Long Paper Poems
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EXPRESSIONS THROUGH POETRY
Writing poetry or anything at all creative is a lonely business. You are your own judge, for what
You write down on paper, invariably comes’ from within, and contains a great deal of yourself,
your personality, beliefs, feelings and restlessness. There is very little honour in writing poetry, only
an inner satisfaction that you have somehow managed to communicate with someone, somewhere,
even for just a fleeting moment. Few people are actually attuned to your thoughts and feelings
and the way you see things in life as we are all individuals.
Poetry is a rhythmic language charged to the highest possible degree with one’s own personality.
It often holds no practical ends, unless sheer delight is to be considered practical. It arises from, and
communicates with layers of consciousness in daily life. I imagine we have all had the experience of
not understanding a poem, and yet, getting something out of it. Our, response to poetry is largely
Instinctual.
Depending on the poet, words can either gain or lose significance according to a complex and ever
changing context that is partly personal, partly social and partly historical. Poems take on meaning
according to the angle from which one views them. It is futile to talk of the progress or decline of
this art. The art flourishes whenever a poet writes a poem. Poetry will never wither away, as long
as people feel the necessity to express themselves.
Poetry is often thought of as been eccentric, and is certainly considered to be an art of high
expression. Reading poetry allows us to learn, enrich our knowledge and sharpen our astuteness.
I believe that there are poems tucked away and locked up in many homes, so come on, get out those
precious poems, dust off the cobwebs and do something about them!
With paper towels and a spray,
I cleaned the window panes today.
It’s not a chore I like, but hey –
It’s what you’ve gotta do.
I wiped the window sills, as well,
Though, at a glance, you couldn’t tell,
But those who in Manhattan dwell
Know schmutz likes to accrue.
Of course, once cleaning had begun,
I dusted all the frames, each one
Just waiting ‘til they all were done
And propped back up to view.
Assorted bowls and vases, plus
Some tchotchkes that belong to us
Required, too, a little fuss
So they would look brand-new.
At last, my windows, nice and clear,
Caused my apartment to appear
Like it’s all good until next year
When guilt will bubble through.
Shopping alone
It was raining, she didn't want to go out
watching the funeral of a famous singer
the mourning took all day, playing him
singing when he had hair and was youngish
I drove to the supermarket that had
indoor parking.
the car found its own way to the spot
reserved for the invalids, put her
walking stick near the car window, so
everyone could see the person's car
was legally parked, and in case someone
watched me, I and walked unsteadily
to the entrance of the market
On my list, was a tin of peas, I found the shelf
grabbed a tin, and by doing so three more tins
fell to the floor, I pretended it had nothing
to do with me and walked to the fruit
section looked at my note 5 bananas
There is a cluster of bananas, to get five
I had to wrestle them loose damaged
two bananas I also forgot to weigh the fruit
and put the price on a plastic bag
I picked up a sweet bucket of low-fat yogurt
it had a plastic handle when lifting it
the handle broke.
Among many things, she had wanted a bottle
of beer, there were many bottles on a shelf
to be safe I picked the first bottle in
the line, the one alone to avoid knocking down
other bottles
By now I was low on blood sugar, nerves and
diabetes go hand in hand
At the til I paid with cash, a card was out I would
forget the code monetarily
I have four pockets in my trousers, two side
pocket, two in the back
My wallet is always in the last pocket I try
Finally, I put my shopping in a new paper bag
by opened too abruptly it broke, but they kindly
gave me another bag
In the car, I was safe, ate some sweets and
drove out with alacrity
They Thrive on Comments but where is their Poetry?
I don't care if you like me or not.
I am here to be a poetry snot.
I don't want you at the PC all day.
That's not the game any human should play.
If you are an ego freak
Call this EGO SOUP.
If a lonely soul, in need of cheer,
Go to a bar to be with people, have
fun and genuine cold beer.
If you are so Poetry wise?
Why drool over words on paper in
Poetry disguise
And the truly good Poets here, what is if
with you?
You drool over the worst, clueless
Poetry, which I eschew.
