Untitled (ee cummings style)

An attempt at an E.E. Cummings style poem

i wonder at you,
how you touch my
(heart) skin.
you.
one that i secretshare
this feeling with.
unk|now|n to all we are
(we).
i do love you.
i notspeak those dangerwords
to you ever.(y time i
kiss*touch* you
in my mind)'s igh.

The Quiet Chidren

There are some souls,
(winding in and out of the frightening ages)
Who never grow old.

Chipped from the walls of heaven;
Falling, polished, to Earth.
Fragmented people,
But so much more whole than most.

Angel hearts and devil weaknesses.
(their fears drive them beneath the covers
as the Bogeyman slinks down the hall).
Wide-eyed wonder and impish smile.

Innocent by default,
They are the ones God favors;
The quiet children of afternoon.

The Literary Bride

As the words drain from my pen
I feel a small part of my existence
Break off and drift away forever.
Is this the dowry of my soul?
Have I traded love, laughter, happiness
For these few expressive words?
Wrought so painfully from my self,
They are laid down on white linens;
Virgin thoughts on a honeymoon of apprehension.
They await the violating eye's approval;
Flushed and expectant, saved for so long;
Wooed and waiting for this moment of consummation.

City

The stagnation of the city overwhelms me
And I collapse into a thousand bubbling thoughts...
Of newness
Of movement
Of home.
I swim to the surface, master of my shadows.

It is quiet now, and I am alone.
And I think: "how did I get here?
Here in this square-box shoestring-holder?"
Memory ghosts twist in strange directions.
Dreams; cobweb sawdust to line my bed.

The cobweb sawdust dreams sting my eyes,
Reminding me...
And I swim again to the surface,
To master my shadows.

Sorrow's Son's

Through the ancient winds of time,
Shadows do both scorn and sing.
In all their pleasantries and crime,
They fly and fret on serpent wings.

Dark warriors proud, of battles lost,
Maidens fair and full of flight.
Kings in mistress’ chambers toss,
Queens with lovers in the night.

From their hearts do murders cry,
Upon the air they fling their souls.
Into darkness where demons lie,
Tossed amid both friend and foe.

Tarry not upon thy tomb,
But hurl your spirit to the sky.
Ahead lies only dreadful doom,
And there an angel is heard to cry:

“Pity these most wretched ones
Who sin in life and die too young.
They are sorrow’s orphan sons
Who sleep before their song is sung.”

And so the mighty angel falls,
Grasping toward the heavens’ heights.
He sinks into the darkened halls
Within the castles of the night.

Listen you who live this day,
Cry out your joys and sorrows all.
‘Lest all your vanities betray,
And lead you to a demon’s call.

For do you know when, my friend,
Stealthy Death will come your way?
No, you do not know your end,
Nor how long your ghost must stay.

Galaxies

It is a miracle to me
how those points of light;
pinholes in dark paper,
carry light to my eyes
from so long ago.

Worlds and wonders unknown
have flashed so brief
in their lives afar.

My life,
no spectacle
compared to galaxies being born.

Maggie

Maggie-Cat hobbles,
One leg broken long ago.
But that was before.
Before she poked into our lives,
A small gray whisp,
Tiny, with big eyes.
A thin thing.
When she came in from the cold,
From the dogs and the snow.
In from the trash bins,
The Life-Fights,
The Street-Death.
Into our home,
To rest, sleep, eat well.
She came in without asking,
The door being open,
And refused to leave.
Who can blame her?

Dinosaur Luve a humorous adaptation of Robert Burns' "A Red, Red, Rose"

O My Luve's like a big dinosaur
That's newly hatched on the Terra:
O my luve's like a Tyrannosaurus Rex
From the lat Mesozoic Era!

As fair art thou, my Trilobite,
So mad in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my fossil,
Till the Cretaceous seas gang dry:

Till the jungles of Siberia freeze,
And snow is near and far;
I will luve the still, my dear,
While my bones sink in the tar.

And fare thee weel, my Trilobite,
And fare thee weel many a day!
And I will rise again, my luve,
To proudly hang in a display.

Bar Poetry by the Lite of the Beer

In muddle-headed wonder stare I
At the wall of the booth in the bar that I sit.
Addle-brained thoughts of how I can talk the waitress
(whom I cannot tip)
Into selling me cigarettes for a quarter less.
Or should I get another beer?
(no lager, stout, or ale tonight)
$1.50 domestic bottles
To quench the thirst of yet another
Literary rejection notice.

Murder of Crows

Above my head a murder of crows;
Blackest eyes, wings unfurled,
Dip and wheel and fret the
With raucous cries, their talons curled.

My mind is chill my form is still,
On omens thoughts now tarry;
Of all the souls of the dead
These dark-clad avians carry.

What end shall ghostly travelers meet?
Bonny fair wood or heated press?
Only the crows are privy thus,
And we mere men shall never guess.

Bound - erotic poem

My wrists bound in daisy chains,
I fall in fields of golden grain.
Tender, yes, and frightened too;
Longing to be set free by you.

Baptize me in quickened breath
Through lips golden-honey drenched.
Draped in velvet crimson sheen,
Your kisses burn my chastened dreams.

Release me from my tender chains,
Bathe my skin in passion's rain.
Slay my thoughts with your desire
And set my soul and flesh afire.