Andromeda

The slope of your neck, in the dawn's light
would muddle a geometer's art
a pale curve half aglow/half in night
like the space between waves as they part.

The feeling, like a stone in the gut
frightened and weighted by love
wheeling birds not merely in rut
they set motion to the stars above.

Were you set before monsters by fate
I would be your Perseus and free you
But the morning is getting late
And I know you have things you must do.

So I look to the stars for your beauty
and I look for your curves to the sea
and the rock, where you are memory
That rock is and will always be me.

Let's See what the Yahooligans think of it: Andromeda

Poetry Written Only For The Rich?

In the times that came before
the rich found verse a bore
the bard was viewed as plebeian
but poor folks found him a scream

The reason for rhyme and rhythm
is so works could be remembered when given,
and the power and music of verse
was its ability to be rehearsed.

Modern poems would have fallen flat
trace their forgettableness back to that.

No, poetry was made for the illiterate.
its the scholar who all have made shitovit.

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Read it in Answers

sussuring, gyres of chaos...

The Inner Land

Close your eyes and take a deep breath
feel power beneath your own skin
a bitter scent rises from the garden's wet
seeps in, like the rustle of a robin.

You are relaxed, and the world is sound
shivering trees and a sussurate stream
you feel power in your feet flowing from the ground
soft air leads your neck to a dream.

Your body, a fortress, all gabled stone
an entryway is your lungs and ribs
you stand in the interior campus alone
guided by your ear-like jibs.

For this is a fortress that silently moves
under the guidance of a aural tide
sail into fantasies which tongue-and-groove
where stately treasures abide.

Cacophony strides in the garden gate
bringing a sour note of despair
should you open your eyes, t'would be tempting fate
though nothing so evil would be there.

Still you cling to your auditory rock
and whistle blithely through the fear
the arctic wave of air is a shock
as the creature presses near.

Amass every mullion, and stanchion and stone
to feed the artillery's maw
pointed at the creature that chills the bone
and cringe as the cannons guffaw.

Every weight we would bear on the beast
only flows through Evil's sieve
If we only could prick it, or nick it at least
we could feel a moment's peace.

The sound emanates like a series of gears
grinding themselves into rust
as the Evil's oppressiveness rings in your ears
turning your hopes to dust.

You think of the treasure of the Bodhisattvas
awaiting beyond clouds of fear
but for gyring cacophony's unerring pistons
You quit! Open eyes, and it disappears.

Copyright 2013 hgl

A Poem by Solace Befriends

When I come back, and everything is dreck
What was once refracts, shows me then, up to the neck
these sullen poems come to life proper
only when you deign to join the opera.
Seen from above with eagle-eyes as interference
they do not speak of love but only shared experience
So now, I close the screen, forgetting scenes of late;
forgetting what I've seen; remembering things as great.

I will not sacrifice the past to battle the truth
- that what was gold was twaddle.

http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index;_ylt=AtAm4IfQopgm1GQjq32B5rKn5HNG;_ylv=3?qid=20130302170134AAl6bsI

Je be Ris (I am Laughing)

I find myself writing gibberish	à mal
Wondering what is wrong with me	très mal
Looking for that innocence and wonder	Amahl and the Night Visitor
But feeling more and more a commodity	a Mall and the Right Customer
Longing for the lost music	à mal ou de curatif
A melody curative.	Je be ris.

 

In My battle with the Intellectual

In my battle with the intellectual

I have always been ineffectual

to the degree I am transparent with rage

just so blindly they offer bilious as sage

they belittle the reader with their pedantry

and quotes themselves oh so preciously

It scraps at my hide to an excess degree

caught between my brightness and ignominy.

    (which I always spell wrong ignomy

     having learnt my spelling but dimly,)

When the scholarly elite write a 3-tome set

and call it a synopsis, I find it so wet

that I can't help but open my sorry YAP

and look like a whiner, ah, there is the trap.

It isn't your blindness I want to explain

it is just when you puff yourself I feel pain

For if of all my disabling traits I were free

that blow-hard/poetry expert/know-it-all would be ME.

The Benefits Package

The Employee Handbook for Poets

by TBO's Dear Tick

The interview is in your hand
it comes out of a book
if you are right for poetry
we will know by the look.

The training is in sestinas
and limericks and sonnets
practicing the basic art
and putting your mark on it.

The pay is made in satisfaction
occasionally a fan
and the hatred that is generated
by makers of evil plans.

The prize is in a roses core
a delicate half op'ed thing
when grit and glory congregate
and your wildest joys take wing.

Vacation pay is the daily grind
that pulls you from your work
the pension plan is memories
to the last, you did not shirk.