Les Misérables Poètes Of Free Verse Declare Poetic Independence From the Tyrants of Academia

The Tyrants of Academia Support An Ancient Canon of Inaccessible Poetry Only

    by Benign Critic

    Rules. No poet will be widely read, or be famous unless the official Academy says so. Even the reincarnation of Shakespeare would not be able to publish successfully. I know because some monks found him as a child in Tibet, and he has not done well even after coining hundreds of new English words and performing satirical plays across the globe.
    Alas, the poem as an object of academic analysis, is like a canonical form of a mathematical object: it is well-defined, has its prescribed, numbered elixirs sweetened with ordered rhymes, but still has no charm like ice-cream verse dropped on pizza or in coffee, or dropped on a hot tongue. It is dainty cake after a full meal, a billion calories without meaning.
    Once, poor Miss Marie Muffet Antoinette, PhD., with an overwrought sonnet in her heavy bonnet, tilted her head too quickly and broke her neck. But such deaths of poetry objects are few and punishments for poetic obscurity are the rare exceptions.
    The free-verse revolution began against the Royalty, but failed to topple all the leaders except for Marie who was replaced. The genre is starved. The Establishment still stands on top of the cake, but the people are tired of insular brioche, bread and water in a unpublished cell.

A Declaration By The Representatives of the Disunited-Fickle Poets in General Campus Dissembling,* July 4, 2776

[*See and compare to “The Declaration of Independence, 1776”]

    When, in the course of poetic events, it becomes necessary for the miserable poets to dissolve the political bands which have connected them to the University, and to assume, among the powers of the planet, the separate and equal status to which the laws of Muses and of nature’s God entitle them, then an indecent, begrudging respect to the opinions of academics requires that they should declare Free Verse as a divine right of the people.
    We hold these truths to be self-evident that all free poets and poetesses are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain free-verse rights; that among these, are life, liberty, and the pursuit of inalienable publishing.
    We do not take lightly the disestablishment of places of higher learning and obfuscation. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Universities long established, shall only be vitiated for cause. But, when a long train of abuses and usurpations occurs in narrow-minded credentialing, pursuing invariably censorship for the same object, then when it does evince a diabolical design to reduce the people under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty to throw off such Academies to provide enfranchisement for the miserable poets and the publishing of their works in such Town Square as shall be seen in all venues.
    Therefore, in dawn’s early light, let a canon of accessible poetry be loaded into its cannon and be fired to breach the ramparts and ivory towers.

The Revolution Requires Les Misérables Poètes To Reveal Elements of the True Canon

Les Misérables Poètes therefore, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do solemnly publish and declare, that these misérables are and of right ought to be in free-verse states of grace, firing from their true and magnificent cannon canon, having full power to levy metaphorical war, conclude peace, contract alliances, establish commerce, and do all other play things which children of the Great Forums of the Universe have a divine right to indulge.

So say we with the firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence
    by
    Cheryl Kurtz
    Bryan Glennon
    Danylko Maksymenko
    John Kragzluk
    Douglas Gilbert

Samples From The True Canon of Les Misérables Poètes

Preggo Girls Band

    by Cheryl Kurtz

We compose music
pro utero publico, ’cause
little guy kicks in vivo tunes

The adoption clique came
they saw, they loved us enough
to make the preggo club house, and

we’ve got a band and have
the stomach for it, ’cause

the little guy likes it

Hard getting up on stage, but
I can sit down at the keyboards while
the others might hang the guitars low
or maybe switch to flute.

sad though that Luna
had a miscarriage when
demonstrators attacked our home,
women screaming “abortion.”

We’re getting security for the next gig
so our band can play on, ’cause
the little guy likes music, and
it’s been a while since Mom
sang a lullaby to me before
the righteous folks threw me
out of the house

The testosterones have
taken their faux love talk
and walked no-way sorry
in a fling-run spring ball
all gall and no crown
little boys all grown down,
no bacon to bring home
as gallant as pigs when
the jig dance rabbit dies

We’ve got a new concert tour,
and the adoptive parents
will applaud and wait in the wings,
little guy soon to fly and be King.

Leaving in the Dawn

    by Bryan Glennon

I had always left early in the dawn
while you were sleeping, and
the sunrise was uncertain, but

we used to be us
when I rushed home to you
and your cute blush became
a call to jump each other
not just for lust, but
because we were
knowing the bounce
to pounce on a
tête à tête, and a
corps à corps, but
we were both surrendering to laughter
and to ecstasy in a close game
where the balls are in the courtship
and the Lady swings well

We used to be playful
and the fun was a done deal

We had our own dance,
our own grace

We were a story to tell,
a revelation, and

I told you everything just because
you were the most elegant storyteller ever
and I didn’t mind being a character for you

Yet, today, I can not rise up, and
I’ve lost my part, my way, my lines, my love
my playfulness, my being

I am empty.
I am dark.
Tell me a story.

How do I speak to you
now that you’re dead?

