POETRY PAGE THREE
COLUMN SEVENTY-THREE, JULY 1, 2002
(Copyright © 2002 The Blacklisted Journalist)
ODE TO POETRY
Call out for
my poetic voice, my poetic soul.
And the mutual lifestyle
That could very possibly exist.
Let myself go one moment in time,
live for destiny and only fate, an Abby Hoffman second rate,
a modern consumer of mistrust and sympathy.
Overlook purity, in the truest sense of the word,
a dab of laughter,
a caress of love, everlasting.
And this poetry, this inner city full blown hot summer day wet cement
John Coltrane soothing the tears of
the little boys with the bruises playing ball in Central Park,
and a wondrous confusion of all that I inhale, exhale, just another minute
of time that rips,
listen for life's jazz, don't forget to swing your hips,
do yourself the favor--
allow poetry to inspire your heart, your soul, your grips. ##
* * *
She searches once and for all for perfect propriety.
Escaped senses torn down while each straggler holds on,
The wind consuming truths that perpetually have gone.
Wasps of hair in soft coils trail behind,
As she runs past the light, at last she will find.
Reprehension is harsh, like sharp eternal arrows.
And a mere white dress escapes with dark shadows.
Freedom survives no where but one's mind,
Only to falter and bereave blights of such kind.
"Let go", she whispers in the still night air,
Reverence cries, a yell at despair.
A dark single tear trails from morose eyes,
And with no where to turn, she looks to the sky.
One imminent sob unveiled in her fight,
Confusion masked by an abstruse, cold night.
Each trembling finger slips away and in one final reach,
She ascends from her fear--her one last beseech ##
* * *
OF GOLD, BLEED
Heart of gold, bleed.
Bleed all you know of life, bleed out the pain and the sorrow,
and the truth that lies somewhere in between.
Weep for the flickering lamp with it's final strife
sharing its light only a moment longer
before it melts upon a silver lining.
Lacking anger, ask why don't I understand?
Fallacy marks our days
Free will continues, a question unanswered,
not a scolding finger in history, and why?
Heart of gold,
show us something bigger than what we desire,
something mightier than what we imagine,
something less austere than what we have presumed,
and maybe just then, maybe,
I will have faith. ##
* * *
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