Tags

, , , , ,

Give me poetry!

A retreat into snow on a cloudy
day, sun the shine of yester-
mornings, regret a post-idea fact
of a Kennedy effort at World Peace.

Give me Poetry!

A reading in the sun, times with
you, my mountains—this could be
fun!

A Santa Barbara beach, a Pasadena
moon over hills, the Los Angeles trash
of bad budgets a thing of the short-
term past, as suits decide their
next robbery.

Give me Poetry!

Not in the urban sweat and swing—
I want to retreat to God’s glory,
give words to gratitude in the winter
of now. The song of April in December
singing Christmas Carols way too soon,

the death of hate and hope eternal!

Give me Poetry!

I want to live another day, despite
the night’s salty margarita I should
not have imbibed—

I should have looked “alcohol” up
in the dictionary, studied something
I considered a right to enter!

I should have dreamed another dream,
but maybe God will give me a second chance.

A blast to a second wind, a lost dance—
a far off romance!

Chastity is the wise course of failures
like me.  A handsome waste of sperm,
reaching you as you turn—

The way back home revved up
in the worst inventions of all time,
loud motors, the rotors of choppers
the motorcycle berm, another earth
burn, the fuel of fools

to go faster past our five senses’ need
to sense, there’s no sense in it,
could I get my change back?

My apple pie with fries, a bad combo
of meals taking hours for my
stomach to decide—

should we let Bill live or die?

Coughing at night!

Your choices do come back to
haunt if not chosen right!

Will I have nine hundred years to
live like an Old Testament wise man?

Will I die in the breeze of forgotten
memories?

Never, if sober.  God is just, and
takes away pain when you ask the
right questions.  Ask for support
or rest… and receive.

Give me poetry!!

Give it to me today,

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Read it to me not here.  Make me travel
and strive to receive it, LORD—
written in capitals from the mighty
Torah, not as the Lord of love brought
by your rebellious rabbi son.

Make me travel to the mountain.

Surprise me with a dream.

Give me poetry!

For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Advertisements