poetry

fried

I fell asleep with
the oven on again
a thousand sweet potatoes
dead and gone

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poetry

things that were said @ Poetry Friday

…tell him solitude
is creative if he
is strong….
– Carl Sandburg, from The People, Yes

//

“I’ll read the poem,
anyone got a problem with that?” – Stacy

“I was in a plane once,
the pilot said,
‘we’re gunna make it'” – Charles

“I’ll do anything for
beauty but I don’t recycle
when shit gets hard” – Liz

“there is no such thing as
common sense,
it’s a non-concept” – Charles (?)

“he ratted me out for
looking at porno on
the library computer” – Alan @ Phinoy

“this poem puts conditions on love…
on feelings” – Gary

“you know when you get to the shore
all is well, and that is where the
healing begins” – Mike

“I rode a horse before and
I didn’t feel powerful,
I felt insecure” – Mike

“would a true love even allow you
to do this?” – Gary

“no, it’s not about the black thing,
just the gay thing” – Stacy

“but he’s nutty as a fruit cake!” – Mike

“the dictionary defines unconditional
love as worship” – Charles

“the thing I love most about you
is that you love me” – Kelvin

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other peoples poetry, poetry

dorothy wordsworth

The daffodils can go fuck themselves.
I’m tired of their crowds, yellow rantings
about the spastic sun that shines and shines
and shines. How are they any different

from me? I, too, have a big messy head
on a fragile stalk. I spin with the wind.
I flower and don’t apologize. There’s nothing
funny about good weather. Oh, spring again,

the critics nod. They know the old joy,
that wakeful quotidian, the dark plot
of future growing things, each one
labeled Narcissus nobilis or Jennifer Chang.

If I died falling from a helicopter, then
this would be an important poem. Then
the ex-boyfriends would swim to shore
declaiming their knowledge of my bulbous

youth. O, Flower, one said, why aren’t you
meat? But I won’t be another bashful shank.
The tulips have their nervous joie-de-vivre,
the lilacs their taunt. Fractious petals, stop

interrupting my poem with boring beauty.
All the boys are in the field gnawing raw
bones of ambition and calling it ardor. Who
the hell are they? This is a poem about war.

– Jennifer Chang

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