Wild Horse Poets
Like wild horses, we trample poems for fun?
Leaving no comment!
Is that our measure of another poet's heart treasure?
I read some phenomenal poetry today.
Horse poets left no comments.
Hundreds of them.
And shame on them!
Over dweebish poetry, we lick their
boots.
While true poets, with wisdom and
originality.
We ignore with obvious ignominy.
What is commenting really about?
Some use it at a stage to flaunt their
insipid intellectual prowess!
But the comment shows who you are,
a clown, nothing more!
Maybe reading poems is a race?
I do not play that game.
I won't comment if a poem is inhumane.
But, I think these orphaned poems are
truly a shame.
Some far better than some POTD's
Left, under a gravestone, silent!
You fast typists, especially, gee, can
you type at least one word?
Do not leave good poems without
recognition.
Or are we only commenting to contest
winners for our selfish recognition?
June 19, 2020
8:30 pm PST
Poem # 1256
Categories:
typists, community, poets,
Form: Free verse
S--t Happens!
Does sharing s--t with others make one's poems poetry:
Blank verse or rhyme with meter win if metaphors disguise
The fact that truth is absent: is there love in bigotry,
A plethora of nuance monkey typists might devise?
Do we owe praise to Coptic Priests whose work is all but free,
Whose muses obfuscate obscure: confusion proves their worth?
By God! They posture too, or so some say! It's their celebrity,
Like crosswords, with the clues in Martian language (not of Earth.)
Though I've made A's at Stanford with my poem's in 'Free Verse, '
Enamored, I love meter, rhyme, for both can proffer pause,
New words that float more gentle dreams, in stillness more diverse
Than rush, my muse so often spills, unbound by human laws.
For me, a poem's poultice is my prayer to the night
Whose fingers somehow chill the soul. It's worse when I've no voice.
A poem's wolf's call echos back when hills are out of sight,
If I'm alone I moon the sky, sweet rhymes, my music's choice!
Brian Johnston
3rd of April 2019
Categories:
typists, journey, life, poetry, writing,
Form: Rhyme
What if mass actually influences the space-time around it?
Einstein’s theory of relativity
What if children beg their parents to buy rocks?
Pet rock craze of the 1970’s.
What if other typists make this many errors?
Monkee’s Mickey’s Mama got rich off this.
What if I could temporarily glue notes to my hymnal?
Choir director still collects on her sticky notes.
What if I had created the baby bottles with handles I knew we needed in 1973?
They are in the stores now, molded plastic bottles with a little loop for fingers.
Would I be the rich one?
What on earth would I do with all that money?
What do I know?
Categories:
typists, 10th grade, 11th grade,
Form: Light Verse
I see my reflection staring back
From an empty cup of coffee, black.
And new lines that I have never seen
Have made an older man of me.
Typists and calligraphers alike, like me
Come here to decipher the human psyche
And through and through all of us fail
And eat plain biscotti with coffee, stale.
Categories:
typists, poets, writing,
Form: I do not know?