Past Best Free Verse Poems From Poets About to Die on Aug 2, 2022 at 11:23 from a Meteor Strike

Who Is the Best Contemporary Poet?

    The establishment can make you nauseous with its ingrained choices, and when it comes to Free Verse one might be forgiven if they are sick of hearing Walt Whitman, father of free verse. Not all fathers are good. Heaven help us from the children.

    In the 21st Century there are few who are readable without a special advanced translator guru. For the bulk of poems you need to spend thousands of dollars for a college course that will teach you how to analyze a poem under duress and torture. After completing a course of study, you will have learned the art of desensitizing yourself to the agony and pain of reading a poem.

    In today’s world it is still true that Poets are judged by how much pain and confusion they can evoke in a reader, or how well they make the most trivial banality risible.

And to the drum roll

If one searches hard enough through the galaxies one can sometimes circle back to Earth and find something tolerable for the layman. We present for the first decade of the Twenty-First Century 10 poems from Douglas Gilbert:

These were circa 2005

Watching Kindness

I saw you kneel
to heal a boy
who dropped a toy
smithereens a laugh
when your blessing
was an invention
of love new to him
who instantly lost
attachments to pretensions
pretending to be brave, but
became heroic
to embrace you as angel

I see
as did he
and this is
why I love you,
will share you
with the world

Grand ecstasy
when you come home
to me alone

I give you my awards
my affection tonight, but
I will gladly

have you leave
in the morning, for
I am proud to be
a friend to the angel who will
wash the world with my happy tears
and I fear not because

you will return to
the humble blessings
of me
—————————————————

We Are Glowing

From the journey of a dream
I awoke happy, enveloped in you
under covers

Enraptured in the blankets
of home
with you
of you

Our embrace is
the brightness
of us
with us

We are
the morning together
together in love

An awakening
is here to be
for real
at home

peaceful passion
satisfaction day

not dreaming
but being

in the lightness
of us
with us

we are warm
being the morning sun,
like banners waving
playfully above
the river of Love

extremely rippling,
our streaming
child to the river

Ripples of the day
we stream
like banners waving
playfully above
a gentle brook
child to the stream

The child’s babble
joyful enough
to be a gurgle
in a float-along morning

We splash along
embraced
by immersion
and the kiss of the day
fantastic
better than a dream
———————————————————

You In Me

I woke up to my
longing for you; coffee
bit my dream
I stirred your cream

If I dress to seek you
will I know where
passion gallivants

You haunt me with
your many haunts. I
feel a phantom kiss
and miss the bliss from
flesh and ardor, belief bones
troubles massaged in a love whisper,
soothing music
melodic compassion

I am out to find you
driven like the mating birds;
walking, I hear the coos
but let them fly unknowing
for I have a gift for us:
wait ’til you
see me smile
everywhere I know you

Still Rapid

For me I flushed, a
cheeky glow on me, when
I heard her
laughing in my heart
her oxygen in my
hemoglobin sanguine

Tincture of joy upon my skin
I touched her touch like lunch
of peppers and cherry ducks
in a row of charms
easy to cast as
fruit falling ripe
after blossoms bloom

Vitamin delight I made
floating on her river
tanning, burning in her light

We kissed our meal
to drink the day
a splash of love
in rapids

Throbbing In Crevices

Though there’s little food in Sugar Ditch
the rabbit hoped to hop from me
a foolish-stewing-hopeless creature,
who’d let luck go where
fecal creeks don’t drown
perfumed hope

Broken down in Sugar Ditch
waiting for a scholarship
I was wheeling like
lightning struck me down

The documentary camera came
just before a thunder wash,
saw the open sewer
that’s home to family shame

I pulled out my crying rag
time moaning sack of clothes
and the man heard me sing
while driving lightning roads

Honking horns daring me
to dream away from poverty,
I bent my trumpets to heaven’s ears

But no one told me
evil flies to me
every place I go, and
King Sorrow would reign
over sovereign hopes

I reached the skyscrapers
a tourist of bad timing
had to be the highest
place to see heaven
aside from you

After lightning struck this New York
I was lying under debris,
my quilted sorrow bristling
with cast off bricks

Mortar thoughts around me
being so damn mortal, I
could be thundered away
to the heavenly scene

But a steam pipe was hissing
while lifted stones flew away
like missiles whistling
choruses of dusty blues

Jaws of life jacking time
they slid my body out in time
let the building collapse on through

Thought I heard,
old Joplin singin’
more on Earth
will be slapping you
if you
dodge more bullets
from another fool

And when I sang right out
across the clapping crowds,
my best laid blues
went right to you,
New York girl
in a rabbit hat

Oh magical girl,
my new love,
you kissed the breeze
made illusions
fondle my wishes

Now I dream of you deeply:
my salvation laughing everywhere

To whinny, my dream horse gallops, your
giggling jiggling in my cortex,
cerebral fondness hunting for you
in pulsing fibers
embedded in desire
throbbing in crevices
of nerve-cell books,
passions hiding in no man’s nook.

