I Hate Poetry

I claw through words
growling to rip the meat,
add a soupçon to
a consommé, but
don’t make me
eat my soup in the woods

Like a bear
I hate poetry, because
it’s senseless to be dense
letting forest rangers throw
huh words in a campfire.

What would I want with dense description:
it makes my soup too thick, and
if I burn my tongue,
emotions will be hot
without corn indigestible.

Don’t make me
eat in the woods. My
kingdom for a kitchen table.

Can I just have my
Parmesan cheese, nutty and fine,
not looking for
patterns
in the wallpaper, equations for space travel,
’cause I can stare beyond the stars
some other time
after I’ve had
my soup with a spoon that need not be silver like the moon,
a simple spoon, only

large enough not to stew me,
not vaporize ineffables like vegetables

Which Morning Shall I Remember

6:18 and the production of me.
Maybe I don’t like me this new day.

I’ve got a claw on my
glass of whiskey and orange juice, and

I think like I might be alive, because
I remember I had so many dreams, and

I don’t mean the nightmares I have now,

no, I mean, I used to be human,
I used to sing, or I thought so.

If I fall asleep again,
I will have a nightmare.

I don’t think I ever want to sleep again.
I think I want to speak like a filibuster, because
I want to speak my heart as if

I mattered, a little

a little silly

sometimes I could dance
and sometimes I felt human

sometimes someone loved me
and I wanted to leap into the air
like I could fly and the angels
would catch me if I fell, but

there is nobody who ever
caught me when I fell

I just feel bruised, and
everything hurts more
and more

And it is not a recommended
disease

Cat Wine

She’s wondering
if there’s been
nearly enough verse in a year
to fill a potion glass with cat wine

If then, perhaps, half a tale more
will be enough this year
to lick happiness
catch the tickle feather
teach puppies to meow and fly,
pussies to howl at the moon,
or play with a ball invitation
where the poetess has
the Cinderella glass
half full enough
to dance with the
Prince without portfolio
who owns a pumpkin farm
where a couple of stars can
twinkle in rhythms like
a rhyme wine glistens

Come Cry With Me

If this be the day
of shelter, I am joy;
come.

If you are here
with me in spirit
do not be so subtle
’cause I will believe
and listen to whispers
in the wisps of dreams

Oh yes,
come tomorrow
in the light

I have waited forever.
Be with me and
I will love you so.

I have a kiss for you.
Come get it.

I will be kind to spirits.
All I ever wanted was
a picnic with you.

I promise no rain will fall
on us much more than
to hide tears, because
I want you to know
you are joy, and I
have a sandwich
to sandwich us
to be tasty

We will spread out
on the meadow, and
if there be rain
we will run inside
and laugh
as the giggles pour on the roof
and you show me heaven.

Fy Enaid (Welsh)

Os byddwch yn gwrando
ar guriad fy nghalon ac yn
cyffwrdd fy enaid mewn gair,
yna byddaf yn, fy nghariad,
dweud popeth wrthych.
———-
If you listen
on my heart beat and
touch my soul in Word,
then I will, my girlfriend,
tell you everything.

The computer voice was hard to understand. It sounded sharp, so it’s hard to know if this is very awkward and if anything rhymes. Some of the spellings seem unconnected to the sounds we might think they represent.

On Being Cheerful

Some creamy ice
though cold and white
has no cherry on top
but only stones below, although
its photo is nice, its
clouds majestic, this mountain

Down and cold just below its top
the mountain piques me, takes
me down without a flag, an
inglorious retreat from ledge of death
no prize for frost; I
fall on shattered icicles cutting
crystalline loneliness, an
avalanche without prayer; I

haven’t reached any peak, for
never in the valley without song
were cheerleaders
ever real in off-time chants
a game without purpose
within a pompon face
a Kabuki without soul in
made up role
rolling seasons of bland
blandished like

roly-poly trophies
for pudgy spirits
unrisen dough
rolled to be crusty
never wrapped around
fruitful filling,
never in the valley where all were
drab stand-offs off-putting
waiting to putt on dull greens
show off
send random climbers
to their deaths
for amusement, gossip, and
news about brave fools
up a mountain without a fog horn
or paddle from an ark

Alone and down
I walk away from
ledges of death
to icicles that
shatter like glass
cut many ways

Rose colored blooms of blood blossom
thorny questions, because

Positive spin
had made me nauseous
dizzy

peppered in pep-talk, I had
sneezed ideas as common as pollen,
few flowers to share

cold
I descend now

Alone
I won’t mind
a glass of wine, and
death without
another winter, but

my orchard remains. I
reach for one
last summer.
Barks.

Does someone come?
I am afraid

The Percussion of a Kiss (Draft 1) [from the translation discussion]

If you’d listen to the beat of my heart
you’d know the scent of you is in my dreams
where melodies are made thrilling

listen dear, a symphony plays
the music of popped cork and trill with wine

I am composed of love;
sing my composition.

Feel the beat, the rhythm —

sing the melody in the clouds of mind,
dart with me to the beat of our hearts
and then may you agree to

touch a soul with a note, for you
will know my lub-dub pump,
this sanguine song start
to a drum kiss sangria