two milky way wrappers
how long have they been sitting here?
the paint has worn off the c and the v on this keyboard
wedged between keyboard and monitor is a small roll of toilet paper
I am such a pig
there is the washing machine oxygen powder
I wondered what happened to it
three notebooks and a sketch pad are propped up next to my typing fingers
three pairs of readers lollygag around here
I am such a pig
timely and still late
long line stalled in parking lot
cooler in car trunk, can’t reach
finally pouring
past lips and seeping through pores
propped up, shoulder to shoulder
.
'long thuh long
arm
hern rests
Purty
her legz
drape each it's
side
"comfortably"
thuh poet writes
Her belly
firm 'gainst it's girth
whilst
her chin rests in her
propped up mitt via
hern petite's taut
arm
And whilst her visage
smilez
she starez up
"Ahh" herz gasps
peek'n through thuh
canopy
az she spy'z an eagle
spiral'in thuh open
Her curious guess
"it's spy'n
my beauty"
Why can't my blind spot see?
it’s shadowing me in the eye's periphery
edgily creeping sideways like a crab,
watching me, it’s stalking me,
deceiving me with popped eyes
propped up on stilts, curling away when I look.
You live within my every gaze, yet evade my searching blaze.
Why my dear spot do you hide and blind me in so many ways?
Is your evasive spot futile, furtive, or a fugitive in the clear?
Are you black, white, brindle or transparently clear.
Do you suck, poke, protrude, grind
or cut, with a laser sear to blind.
Why can't I see you,
my blind spot hole?
I know you’re there
unseen on the edge!
I’ll shut my eyes now
and hope that you’ll
will be gone when
I awake and stare
to see you clearly there with me,
scene sharing two-eyed
In binocular vision.
My God is the God of broken ladders,
many rungs are missing
and I don’t have the skill to mend them.
My usual recourse for the unfixed
is to pen a poem about the
imperfect beauty of the
unfinished and damaged.
Breakfast is just for seating two,
there's another broken stool
propped up against a wall -
a silent testament
to 'found poetry' that needs
only a missing meaning.
I am not useless,
my wife says I am not useless,
but she never suggests furniture
that comes as a flat pack anymore,
and she often asks more adept visitors
to bring their own tools.
My God is a God of broken rungs,
I shall keep striving to fix them,
keep my toolbelt greased,
as I hammer images and metaphor
together
with yet more split nails.
Once more, I am thinking about writing -
coils are uncoiling,
snakes study the intricate anatomy
of legs and next steps.
My audience of one
must be propped up as if yet still alive,
geriatric words must be given their shots.
I can tell it's going to be a performance,
the poem is even now going off script.
It babbles; the entire cast of 'Hamilton'
has just walked out in protest.
Only Prokofiev and his 3rd piano concerto
can save me now, his notes are jungle drums
for the hard of hearing,
however, the write is not a musical
or a concert. It's, it's err...
Anyway, it is almost teatime.
Already the critiques
are sharpening their pencils.
I pull apart my white fancy actors' shirt,
buttons pop exposing the telltale signs
of recent romantic heart surgery.
Now an overwrought muse is yelling in my ear.
Dammit,
I simply cannot write another thing
under these circumstances.
I box up the coiling snakes,
exit left.
Propped up on willpower strong
Wants and needs in war prolong
Tested far beyond my means
Clinging tight to hopes and dreams
Each day teeters on near collapse
Strength in danger enabling relapse
Endless trials pain and sting
What new battle will tomorrow bring?
A long life can be a blessing tinged in blue
you may end up in a garish room
a narrow bed -a communal latrine
at the end of a one-candle hallway.
With very few friends left, if any
loves scattered about like gold flake in drought.
If they lived next door, they'd rarely visit anyhow...
The living do not fancy the foothills of death.
Every day the macabre weatherman bleats:
mind overcast with a 90% chance of sleet.
Once a week an angel may be your friend...
for a handsome fee.
Live long enough, inhale the bluing tomorrow
propped up in the straw chair of Van Gogh.
The Spectre of sex appeal by Salvador Dali 1934
On the right-hand bottom side, we see Dalí as a
child, dressed as a sailor, observing his monstrosity
I misunderstand, tell what is the plan
As I change from juvenile into man
Her formation intrigues and repulses
Instead of control, there are impulses
Her head morphs upon a backdrop mountain
Sack cloth breasts, stem flow of sandy fountains
Solid rock womb, born of imperfection
The spectre miscarries, sans reflection
Propped up and falls forward in painful lurch
Composite pieces, on acceptance search
Ossified limbs, mangled bone skewers stone
Destined to experience life alone
She poses in pain and reeks of decay
I stand with a hoop, brought along to play
Ignores my advances, falling apart
I’ll return with barbed wire to bind her heart
No more cushioned stumps or flailing crutches
Unraveling her knots, where flesh touches
I’ll fashion a cross and burial mound
Existence fades as parts crash to the ground
Parts don’t stay buried, so I light a fire
Warm them back up, on a funeral pyre
My god she’s beautiful, I’m overcome
We join together in flames, curse undone
I watched you as you tangled stars in the horizon of my life,
Stirring my imagination in your wake, a comet's tail gone adrift.
