I used to have dreams of glory and fame
Of money , and hunny, of story and name
But now after looking so long for that wealth
The only thing I wish to find is myself
Once
Tinker of Glass
Hardly been more than a year
Since last a tear was rolled
From out this cold and empty eye
Through which this life is told
Behold now here, before your stance
Within a glance is found
The empty sound that tinkers out
When a heart is broken down
Poetry Shouldn’t Rhyme
We have this idea in modern poetry
That it shouldn’t rhyme.
That if you’re rhyming
You’re doing it wrong
And quite frankly, you should really stop.
And I quite sincerely agree.
Poetry’s raw~
It’s not like a song
Where you’re humming along
And the rhyming’s the timing that carries it on
We don’t need that
Poetry isn’t some fairy-tale conjecture like music is
It’s real
It’s from the heart
Not some tiddlywink fancy-grammar
Meant to twiddle your dew-gumbits
It’s powerful flowing waves
Crushed from the ocean of humanity
Meant to hush our very souls
With the utter calamity of this endless
Cosmos spinning about us!
I mean how could a poet, in all seriousness
Hope to touch on the majesty of these whirlwinding
Roars of bliss and tragedy that paint
Great swathing splashes of triumph and atrophy
On the bone-marrow canvass of our brittle lives,
When they’re caught up in such juvenile flourishes?
You simply can’t summon or possibly capture
The misery, the fortitude, the cunning, the rapture
Of this divine random babble of beauty and sorrow
In duty of chasing a misty tomorrow
With only what graces the heavens may grant! ~
If you’re caught up in rhyming
I’m sorry, you can’t.
The Noble Pean
My name is Alfonso!
The native garbanzo
Confused, and considered obscene
For some people pick
To call me a chick
Since I pea everywhere that I bean
Autumn Dusk
The puddles are pink with the sky
The leaves have come down from their high
The moon peeks a sleepy-still eye
As the birds fly like spectres alone
Such craggle trees that grapple not
The lonesome breeze and heavy trot
Of apple knees to people who
Wander wayward, wary too
My shovel down, I hovel up
Betwixt the silent roving hub
That drips its eerie silent way
Forever at the end of day