Yes. Oh my God, you must get a reply back.
No Poetry really means a thing to a commenting hack!
It is balancing act!
Worse than the rack!
7/11/2021
3
*Clarification. Poetry snot is simply one who
Likes Poetry over comment reading*
mindless Frankenstein,
single-minded,
and her voracious, faithful dog
with a seventy-foot tail,
lifting carpets, sliding sofas,
slurping everything in sight,
with a bottomless pit for an appetite,
metal, insects, dead mice, coins,
fingernail clippings, fleas, spider brains -
It gurgles and wretches
over paper scraps from childish sketches,
embarrassing for a howling dog,
who wears his name, Hoover, in a stamp
on his bulging side,
a reverse Pandora's box of a canine,
pop him and you see all
your old friends again,
dreams long dead, come alive,
but he's roaring like a
dragon in a Godzilla audition,
and he's got you in his crosshairs,
with a Duranteater snout,
as Ms. Frankenstein squints,
looking for hints,
turning every stone,
so, you gotta keep movin.
she's got murder in her eye.
she won't bake you in pie.
you won't even die.
she's gonna put you in oblivion.
every bit of dirt is gone.
only, you, the dirt king,
emperor of disgust,
crown prince of crud,
evade her tenacity.
finally, sleeping soundly
on a chair's bottom side,
as she falls with a thud,
and Fido hides in the corner,
moaning.
I tell you I like, that Wayland a bunch
He'd be the guy, to be there in a crunch
Not afraid of humor, he paves the way
With clerihew words, he loves to play
Let's talk of Eileen, the Queen of passion
Her verses of pleasure, will not be rationed
She causes men to rise, women to weep
Many a farmer, have stopped counting sheep
Then there is Shadow, who is a bright light
Her name suggests darkness, but that isn't right
With a pen and paper, she loves to play
Out of the Shadow, poems brighten our day
There is the woman Donna, she is filled with charm
For her animals, she'd give her left arm
Still here in the soup, she adds her own spice
She's a little bit hot and a whole lot of nice
When it comes to Eagles Montery's the last word
She's not in a flock she's a solitary bird
With her strong wings creating a breeze
Verses dance on the wind with the greatest of ease
I can't forget about Richard, now there's a man
He teases Eileen, just because he can
Yet within the humor, his clever exists
His poetic talents, impossible to miss.
My friend Vicky T, has brought me to tears
She possesses insight well beyond her years
A voice from the wilderness, please take heed
Wisdom resides in her poems that we read
When it comes to nature, our Nette is the girl
She makes mountains quiver and pretty leaves twirl
To angelic worlds she causes us to travel
Brooks are helpless she makes them all babble
Our Andrea she is well beyond great
Her words are profound they carry such weight
Regardless of form, many contests she wins
She's top of the heap, before she begins
Becca's a doll, with a sensitive pen
She writes of the now and also the then
Her words magical, a muse guides her pen
Capturing my mind again and again
This place amazing, a Mystical Rose
A unique handle my creative friend chose
Perfect for her that woman has style
A perfect seven at the top of the pile
My buddy Drake he has really mad skills
With words like honey the airways he fills
If you are lucky he'll let you co-host
To him I raise a glass to happily toast
Others must wait I'm running out of Rymes
I will write of them some other time
Until then I must wish you all goodbye
Have a sip of my soup, give it a try.
Inspired to try my first Clerihew by
Wayland Bunch. Hopefully I have got it right.
Independence Day has come and gone....
All magic has been trucked away to come again another day
Sweltering, yet, in the dewy lawn,
is the fragrance of burnt offerings....
hovering low like a old gray ghost,
vast over the Riverside Park
In the still, early dawn, that now murmurs like a whisper...
Where evening throngs and
voices of oohs and aahhs were heard just hours before...
Where excited eyes glistened and reflected a night's sky alive with fire
A solemn morning of chattering squirrels
remain the only sign of life
as they nibble on pieces of hot dogs, or popcorn hiding in the grass
Morning air is cool and damp
Park benches, a bandstand, hilly mounds of grass and a playground
abandoned, barren and lonely...
