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My Muse and other poetry Whispering Harlot My pet rock bled today and I was so enthralled in the lifeless words lying on the page I failed to notice Blood from a stone is easy so you said but I've beat the grindstone until I bruised more than my ego And at night when I lay limp as my words you fill me with ideas and curb sleep from his visit You enrich me when I'm penless and you dance away when I call singing a tune too soft to hear You excite my mind bring my story to climax and leave no note in the morning to fill my empty page You're a whore of ideas selling at your price a queen of the word leaving my poem to flounder in your wake once again ************************************************** Left Handed Thoughts The time we got lost on our way to Ashtabula you made nothing but left turns and kept us going round like a carousel Three times we saw the old man with a deathgrip on the blond boy at his side before you asked for help getting to familiar ground He mumbled and he grumbled and I couldn't help noticing the way the boy's eyes followed your lips when you talked "Turn left where Magee's barn was before it burned to the ground," he said we laughed at how useless he and his directions seemed and tossed a coin at every crossing I think I found you hiding behind the eyes of that boy even though Ashtabula never crossed our path ************************************************** Mindless passion fruits littered his den leaving their seed all around The peels rent from the flesh strewn in a row Shards of rind puncturing the carpet pile atop their clothes The glass capsized upon the end table its life blood spilling from its mouth Searching for cracks in the floor ************************************************** clich�s abound in every line and measured feet keep track of time structures are built upon the sounds of the words, counted out, laid down. A poem grows inside this form mental fodder spit out, still warm from the hot recesses of a mind stocking shelves at the five-and-dime. |
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