Here’s my submission:
I sought a theme and sought for it in vain,
I sought it daily for six weeks or so.
Maybe at last being but a broken man
I must be satisfied with my heart, although
Winter and usmmer till old age began
My circus animals were all on show,
Those stilted boys, that burnished chariot,
Lion and woman and the Lord knows what…
…Those masterful images because complete
Grew in pure mind but out of what began?
A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,
Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,
Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut
Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder’s gone
I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.
How about them apples, eh? Looks like I’m the winner by at least three lengths! And if anyone calls me on it, I’ll Burma-Shave 'em.
i’m impressed uke. but i expect that of you.
i’ll humbly submit my verse in the hopes that perhaps someone may like my own inner madness in writ.
A Stitch In Time
I was crossing patterns
with teardrops falling
from my heart,
not of pain as in suffering but of want.
oh! how i longed for her,
she sang you know…
her eyes would sing
such sweet brown notes
and missing her is such sorrow.
and you could surf those wild waves
of her lustrous auburn brown hair
and the smell, the scent, so soft, of her perfume, in the breeze
a gentle breeze,
sailing on sea ships
staring out and up wishing upon the stars
navigating the rapids
the foaming waves
and distasteful sea water lapping conciously, brimming over the edge
and i crossed the patterns tighter
linking cups and nets
tighter still thinking of sex
unsure if what i wanted was right.
those full luscious lips and smooth clear skin
her warm innocent heart and the emotions within
i still feel her kiss on my cheek,
and
tighter now
tighter still
she wore tight jeans once
and wow; would i flutter
tighter almost choking
my legs feeling like butter
and all the time i felt closer
yet further was i falling
and i could make eye contact
and float to the voice trilling in those eyes
such beautiful brown eyes
and such a supple frame
my patterns were changing, no longer being patterns
so wild
she is so wild
and i’m so cold
growing old and being
haven’t done a thing you know
except cross patterns
which are just a jumble of excuses now
not patterns anymore
plaid went to black
and then
went crazy
and became one of those multicolored crayons, you know
i could never draw just one color
just one line
i could never get the right one,
the one i wanted
but someone else would say,
“hey, here, let me try,”
and they would,
they would have her
and i would still be cold
and unable
to protest
and all i could hear would be,
“learn to kill”
untidy suicides
“let me try”
it’s so quiet and lonesome
without her
to sing to me with those eyes
and
so someone else tried
so
give up… huh… just,
just…
i wish
even upon the stars… and if there were a god,
just once,
just forever
it would be so much easier if…
just forever crossing patterns,
couldn’t i just fall asleep tonight?
I used a pencil to write my name,
it was written in print,
'cause script is the same,
someone erased it,
and now it is gone,
so how should i know,
to whom the paper belongs?
I never wrote angst-filled poetry in high school. I never “got” poetry as an art form. I can rewrite song lyrics and I love limericks. I have read too much Silverstein and Dr. Seuss. That said…
I’m going to compose this on the spot, and it is clear
That there is competition on this board which I should fear.
Pentameter is fugly, some free verse just doesn’t rhyme
Haiku’s short; Frost-isms suck; limericks should be a crime.
Perhaps if I could solve a problem rhyth-i-mi-cal-ly
It would at least be topical; my wisdom clear to see.
The problem is, I haven’t anything here in my head;
Therefore, I’ll keep the meter up by babbling instead.
I could sing fulsome praises of the posters to the boards.
I could do major ass-kissing: “The Ops are like to Lords!”
I could do many other things to make my presence known
But this has gone on long enough. Leave me the hell alone.