The day appears to be wearing mourning clothes
Of candy wrappers, watermelon rinds, mustard coated paper plates
spent sparklers, fire crackers, one lone sneaker....
Where hours ago, radios played, laughter, cheering, hooting, jeering,
deafening man-made thunder made babies cry,
dogs tremble, children clap their hands over ears
Now there sprawls a silent, somber dawn
The only music in early morning light...
comes from a slight breeze that stirs
a tossed Pepsi paper cup
as it clatters a pop, pop, popping tune...
hopping among the dried, brown leaves down an empty sidewalk....
I've grown rusty and unused to summoning words from a blank page - but FINALLY - there's something new to describe. School (11th grade) is over - at last - and... more.
There's a party tonight - a REAL, honest-to-God, in person, PARTY - for about 30 of us. Yes, vaccinations are documented. Life seems to be beginning again.
I'm eager, like a boxer before the bell or a racehorse at the starting gate. I'm an animal, long constrained, who knows it's about to be set free.
I'm as disorientated as an awakened dreamer and I find myself laughing, drunk with possibilities as I try on clothes for preliminary impressions.
It's hard to quash tremors of impatience.
I'm sick of helpless, indifferent, pandemic necessity.
I'm SO tired of boredom, circling me like a vulture, in my panopticon palace - that I opted for a respite of pure terror - I'm SO clever.
I'm skipping my senior year of high school and heading off to university. I'd rather die than risk spending another year in my room(s) - I almost went crazy .
There's a paper on my desk, white as a bride. It says "ACCEPTED for fall term 2021."
I’m trying not to let on that I’m afraid. Is desire always a tangle of impossible, contradictory impulses?
I've decided that my life is my only real possession - my own, small, life-or-death riddle to solve.
I want to live with intent, like I'm aimed at something and I'm going to chase happiness like it could be caught.
My luggage is open - like alligator jaws. I stare into those tan, Ghurka depths - rigid with anxiety.
My sister (home on vacation from her surgical residency) sees me eyeing the empty bags.
"Are you worried?” She says, “You look worried."
I normally find the sister-teacher-coach vibe irritating, but now, somehow, it seems reassuring.
"No," I lie - then - "A bit," I admit, close-lipped.
But that's a later worry =]
p.s. I write short stories too =]
It blows all around us.
Zigzagging in front of the eye.
A million bits of lemon-dipped confetti.
Tapping on the carapace of a life.
Fawn dappled-silver maple leaf- days.
Spotted leopard-howler monkey nights.
Everything summed up in gossamer skin.
Infinity licks the newborn's fresco face.
The asp of life threads the eyes shut.
In a generation or two tombstones are forgotten.
No more granite tears meeting salty stone...
or plastic flowers flanked by crows.
The whole damn thing just a paper bowl
filled to the brim with put-on.
Life gnaws at the neck with lion teeth.
Sad pitter patter of an actor's eulogy...
Sugaring stumps and bitter moons
every word twists in the air...
Like cancer riding a stream of confetti.
I wish for..
The walking talking doll who can dance and sways,
to replace my paper made, grisly lady shape.
The cooking set for us to use during our house playing,
instead of wood sticks and coconut shells.
The pink colored shoes carved with ruby stones,
to have my parade inside the heaven's aisle.
The colored sunshine fairy dress with golden laces,
to have my bophop in plaza central.
..that when i was a little kid, bold and innocent.
I wish for..
the glamorous bags which i can carry with friends along the boulevard,
the sassy classy ornate dress to wear during parties and reunions.
the coolest latest gadgets to brag with friends and others.
..that when i was a teen,rebellious and proud.
But now I am 22, still do not have the luxury I dreamed of..
But I did realize that not having them means not living,
and that having wishes gives you something to look forward to.
that even what you got isn't what you wanted
you know you got what you deserve.
Now I am 22, young and carefree
Now I am ready to get what I want
Now I am ready yo explore the world.
and now all that I wish for
is Your guidance
to hold me when I lose myself
to stop me when I push too much
to lift me when I'm feeling down.