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Pale Rodents – A Poem by Richard William Kirkpatrick-Thorne

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Some Pale Rodents Pick A Color And A Finger,
A Prayer To Mary Queen Of Cottage Cheese,
And Then… They Are Off…!
…
Takeing The Inner Lane,
Passing… Rumbleing Snorting… Digging InTo The Tread,
Chaseing The Outer Line That Fades The Mane,
Magnetized InTo A Tribal Jungle Beat Of HorseShoe Gymnasiums,
Never Late For The Last Bend Of The Zipper-Bunny’s Tease,
For The Cotton-Tail And Podium Morrow…
…
One More Dive InTo The Dish,
Shallow And On A ReBreather,
The Honking Of Cab-Drivers And Finite Math,
Minuscule Metropolis With Robots For HouseWives,
Water Runs Off Their Chins In Tiny Droplets To Rain Purity UpOn Poorer
Districts,
Tilting Heads In The Canine Empire…
…
Wolves Had Packs In The BoonDocks,
Where Rats Needed A Structure To Twist Tongues,
Knotted At The Mooring For Liberty And For A Deity Of Mental Health,
To Arrive InTo A Fatherly Womb In Droves To Be Assimilated InTo A
Bleached Chorus,
Silent Lucid City Folk Leading The New World InTo The Old Country,
Through Prismatic Choreography And Gentlemen Bets,
Knicks Off The Slugger And Chips Off The Tooth…
…
These Days,Some People Will Pay AnyThing For A Funeral… A Motherly
Tomb…
…
…
Kings Are Made At The Shoveling Of Dirt,
The Jokes Are Laid ASide For Small Talk In The Office Elevator,
Just Before Approaching The Water Bottle And Kitchenette,
To Fight Over Jam Jars And Cheese Slices,
Golden Ringed Lemurs Throwing Nuts At Tourists Twenty Miles Down…
…
…
…
The Bonding Agent Of Social Integrity In Co-Relation To Preening
Morality,
Engineering A Structure Of Compromised Hands And Civilized Bakerys,
Rapping Knuckles And Ensureing Longevity Of The Program,
An Old Boy With An Old Dog And An Old Pair Of Slippers…
…
Sweating Baby-Boomed Discipline InTo The UnSatiable-Platonic BedRock,
For Incarnations Of Ponce De León To Drill InTo And Market To Massage
Parlors,
UnLess The Mechanics Of Man Call For Second-Hand Car Parks And
Collision Repair,
Those Asian Beautys Poseing So Sweetly Beside Groomed Shovels Of
Loathing Grace.

More at http://rwkt.blogspot.ca.

On Being Told I Am Good, but Not Good Enough – A Poem by Suzanne Cullen

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Today I was told I was good but not good enough.
I am cross with myself, because I should be good enough at what I do
by now.
I am average, above average on occasion and good, but not outstanding
as Ofsted would say.
That is also true of my parenting, my commitment to animal welfare,
weight loss and work.
I can be outstanding on occasions but I struggle with attitude, belief
and commitment.
I also like to do what I want to do, which is not necessarily what I
should be doing.
I hold up my hands, I am not good enough, you are right and sometimes
I don’t know if I have, or can be bothered to muster up, what it
takes to join the top tier.
There are no excuses to hide behind.
Mediocrity is a comfortable cushion to lie on until it is taken away
from me by the truth.

Humble – A Poem by G. S. Katz

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Humble
That’s how I’ve always thought of myself
When things are good
And I get ahead of myself
I have to calm myself down and remember
To be Humble

When things are bad
And I’m getting kicked in the stomach
I have to crawl back up
Fight the fight
And remember
To be Humble

Humble
The place to be
Humble
What we want in our friends
Lovers and even adversaries
Humble…

Triumph – A Poem by Naduni

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I see the softest eyes that ever were
On the blue of the singing water
And imagine you are here
When I feel as if you are there
In the blue of the soothing sky
I feel you are here
With me, around me
Above me
The blend of happiness, a tear in my eye
A pain in my chest, the guilt I feel
“Forgive me…” I murmur.
Help me, guide me, show me the path
When my the demons try to control my mind
They have succeeded six times
I can’t lose anymore
Guide me, tell me, advise me
Let me follow you
Let me, in the end,
TRIUMPH

Road Salesman – A Poem by G. S. Katz

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people
places
personalities
income different
from month to month
self starter
smart phone
email and text
lots of stress
trying to control
what you can’t
once you put the order in

the takeaway
after all these years
people are people are people
and
bathrooms are harder to find
than making the sale…

Welcome to My World – A Poem by Shannen Wrass

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Have you ever tried to cry
But there’s no tears left to shed
Have you ever seen the face of misery
Or looked into the eyes of dread
Have you ever gripped the pain
‘Cause it’s all that’s left to hold
Have you ever tried so hard to love
But found your heart was just too cold
Have you ever just had to accept,
Your agony has no end
Have you ever been so desperate,
You’ve claimed the sorrow your best friend
Have you ever held hands with depression
Wept on the shoulder of fear
Have you ever reached out to emptiness
But there’s nothing to pull near.
Have you ever sobbed yourself to sleep
Anguish at the foot of your bed
Have you ever been shaken from your dream
To be thrown into a nightmare instead
Have you ever felt the cringe inside
Embraced by betrayal and hate
Have you ever then just had to dwell
In a world that terror creates
Have you ever been left empty
No courage to unfold
If you’ve ever known the hurt
Then welcome to my world

