Poems

I Got Two Words For Ya

The two most powerful words in the english language as of late is "I'm Offended"
I'm sure if you find something you dislike and you want your voice heard, say the magic words and it'll be ended

Seems like no matter if it's a big or small problem that's what people are saying
During those exact same times we're watching every night on the news people getting slaying
While others are at home on there knees praying

Now saying that all lives matter takes away from the subject at hand
Talk show hosts say it one night, by the next they've been banned
How bout Everyones Lives Matter or is that wrong as well
It no doubt is but I don't have the proper intel

Saying something like that will get one labelled a racist
I wouldn't call me that, I would call me an equalist
I'm the guy who wants to see everyone treated equally no matter race,colour or sex
Not really that much for being political but here I am putting it into text

Later on I'm going to copy and paste
Until someone tells me I'm a waste of space

The worlds going crazy, it's almost like it's going to hell
We're standing naked with no protective shell

I can understand why somethings deserve to change
But I don't for other things, does that make me derrange ?
They stopped airing a kids cartoon due to two words
They took Elmer Fudds gun away for the exact same two keywords

It honestly has been making me scratch my head
But the end result is something I truly dread

Ken

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Hoping this doesn't offend anyone

Just Keep Laughing

Just Keep Laughing


That's all people do when it comes to me is laugh at me, no matter if it's funny or not
Wonder if you'd keep laughing if you seen me tieing a slipknot
Would it be just as hard if something happened to me, would I become an after thought

Thought I would try to change who I am
I knew at the end of the day nobody would give a damn
Overall I knew nobody would care and everyone would think it's a scam

But I tried really I did
Guessing in this world it's something people forbid
From now on I will just keep to myself and I get rid

Of any thought that I would change for the better
Perhaps I should close off my life, move on and forget her
Maybe I should have kept my feelings to myself instead of putting it in a short letter

Nobody writes real letters today
They are all digital so it's easier to brush off and just say oh okay
But I guess it's hard to see emotionin the digital world anyway

Ken

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Cut Me Deeper

 

I feel the ink flow through my veins,

After fearing it all had dried.

As once again, reality awakens muse,

When all hoping again, has died.

 

For a jolly poet, simply cannot write,

Unless it all goes tragically wrong.

So to hell with all the make believe...

And to hell with being strong.

 

I'd rather feel this release again,

As from me, this blood pours out.

A letting of this verbal plasm,

Pouring forth from an emotional spout.

 

A too-tight tourniquet of sorts,

Long staunched, a healthy flow.

But now, like before, it flows warm and red,

And eagerly fills again, a river of woe.

 

So muse, now cut me deeper still,

For we have poems to be created.

Since life prooved to us, yet once again,

The tempests will never, be abated.

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

No, I am not now, nor have I ever been a cutter. It's a metaphor for the poetic 'RELEASE'...ie: ink, like blood.

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The Mat

Folder: 
Simple Thoughts

"Say it ain't so,

trapper in her own little world,

the sounds, smells,

and whirl of the ceiling fan

 

spins unnoticed, 

unfelt,

with the security 

and familiarity of her headphones.

 

The music,

unknown, 

the art that is decorating 

her time

 

sealing away

the ugly world around her.

Given unto her

the superpower

 

to make the whole wide world

completely melt away.

Her eyes never breaking 

a horizontal plane,

 

not out of submission, 

but from avoidance.

The lack

of eye-contact

 

can be unsettling to some, 

perhaps to the ones 

who cannot stand silence.

 

But in silence she works,

folding her laundry,

being sure to block all view

of any unmentionable 

 

she plucks up

to fold.

To the observation 

of the outsider,

 

an observer

would see or anything 

practically any and all

back story

 

only to be

most likely 

incorrect.

 

And she will never care,

never know

she is the topic of light scrutiny, 

so that script can be written, 

 

the unaware volunteer

for the unwarranted play

playing in front.

For there is nothing but a scene,

 

of washers and dryers,

an incredibly clean location, 

and with the only movement 

being the one

 

who has made a point

that she does not want

attention; 

she becomes the only subject 

 

on stage.

A boring play.

Smelling of fragrance;

after the rain."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Memories of a day at the laundry mat.

