Poetic Referendum(s) On Life

The Pea Poem

There was a wee leprechaun, let's call him Jerome,
who thought me a fool for creating this pea poem.
He's fictional, it's true. Yet, all my ale is gone.
Was it he or me, tapping these keys until dawn?


3.13.23

Clerihew form about a leprechaun, four lines long
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before 12, the parade

ill, the illest --
from cement mausoleum built
by the mason man,
who mortared me in
with a world parade
marching by --
balloons, ballerinas, clowns,
candied street.

grounded in my fortress,
soak the shame. still.
labels 'different' stick --
elucidation bathes me forever.

not like them,
dancing in our streets --
whistles, sirens, honking.
lawn violated, vibrating.

can you come out?

they too
tease, torment,
bully and shame --
beat me with batons, cymbals.
crescendos hush tears --
glass heart rat-a-tat-rattled.

in my mental institution, a
cold rebar house,
hi-fi woofs and tweets --
not too loud -- or pumps
headphones clapped on.

the brass swingers sound --
grounded, seals out.
lend little monkey a hand
to walk home, again?

streamered, glittered avenue
leaves remnants,
memories too true.
in addled brain, glue.

I could march now,
but buried
in sedimentary solitude.
sequestered.

don't act like you,
can't be you --
can't be with you, because
everything truly learned
comes before 12.

coda

in my street,
squat on curb, low,
quiet -- serene
to you. still blaring,
a wheeled circus
hides inside me.


3.13.23
51/52 lines, modernistic poetry

pic prompt:
Invalid Photo #1067065
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how can i know empathy?
feel others pain?
cringe, even when actors visit it?
and why do i shy away?
because felt more than my share as a boy
because i'm still living it now
because i need others to hate and shun me
because it is now conditioned to my DNA

I can't selectively delete portions of myself

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Lacking: Pen And Paper

Having thought,
pen lacking, idea growing, 
the first utensil eventually located
rubs paper dry.

Light etchings on converted tree fiber
barely form traceable valleys on the page
before a scribbled storm of anger rages
and leaks a bit of ink, finally...but

ran dry mid-word
and the wiry clouds reformed whirls topmost,
never producing another drop
in a tempest tossed,
emotions lapping over thoughts.

Inspiration flounders in a corked bottle,
bobbing safe. But it drowns.

Pens refreshed stand at the ready
in the midst of each night,
when a dream might wake
the most beautiful feeling
running wild through a flowery field of words,

and it strikes! The quill clutched
looks to aim
to aim
to aim.
Nothing to scrawl on remains
and the search ensues
for a bookmark? envelope? a napkin that will do?
Matchbook covers once sufficed at a bar.

In wild youth,
a cut oozed from my index, used
to stain a curled sleeve of white bark.
Inspired thoughts,
I thought.
I cannot recall, but not misplaced,
our initials on that tree,
gone as well.

Talk-to-text ruins creativity,
produces an ego’s rushed spontaneity.
I cannot trust my hand to a page
or poorly programmed auto-correct.
Too easy to mail it in, these days.

So, sleep perchance to dream
of her again, and my
pen and paper.


3.20.23



prompt words:
pen, paper

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Wall of Dreams (listens to my singing)

On the wall of dreams
tick-tock, tick-tock, tick.
Rhythm words can’t rhyme,
dreaming, searching you
out each opening –
what a fool should do.
Winnow time restricts,
makes love go cuckoo.

Something doesn’t jive.
The question begging,
is this 4/4 time?
Syllables of five
in your octameter,
the mech-bird alive,
dreaming, searching you,
makes love go cuckoo.


3.31.23

Echoes down the hall
a heart can’t follow

Octameter
a/b/c/d/e/d/f/d g/h/c/g/i/g/d/d
two stanzas of eight lines, five syllables per,
with the staggering rhyme.