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Joseph Coogan Poem
Oh, clam chowder, how I would love
You to be like the thing you claim you taste of.
You're seafood, soup, potatoes, all warm
And bubbling in a splendrous, thick liquid form.
Your amount of potatoes, though is extensive,
Because I guess that clam is just too expensive
To be present in amounts that meet my desires.
But I suppose you'd be too costly for buyers.
But aside from that, clam chowder, you're alright.
I'll probably still have some tonight.
Copyright © Joseph Coogan | Year Posted 2015
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Joseph Coogan Poem
My grandfather was the wisest man
That I had ever known.
I did not know how wise he was
‘Til I was wise and grown.
He told his story through his words,
So grand you can’t defile it;
He told us of his stories as
An Army Air Corps pilot.
My grandfather was precious to me,
A dear and treasured friend.
But just like all great friendships,
This one had to end.
But after dying, I guess that
Our bond won’t cease to grow,
For while he was alive
I didn’t know the things I know.
I heard his stories from his friends,
And all of them were rife
With anecdotes that showed him as
A hero in real life.
Though all heroes come and go,
When the day is done,
My dear, amazing grandfather,
You’re the greatest one.
Copyright © Joseph Coogan | Year Posted 2015
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Joseph Coogan Poem
Fuzzy, black and white,
A face with childlike wonder
Loving to explore
Copyright © Joseph Coogan | Year Posted 2015
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Joseph Coogan Poem
Socrates
Would ask big questions as he pleased.
But when he was told to die,
It was his students who asked him why.
Copyright © Joseph Coogan | Year Posted 2015
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Joseph Coogan Poem
In the void lurks a titan.
The father of the gods themselves.
Though by now he wishes that he was not.
But the selfish titan lord Kronos,
The father of the Olympians named Saturn,
Must want to reclaim the life that he poured into his children.
As he stands there,
Crouched in the darkness,
The only thing that one can see
Is that among the titans,
Even the king has no honor.
One can also see the visage of Saturn himself.
In his mighty but frail old hands
He holds an eviscerated lump of his own flesh
Pouring out his own blood,
A son of a titan,
A god of Olympus,
Made a meal by the one who gave him life.
As this lord of Olympus,
Laid low by a bout of cannibalistic hunger,
Dwarfs a full-grown human being,
The titan that feasted upon him was larger by far,
As an adult man would be to a small child.
But on his massive frame he wears no kingly robes;
Only the pale, rotted flesh of a beast who has spent days
Consuming his own children.
His head wears not a crown,
But a face so animalistic that "face" does not describe it,
So vile that the lowest of animals would object to it being called animalistic.
His sunken eyes
Are a pair of eyes that are windows to a vacant soul.
From his red-stained mouth a godly entrail hangs,
And the same mouth is opened yet again
To bite again into the godly flesh
That he has now come to enjoy.
The dark, rotted mouth
Of a titan who has devoured his own son.
Copyright © Joseph Coogan | Year Posted 2015
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Joseph Coogan Poem
It’s not a social ladder,
Even though you can drop.
It’s really more of a pyramid,
For it’s smaller at the top.
The reason that the smaller end
Is held up in the sky:
A lot more bricks are at the bottom,
Holding it that high.
The top may seem to scrape the clouds.
With rain the sides are slicker.
But on the way up, some may lay
Some steps to make it quicker.
The upper part of pyramids
Weigh down on bricks below.
The way for the top to increase its size
Is to let the bottom grow.
But the top depends on the bottom
For on a fateful day,
The ground might shake, the base may break
And the top will fall away.
Copyright © Joseph Coogan | Year Posted 2015
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Joseph Coogan Poem
It is a vase.
The vase is red.
It has two handles.
The vase is round.
It is smooth.
I think it is smooth.
It looks smooth
Because of the way light
Reflects off of it.
I want to find out.
I want to touch it.
But I can't
Because the sign says:
"Do not touch".
Even if it breaks
There are others like it.
It is a common vase.
Plain.
Ordinary.
Simple.
But that is why
It is seen as beautiful art
Because simple
Is beautiful.
Copyright © Joseph Coogan | Year Posted 2015
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Joseph Coogan Poem
Can't find a good form.
Haiku's not that creative
But it's easier.
Copyright © Joseph Coogan | Year Posted 2015
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Joseph Coogan Poem
I am from peanut butter
Stuffed in thick mounds into tiny sandwiches.
I’m from short boat rides on the lake,
From the soft hum of the radio
As the boat floats around the cove.
I’m from the cherry tree in the backyard,
Where the treehouse of my mind sat
Until it was toppled
And ground to a stump.
I’m from the sharp smell of rubbing alcohol
Hanging in the air,
A friendly reminder of what was to come,
Even when I knew it wouldn’t come at all.
I am from a low-lying fort in the snow.
I am from the little clumps of snow
That freeze my wrist in my gloves,
Reminding me not to come out in the snow again.
I am from the stage,
Where the huge costume just won’t stay on.
I am from vowing to never wear a huge costume again.
I am from irritating rubber bands in braces,
From flights over miniature green fields.
I am from all of these places,
Places I have visited,
And places where I still lie.
I have visited many more,
But the place I’m really from,
Is that one hospital downtown,
If we’re going to be literal about it.
Copyright © Joseph Coogan | Year Posted 2015
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Joseph Coogan Poem
In all honesty, poetry isn't my best skill.
Having said that
Only through
Practice can anyone
Ever hope to improve.
The best poetry comes from the
Heart, for poetry, it is said, is
Art made
Through the written and spoken word.
Yearning for recognition
Only
Undermines a would-be poet's credibility.
Learning about poetry of the past
Is a better way to improve one's craft without
Killing one's chances of
Ever being taken seriously.
True enough I will
Have to practice writing poetry if
I ever want to find
Success.
Please understand; I'm
Only writing this poem to improve my poetry, as
Every poet
Must.
Copyright © Joseph Coogan | Year Posted 2015
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