Spontaneous Poems

#26

evergreen routes and byways
mountain passes and highways
dusty vagabonds bent with fatigue
the traveling band is a crowded league

I sit upon this bench, upon this ground,
While flocks of green leaves soar high overhead,
Not a soul around, no one to be found,
Just I and the dead, me and what they said,
Their words circle around inside my mind,
I wish to catch them, to hear what they say,
But a net strong enough I cannot find,
Away! I save you for another day!
For the gray day when in my crypt I lay.

Don't die
we would miss you here
how could we drink another beer
with you lying in the ground?

Life is a laugh
hop on my raft
and i will pull you into
the shore.

There we will lie
on the sand in the sun
and laugh at the glorious fun
that will fill all the days that we live.

#27

beneath a waxing gibbons

bright ripples on the midnight harbor
a fleet of bobbing mastheads in a line
rhythmic slaps against the pilings
where I walk alone

string lights pulse across the water
phantom crafts extinguish them from view
the waxing moon reflects a halo
shows me the path for home

99 ways

99 ways to skin a cat
1000 ways to swing a baseball bat
but what comes after the crack
my pipes empty
i need a refill
and someone explain why my mind is so evil
reincarnate baby
subordination bottled next to the breast milk
maybe they wernt properly labled
with warnings and color coated
'now devoted to weed smoking
i took the vows
until death do us part
doobies in the backyard
hanging from the back tree
its not apples, being its not what you think
pies that screem in the oven
peels that bleed in the sink
nightmares that roll off my tongue
like fairytales to the manson family
the fire burns so hot in hell
it melts my shoes to my feet
singein my pants to my knees
that girl in the mirror swings breakin my teeth
now i cant even speak...ahhh.......

#28

Driving to the coast
my heart lifts when I smell the salt
miles before I crest the ridge
and see the beaches long and bare.
The sun-worshippers have passed
leaving only hardy souls
bundled against the sand-stinging air
chasing dogs chasing gulls.

I kick off my shoes
and let my cold feet sink in sucking grit
as I carry my palette and easel
to just the right spot.
I spy a rocky megalith springing
from the gray-green spume
and a tiny sail boat far at sea
almost invisible against the sky.

Poised before the crisp white paper
corners buckling in the breeze
I pull a wet, blue brush across the page
and sponge a feathered cloud.
Drifting beachcombers crowd
to watch my art take shape.
Ooh, they trill; though it's not my best
the work I see is pleasing.

#29

a piece of art,
is like a poem
it might be good
it might be bad
who can say?
art is what it is

a simple piece
crudely done
might speak to me -
but so does Titian
Vermeer and Chagall
somehow it is possible
to love them all

the truest test for art
is time
will some future gazer
view this piece with
admiring eyes?

#30

Walter's Song

My love is a chocolate bunny
Long milky ears better than honey
The marshmallow tail is really the best
Bite off the head, and swallow the rest
My love is a strawberry cake
So creamy inside that I ache
For a taste of frosting on my tongue
Savor the flavor until it's done
My sweet love, I'm indebted to you
For I can eat my love and have her too

#31

Something's coming.
Taste the ozone in the air.
Feel the heavy pressure
Of the stillness everywhere.
Every creature holds its breath-
Here comes the storm, or is it death?

I'm waiting, waiting,
In an atmosphere of gloom
Let the fickle weather be
My harbinger of doom.
Not the sad thing lurking
At the pit of my black mood
That sneaks sometimes on stealthy feet
To my disquietude.

#32

My Ghosts

My ghosts are the sounds of lost mornings
The whistling wind in the chimney
The squeaking bedsprings as you rose
The gurgling sound of singing in the shower
The muted buzzing of a razor on your chin
The trilling of the kettle in the kitchen
The purring rumble of the pickup as you drove
Off to work in the predawn cold

My ghosts are the things of memory
The shingled-sided cottage at the water's edge
The three white birches near the woodpile
Half-raked piles of leaves across the lawn
The clothesline sagging under laundry
The fishing poles against the brown shed wall
The cockeyed wooden porch swing where
I waited for you to come home.

Wow Carlotta are you writing these down? It would be a shame to lose so many good poems. I'm enjoying reading them very much.

Trust

Trust cuts knives, heals bleeding cuts,
Hard to hold and hard to keep
In your hands, as the blade juts
Into your heart, while you weep,
Into your soul with pleasure,
Into your flesh, painless,
Into you in the measure
Of your betrayal, no less.
In foulness it's justified,
In control it's purified,
To love and faith it's allied,
And so you see it's a must
For us to hold fast to trust;
Off mine I must wipe the dust...

crazy diamond and carlotta -
Wonderful reading. I have had to take a bit of hiatus- -much stress at work, plus too many projects, so little time, but I read every day, eagerly anticipating.

hi crazy, edgar

i enjoy and read all the poetry i find at A2K, especially the both of you, and aidan, and colorbook. some of it just blows my mind!

i have tasked myself to write a poem each day and it has been an interesting experiment. Some are truly 'spontaneous'; most i think about throughout the day and write down when i think they're ready.
it's hard because i have a heavy work schedule, but, it has been more pleasure than pain.

my theme for today will have something to do with 'promises'. (i hope. i haven't written it yet.)

I have my good times, when I create a new one each day, but eventually have to rest. Will get back to it when the time's right. I was dissapointed with much of my output, just recently. We shall see what the future holds.

ode to my missing thumb nail

late at night
a dull ache permeates my sleep

something gone, may not be replaced

and now
i wish
i'd never caught
my hand in that conveyour

#33

When we were nine, Tommy and I
Scaled the cliffs and climbed the trees
And discovered the leafy woods together
He promised we'd be friends forever.
When we were ten he ran off with them
The boys with the balls and bats and Schwins
He left me behind all alone on the curb
And never really came back again.

With Richard my passion was pure
Nights on the beach with the moon and the surf
And the blood rush of love between two
Who promised to, always, be true
But September brought Rome. He must go
I would wait. He promised to write. So did I
A semester's not long, not long at all
But I never saw Richard again

Harry was real. I knew from the start
I wasn't a child with a schoolgirl's heart
The promise he made was the promise he kept
He promised me nothing at all
The day that he left, I cried and cried
for the promise that was implied
I was the one who offered the world
Undelivered until the end

TO LOSE A THUMB
IS AWFULLY DUMB-

BUT WONDER NEVER CEASES.
PERHAPS, A NICE PROSTHESIS?

Memory

Take me way back to where we've been,
Gaze upon visions of who we'll be,
These eyes forget what they have seen,
And who's face this is from which they see.

Memories are everlasting,
Memories are ever leaving us,
The mind from us ever casting
Away thoughts, we become so callous.

The better times and better days,
They may never ever come again,
Though we may try in many ways
We'll never get to where we have been.

The Final Stand

This molten rock beneath my feet,
This fire burning inside my head,
Our last goodbyes were short and sweet,
Farewell, for we will soon be dead.

This is the place I make my home,
This is where I lay down my head,
Now deep, dark death is where I'll roam,
Farewell, for we will soon be dead.

Greatness have I yet touched your hem?
Greatness have I done what I said?
Those words --shouldn't have spoken them,
Farewell, for I will soon be dead.