I Am An Old Scratch – A Poem by Richard William Kirkpatrick-Thorne

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I Am A FacetLess Soul Of Assumptions,
Forgetting The Broken Fence,
By A Crippled Cold Bridge,
Rotting Soft Wormed Wood,
And That OverTurned Pitch Black Fork In The Road,
My Name Could Be An Old Scratch…
…
Heavy Killing To Lift The Air For Breeding,
Acres Of Familyar Terrain For Following Minute Irritations…
…
This Way Comes…
…
Distractions And Pretense,
Assertions In My FingerTips To ReWind,
Then To ReLight The Charcoal And Ignore Tantalus…
…
Thirsty Birds And My 13 Scars,
I Can Twist The Wrist To Settle The Difference?
Show The City What Shadow I Might Nail UpOn The Wall,
Let It Bleed Back Down To That FloorBoard’s Beat,
Wear My Shoes To Bed…
…
…
Make My Way To The Falling Of Rain,
And MayBe Carve My Initials With A Pen-Knife From This Life’s
Language
InTo A Pillar Of Thought…
…
I Be LoneSome But Never A Fool… Nor A Flood,
I Can Still Wink And Grin… I Can Wash My Hands And EveryThing…
…
…
…
Tartarus Never Sleeps.

More at http://rwkt.blogspot.ca.

The Rain – A Poem by Naduni

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After the long and tedious
Summer
The dreadful, terrible
Heat
That set us on fire and brought on War
Between lovers.
The bullets exchanged
The words still
Harsher,
It came.
Yesterday…
You looked at me
Not once but twice.
When you passed me
I didn’t feel anything
But now I think,
I should have felt a strange heat
How sad it is that the rain’s too late…
If it came a month earlier
Things would have been
Much different.
Then,
May be,
When you passed me
I would have surely felt warmer.

Knowledge of Mother Ocean – A Poem by Robert Zumbrun

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Pirates are the scourge of the rough high seas
There are one hundred and nine seas on earth
Earth has five oceans where many ships sail
Sails catch wind to propel a boat forward
Wind stirs and swirls, hurricanes are then born
Hurricanes are destructive ocean rage
Rage is seen in the red face of anger
Criminal faces on wanted posters
Pirates are criminal thieves of the sea
Pirates are the scourge of the rough high seas

Poet’s Note:

This poem is written using a new poetic form named Veritalifasm. The poem is a conscious string of fact. The rules of the form are as follows: 10 line poems, 10 syllables per line, each line has to make a factual or truthful statement, each line must refer back to or reference something from the previous line, line nine must also reference something from line one, Line ten repeats line one (this brings the poem full circle).

These poems are meant to follow a conscious string of thought, emulating the random and sometimes confusing way in which thoughts flow through the brain. One thing links to another, to another, until the topic eventually reached in no way seems relatable to the topic began with. In the case of Veritalifasm, the poems come full circle, ending where it began with the repetition of the final line.

A Walk through Falling Steps – A Poem by Richard William Kirkpatrick-Thorne

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Taller Than Icarus On A Unicycle,
While Manifesting A Carved Beard For A Shiny Face,
Squinty Weasel-Eyed Paradigm With Morning Yolk Dripping,
Trigger-Yeti With Philosophical Dairy Maids,
With The Lords Of Baccalaureate To Cling From The Cold Dead Sleep,
Tin Cans And String On A Psychic Boob-Job For Back Support…
…
They Can Stensil Wings OnTo Loose Cloud Formations To Induce Spring
Fevers,
Aluminum Soles For Walking Gingerly UpOn ReEntry InTo The Boiling
Hypnos,
And Then To Talk The Egg From The Hen’s Snatch,
Buying Out The Architects For Zephyrs From Strawberry Blondes,
A New Blue-Print For Mouths To Saw Through The Thicket,
Stacking Appropriately With Those Branches And Twigs…
…
…
Straw Bent InTo Masks And Tied InTo Shape,
Killdeer Omens Crackleing Resinous,
The Pyre Shooting Its Milky Way Spiralling InTo Furnace Sparks,
Of Orange Burning Bright To White Then Black,
FootSteps And BootHeel-Clicks Sketching DisSolution,
It Is A Relative Realm To The OutSide Of The Glow,
With Squire’d Pegs In The Crib Board To Keep Watch…
…
…
A Foot On A Pedal,
To Push The Other Up,
Turning The Crank…
…
…
The Sound Of One Head Napping…
…
To Trick The Thumb To Snap The Finger…
…
…
It Is A Walk Through Falling Steps.

Originally published at http://rwkt.blogspot.ca/2014/03/a-walk-through-falling-steps.html.

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