Poetry Archive

Poetry

Most of my poetry is tongue in cheek. Though I have experimented
with both rhyme and verse I never really developed serious interest in the form.
The following are a few that I added to my Performance Readings.

That Beat

My brain is misfiring and time's out of whack.
I can't hear the sound, my worlds upside down.
I lost the beat and I just can't get it back.
Time keeps on provin',
the beat keeps me movin',
I just gotta feel it groovin'.
It reaches in my soul and fires up my boilers.
That ba doom doom doom doom doom doom doom...

That move your soul, gotta roll kinda beat.
That hip swaying, sax playing kinda beat.
That lose your shoes, midnight blues kinda beat.
That beat, that beat that moves your feet.

I use to wake up in the morning and I'd hear it counting down.
It slipped into my head, as I crawled out of bed.
A pulsin' kinda rhythm, more a feeling then a sound.
Down deep inside, a hip kinda jive, let me know I'm alive.
Flowin' through my body and switchin' on my circuits.
That ba doom doom doom doom doom doom doom...

That world shaking, back breaking kinda beat.
That clock stoppin', finger poppin' kinda beat.
That pulsin' glowin' mind blowin' kinda beat.
That beat, that beat, that funky little treat.

Caffeine and down strokes runnin' through my brain.
The world moved in time, in prose and in rhyme.
If I don't get that beat, life just won't be the same.
The deck will be stacked,
I won't know where I'm at,
my life will be flat.
Like a guitar without strings, a poet without words.
That ba doom doom doom doom doom doom doom...

That free your soul, takes it's toll kinda beat.
That lost in time, make it rhyme kinda beat.
That hard livin', life givin' kinda beat.
That beat, that beat, that makes that makes me complete.

The Meter's Running

Hurry up!
Quick!
The meters runnin'!
The flag is down and the clock is ticking.
Can you finish this piece?
The deadline’s due.
You got the open, it's short and to the point.
Hurry up!
Quick!
The meters runnin'!
Now where do you go?
What's the theme?
A standard poet’s brew of pity and self loathing?
Or is it an up-beat piece, all nature dipped and full of itself?
Hurry up!
Quick!
The meters runnin', and unlike your confused ramblings, it's consistent
and waits for no muse.
Don't hesitate, it just won't wait.
Don't do rhymes, you ain't got time.
Just let it flow, like stream of consciousness.
Hurry up!
Quick!
The meters runnin'!
Are you ready for the last stanza?
Make it bitter sweet with just a taste of irony.
Add some dark humor to lighten the tone.
With a dash of pathos, all poets need at least one pathetic piece.
Hurry up!
Quick!
The meter's runnin"!

Hidden Treasures

Sometimes I feel like leftovers.
Just stewing here on the back burner.
Wondering if I'll ever grace fine china.
A little dry around the edges, but still fresh and warm and definitely edible.
Slightly crusty but a delicacy underneath.
Just waiting for a gourmet who can appreciate my seasoning.

Sometimes I feel second hand.
Shining bright underneath a thin layer of tarnish.
A little used but still usable.
A found object waiting to be turned into art.
A dusty antique in a world of cheap imitations.
Just waiting for a collector who knows the value of true craftsmanship.

Sometimes I feel like mineral ore.
A rough exterior with a heart of gold.
A grain of sand waiting to be coated with pearl.
A piece of coal waiting to be squeezed to diamond brilliance,
Wondering if I'll ever get a proper setting.
Just waiting for a special someone, who knows the look of hidden
treasures.

Art is Commerce

The gallery owner, licks his lips, contemplating his unearned commission.
The producer smiles greedily as he counts the ticket sales of the night before.
The agent dons his shades in a pimp-like fashion, cataloging his stable of able bodies.
The arts administrator pads his grant budget to maintain his own lifestyle.

Meanwhile, art lies stillborn in the womb of the unshown artist.

I Gotta Get Loose Tonight

I gotta get loose tonight!
Gotta wail and flail and howl at the moon.
Gotta drink till I stink and run off at the mouth and do everything I wouldn't do in the sunlight.

I gotta get loose tonight!
Be rude and crude and nasty as hell.
I need to be dangerous, ya know?
I been too nice, too long.
It's the bastards that catch the eye and get the sigh.

I gotta get loose tonight!
Forget the names and the games and play it with no rules.
Be all flash and kick some ass and blame it on someone else.
Gonna lie and cheat to get what I want and when I get what I want I'm gonna get some more.

I gotta get loose tonight!
I'm gonna do everything they say they hate but they can't wait to see it done.
Play it fast and slick till they drop their eyes and get all hot and bothered, then be on my way.

I gotta get loose tonight!
Be rough and tough and abusive as hell.
You ain't got spice if your sweet and nice.
Goodbye Mr. Sensitive, it's been boring to know you.

I gotta get loose tonight!
They need you sinister and threatening, to feed their guilt.
They want you to sneer and leer and smack 'em around.
It's no fun being a victim if you don't have someone to victimize you.

I gotta get loose tonight!
Forget everything I was ever taught.
Gonna raise some hell and not get caught.
Gonna let the devii 'take control, ya know?
Cause hey! I just wanna be appreciated.

Battlefield

The darkness is thick and electric with passion.
Throbbing and pulsing in a titillating fashion.
Seeking shelter, comes a lone, lusty raider.
A warm, castle lures this inflamed invader.
Like a flower it opens, yawning enticement.
A musky bouquet it exudes, to increase his excitement
Rearing his head, rising to the occasion
He presses on with this intimate invasion.

A pause at the entrance, he ponders the danger.
Then, wild with abandon, he enters the manger.
Exploring the depths, seeking the center.
He must continue, now that he's entered.
The deeper he goes, the higher he rises.
Wantonly driven towards ecstasy's prizes.
Then, without warning, a fatal distraction.
Losing his substance, he faces extraction.

He tries to concentrate, to savor the rapture.
But he's losing control, and shrinking in stature.
The castle sighs at this unexpected retreat.
Then gravity causes his final defeat.
The castle, vacated, still vibrates with the thunder.
The invader, humiliated, abandons his plunder.

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A Wordsmith Archive - Poetry