Archive for June 25, 1987

Water

Posted: June 25, 1987 in Poetry
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Water
Trickles around stones
From way underground
Places where secrets sit
Still very unfound
It searches and pries
Through caverns and cracks
Picking up, putting down
Glistening, it refracts
Bubbling up, winding through
Under, round, over
Supplying things with itself
From sequoia to clover
Joining, growing, getting more
Gaining much momentum
The tiny little rivulet
Intent upon concentration
Down, down the water goes
Fingerlets, creek, brook
To stream, to river, to mighty ocean
A lengthly journey it took.

Incense

Posted: June 25, 1987 in Poetry
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Incense – something to burn upon a stick
With many scents, you can take your pick
Pine and pinyon, sandwood, too
They probably even have leather of shoe.
Incense provides a pleasurable smoke
To breath and refresh and relax and stoke
Primeval passions, unleashed from their cell
Let loose from the madhouse by that elusive smell.
So brilliant, so fiery, yet so mellow
It changes, rearranges, and startles a fellow.
A stabilizing factor, possibly disturbed.
Sometimes my appetite has been curbed.
It makes you feel silly, or maybe feel cool
It will make you stand up and sing like a fool.
Now that you’re done, go take a bow
You can tell that I’m sniffing incense right now.

Slam!

Posted: June 25, 1987 in Poetry
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I’m not a ghost
Don’t be afraid
It’s just me in my
Fancy shades
Don’t mess around
Don’t get too hip
Turn up the temperature
Of this comic strip
Too hot to handle
Too cold to hold
Larger than life
We’re big, bad, and bold
Writing out stuff
That don’t make sense
Dogs living with cats
In the wrong tense
I’m not trying to be silly
Not attempting to be dumb
But I bet you’re wondering
Where this babble comes
I tell you it’s spontaneous
Like I said before
If there’s no peanuts left
I’m walking out that door.
Slam!

I Wish

Posted: June 25, 1987 in Poetry
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I wish I could be philosophical
Like the poems written by Jared
But I have tried my hand at profound stuff
And not well have I fared.
I have attempted to compose in classic style
With coolness, structure and order
But, alas, like Alex Pope said
Next to madness I was close to border.
I tried to be romantic in style
Emotion, no structure or composure
But I couldn’t do it; I don’t know why
So that poetry came to its closure.
Realist, naturalist, all those things
Styles and types for poems
But I’ve tried them all and can’t adhere
So I’ll stick with the style that’s my own.