wish…
My rental car stalled.
That’s what it’s like.
You rent a car, and rent a car, and rent a car.
A tow truck comes over, and over, and over.
Blue, green, red.
Cars I’ve driven in my head.
Waking up and I’m in Ohio.
I used to live there.
The other one.
I have two identities.
Me and the woman in the grey car.
She knew but said nothing.
Clay clamours to potter man:
Too proud, today ye pound me,
A day will one day dawn, when
I’d smother the mortal thee.
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mati kahe kumhar se, tu kya raunde moye,
ek din aisa ayega mein raundungi toye.
The wheel of life turns round and round. One day it goes upward and then downward turns. Good and bad tidings alternate. It helps if one bears this in mind. A potter man was preparing his clay for his wheel by crushing it under his feet to smoothen it into a uniform lump. The clay seems to tell him: Today you are stomping me under your feet, but wait, a day is going to come when you would die and get buried under soil. Then, you too would be treated the same way.
Imagine an alternate universe, one born in the reverse rhythm of our own Big Bang.
In this cosmos, the arrow of time flows backward, not as a regression but as an elegant symmetry, a dance of retreating possibilities.
Galaxies do not expand into the void but instead coalesce, condensing into radiant singularities, the luminous echoes of futures we can never reach.
Here, light emerges only to fold inward, its journey truncated before it graces the expanse.
It is a universe hidden from us not by distance alone, but by the very nature of its existence—its glow always arriving too late, its truths eternally just beyond our grasp.
Yet, even unseen, such a realm invites awe.
It suggests that reality is not a single thread but a cosmic loom, weaving countless tapestries in both directions of time.
It is a humbling thought, a reminder that the cosmos, vast and intricate, may hold infinities we can sense only in the whispers of our dim imagination.
It's not the cup but the coffee within.
Arabica beans, fair trade
organic and shade grown
often from a woman's cooperative in Peru
then roasted in small batches
by a local roaster.
I like mine dark
but my wife likes medium
so we alternate
or sometime mix the two.
The beans ground
medium-course
with a burr grinder
are placed in our
pre-warmed press pot
just before we brew,
and covered with
our non-chlorinated well water
which has been brought
just to the boil
then left for 45 seconds.
A pause, three minutes is best
but sometimes we can't wait,
before the plunger is pressed
and our morning elixir poured
into our waiting cups.
And by the way,
mine was thrown
by a local potter
many years ago.
Sometimes we worry
that climate change
may ruin the source
of our morning addiction,
but we do our best
to tread lightly.
Inspired by Anne Lise's ode "Without Worries"
The Poet's Condition
by Michael R. Burch
(for my mother, Christine Ena Burch)
The poet's condition
(bother tradition)
is whining contrition.
Supposedly sage,
his editor knows
his brain's in his toes
though he would suppose
to soon be the rage.
His readers are sure
his work's premature
or merely manure,
insipidly trite.
His mother alone
will answer the phone
(perhaps with a moan)
to hear him recite.
Alternate Title: "Poetry Slam: The Hangup"
Keywords/Tags: poet, poets, poems, poetry, poetic expression, rhyme, editor, publisher, mother, readers, recite, recitation, reciting, performance, writing, reading, rap, slam, phone, telephone
This piece was actually written by my 84 year old neighbor when he was 14 and it was the posted in the school magazine, before he passed on his wish is for believers of Jesus Christ to read and enjoy the piece, he's not up to date with technology so I'm posting on his behalf I thought it was a fantastic piece and I'm sure you'll all agree.
The Three Wise Men came fourth
And presents they did give
They went back home alternate ways,
So that our Lord might live,
When Herod heard of this,
His court he dismissed,
Full of anger and in Vain,
He ordered all babies to be slain,
The lord said in a dream,
Harrod is not supreme,
So take the baby boy by night,
And flee to Egypt out of sight,
And thus it came to pass,
This day is our Christmas
By Mr P Robinson
This wonderful day of our lord,
Who's worshippers wondered and adored,
So let us sing and praise,
These wonderful Christmas days,
When Jesus Christ was gifted to all men
Hallelujah thanks be to God Amen
Ah what fair moan
laden fantasy lassitude looms
large if this
chaste ole buoy got cornered
into an alleyway
by a bevy of beefy
buxom babes dead set
on hounding this
doggone codger anyway
shape or form eying
sole asylum madly
sprinting thru a narrow
cookie cutter archway
overlooking a multilane beltway
risky business risking
life and limb leaping
the immense height to
make a breakaway
inevitably configuring myself
into unrecognizable
Rorschach Test, when
ganged up by goo goo dolls
suddenly become permanently faraway
unless of course some fluke,
disguised a big yellow bird
rescues yours truly talons linkedin
to flesh pot, a gateway
timed perfectly with
what I surmised
as doomed getaway,
though while dangling aloft
(imagining myself sanity clause)
minus the reindeer sleigh trademark
accouterment and nary a giveaway,
but no idea when...