It was the overwhelming brilliance of your charm that envelops,
A sweet captivity, a game of pure magic, majestically imperative.
I stood, propped up by dreams, beholding you, an ephemeral wonder,
In a sleep dizzy from what you could do, what you're capable of,
And how I can feel when the undulations of your sounds spring forth,
Each word spoken, each lyric half-drowned in yearning, half in seraphic jest.
The images you've planted within me, the ecstasy of fantasy,
Weave my dreams and bring to me a fragment of Paradise in flight.
You know me, you hum the song of my silent needs,
In your poem, you are the verse that brings comfort to my desires.
I think life sends us temptations as if in a sculpted scene,
To spice up its own epic, to flavor its deliberate dishes.
From the beginning until now, in constant wandering,
You are one of my great temptations and likely will remain untold through the ages.
My eyes are in a cocoon.
They will open when there is light.
Only light from the sun.
Not the gross, hallway light.
No, the hallway is dead to me.
There is only me in this bed.
There is only me and this pillow.
I’ve always only needed one pillow.
I can’t stand being propped up, like a haunted doll on a shelf.
This is it, this is sleep.
I can count into the darkness.
Using infinite numbers.
In the morning, I will allow myself to open my eyes.
But I’m still counting, and counting…
Started a new diet yesterday
Doc said I can’t keep living this way
I’ve got high blood pressure and cholesterol
He said I’m lucky to be alive at all
Was rambling about my A1C
Diabetic is where I’ll soon be
My liver is just about to go AWOL
I’m really lucky to be alive at all
No more hot dogs, burgers, or a shake
Fish and chicken can only be baked
No potato chips, pizza, or alcohol
Because I’m lucky to be alive at all
Must stay away from bacon and pies
No more of them McDonald’s French fries
No Dr. Pepper, Pepsi, or Fireballs
I guess I’m lucky to be alive at all
I have to give up all sweets and fat
They say no carbs is now where it’s at
No trips to the fridge when I hear ice-cream call
Well man, I’m lucky to be alive at all
At dinner time I can only cry
Still can’t believe that’s a portion size
A piece of grey meat the size of a golf ball
At least, I’m lucky to be alive at all
Now I sit in the corner and bawl
Too weak to walk so I have to crawl
I take my shower propped up against the wall
So tell me, am I even alive at all
jampacked city streets
that jangled and banged
in the raucous jarring day
shifted
from business to boogaloo
squeezing into moonlight
party lights
gin and lime-kissed
gimlet sequined dress
strutted
in studded six-inch heels
riveting flair
provoking jive and jazzy nights
to tame this lion of New York
The bed swallowed the evening
sucked-up in slumbered
sobering snooze
exhaling the drunkard’s stench
while the warmth of whiskey
and you next to me
laid dreamy still
popped up and propped up
restless and ragged
realizing the changing view
through the dirt-stained window
a pool of placid sunrise
igniting
colorless clustered towers
bulwarks and girders
scraping the sky
out of the easterly clouds
a creeping golden palette
arose
touching every crevice
defining each silhouette
your body stirs deliberate and slow
rainbow hued eyes
slenderly slitted catching
the new-found light
opening, tenderly revealing
the landscape of your smile
disclosing
a cozy contentment
waking with hello
as I fall into your dream
and a new day
The painting of "The Sick Child" by Edvard Munch (1863-1944)
was painted in 1907, oil on canvas, 46.4 inches by 47.2 inches
or 3.8 feet by 3.9 feet. Edvard painted what stirred his mind, and
this art piece touches my soul, it is one of six of the same scene.
It is painted in thick layers, in vertical strokes and has a hazy
feel and an emotional power. We are sharing a scene that is the
veil of Edvard's memory, the death of his sister, Johanna at fifteen.
The suffering girl is propped up on a pillow, she seems poised to me .
As the girl looks to the side perhaps looking at death coming, a
mourner clutches her hands, a woman maybe a family member.
I feel a loving bond in the anguish of the bowed head and despair.
The painting captures the ravage of disease, it is a haunting scene.
The use color and style is Expressionism, pigments of white, marine
and vermillion red, ochre, emerald green, yellows, and cobalt blue
can be detected. Oh, that thick blanket must be so warm and heavy.
I feel the girl's pain, and the acceptance of her death, her emptiness.
The homeless guy was stretched out
On the sidewalk, looking dead,
In stocking feet without, much less,
A cushion for his head.
The passersby all stopped to look
But then went on their way,
Another small annoyance which
Would mar their busy day.
Though I didn’t really want to
Interfere or get involved,
I called the city hotline,
Knowing nothing would be solved.
A round of questions followed,
Then they told me help would come.
I walked away for other people
Stayed to beat the drum.
A little while later
I passed by that spot again.
No one was on the ground but there
Was no cause for Amen.
For there across the street he sat,
Propped up by building bricks,
Not appearing any better,
Just a temporary fix.
Related Poems