You journey through my mind,
scampering mind dancer,
doing wild animal tangos. I embrace

your beauty in the hunt
to capture your essence;
my dogs sense your scent,
a presence so foxy,
they transcend all knowing
rockin’ and rollin’ in serotonin.

I have traveled into you–
touch me there
where thoughts are real
and lightning tingles fine:
hats off to
everlasting good times

When I awake to you
I am in heaven
——————————————————

Sax Piano Bird

If you will play
I will kiss your tune lips
’cause anything goes when
slinking down your keyboard
tickling doleful note doodles
plinking your chords
caressing pianissimo
bopping forte, top a’ ya board,
chording love accolades
staying for improvisations
when cool mistys get hot. I shall be cool

when you transpose the glory
keys to high toned harmony
that sees me exposed
with whistling kisses blown
all sax-ified, but that’ll
be after a race. Y’ know

it was a mystery that
birds of a feather could
get the winner’s name
from the horse’s
mouthwash, but
I heard them say

she plays with her pet cockatoo
at the piano bar
down by the racetrack
at the end of the race, and
I saw you

The bird said, “Leave a tip”
I said, “Baby Needs Shoes to win,
place, or show me a new tune”

She nagged the feathers off it
to snatch bills
out of patrons’ hands

After she played with her cockatoo
I tipped it into a snifter
hoping she’d play with me
’cause I bet on the nag, then
I said
to the showers

I said
To install the clean
in a froth of warmth
above a soapy love,
join me in the shower stall
by the steamy wall
where flights of fancy
are never scrubbed. If you will,

then I, with fragrant soap,
will wash in tribute
the toe that tested my waters,
cleansing the foot feats that two-stepped
when I was a mere calf
and you were knee high
to a love
like a soap opera. Sing

in the shower from your diaphragm
where no melting soap is barred
while I swoosh below your breasts
with swirling helicopter hands
taking off with haste
as whirlybirds land
on nipple pads. When you say

taxi to the terminal
the refueling hose can dock
and the passengers can be served
hot blessings, but remember
the fifth race is soon,
time to place bets
by the river
on the sailboats, although
we could check out
the entries
swimming in the
racing waters

where in trepidation
you can put a toe
in the water of my soul
as I kiss it as
I would a child’s boo-boo

offering you
a future, a splash
of my essence; I
breathe your perfume
a cherry-flavored love

You undress in my river
and I kiss your thigh
in baptism before lips

Like a mallard
I swim aside,
a breast in hand
and hand in bush

All goes swimmingly,
as I reminisce
first kisses
raising my mast,
sailing our ship, and
now anything goes
even past
the sunset,
in moonlit tunes
splashed across the stars
————————————————————

Backward Train

I’m fond of her biases because
she notices differences
like the eye on the back of my head

She’s the only one who
ever came onboard my train
not thinking it impolite
if I stood with my back to her
while I shoveled coal, and
still watched her front.

She did insist once
to stand in front of the furnace, but
we did take a vote to see if
we’d face to embrace–
it was four eyes to one
the ayes had it — although,
I did turn my gun backward once
shooting a bandit thus
keeping the cuddle just
so moving along
the track and train, but

next time I think
I’ll let her take the gun
in her third hand
——————————————————————

Diane Lobbies

She could not cook
what I brought to the nest,
couldn’t cook
lively recipes,
offerings too gamy

I thought I was
a bald eagle, but
Diane said to me:

“I lobby for
your oneness with me
with filibusters in thought
to block a vote against

Tempting shame once
I wore my red shoes
and unused womb,
bled red desires, those
messy wants nested with
last straws of perseverance
trinket twigs of yours

Come, Eagle, fly back
with wiggling gifts
to give us our child
our daily bed
sprung below
our spring to life, although

You emulate the hawk
watching for moves
but seeing no detail
gallivanting with all the wrong ladies
scattering lust to those
who would pluck your feathers

I have made you soup
when you were sick partying,
ladled out love gently
warm and spicy

Come back when
your peacock feathers are stripped
your hawkish manners grounded, and
land here in my nest forever”

Diane asks if
I am an albatross,
as if I would know
where to find
gooney blue skies

I offer to tickle her with a feather
and she is pleased that
we are not birds
just strollers into paradise
————————————————————–

Legend Baby

With lost soft hugs
lost pressing kisses
bear hugs,
Melissa is lost
has left me to be
haunted by ghosts
of guilt, of soul
I deny:
J’accuse my dear
you fooled me
against my nature

Oh Melissa, you
cried upon a star,
told me and the night sky
I was the father though
you had many lovers

Because the baby girl made
a lollipop microphone
I knew she’d be a star
a legend in her twinkle,
no end to promise

You were a mother
who watched bear legend TV, liked bears,
believed every myth seen
as cuteness lied and misled. Earnestly I

warned against them.
Listening to me in jest
smiling at me instead
you said
the wild child laughs. I kissed
the one who chuckles,
your baby luck
the one you suckled, but
you are at an end to sanity
your daughter lost
to your foolish love of all.