aerial salvation halfway
to destination thinking,
perchance mebbe adventure
will comprise entering
a wormhole hatchway,
an out of this world experience,
and without doubt
the most remote hideaway,
a thought raced thru my mind
this captive within
hinterlands of space/time
could be heading
along the highway
to hell, no matter where pathway
takes this beastie boy
even if fate somehow
finds me in Rockaway
or possibly alternate
universe of said placename
nothing infuses Earthling
with greater excitement
than feeling like a
truant proud runaway
entranced by the infinite skyway
analogous to ascending stairway
to heaven, only for
this celestial stowaway
that does land him
smack dab straightaway
into a parallel dimension wafting
my buttonose with decor of dames
intent to commence
cupid ditty underway
coon scent of woman actually
ache'n since commencement
of this "FAKE" quasi poem.
I entered my dream amidst a lavender grassy plain
I realised looking up that the skies are not the same
Orange to yellow patterns as if in cotton wool collage
Blood red horizons in compass as I view my dreams mirage
A noise captures my ears as I turn to view from where
Upon an orangey maned zebra, what I see leaves me stare
She, with Tiger stripes and naked, breasted so heavenly
To the cotton clouds she looks, with a raven so beautifully
My mind now hears cloven hooves, as if beating on the ground
Now many approach from distance, floating, now I'm in surround
The skies begin to darken, blood red horizons seen before
So surreal amidst this lavender, through an alternate back door
Whilst the raven gently hovers she turns her eyes to me
In complexed look of amaze, I think what does she see
Written 7/27/2011 4:26:00 PM
Star Wars Lullaby
Sing to the skies a Star Wars lullaby
Stay clear of the pentagram and other unkind signs
That sway out there on waves of outer space
Fly to foreign planets, riding like a rhymer
Alive! Sailing on a solar wind in peace through time
Take guitar in hand, euphoric in the moment
With the other hand hold laser gun with beams of light
To fight the Imperial forces gathering
What will it be?
A rhymer knows just what to do and think
Should you shoot them?
Maybe wave a torch or magic wand
Strum them to death with music?
Lull them off to sleep with artistry and good looks?
A geek stumbles on the scene, thick black rimmed glasses on
Falls on cosmic tapestries to entice the enemy
He offers alternate solutions for the unwanted company
Extends his half eaten sandwich made of tuna
To the evil forces who reject his fishy lunch
And Darth Vader wants a ham…of course
Geeks read Tolkien to improve their minds
And prefer that to the dark side of the force
It would be an optical illusion to think otherwise
With or without geek glasses
Escaping on a wave of music at the speed of light
Is the clear choice to avoid a fight
The void is there, like a brother, to fill in noise and needs
Put out the torch and let the babies sleep
Rock the evil empire to its knees with lullabies and bombs
Set them on rockets to the deep beyond
Send them to oblivion with a song
Created on 11/14/14 for Cyndi MacMillan’s
“A WORD COLLAGE FOR CHAN HURST” Poetry Contest
Words used in poem: Euphoric, Star Wars, Tolkien, Guitar, Pentagram, Optical, Artistry, Brother, Geek, Torch, Alive, Rhymer
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Alright my Deer, time to turn in,
tomorrow's Christmas Eve again!
This next thing I'm about to say
might sting but listen anyway -
I need you at your very best
and would suggest you get some rest,
for I won't take up time this year
trying to wake up drunken deer.
Last Yule, may I remind you guys,
we pulled out way behind moonrise.
I've asked the Elves to close the pub,
go get your plastered selves some grub,
locate your stalls and stay in there
and don't be late for calls to air
or I will use your alternate.
You snooze, you lose - that's not a threat.
So, to your homes, we're done. It's late!
Oh - placed on duty at your gate
are Gnomes, in case you think you might
let Rudy run his nose all night*
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Date: 12/10/2018
Contest: CHRISTMAS CHEER