Poetry for Just Because I Love You

Blurted Out Poetry Fills Empty Space

I have so many poems that I threw in the trash because freely flowing first notions and drafts always turn out to be trash especially the ones done quickly and spontaneously without editing. So should I just bleed when there is nothing worthwhile? I don’t know. This is the third one needing editing. Maybe if I can fix the three, I could write about editing. Yeah, like when pigs fly. I suppose I could buy them a ticket, or carry bacon in my carry-on luggage.

Just Because

Every day I miss you
just because you’re divine
and I know what they say
about hyperbole. but
I saw you do a miracle for me
do a miracle for a child
for a stranger, and
you saw a miracle power in me, and
I freely gave it to you to use for us
for everyone we touched
for everyone we nudged towards love
just because you let me love the world, and
you will never teach me
not to miss you forever, and
don’t make me
just because

I Am Afraid

So Death Is Here

Give me my last hug
though it be hollow and fake

I am afraid that
I have never been loved

and I have never
had a purpose.

Detective girl,
can you find me
anyone who ever loved me

They say forensics can do this.
There is a big database.
Find me someone I helped,
I loved once

I can’t die now
and go to the light

there is no one
waiting for me

I have yet to live

Find me someone
I could die for.

My Poetry Is Empty Because I’m Asleep

I Forget

So yes the end is near I know,
even if no Angel has even
deigned to cajole me to matter
like on a cable show, and
I don’t have a good and interesting
psychopathic profile to investigate

No blood stains of consequence.
No DNA to match.
Just a unique defect that
doesn’t match any other soul.

Such a big loneliness engulfs me, and
I’m already forgetting how many rejections
have made a suffocating envelope of
plastic pseudo-tolerance of me
as if I were human
as if I were not a

I am tired of talking to myself because
I’ve heard it before, and
I don’t know if
I’m invisible or
empty, because

I don’t yet hear
the whispers of truth
that I am nothing
to comment on, and

I think I’d rather
go to sleep, and
hope I don’t wake up again
with cravings to seek you
the only love I ever had, because

I love you.

And yeah, I know it’s silly;
and yeah I know you never existed, so
to nobody in particular:

The High Price of Gasoline Again: Poetry Edit.

A milder version of this called “Gas Station Owner” was written around July 10, 2008.

Today’s Edit (2022). I don’t know if this version is better or worse.

The Price a Gas Station Owner Pays

The price is set from on high;
the price is too high,
yeah, we know, we know.

The detectives took the swabs,
made the photos. We’re
allowed to wash the blood
off the gas pumps

The Newspaper gleefully
took pictures of the death graffiti,

graffiti to dishonor my wife.
Art critics called it “price gouger”:
daring neo-Marxist street art

Gasoline only earned us hate.
The kid hadn’t come in,
took the day off (too scared)

Cookies and crackers
made us
a little money —
customers think
we’re evil rich

The kid
didn’t show up for the night shift.

My wife took over:
thought her smile
would have to work
like a lightning sale
on an angel food cake,
potato chips, and special
candles for a birthday sale

The detectives took the swabs
made the crime scene photos,
took samples. I’m
allowed to wash her blood
off the gas pumps

Put up a sign:
closed for
the high price of murder

The Medical Examiner soon
will make her into objet d’art pieces
until then…tragic drama

I can’t  bury her
until the critics name her,
a mob condemns her, and

I can’t bury her
until they pry me off her corpse
and close more oil wells for the cause

Vlad Putnik [2/23] (Draft 0)

To Fill a Dumpling

No one would say that
Vlad Stalinovich Putnik
is as low as Vlad the Impaler
because Putnik has high tanks,
missiles and poison

In such times of tyrants and death
it’s best not to know a Mother
because her children will scream, and
you will gasp and choke and cry.

Bohdana is dead because
she rolled out a flour shell
for the freedom march, defending
Ukraine for her children

But the wise wandering Putnik knew
every serf in the his Empire should have
a marionet-kovyy ruler, his marionetochnoye

Zoryana and Bohdana are dead because
in protest they launched boiled
cherry-brandy dumplings; with a prayer

they launched them into a
holy gangster’s bakery afoot
where the Stalinesque squatters
were paid to stay put

and the Putnik gang avenged
the dumpling protest
with artillery shells

Olena, Zoryana, Nastya, and Bohdana
are dead in Ukraine

They rolled out a flour shell
that filled with blood, because
they were hungry for freedom

and Vlad worships his
saintly Mother Russia.

Where is Peng Shuai Really? (Draft 4) 彭帅到底在哪里真的?

Peng Shuai Takes the Ball In Her Court (Draft 4)
彭帅到底在哪里真的 ?

Is it not congenital animal vice that
the premier Lion party predator will
tend to grope a tennis antelope in
a frilly short dress, but spin still:

In the melon of the times
there are melon balls
and tennis balls, and

The Ladies of tennis blue
must not grant
the antelope cantaloupe
’cause still the spin brews

Deputy underling Mu Nu says
tennis does not exist anymore.

The Vice Premier says “Tenez!”
(embracing Old French like a kiss)
— take, receive, dear girl, yes
dress gracefully for the Vice
and lift your slip with song, oh

Lambda, mu, nu, do advance
the melancholy letter of the Law
and let slip away the melon collie dogs
who defeat the melancholy of the word

Lambda, Mu, Nu, Xi
she’s played

In war, havoc! The spoils, and
the word tennis is disappeared.

