modern poets

She was born on the defensive.
No one buried a pet like she could.
Sabbath days brought out misfit ways.
Spit spite through gap in teeth like cobra.
Darker than the rest of the litter, inside and out.
Against the grain of common decency, naturally.
Never a stammer to her confidence.
Cherishes arguments and misspent affidavits.
Either not fussy at all or too picky
when it comes to bewildered suitors.
Enjoys the catch better than the chase.
Meanders aimlessly yet arrives promptly in trouble.
‘There’s more than one way to skin a cat’
is her sucker punch to structure.
She is the only person in the history of the Village
to use a paper bag of sticky pear drops
in such a terrifying yet imaginative way.
Only reads books unrecommended.
Runs races barefooted or not at all.
Spends most of her pocket money upon raffle tickets,
which if she’s lucky? (Which she Devilishly is!)
she then proceeds to burn, upon the very spot
and in front of anyone standing near enough
to be horrified by her premeditated wickedness.

More at http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.

They told us twenty-one days
prior to the smash. Look out,
there’s a rock in the air.

We could have used more
notice, thank you, but just
so, at least it wasn’t one
day.

Conjuring images of kissing
long-lost relatives and eager
young people trying to soak
up life, even though the sky
proves empty, no crash,
no imminent cataclysm.

Visid JD at http://lunarlit.blogspot.com.

I am the darkness
you refuse to acknowledge
for fear of what lies within.

I am the monster
you hide from in
your delusions
of a good world.

I am the one
you want to vanquish,
while ignoring the fact
that in doing so
would make you just
like me.

I am the truth you hide
from in the desert of
pleasantries and
sugar-coated morality.

I am you.

I’m the greatest poet who has ever lived-
Or at least, the greatest who’s just like me!
My awesome rhymes will blow your mind
Like a cinnamon-flavored breeze.

Yes my poems are so delicious
You eat them up like toast.
I’m sure you like other poets,
But like my poems the most.

My verses are entertaining-
And I’m sure that you’ll agree-
My poems need no explaining,
You understand them—perfectly.

Other poets are confusing-
And they write to be obscure.
But me, I’m always amusing
I’m not the sickness, I’m the cure.

There is a conversation here
I am not aware of, a group of words clustering,
looking for a new home

There is a meaning hidden, like a child
playing a game, tucked inside a line,
a Derrida-like violence to language

What I have said is what I have said
but then that word passes through the mind
and like a prism, bends the light

And what we are left with
is the best we can do to love each other
with syllables and syntax.

There is no need, they say
to reopen the wounds, and I would
not want that to be my vocation

I would rather be the staple
that closes up the gash, or the thread
running through the seam

I would rather be the bandage
covering the soreness, or the light
and arid balm spread across skin

But sadly sometimes I am the one
who reopens, prods, and remembers.

More at http://spinrockreader.blogspot.com.

The shifting seasons
pulse and cycle
as magnetic poles
in the celestial spheres
twist and turn…
so, too, do the seasons
of the soul
rotate and revolve.

To be
or not to be…
in alignment?
This is the question
which always
seems to determine
whether one shall be
sane or not.

More at https://17numa.wordpress.com/.

Was it a blessing or a curse to have parents
whose faith left no doubt that God was always with them?
Looking over their shoulder like a trusted friend
guiding them as they raised their son

But I was the gay son not perfect in their world
I was lost to them
in trying to live within their spiritual values.

Did I let them down?
Taking drugs to feel less imperfect?
Having unprotected sex at 14 to feel loved
By those who also lived imperfect lives?
Who hated a pompous God
unwilling to make room for them.

What pathetic irony: I needed my parents love
their willingness not to be blind-sided
by a faith that turned their hearts cold
blinding them from looking me in the eyes.

of course, now we record
them using the variegated
lenses we carry on our person

but I remember a time
when a being could thrash
and shout and the only
evidence was the casual
eyewitness or security cam

I even recall a time when,
to my ultimate Chagrin, I myself
engaged in a small tantrum
and thankfully there was no one
to hold it up like hieroglyphs
on our digital cave wall

One question leads to another,
one truth becomes a new
page, and new answers to
be found, new questions,
new words, because all we
have in the end are words,
and we sit in a pile of them,
sorting for what’s true.