I changed baby’s diaper once,
watched her take a first step,
a father sharing labors.

But I was fine, I thought
’twasn’t mine in the end, and
though your daughter cried
I would not bare faced cry
for didn’t I say with logic base:
do not feed the bears,
not flour
not flowers
not porridge.
Hungry bears eat babies.

Listening to me in jest
smiling at me instead
the baby was left alone. That’s why

you could not stop screaming
clawing the tree
scratching your own face, why you
threw the empty baby carriage into the river,
childless

Fathers don’t let bears eat their children,
not the one read
“Goldilocks and the Bears” to sleep, but

if this is my dead baby
I will cry tomorrow.
If I were to believe
this baby were mine
I’d be as crazy as you, Melissa.

They were beautiful
and the woods are ugly.
Melissa’s baby, her Myth, and
my feelings are dead
to drift in my fog hiding
howling vain creatures
biting and sucking to leach
the guilt I deny, but
creature forgive me;
give me back my blood
my guilt, before death
makes me ghostly
too pale to love Melissa again.
——————————————————————

Reading Alabama

Jeannie dreamt of cherry blossom times
when falling cherished petals
rode on her shoulders like
dandruff thoughts
of springs past
jumping with him on bikes
pedaling home
to the sitting room
to shared cherries and
dreams of travel assumed
with sitars on their knees
playing hozannas from the West
like gospel cries
by the Alabama mist they’d seen
kissing faux banjos

1. Kindness

2. We Are Glowing

3. You In Me

(It says link color is not dark enough even though it’s the default link color, but it won’t let you change the link color unless you use the CLASSIC EDITOR but that’s hard to use with the color chart. Maybe need to start it in classic and then change color in the given code?)

(4)Still Rapid

(5)Throbbing In Crevices

(6)Sax Piano Bird

(7)Backward Train

(8)Diane Lobbies

(9)Legend Baby

(10)Reading Alabama

How To Write A Free Verse Poem, Part 1 (Draft 1)

How to Spawn Poetry Like Deviled Eggs With Caviar

    Writing poetry is impossible if you want to be stylish with ambiguity or vagueness. True poetry does not flow out from pen or sword or computer. It is a thing that escapes on the backs of creatures who run wild or sleep on a couch, but is it encapsulated like a virus.
    No, there is a poetic skin on its matrix of thought that is entangled in emotion, and sometimes the creature is injured and bleeds. It growls and purrs but often bleats from the woolly heart of chaos, bleats on the cold beachhead at dawn, setting patterns in the crystalline sands of time. Mello, it retreats to the meadow, becomes a lamb. Is there a shepherd or a wolf about, or is it a wolf?
    Behold the blurted poem — record it. But if you must write in blood, write in ketchup, because it tastes better and bleeding out tends to stop a poem. Remember, in greasing the way, French fries are deep fried, shallots are shallow. We mostly have onions.
    Yes, poetry is impossible. Poetry exudes from the pores like sweat and oil. It stains the fabric of exhibition. So then some items to consider:

1. Don’t read too much recommended poetry. Poetic poisoning can seize you eruditely, taking you, clouded in pristine smoke, to a land of oxymoronic sweet stench, an un-pop literature den of denizens pontificating with lit cigar wands waving towards an unholy upper atmosphere, a heavenly hell with cirrus puffs, those feathery clouds with dandruff flakes.

2. Write from the middle. When you start to write a poem, you’re in the middle of something. You’re going to have to write an introduction so somebody will know why rambling through a forest of ideas doesn’t make birds fall out of the trees from boredom or from being frightened by a crazy person invading their territory. So, when you start a poem from a notion, it’s likely that it’s going to wind up being a pitch in the middle of a game — you’re going to need a new beginning and a new end. By the way, as I started to imply, nature poems usually don’t work out. When I’m tempted to try that stale genre I get my ideas from the horse’s mouth or in this case, from a little bird. [Idiom alert: “from the horse’s mouth,” and “a little bird told me”].

Avian Translation

I’ve always wanted to speak
to the smaller birds, so
I’ve done a lot of weird whistling

Sometimes a little birdie cocks her head
and tries to see if I’m a threat or a bird benevolent,
but I’m neither a mate nor predator, just
a conversationalist

So I whistle something which means
“give tomatoes to Owls, like Caesar.”

And she says, “Huh, what? And
for a Human you don’t look so bad
even though you have no feathers.
Why is it that you can’t fly?
It’s so easy.”

And I said, “Why is it that
you can’t speak and write novels.”

“Well, then,” it said, “have you written one lately?”

And I said, “Um, no…”

And it said in a way that I think it meant kindly that
I was a birdbrain.

