Thursday, March 3, 2011

Poetry

The fun things you find when digging through old hard drives... here are some poems I've run across from a very long time ago when I actually had time to write poetry...

Leaving...
“better to leave when you don’t want to”
She Says
but that kind of absence appeals only to the tortured
or to hermits
of which I am neither

but the idea seems so intriguing
That I Am
forced to consider
that maybe friends ought to try harder
to leave before they want to

if it means that
Her Very
last thoughts
were not wanting to leave
‘cause those thoughts were mine too

Best Friend


Mind you, I'm not saying these are necessarily any good...

Spork…

Why? What is the point
in the sharing of joints
between two things that we eat with.
Why did they do it?
Who could construe it?
Did they think that it was a gift?

I wonder the maker.
a Monk or a Quaker
in some lab somewhere out there.
He’s crazy and old,
or bitter and cold
with some wild, freaky white hair.

I can picture the place
and the look on his face
when he came up with this “plan.”
I can see the light
as his face got bright
and he asked his friend for a hand.

They glued those utensils
like erasers and pencils
And stared again and again.
This monster’s to lewd
to use on your food
Stabbing with Siamese twins.

But they proceeded to patent
I wish that they hadn’t
subjected the world to this tool.
It’s called a spork,
it’s neither a spoon nor a fork
and to eat with it you look like a fool.

And now that I've weeded out the riff-raff with the last two, I'll share two more I really like with those who made it this far... This one reminds me of holding Alison...

Memory
A thousand kisses just aren't enough
to hold the memory of her touch
and millions more would not begin
to grasp the softness of her skin
Those big blue eyes and thoughtful gaze
float off, into her sleepy daze
And there upon my arm she sleeps
Moments fleeting I yearn to keep

And this one, which always makes me want to write again, and shows my appreciation for a really fine pen...
mightier than…
a green pen’s liquid
random, scribbled ink
Bleeding chlorophyll
breeding as it flows
Planted by the silky hands of an angel
an angel loved by mere primates
primates who’s hands could never hope
to leak such beauty
As the soundless words.
like the blood of The Savior
An angel with actions so fluid
that the seeds on the paper never thirst
Motion so liquid that one cannot help
but to thirst, to drink, to sip
to tenderly, gingerly, lift to the mouth
But by lifting the pen
the life flowing must cease
and leave the plants thirsty
begging for more