Hmm....I shall plagiarize a title and write a happy poem.
Fanfare for the Common Man
There's beer in the fridge
football on TV
a woman in the kitchen
with a knack for hominy
Some may call me simple
but that don't bother me
I'm a happy man
and when the day is done
I sit out on my porch
with a double-barelled shotgun
if some bum should find themselves
passed out on my grass,
I'll shout out "you git off my land
'fore buckshot's in yer ass!"
Is back occasionally 
When my sun sets,
By a taper,
I take out my pen and paper.
Happy once,
Now full of sadness -
Going high and low is madness.
Stay away,
You always do!
I have lost my patience, too.
Come, change, come,
I'm not a moaner,
Just a loner, loner..
Edgar B
Where art thee
Come pleasure me
With the things you see
i feel your touch
sending vibrations to my heart;
it stops to embrace the encounter,
and sings its favourite song,
to the furthest sinews of my existence.
i feel you; i feel your love;
i feel my love.
counting stars one by one
as numbers light the sky
rainbows are for lucky ones
like white clouds floating by
I wish I could cry for this loss
or even know if is loss or gain
but I cannot cry if it is not
and I cannot lose what I never be4 had
shroud of night draws near
closer to hide my nonexistent tears
empty sadness and 3 child-less years
when I sigh, I can still smell your breath
a fading reminder of what we had
left nothing but my body 2
made from the stuff of dreams
and easy to fall in love with
you were so beauty
is always temporary
like you, with time fades
what's good is gone
and you are as good as 1
A toss-off written for publication on the theme 'write as if you were five years old, describing your emotions and experiences of the world around you'. I'll let you know if it gets chosen, lol.
Five
I gaze at my reflection in the mirror,
touch my cheeks, so soft, so rosy,
my smile a charm,
my skin like silk,
the embrace of a mother
still strangely cozy.
"Mommy, look! It's me! I'm very handsome, I think!"
The words trip
clumsily from my lips.
Language so awkward,
devoid of finesse
and the visceral, internal logic
of my thoughts.
Thought and experience,
my private double helix
learning curve.
The crocuses yawn open in the snow,
brightly lit in royal swaths of purple,
proudly poking their heads out
from beneath their cold wet blankets.
I touch the petals,
tender and dewey like my frosty face.
I ponder the meaning of Kindergarten,
garden of children,
and decide to adopt the flowers.
"Mommy, look! Aren't they pretty?"
I gather a few brave souls for the vase.
I have an invitation
for cake and ice cream.
The tender, airy sponge explodes
on my tongue,
tempered by buttercream so smooth,
made sublime by crystalline, vanilla-scented orbs
of pure beauty.
I am reminded of the perfect crocuses,
proud in their melting wasteland.
I call upon my powers of speech
but can only muster up a satisfied
"Mmmm....good."
That's really good, Cav. Is it for publication in a magazine, a book, a pamphlet?
A magazine, drom. I think there is some sort of hardcover subscribers-only book involved as well, but I just thought I'd give it a whirl, see what happens.
The thickets pierce the air-growths on both sides,
And the full moon elbows through the handless space
Like something looking down where it once walked.
Why not? I would say that you'd get in... like quite a lot of A2Kers' poetry, yours has a point and is well considered. Is this the first time that you have sent off to this magazine?
First time I've submitted anything to any magazine drom.
That's very good, Cav. I live with a five year old and you have captured many of the words and expressions. Here's wishing you good luck, and hoping your theme will be selected!
I've been busy with the writer's group on another site. Of late, when I sit to contemplate poetry, nothing happens. If I don't like my stuff I know you won't.
You should share it, Edgar. I bet that we will like it. One can trust one's feelings about one's own poetry a bit too much -- Larkin, for example, thought that his most poignant and lyrical poem was 'half-beautiful crap.'
Green Flash
Outside my window lies
an ever-changing artist's palate
as dusk takes over dawn
and the sun begins to set
Phoenix yellow fades
to flame-forged orange
kissing the clouds
with radiant joy
Fading to red
the clouds take on
a darker hue
while sailors delight
in a red sky at night
A crimson strip remains
thin and haunted
on the horizon
Then it comes
the green flash
so brief, so fleeting,
the last prayer of the setting sun
Faithful moon peeks out and smiles
at her pursuer
and his misplaced jealousy
for she who rules the night
An attempt to put a twist on old cliches.
ROMEO AND JULIET
Romeo and Juliet,
a Montague, a Capulet,
both of them as mad as loons,
their secret pact an awkward tune.
Where was the strength she needed now?
She could not find her heart's voice,
the why, the how,
to tell her family
of her personal hell,
the voices, the rapid, sudden onset of
detachment from reality,
but perhaps it was just as well,
the bell jar felt so comfortable.
Along came Romeo,
all cut in chromeo,
chips on both shoulders,
clouds in his head.
Am I insane, he asks himself,
or just the lonesome loser
the shrinks assumed I was?
Because, I still believe in love supreme,
sublime, of tenderness and unkind cuts,
Juliet, who struts between the raindrops,
the place where even angels fear to tread.
She checks herself in
with a twisted grin,
and maniacal plans
for her silky hands.
Back at the ward, Juliet hoards
a machine-gun magazine
of Thorazine, and vows
she will not hear the voices again.
Romeo watches from the shadows,
confused, transfixed,
knowing that no good
could come of this.
He follows her to the park,
through the dark of night
and tortured dreams.
He grabs his love and says
"My dove, please, give me the pills."
Hip hip hooray,
calloo calay!
Today's the day
I die!
Romeo shouts
"I will not let you take your own life,
and I cannot let you live in agony.
Let me do this for you,
let me join you, unfettered,
in the afterlife."
Juliet gave him her stolen prize.
Romeo drew a knife,
and out of love,
cut out her heart,
and then his own.
The tale is done,
their spirits rise,
peacefully
towards the skies.
Leaving the janitor a sloppy mess!
Heh heh...I'll have to decide which character the janitor could represent.
That reminds of the Simpson's Hamlet parody, where after the final carnage, Marge says "I'm not cleaning that up you know! Oops, slipped on the poisoned blood." Dies.