3.     So you have a great idea or theme and you’ve written a line. Now you think the next (or alternate line) must rhyme. Sometimes none of the rhyming words make sense with your theme, and all the synonyms you might try to substitute for the first line don’t really express what you want to say. Despair?
    Oh, to rhyme is divine, sometimes, if you can keep your original thought, or re-do the whole poem to match the new theme that’s been implied by your quirky synonym choice. I mean, you have a poem about a “pest” and it could be about a guest or an insect or both, but you definitely didn’t intend it to take place in Budapest, or on top of Mount Everest, and a cockroach doesn’t have a “breast.” So you have to decide whether to stay true to your original idea or go with Kafka, or go with God, or go to an inquest for a dead metaphor, or don’t rhyme.

4. Yes, you do have to edit. Put it aside and try to forget about it. Come back using your best method acting skills and pretend you’re another person. This other person should be able to read and understand the poem. If the meaning is obscure, you have a problem. Perhaps you can add an explanatory phrase, or add a dramatic interlude. If you fade back into yourself, you might find yourself saying, “What was I thinking?” Maybe you can answer yourself or look for your scrap notes.

5. Make scrap notes.

6. Develop the proper attitude. I sometimes do OK, but

    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
7. You may find it odd that you’re struggling to write a poem when everyone else is doing it easily. After all, a herd of sheep can arrange themselves in the form of a poem, and any boy can guard them from the wolves of criticism. You have probably been taught the Aesop fable, “The Boy Who Cried Wolf.” Actually, something over the years has been lost in translation. It originally was called, “The Boy Who Cried Run-on Sentence.” Well, not every very long sentence, embellished with care, is improper, and such a complex sentence, running naked through the streets like Archimedes, can be used to trigger thoughts for a poem. A main clause just needs a subject and a verb. Dependent clauses run wild. Put them together. It’s not always true that sentences are runaways. These sentences, gracefully elaborated, embellished with the sounds of glorious triumph, with cacophonous instruments of drunken loquacious musicians strung out on their heart strings, like birds and cats who are mine, playing around with joyful noise, making every trill a wave to glory, oceanic, are not runaways, being ensconced in dreams, and pray tell, if I may continue, the words of the angels are infinite and concise like love that sings forever charming and as elaborate as is a sentence to joy, many times re-phrased, re-claused like a Santa Clause whose mythology endures way beyond his run away sleigh, bells of grace reverberating with every sentence pronounced by judges and supplicants gracefully joined in symphony, in sympathy, in empathy, and joined on every path to any pathy even daffy, because the complex can be simply wonderful like you all who indulge the marathon run into oblivion with a billion words and who pause to hear my running word.

Sentences

Sentences, gracefully elaborated, embellished
with the sounds of glorious triumph, with
cacophonous instruments of
drunken loquacious musicians
strung out on their heart strings,

like birds and cats who are mine,
playing around with joyful noise,
gracefully making every trill
a wave to glory, oceanic, are not runaways,
being ensconced in dreams, and
pray tell, if I may continue,

the words of the angels are infinite and
concise like love that sings forever charming
as elaborate as is a sentence to joy,
many times re-phrased, re-claused like a
Santa Clause whose mythology endures
way beyond his run away sleigh,
bells of grace reverberating with every sentence
pronounced by judges and supplicants
gracefully joined in symphony, in sympathy, in empathy,
joined on every path to any pathy even daffy, because
the complex can be simply wonderful like
you all who indulge the marathon run
into oblivion with a billion words and
who pause to hear my running word.

May I write a poem that is like a story or fable?

8.    NO!

    It’s like the children’s game, “Mother, May I,” and you need to get permission from Big Brother or Sister, a Union Leader, the Main Stream Media or Academia, or permission from a proper Party Leader or Intelligence Service like in George Orwell’s “1984” in order to express an unapproved opinion, and even with permission, you’ll probably be erased.

    However, just because everyone is playing a children’s game, that doesn’t mean you have to. Besides, in colloquial English, most people don’t distinguish between “may” and “can.” Anyway, if you are physically able, go ahead and write a “narrative poem.” However, you don’t have to model it after the “Iliad and the Odyssey,” unless you’re writing in Greek. It’s not traditional but you can do it in free verse until it’s squashed or shadow banned.

    Consequently, a fable milieu can be attempted while trying to be a witness to truth.  Sarcasm and satire are handy tools to use while you’re searching for an alternate witness protection program where you can get a new identity. You would need plausible deniability to write something like this:

The Depravity of a Union Teacher

Depravity
would be seen
as unforeseen
consequences:
a union of travesty
gravity
and dirt

The botanist had had a child in school.
Had sad time off; there’d be time too
for the funeral soon. There would be

blood in the kitchen, a kind of
spilled wine in the garden for
teachers of the vineyard who demanded
more whine privilege than little
giggling girls like her Randi
used to be, but the Union

had demanded masked smiles until doom,
more rules for tiny children in a classroom.

The botanist had
more time off from work for the funeral.

