Archive for March, 2009

An Folgen ein schlechter Tag: a Revolutionary ConTEXTing Poem auf Deutsch

March 27, 2009

Wenn ein schlechter Tag/
Dich schlagt,/
will ich doch Dein/
ernsthaft Freund sein!/
Bitte! Lass mich ‘rein!

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Viva la Revolucíon!: A Revolutionary ConTEXTing Gardening Poem

March 22, 2009

Revolucíion/
all around!/
Che on walls,/
seeds in the ground./
Which brings more change?/
Kind, hopeful hearts?/
Or souls filled with rage?/
Maybe both;/
I vote growth!

Returning Again to Where You’d Lain: A Romantic IMbic IMprov Poem

March 22, 2009

I want to tell you a story
of late night glory,
and dew,
and me
and you.

It was an experience
wonderful and strange!
I did it more than once:
Returning again
to where you’d lain.

I could scarcely contain
my curiousity
to see if I could tell
where the fruits of our amourosity
fell.

And, once I did,
could not contain, again,
myself, and on I sped;
would not refrain,
but exploded in memoric,
meteoric
delight!
By myself,
in my room,
where you’d lain
at night.

Your Hair on a Pillow: a Romantic IMbic IMprov Poem

March 20, 2009

You ask if I am scared?
No! I’m well prepared!
I want to go to bed;
find the pillow
where you laid your head.

Smell
where your hair
round soft shoulders fell,
and drift off to where
I sleep,
sweet
memory
of you
with me.

Sitting Stalled In Traffic: a ConTEXTing Romantic Limmerick

March 19, 2009

It’s not you I’m spurning/
nor ignoring your yearning./
I’m a romantic poet/
but really didn’t know it/
was for me; I’m learning!

Waiting 4 U 2 IM: A Revolutionary IMprov IMbic sonnet

March 18, 2009

I stare at the screen
waiting
for you to say
anything.

For you to finish
typing.
for the light
to turn green.

Sentences, phrases, a word
that say
how you feel about
now, this second, last hour, today.

But the blinking words on the IM screen
just keep saying “typing”, “typing”, “typing”.

Do I Trust Myself? A Revolutionary IMbic IMprov Poem

March 17, 2009

“Do you trust myself?”
She asked.
I laughed.
“In what regard?”

As in, you invite me
over to watch cinema:
comedy, chick flick, drama,
popcorned action, mystery?

That there would be
no butter smeared on that
velvet, gentle skin, as we sat,
and watched the movie.

The only thing low
I would dip into
and slip into
would be a bowl

of buttered
popcorn,
not porn,
or anything like it.

Kernels I would just eat
while I watch,
and butter touch
and brush off my seat.

Do I trust myself?
Whether watching a romantic chick flick,
or Elf,
I keep my emotions,
and buttered hands,
on the shelf.

The New Red Car: Epilogue-a Revolutionary Poetic tragedy

March 13, 2009

“Dad! You’re F*#ing Crazy!”
“Curl up and die!”
No car is worth that.
Death.
Venom spat.

I’d rather bus or walk
than drive that car again!
I’m not giving in.
They don’t win.
I’m telling them:
take the damn car.

It doesn’t matter!
What makes me sadder
is they don’t know
they haven’t won, but lost.
And at what cost
the tragedy
of stupidity.
I don’t think they know.
Only me.

Dying Because of a Red Car: a Revolutionary Poem

March 13, 2009

Yesterday I bought a car.
it was red. Fast. Old.
I traded two cars for it.
They didn’t run worth Sh*t.

Nearly a decade and a half old
was this new red car.
Black leather interior.
heated seats. Superior.

Really loud speakers.
Cranked Weezer.
Why do they gotta front?
What makes them so violent?

I always thought I looked
just like Buddy Holly.
So I played it loud,
sunroof open: music spilled out.

Seattle springtime surrounds us:
Bright. Warm. Glorious.

And then it started.
A promise I didn’t remember,
brought first by my son,
then by his sister,
then by their mother.
Texts on my cell.
Dozens of messages from hell.

Liar.
Always lying.
Always changing your mind.
Stupid. Crazy. Liar. Unkind.

Did they ever think
I honestly don’t remember
promises made?
“Yeah, you can drive it!”
Things said off
the cuff?

Or,
Did they ever think
The world is changing as we speak?
That it’s important for me
to have a cheaper vehicle?
Better gas mileage?
I drive more.
Last time, to avoid any fuss,
I almost took the bus.

Got screamed at anyway.
Always in texts: “Go away.
I have no father.
I’m not your daughter.”

After a while, I decided
not to take the abuse.
The name calling.
“Liar.
You’re not my dad.
I hate you with everything I have.”

You are an F**n idiot.
I have no father.
From she who once fell
off the bed laughing so hard
at me.
(Hard to write
when tears make it hard to see).

Then, from him, the son:
The same venom.
Only harsher, unexpected.
But I stood firm.

For a minute.
Then I thought
What the heck? It’s just
a red, fast car! With no rust!

But realized, too late, maybe,
that I had no money.
6 months out of work does that.
Who covers the insurance premiums
when dad doesn’t work
for the kids’ car? (The jerk!)

I asked that they step up.
Get off their rears for a change.
Work.
As I did.
As their brother and sister,
did. Older, wiser.

You can drive the car.
The condition is
you pay.
Logical?
Normal? I’da thought.
But evidently not.

Not in our rich neighborhood
where “all my friends”
get “whatever they want”
and don’t have to pay.
I want to do a survey.

But I won’t.

I was hoping
they would step up,
see their mother trudging off
to work at 5 a.m.;
see me working late hours
trying to find something
anything
to keep her in school,
to keep him fed,
a roof over their heads.

See that and say
“maybe I should get a job today
and help pay
insurance
just once”.

Nah.
“I hope you die!”.
Because I didn’t let them
drive the car?
“But get a job in Dublin,
like you wanted.
Then die.
We won’t have to pay
for the funeral that way!”

Crazy, selfish liar
in a Dublin funeral pyre.

In the end,
both said “don’t talk to us,
don’t text us,
don’t contact us again.”

“Get a job out of state.
Don’t show your face again!
Move far away!
(Oh, but Daddy… still pay).”

Yesterday I bought a car.
Today I lost two children.
Or they lost me.
And it brakes my heart.
Perhaps if I go really fast
The pain won’t last.

Maybe I WILL die.
Aye.

I Never Wished I Could Hear What You Write: A Romantic IMbic IMprov Sonnet

March 13, 2009

You write words
I wish I could hear!
Oh! that something could place
written words in my ear.

A tender voice
that softly intoned
a groan?
a moan?

a laugh?
a chastisment?
a thought reticent?
a kiss sent?

Though your words written are always dear;
They should be something my ear could hear!