"Expectantly"

Some years ago
I wrote a poem
about a puppy, and
a ladle,
and a pot of soup.
I'm quite afraid
I lost it;
why the puppy
still give me looks.

MH


"Exercises in Frustration"

Weight-bearing hands
Ask for crushing grip;
For something to crumble
Between their knuckles.
Weightlessness bearing
Down on empty palms,
Flexing against nothing.

MH

Sent some poems to a local magazine for fun. Got some in but they didn't say which. I'll post the ones that didn't make the cut, here. Maybe. ;)

I'm just kinda yay because it's been a while since I've bothered to do much with writing.

This is not a poem. (Sorry, Suze)

Been working on actual poems again, though not very fast, or at least not this current one. Part of me wants to say "you know what? It's done" and I'm not sure if that's because I'm struggling for words, or if I feel like I'm done with trying to explaining myself.

You say that like there are any poetry to be found in this thread in the first place.



:p-grin:

"Oh snap!" Monkey eyes
So surprised; so scandalized;
Behold! I care not.

:P

Death's Footman

Dressed in feathers and black tar
High-collared grandeur
But dour
Around fine red
A bloodless head
A thin skin shroud over skull
Long hanging down
With patient weight

MH




Well...now that I type that out I'm not too happy with it. Need to add some things.

And then there is this one:

"Blue Flowers"

By the train tracks
Reminds me
Of another
Derailed train; a corpse
Iced over in torpor.

And the flowers lift
The rail car
In their own time,

The flowers that grow
By the ragged roadside
A constant everywhere.

MH


That last line needs work. Not sure how to work out "everywhere" as a noun, or noun-sort-of-thing...thing.

Winter Hardy

Hot summer
Under my nose
The rose smells cool and antique
Hot hands root through
Cold soil

MH.


Out doing little bits of gardening this weekend.

http://3sd6172klpcs2yhnrh1lrzjd.wpen...lcent-copy.jpg

...still don't like that stupid haiku-thing.

I will write a poem of substance just for you, Suze. Give me...oh, say a couple years? ;)

When I die
Let some horse's hoof
Find my skull to stumble on
And crush through the roof into
The hollow where
There was a brain but now
Dead sighs
And not quite dead intentions
Rise like hot canopic ash
From a shattered aperture
My cave is dust and old thoughts
Are their problem now.

MH.

Slightly reminded of the opening stanza to The Byronic Man,

As lonely as a poet on the Wall of Jericho,
or the moon without the comfort of the stars,
I am loath to know it that a man without a soul,
is nothing but a spilled canopic jar.

Though your poem seems angled away from a libertine defiance of the mores of life. Kind of interesting to juxtapose them together, though. The final lines of both seem to arrive at vaguely the same place, though Filth's is predictably more graphic and I'm not going to repeat it here.

Not to mention the whole skull-goblet of Byron's you love to tell me about. :P

Well the whole purpose of that thing I understand was to shock people, so why not keep it going?

Also, revised end lines:

"My sarcophagus is dust and old thoughts
And their problem now"

Preference?

I think Sarcophagus sounds better.

Also, that line evokes one of my own in my mind,

I can scream old thoughts with annihilating fascination
I can dream incineration and aurora

but, pretty sure we're using the term in almost diametrically opposite fashions.

Thoughts on the change from "are" to "and"?

Oh, I didn't even see that before. "Are" sounds much better.