Walking in a hellish haze
the botanist felt nauseous
along the way from the smell
of her daughter’s favorite flowers

far afield she wandered
drifting in a fog, in a
random eternal pattern
to reach the ceremony
of the grave; had a thought
(Randi’s vision
made her cry)

She was startled by a reporter. Blurted:
“yes, I am certain that
the teacher is an idiot.

“You want to know? You know…
My little Randi darling flower spirit
was precocious ‘once upon a time’
before a teacher tore her petals off”

This Mom was a little nauseous
smelling her daughter’s favorite flowers
as she walked in a daze remembering

far afield she wandered in a trance
yet jolted by the voice persisting;
replied:

“Yes, I’m sure
it was suicide.
You want to know? You know…
my child vomited in her mask,
and the teacher wouldn’t… (you know)
she came home; said school was fine —
the usual kid denial, and the
counselor said don’t worry

“Yes, you know the story —
report it.”

Far afield she wandered in a trance
yet jolted by the voice persisting; replied
“the nurse said it was nothing”

she smelled the flowers

The reporter fell backwards
when she vomited on him, and
she enabled his fall over
the unmasked cliff
with prejudice.

Startled, she turned around to
walk home, so as to smell
the corpse flower, and to
join her daughter with a plunge of
a kitchen knife into her own heart.

Actually, as poetry, if you examine it, you’ll find some partial internal rhymes such as here:

Walking in a hellish haze
the botanist felt nauseous
along the way from the smell
of her daughter’s favorite flowers

and the “el” sound in “felt” and “smell.” Also, if you read it out loud, you’ll hear some rhythm patterns.

A Random Love

A Random Love

I don’t know anything about coping,
I’m just hoping you’re hopping to
cop a plea for me in a vague space
just because I have randomly
found you wanting,
maybe wanting me
with my random wisdom
that says I could love you
with a silly quip
that would make you smile, and
I so much want to laugh, as if
I could be your comedian of sorrow
who would grasp the
preposterousness of the rhinoceros
whose horniness for love we share.

This

So you will not bring me my praise
my light, my love, my will to live,
and I am sullen.

I can not rise to find
my refuge, my fortress
because I hear not
my encouragement
my praise

I fear I am nothing,
I am invisible

My courage disappears
because I am nothing

And it is an agony that
I talk to myself

I’ve heard this before.

Adventures

Fleshing Out the Text

They were walking text-makers
and emoji hunters, but

the last neat text said
meet on Main Street.

Looking down
on opposite sides
they were crossing when
he got hit by a truck.

He was dying as
his circuit boards
splayed out of his body

She said aloud,
“You’re a robot?”

He said,
“Yes, aren’t you?”

She took out a pocket knife
cut open a vein, and
bled to death.
———-
The Adventures of You

I told you not to go to the South Pole
because I don’t want you to freeze

But your freedom is dear to me
and you are so happy with adventure.

I want you to be
gleeful with a dog sled,
race with the wind.

I think the angels
will warm you, and
professor lover dear
I love your research
of life, of snow, and
of me.

I will tell your peers, that
they must publish your papers
in a Journal, just because

I say you are worthy
of truth, and
the data is glorious:

let them look, and
if they give you a prize

I will be ecstatic for you,
but as I gift you with me
I hope you’ll duck into
the cloak room at
the Noble Prize ceremony
and kiss me, because
I love your work
———-
Throbbing In Crevices

Though there’s little food in Sugar Ditch
the rabbit hoped to hop from me
a foolish-stewing-hopeless creature,
who’d let luck go where
fecal creeks don’t drown
perfumed hope

Broken down in Sugar Ditch
waiting for a scholarship
I was wheeling like
lightning struck me down

The documentary camera came
just before a thunder wash,
saw the open sewer
that’s home to family shame

I pulled out my crying rag
time moaning sack of clothes
and the man heard me sing
while driving lightning roads

Honking horns daring me
to dream away from poverty,
I bent my trumpets to heaven’s ears

But no one told me
evil flies to me
every place I go, and
King Sorrow would reign
over sovereign hopes

I reached the skyscrapers
a tourist of bad timing
had to be the highest
place to see heaven
aside from you

After lightning struck this New York
I was lying under debris,
my quilted sorrow bristling
with cast off bricks

Mortar thoughts around me
being so damn mortal, I
could be thundered away
to the heavenly scene

But a steam pipe was hissing
while lifted stones flew away
like missiles whistling
choruses of dusty blues

Jaws of life jacking time
they slid my body out in time
let the building collapse on through

Thought I heard,
old Joplin singin’
more on Earth
will be slapping you
if you
dodge more bullets
from another fool

And when I sang right out
across the clapping crowds,
my best laid blues
went right to you,
New York girl
in a rabbit hat

Oh magical girl,
my new love,
you kissed the breeze
made illusions
fondle my wishes

Now I dream of you deeply:
my salvation laughing everywhere

To whinny, my dream horse gallops, your
giggling jiggling in my cortex,
cerebral fondness hunting for you
in pulsing fibers
embedded in desire
throbbing in crevices
of nerve-cell books,
passions hiding in no man’s nook.

