PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

—to one's own company
(original working title: the music you play)

are these leaves pure green tea,

to steep in a cup

designed so quaintly?

i know a type of

music, but not all things

jazzy

because there

could be drill rap music

which they—call—

classy

it's not a pretty picture
anymore for a degenerate

generation,

i think transnationalism

somehow creates a
nation

i just hope we don't fall
victim to this wake of
insanity—

to be foisted, with gradual

influence—to one's own

company—

"First, he says, 

first and foremost,

the cub has it's roar, 

or did I mean Lion? 

He tells me, 

performs for me, 

the vivid imagery

of the courage and strength, 

trying to give unto another.

No script, no paper, 

off memory, his poetry

is in his heart, 

and apart from my written word, 

wow, can i perforn like

the one singing bump and grind? 

Well, I most definitely have 

not the voice. 

But, 

the artist has instead

his art in his soul, 

and no pen or pad

or book in hand, man, 

this man has it. 

So does She

giving me sweet epiphany, 

alliteration and onomatopoeia, 

hyperbole, dreams of red velvet, 

a memory of perhaps

succulent treat, 

and after a beat, 

another artist approaches,

such powerful words. 

All of them, 

potential no longer blocked, 

mind unlocked,

her voice giving me thoughts. 

I am home, 

I am surrounded by poets, 

artists, lovers, dreamers, 

those who have suffered

more than I, 

hearing some of the pleas. 

It would indeed be

enriching, more imbued positivity. 

And perhaps comical

as I watch one poet

almost run over another

on trip to couch.

I grin, laughed, 

laughed more when asked

to rurn to page 24. 

Hands, the color red, 

subjects being poured about

by all these great writers. 

Such emotion, 

they read,

I listen.

Tonight isn't about me, 

this is about them, 

and I am humbled again. 

Tonight is about you,

and you, and all of you 

who pour their soul, 

so vulnerable. 

Lessons, being preached to me, 

wise words, being brushed 

across my canvas,

their paint so vibrant.

Their pain so real, 

like my own. 

What I strive to do, 

being done unto me. 

They want to write, 

they make me want to 

write, right now. 

Never stop writing, 

requesting got returned keys, 

being alive. 

Poetry has kept me alive. 

You, artists, breathe into me...

life."

What would it take

what would it take to make you mine 

can i have a second 

a second of your time

or maybe just a dance 

a dance for two under the stars

i want to vacation in the warmth 

the warmth inside your arms

On the rooftops in Seattle 

or lake michigans cold shores 

i don't care where we go 

as long as baby, i'm yours. 

Yellow Ducky all alone
No friends, no cares
Ducky only groans
With life thats unfair

Red sunshades on
Belly big and round
Where's ducky gone?
I've looked all around

Off to fat cat cafe
Quarter shining
Waddling to the bay
Lifes intertwining

Smoke filled air
Laughter and dreams
Bourbon and music blare
Vodka streams

Poker Games calling
Pots a laughing buddha
Watch the dice rolling
Hears what he shulda

Big slick, Apple jack
Ducky's lucky day
Starlight pack
Nothing does he say

Jazz like moonlight
Shining silver sax
Gamblers delight
Jukebox tracks

Yellow Ducky all alone
No friends no care
Ducky only groans
With life that's unfare

The rain pours on a solemn face
His final revenge remains so sweet
To disappear without a trace
A victim walks beneath his feet

He who lives below the sun
Knows nothing but himself
To he who knows but anyone
He suffers from your health

He who cannot hear or see
Lives to speak a final word
His final word that speaks to thee
To thee who only overheard

The rock that kicks the person's feet
The sun that sings the heavy tones
A life of crime he soon shall meet
His life will fall just like the stones

The crows that have blood ready eyes
The pathway seems so clear from now
And grey clouds formed into the skies
Hearing screams of why and how

The pinnacle of easy that sits and laughs
The pinstripe suit that mocks his worth
No tears been cried on his behalf
The fat cats full with men of earth

The shadows filled with his demise
Where the chew toy of a man doth lie
His eyes fill with our despise
With knife in hand his freedom die

The rain pours on a solemn face
His final revenge remains so sweet
To disappear without a trace
A victim walks beneath his feet

Clean:

Classical music
    embellished
  crispt
       clean
    minor is sad
major goes
        either way.

It ends.
    It starts
  Can repeat.
    It's specific.
  It's stylized
        specifically.

Classical music
        is clean.

Dirty:

Jazz music
      is emotion
   slow
         fast
   dirty
         covers all
leaves none.

It never ends.
       It continues.
Improv is
       never the same.
It's unique
       purposefully.

Jazz is beautifully
       dirty.