Personality Theft

The day shall be imperfect until I find myself
It's pretty hard, I keep trying, I got no inner health

 

 

The cracked mirror
I impatiently wait for the day to be fixed
Hidden fear or
darkness, I couldn't say, the feeling's mixed


Trying to find light within the cracks
Breaking out of night as I listen to the heart attacks
Of the people of broken health I called me, once worn
In the city of myself, not meant to be, a battle born


Cracked skin!
Poison within,
a smile locked in, but inside a fight you couldn't win

Could I stand here and speak lies that this was really me?
Not really, I don't have much of eyes left to see.
as I just kill another one impatiently
so violently.


Until there's a void with complete darkness and nothing left
Just another alleyway destroyed, another empty something, just another personality theft,

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national poetry day

 

 National Poetry Day

By jfarrell

 

 

 

KEEP RUNNING!

The stinking tendrils of ancient decayed flesh envelope you,

Engulf you in a nicotined-coloured fog;

Your devil has arrived, demanding payment.

              - horror

 

The moment I saw her face;

It was like a thousand rainbows shone;

All the stars of the heavens bursting into life again

My heart was hers. I would die for her.

                    -romance

 

There was a miserable sod, wrought from Bermondsey;

Dark clouds, thunder; all his life followed he;

But, when to ‘Wales’ he went,

A promised holiday was the event;

A ‘pain in the bum’ was all he received.

                -limerick

 

My madness has made me a god,

Or, maybe, I’m just a conceited sod.

                   - couplet

 

In the shadows, I watch and I learn;

The deep longing within me burns;

To love one, such as you;

And I know my love would be true.

                -rhyming

 

Why poems?

I offer five reasons, five themes, five experiences;

Today is National Poetry Day.

Thank you for coming. Please enjoy your stay :-)

 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

happy national poetry day :)

Preconceived Creativity

Folder: 
Simple Thoughts

"You're free

to be

as creative as you are;

or so they say. 

 

Yet. 

Every time, 

the artist guided,

unwarranted. 

 

Unnecessary. 

Why is the artist

so restricted? 

IS it concious? 

 

Do those who commission 

Art

know they can be stifling it? 

Or, 

 

is it a lack of trust? 

Not enough of it 

to go around, knows 

the budding artist

 

with lack of portfolio. 

No trust 

goes to those

with no reference. 

 

So often are we told

we are free, 

when we are not. 

Their own opinion 

 

trusted first, 

unintentional or not, 

before the artist, 

the one who creates. 

 

When one asks another

to create, 

to stifle the flame

is to put it out completely. 

 

Trust is a must, 

we must learn to 

give our hearts and minds

and souls 

 

to others

to mold.

 

And that's the hardest thing to do."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

So often am I told by other artists they are held back by those who ask for their art, creativity. 

Rusty

Folder: 
Simple Thoughts

"No excuse, 

but the metal has rusted. 

An unkept armory. 

Barrels with red, 

 

triggers peppered orange. 

Springs stuck, 

pins, unmoving. 

Bores obstructed. 

 

The whole weapon set

useless, 

to the trained eye. 

But

 

a gun is still a gun, 

the potential it has

to kill, 

ever present. 

 

Rusty or not, 

it is still recognizable, 

months of no use

not enough to erase

 

the sizable impression

of the shape, 

the indication

of the handgun, long gun. 

 

The task looming, 

Armorer, 

keys in hand, 

sighing. 

 

Unlocking 

the cages, 

duty tumblers turning, 

locks coming free. 

 

So long, 

had it beem

since maintenance

had been laid

 

where it belong. 

The familiar metal

began to fill hands, 

twist, turn,

 

rifles broke down, 

pistols slid apart. 

Rusty was the

mind, 

 

as were the firemans, 

but both began 

to be broken

free. 

 

Rag, brush, 

break-away sprayed, 

assemblies oiled.

Pieces began to click, 

 

operate smoothly, 

unlike language, 

where lack of use

means disappearance, 

 

past tense

isn't the demise

of functionality of things,

like bike riding. 

 

or an armory. 

 

The Armorer will be busy,

it may take some time.

But he will pass inspection. 

 

With work, 

with determination, 

desire 

and time. 

 

It takes time

for things to rust. 

 

It takes time

to fix such a lack of use. 

 

The best solution

isn't busting rust, 

but daily use, 

rather." 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Time to write a book...

Other Life

Folder: 
Hand Written

"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."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A poem I wrote while observing a poetry reading of other poets. I read this piece during the 'Open Mic' portion, each poet smiling at my own nod to each of their own pieces. A good night of art.