Yes, He and every Vice Premier
know the spirit of Tenez!
where the balls are in his
courtrooms and
words are leashed.

vice will be vice,
party will be party,

Mrs. Claus wanders off

Mrs. Claus Hates Sonnets (2)
[Modified the original from 2007. I think it’s less awkward now]

Santa Claus left her
a sonnet to read:

The romp of love beguiles, a playful horse
my heart a rider gripping spirit’s trip
a bit of banter falls from saddled lips.
A candor canters, musical in source
a clip-clop hoofing it, my fruit is tossed.
Her lust is cantaloupes so sweetly quipped
yet love’s a cherry deeply red of lip
outspoken rips in bound’ries’ gorgeous loss

I know you love me mole and mountain bluff.
I show my cards, won’t raise to bluff a love.
It’s real this deal of sharing zeal, a bliss
no gamble oneness riding thought enough
to join two souls, a coup by doves
who fly with coos to play the music’s kiss

But music’s blue bliss
was missing in his lists, and

Mrs. Claus hated his bluffing,
his gruff buffoonery, for
rarely did she see
in his cherry lips
or in his cheeks
a true love felt, but

she could play nice
with farce no more, for
fantasy wishes held in
boxes and bells
could not suffice, and
she wrote poems
in free verse alone

Santa answered
delightful letters
from giddy children, and

she received letters
of rejection from the
poetry editor,
a trochee donkey
iambic like an ass, thus

she hated when the big one
went away on Christmas,
when the snow looked like
semen dried up and flaky,
Nick’s departing stomach
like a pregnant indulgence
she’d want herself, hence

Finally, one Christmas
when no more
could she count
snow flakes on her tongue,
the elves, the reindeer,
the orphan toys, when
her emptiness drove her
to insanity, finally she
drove to the city of sin
in an empty sleigh with
her naked body wrapped only
in a fur coat, its pocket containing
her Santa cell phone, then

She left the sleigh,
tied the reindeer to a lamp pole,
strolled the streets showing a leg,
singing “Ho, ha, ha”; Heaven’s
white tears covered her head as
she peered into snow’s grasp
waiting for a finger of love, but
gasped to see a lost girl like a dove

So she hoo, ha, ha’ed the girl
’till the crying subsided,
asked her name
heard Lisa

“Where’s your Daddy?”
She didn’t know,
said he went for a quickie walk.

As Mrs. Claus looked to find him
in thickening snow, her head wore
a white crown of sorrow. Though

Lisa skipped and jumped
a treat of laughter like
a calf not straying too far,
waiting for an available teat

Mrs. Claus walked, showing a leg. A man
appeared from nowhere, laid
his hand on her thigh
like a roadway, followed the path

but stopped, noticing
her glistening tears. Peering
into her eyes, he saw
he knew her
once before

Just then, the
Santa cell phone rang.
The Elf Secret Service said,
there’s been a sleigh crash, and
Santa is dead.

The world was wrapped in gloom
as Mrs. Claus
brushed snow from her head

Joy fell from artificial boons
and wrappers filled the ocean

With a poof
unreal gifts
vanished in a twinkle,
elves all banished
to a realm of puff

Starlight appeared
on Lisa’s tears,
a word on innocent lips:
“Can we all be married, Daddy?”

With a ho, ho, ha
and a ho, ho, ho
they vowed to
do better with love
to listen to snow
gust up and swirl,
to see a gift like a crystal
had already been born

When Leaves Are Afloat (2)

This version has a different ending instead of a cliff hanger.

The chirping of sorrow in the shadows of broken wings
let’s too many birds of loneliness
fall prey to predators
who pounce on despair.

She is uncertain in the forest
if she should
sing or hide

Newly grown camouflage
seems to blossom and branch;
winds on tree tops tear off
a few deciduous victims
still green but detached
before the fall approaching

Against the breezes, she’s
taped plastic sheeting
taped cardboard onto her
broken window, not letting
green leaves of happiness
fall in through her window,
not letting the fog drift in
that looks out onto the ocean
where his boat struggles
to land on her beach, but
is adrift in the fog, and
his horn seems
to not carry beyond
where she left her
beach blanket long ago.

Melancholy is the cry of the shipwrecked,
not knowing where the treasure lies,
mast lowered. Exquisite is

the flutter of pretty lashes
when he sails onto land
beyond the seagull’s cry
tacking into her breezes.

Guided only by a random leaf,
he sees her broken window
and tears apart the plastic hearing:
“My Love, come in!” and thus
then in hidden nest’s renewal
they sing a healing song so true

Happy Song (2)

Actually not happy. An unfortunate tease is needed because the excerpt maker and displayer thing doesn’t format poetry lines and just jumbles it together. Skip this if you’re not in an excerpt box. I don’t really don’t want to copy the beginning with slashes. Do I? Loneliness is being good/One forlorn is/misunderstood///Loneliness is/missing you,/said that I’d wait for you/ And now you’re dead, and/it’s not said/pourquoi/xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Loneliness Song (2)

Loneliness is being good
One forlorn is

Loneliness is
missing you,
said that I’d wait for you
And now you’re dead, and
it’s not said

Did we not
quaff a brew
of brooding love
sweet sadness

My breeziness now…
is whispered song,
the duet is
left for dead and

you said you’d
be a chorus too, so

Life is draining
down a drain, and
all I know is

is you

And there is no chorus
can’t believe this day
at all, and

I cry so loud
my dog
just howls
at me

and he with love
a melody
that’s coming down

Happy Song (draft 1)

Loneliness Song (1)

Loneliness is being good
Loneliness is misunderstood
Loneliness is missing you,
Said that I’d wait for you
And now you’re dead, and
it’s not said

You’re the one who
and said you’d
be a chorus too

My goodness now…
is dead
Understanding is
left for dead.
and said you’d
be a chorus too

Life is draining
down a drain, and
all I know is
is you

And there is no chorus
can’t touch this day that
I cry so loud
my dog
just howls at me
and he doesn’t understand.