You journey through my mind,
scampering mind dancer,
doing wild animal tangos. I embrace

your beauty in the hunt
to capture your essence;
my dogs sense your scent,
a presence so foxy,
they transcend all knowing
rockin’ and rollin’ in serotonin.

I have traveled into you–
touch me there
where thoughts are real
and lightning tingles fine:
hats off to
everlasting good times

When I awake to you
I am in heaven

“Back Door Poetry” (eBook)
    by Douglas Gilbert
       on Amazon
       gp/product/B08LQX3ZF7

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Walking in a Dream World

Avian Translation

I’ve always wanted to speak
to the smaller birds, so
I’ve done a lot of weird whistling

Sometimes a little birdie cocks her head
and tries to see if I’m a threat or a bird benevolent,
but I’m neither a mate nor predator, just
a conversationalist

So I whistle something which means
“give tomatoes to Owls, like Caesar.”

And she says, “Huh, what? And
for a Human you don’t look so bad
even though you have no feathers.
Why is it that you can’t fly?
It’s so easy.”

And I said, “Why is it that
you can’t speak and write novels.”

“Well, then,” it said, “have you written one lately?”

And I said, “Um, no…”

And it said in a way that I think it meant kindly that
I was a birdbrain.

Ode to Sloopy

Oh my neighborhood is blessed,
so sweet the streets, but yet
I mourn where you were,

where I saw you down the other road:
down and out town where I never
could seem to be for long
forlorn and never understanding
your faithful path; I watched

the caresses paved on
bumpy roads, your skips

on tangled streets, without
any proper signs but caution
and sorrow, and

I could have loved you
so easily if you were in
my class at school, and
my illegal notes would have said

I am not fulfilled with
just my toys. Joyce dear dream,
with the pony tail and smile,
could you play with silly me like
you’ve always loved me
on the streets of true love.

Sometimes I think
you’ve known me

But now that
I’ve grown
now that I moan

can I give you my map
to find me, though there’ve
been so many years?

There’s a song and I say Hello

Joyce babe, oh
you’ve known the song so
don’t fall off the mountain;
hang on to an edge,
hang on to a love to be
that should have been.

Oh baby I don’t know why
your Daddy put you down
and why you stayed with cockroaches
in your sorry part of town

Oh baby, can you cross the border,
and don’t be down,
’cause there’d be no disorder
if you’d wait for me on the corner,
only wait for me where
we would have loved the sky
on a street of love, and where
we could have walked forever, but
now I’ll call you a cab into heaven

’cause I know there’s a cliff
where everyone dis’s you

But baby don’t fall;
I’ve got the rockin’ gear
and the pinions of a mountain climb

I know you’re on a cliff, but
hang on

I will hoist you up to God, and
maybe He will share you with me

because I want to save you, and
my rescue ropes are of joy. We will

cross the border
and climb a better mountain
beyond outrageous stones
those devils throw

How can they know
your kind heart
if they’d be mocking birds.

Let me sing to you of
sweet rescue, because
don’t we both need to
climb to a heaven we need
so desperately

I think we are good
to hang on for love

because never would I
want you to be anywhere
but on my street if
you love me, or

even if you don’t.

Foamy Dream

There is an ocean at dawn
that skirts the night tides
crashing swirls and sea birds

There is a froth to morning dreams.

I’ve been staring at foam in my coffee
remembering the ocean starring in ending rain
a conjured dream of frothy us, stars
beneath an oceanic drink of dawn

It was
coffee boiling hot for
the exigency of a dream, and

when from the freezer I plunged
an ice berg scoop of ice cream in it
the titanic foam made giggle bubbles
that speak of the dream when
you laughed your dainty blessing,
so pretty your voice, your smile in
the swirl of your skirt like a current
or maybe I just imagine such formality
like the majestic blue of the ocean at sunrise
because you know I don’t mind your bikini too,
love the virtues of shallow laughter-water,
know that the splash and the play
do pull tides from the deep imagination

I can be hot
to be cool

and we sat on the white sand
under the silly white umbrella we had borrowed
not imagining rain on our white beach, where we thought
if only sunshine would be in the heart then joy rises

for sunrise at the beach is
a glistening foam
silver crests
deep blues
an orange glow
and ice cream foam

and I dream of you
with fireworks in the sky
because…

maybe I imagine love
blue and foamy
silvery crested

[EDIT: Amazon changed the links]

Washing Poems

Washing Windows

She asked me why
window-washers wear harnesses

I said for their loved ones.

She giggled,
“I don’t love you.”

So I took it off,
pulled her out of the window
and we both fell to our deaths.

One of us went to Hell.
———-
Why Did You Plant Flowers

Why did you not go
when I told you
the tanks are coming.

Why did you go
into the garden, when
I told you there are
never flowers.

I wanted to send you away
but I was too weak when
you wanted to stay with me

and I said hide, but
you wanted to plant.

