PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Somebody said those strings could get jagged, rhythmic, percussive.

Someone said Jimi's, Jack White's, or Cat Steven's pluck caught your ear.

Someone drew a line to an inserted line of poetry.

The space left, you're holding it captive.

It's caught like a crook and every bit as wasted.

You say the math doesn't line up with the stars

But that's when I name it epic, like a new age.

And if you sang it at the third wall by debilitating the end of the line

And like a flat tire, someone else would name that melodramtic.

So peal that back a little, toward your baptism.

Add drops of the devil from the peer.

And when it comes work it out over and over.

It isn't yours all the time, but you do steer.

You pave and repave the road

As you hold your newborn in your arms.

Then when hitchhiker stands beside trash collector beneath

A sky made for prayers, they'll half expect it to go still

Like a ruin, or something bronze.

A folk rock explosion tempered by substance,

But your car, once Dean Moriarty's, keeps moving.

Every sound has meaning when defined.

There is no such thing as time.

It's a dead poet's society within the guise of music.

The zenith of rock came the moment a man yelled, "Judas,"

Never to be seen again.  And that is the starting point.

And we barely use the word anymore, transcending,

But God's hardly dead here.

Neither is man's yearning for the sublime.

The devil already walked through your door

So go ahead and sing the blues.

For the love of God find them a use.

Can you synchronize low and high by making the duet your own, like

  mine?

Can you dump a sound clip of beat poetry over that guitar solo?

 On a good day, maybe, sing it to the sirens,

Your brand new taste of fire.

However, and this is important,

When your pet sounds are through know they're intricate and arduous.

So keep careful of the kids, that your fountains of youth don't expire.

Maintain a premise of concern and a path for returning.

This heaven and hell I gift back to you.

Every inch of me, all the time.

Part 2

Lou Reed,

Bob dylan rolled off my table

Full of gravel,

Like the iron esophagus of Tom Waits.

The wine and poetry of Leonard Cohen

Met Sgt. Peppers, and it wa a trip

To see the children reading again.

Family by scenester.  Guitar by Cello.

A deadpan baritone sang rock and roll

While the occasional backbeat swing

Lightened the mood.

Birds chirped heavenly numbers and the honking of horns

And fire trucks subsided,

Until we had erected a very pleasant bridge to a state of Zen.

I have my name.  I have no single song.

I changed the wind to water,

Called it Poet Maude.

We reviewed ourselves in view of previous centuries

And other countries along the orb,

Found new pretentions as little lights.

I spoke French verbs over honey, hungry for the verses of Howl.

No one seemed to mind.  Now

Comes easier than before,

Until your left with legend, the moment, and lore.