Short Blurbs Poems

So I’m getting it back
From this stack
Of notes and blurbs
Back to poetry
Of the burbs...

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Jibber jabber rambling and gambling of words,

thoughtful sounds of meaningless intent,

unanswered calls for the insightful motive,

simple as such, silly as much,

jotting the illogical flow of blurbs....

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Smash it so you drag them in,
let them know where you have been.
Show them all a sparkled spin,
seed and feed the poets.

Love them with some luscious words,
don't forget some vibrant verbs.
A sonnet, ode or countless blurbs;
breed and lead the poets.

For here, the artists' cut-throat calls,
leaves you starving more and more.
Eat their words but kick them yours,
Know-You Are A Poet!...

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To the public the man shows herbs
For Advert hundreds of proverbs
"Your worries and mine wisdom curbs!"
Lots of Adjectives and Adverbs;
On roads blares, neither dumb on kerbs
Voice screaming hoarse near touring Serbs...

But the Old Seller of New Herbs
Settles for nothing short of blurbs,
The problems of voice pitched high curbs
And down brings number of proverbs...

"Buyers I see less for sung herbs"...

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Please Don’t Laugh

Today, I have a wonderful feeling
	all I want  to do is shout out loud in squealing
	and write silly little quips randomly appealing.

Goofy writings, a play on words
	and I don’t care if you heard
	or feign pseudo interest in my blurbs.

Happy chuckles can really be a most difficult task
	if in public view you fall and hear the laughs -
	just ask someone who’s fallen on their ass....

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Listen to poem:

They dried up his pen, 
And kept him alive, by
Feeding him garbage, 
Reducing his pride.
They dried up his pen
And left him some verbs,
With no known subjects,
Babbles or blurbs.
They exiled the author, 
Told him to scream
Without any noise,
Or flashy extremes,.
They exiled the author
And left him to rot, 
And gave him a pencil, 
A pen and a cot
No more rhymes said the author
In fact, it is true
It looks like the author
Is.......

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l taste salt on my lips and it causes thirst,
and my head is about to burst,
and I’m good for nothing,
and it still hurts 
though nobody ever left negative blurbs

and I’ll go so far 
as to say even positive were

I erase it all and draw smoke in my lungs, 
and lickety-split I rush and run,
being bruised by stir ding,
which is no fun
and I wish I was a peg too high for sound

and I’ll go so far
as to become a deaf one


18.04. 2010...

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I am wounded and now feel alone,
 you did not read my poem.

How sad for you
 sadder still for me.

The words were simple
 spread wavy like an old nun's wimple.

Do not discount  my words as uninspired.
 sometimes they are difficultly unacquired.

But they look for recognition
 it is part of my human condition.

So go ahead, read someone else’s words
 and hopefully you’ll find meaning in the blurbs.

Leave me here to my own distractions
 filled with moody dissatisfaction....

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