Why did you not go
when I told you
the tanks are coming.

Why did you go
into the garden
where there is no rain

and a bomb
fell on you.
———–
Rubble of You

You are so beautiful
with streaks of dirt
on your face, and
torn clothes.

Gorgeous are you
with matted hair
and blood, because

they’ve pulled you
from the rubble

and I heard you whisper
I love you
—————-
Never-mind

Sometimes when I go fishing
I catch fish. Last time
a lot.

decided to sell, so
I went to the fish market
to see how they do it.

He said, “How many pounds do you want?”
I said, “None. I’m selling not buying”
He said, “Stop fishing.”

I went to the market to sell books.
She said, “Go fishing.”
He said, “Go fly a kite.”

What am I supposed to do
with books on how to
fly a fish, and
fish a kite out of water
with a catfish and a hook?
—————–
Adopt A Martyr Lottery Machine

It’s in the Supermarket
between the frozen vegetables
and the fish monger concession

It takes credit cards or bills.
Many photos of women and children.

A charming photo
on my lottery card
the family I adopted

My adopted family on the news:
machine gunned to death; means
I won a prize: a million dollars. Now
I can afford sizable fresh fish.

Went across
from the vegetables
to buy a fish, and

showed the aproned man a copy
of my winning card. He

fell to the floor, flopping around
gasping for air, whispered
“My daughter, my daughter…
I told her not to join the revolution.”

I said,
how many pounds is the fish? He

didn’t answer so I shot him dead,
and several people had his card —
they all cheered because
some days are lucky
———–
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

I don’t want no f-ing two-step. I had a stereo once: I clicked the on switch, I heard music. No f-ing codes.

g-Hoover-dam rotten-apple excrement (ghdrae)
you (g-1)-ing excrement
I hate ghdrae apple.
I don’t want no (g-1)ing[ex] 2-step.
I put the ex-thing in airplane mode
just so you’d stop draining the battery
and stop connecting to the internet.
I bought the ex-ing thing for myself
for music and stuff, and not
to be harrassed and updated
and authenticated again —
the ex-ing thing is in my draw, and
I don’t want you to touch my ex-thing.

I hate the internet.
I hate life.
I hate dating up-dates.
It’s assault and battery.

I bought the ex-ing thing
to own it; not to share it.

Get you ex-ing hands
off my property.

F/*!%
I’m so angry
I want to throw it in the ocean
and my ancient self

I don’t need your help to vomit.
stop helping F/*!% apple

first the pandemic and now
the pod people
the body snatchers

Grandma Knows a Spy from Wuhan

Blacklight In Wuhan (Draft 1)

In the clearings
hauntings inhere
dear unfinished things

They’ve finished cleaning
the blood off the floor of the salon

Grandma’s voice
screams in the night;
her pen pal is lost, yes

Grandma is dead.
her hair dresser too–
by video two funerals
and the autopsy is done
no toxins of the ordinary kind.

Everyone misses Grandma.
Many knew her faux pas cinema
— been odd times.

Grandma had a Chinese pen pal
a foreign medical student
passing the USMLE
passing the TOEFL and everything.
Her friend’s now a doctor
now a scientist.

Many times
Grandma was down in a funk:
Something about the Great Depression,
the War and the slaughter again.

So many screams in the night:
“Where is my Wuhan doctor girl?”

There is so much beauty yet
in the quixotic world: the
flowers and designs
on the body bags.

Grandma told us
days never come lightly
when the night overwhelms
before the elegant cry

Such beauty in a sad world
my Grandma always said, is
just decoration, and
she favored flower designs
on chic shopping bags

Let the designers rise to the task
to make pretty body bags
to rise to praise, and yea
by the dawn’s surly knights
oh hey can you see our deeds
in the corona of the Sun
particles of sunset and doom.

Everyone misses Grandma.
Many knew of her, some
knew her. It’s been odd times.

Grandma told wild stories.
Very entertaining. She was
not distant ever
regardless of rules

Grandma stabbed herself to death
with a scissor in a beauty salon, and
the owner was shot to death while
grabbing a policeman’s gun.
It’s the usual.

Grandma left me
a stack of papers
from the pal, now a doctor.
Grandma loved
her dear mystery friend
from Wuhan. She claimed
her friend worked in a laboratory.

I have the correspondence
written in Chinese, and
the blacklight she had
asked me to buy for her.

The letters came slowly
sometimes through Hong Kong
and Singapore, but sometimes
through Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan

Grandma was fond
of her Wuhan girl
as she called her.

Just before her death
she reminded me that
it wasn’t important
to read the beautiful
Chinese calligraphy
because it was unimportant

It was important to read
the invisible secret writing
written between the lines.

Read in the dark
she had said.

New letters continued
to come from the
missing Wuhan girl.

I read them in the dark
with the Black Light.

Apparently, Wuhan girl is
patient zero for the world, and
they are hunting for her

They finished cleaning
the blood off the floor of the salon