Short and Sweet – A Poem by G. S. Katz
You have my back
l have yours
Your love never was for sale
Money can’t buy you
Grace and dignity
Your smile worth millions
I’m the richest man going
From the day I met you
You have my back
l have yours
Your love never was for sale
Money can’t buy you
Grace and dignity
Your smile worth millions
I’m the richest man going
From the day I met you
I haven’t said what I mean
mostly because
I don’t like what I mean,
but also because
those sentences,
said,
will probably mar
your opinion of me
And,
if that’s the case,
and given that cost,
why should I want
to be simple
and clear?
More at https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/MichaelWalter.
When I write I think of Ray
How would he phrase this?
Raymond Carver died young at 50
He was the King of the common man
Relationships, love and heartbreak
His specialty
If you love the written word
You should spend some time with Ray
He is timeless
He is me and you
He is poetry in motion
Blood-red
purple splendor,
but at what cost:
hours,
night and day
to get
from here to there.
More at https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/MichaelWalter.
Shades of
Sweet apple reds
Painted on cheeks and lips
Impart a youthful glow instead
Shades of
Darkness shadow’d
Grey clouds above our heads
Wanting blue skies to look up to,
Shades of
Memories there
Where we unfold
Fly high above the flames,
Echoes of dieing embers are
Shades of
And this from ‘the land of the brave’
or so we are often told,
even the Bald Eagle swoops to be fed
or the stalking wolf who takes his chance on the fold,
but this monster, him at a glance, my friends
high on altitude and being smarter, takes none–
so do we buy it and are we sold
on this coward’s charter?
Come sit in his comfortable chair
and point his Joy–stick to murder
anyone who has life to lose,
known or unknown in the target area.
This is not the America I admired
in fact, this is not America at all
and that’s reality my friend.
More at roykaustin.weebly.com.
Here, where trees and foliage meet;
Where rippled waters glide,
A robin’s joyous tree top song
Has stilled my metered stride.
He serenades his melodies
In songs no man can phrase,
Ensnaring thus my dreary soul
To listen to his praise.
Could it be, his whistling tune
Reflects a sad unrest?
For one departed- from this earth–
Interred in heaven’s nest?
The answer fades, for I must go,
I’m feeling winter’s greet.
The sound of snow upon the ground
Mimics kitten’s feet.
Till spring has come, I’m sure I’ll miss
His ballads through the glen.
But when the white grass turns to green
I’m sure we’ll meet again.
Her guilty fingers
Alcohol that lingers
With a touch as soft as daisies
Her mental strength weak and hazy
A psychotic vixen
Ears that just don’t listen
Now as she sits here and stares in the mirror
The image of her disoriented mind is clearer
She glances down at the knife
Saturated with his blood, they are sure to give her life
But she has no regrets
She takes out her lighter and cigarettes
Inhale the gray clouds
And blow them right through her nose and think about her vows
Till death do us part
They were both dead but one had no heart
Like to watch you
In the morning
Getting out of bed
Stretching
Nude
Your graceful form
Years of dance classes
The slope of your breasts
Your beautiful neck
The arch of your back
Legs contoured and shaped
It is a thing of beauty
Your grace
And Spirit
Then clothes and coffee
Your special brew
We sip and talk
Then out the door
A quick peck on the lips
You heading North
While I go West
Smiling…
Heavy UpOn The Shoulders,
A Mountain Giant,
And From WithIn The Dominion Of Its Skull,
All Wet And Bundled Into A Carriage Of Blankets,
The Grit And Dew…
…
…
Up Above The Slope And Grade,
To The One-Eyed In Recluse And Wool,
Picking At The Meat Left In Fugal Wicker,
When At Leisure Not By The Heated Of Discussion,
Resting Its Head By A Grinding Brook…
…
When Alerted By Snouted Draft,
It Learns To Lean Back UpOn The Nearly Deaf,
A Minute For Depressions Left To ReMind,
For It To Organize InTo Romantics…
…
Chocolately Enticeing To The Immigrant,
Whose Lines Lead Out From Places Of Plantains To Tambourines,
Surrounding All States To Surrender,
Mothers Hurriedly Takeing Those Whites Off …
…
…
These Days Be As Enveloped As Be Stamped,
Cleaner Than The Ways Of Older Pushes,
Loyal To The Swerve…
…
A Riposte Over The Bulge,
Answering To The Trickle-Down,
InTo The Coded Cork…
…
…
For Twins… InTwine… In Trust To Be Not With Sleep’s Brother,
As Those Of Lacking Be Respected In Age…
…
Though It Be Only Performed In Etiquette,
Never True To The Cutlery… And Seldom Seen Parrying With The Cloth.
More at http://rwkt.blogspot.ca.