Too tired
To get inspired,
That's when it happens
That my poetry sucks atoms
From the atmosphere
From my feeling ionosphere
Electrons electing Trump
Every time he gets up
To the next podium
To pause for silentium.

i am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
painter, but I am not. Well,

For instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting painting, I drop in.
"sit down and have a drink."he
says. I drink, we drink.I look
up. "You have sardines in it."
"yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in.Where's 'Sardines?"

If only earth was free
From being possessed by us,
Yes, all these humans.

If only this were true
Terra wouldn't suffer us
And our illusions.

If only sanity
Was more than a mere by word
To buy us all out.

If only honesty
Was the only thing still pure,
We're dillusioned with owning.

If only words were real
But they're also made up
Of symbolic lies.

If only symbols
Could make masters of our will,
Ourselves alone owned.

Sundays ,too, my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueback cold
then with cracked hands that ached
from weather in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering breaking.
When the rooms were warm he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress.
fearing the chronic angers of that house.

This two track road feels my boots' beat
as I haltingly trace its winding way
in fading afternoon's moist heat.
I pause as memories come my way.

The last time here I was not alone,
father and brother were both with me
before the advent of cell phone;
when mind and legs were both pain free.

We walked this road, seeking deer tracks,
made forages into the oak trees
then talked of bucks and tall wide racks
and coming autumn's clear cold breeze.

I pray for stars at night so bright,
behind the clouds they sing and sway,
away they have a wise foresight.

Beta punched the devils eye ~ a sprite
so often fights for knight's foray.
I pray for stars at night so bright.

Zet inspires the poet's write
when shines above the lover's bay.
Away, they have a wise foresight.

Eta emits an extra light
to guide the souls who go astray.
I pray for stars at night so bright.

I saw the Mime, with his gloves and mask
He tried hard to make me smile
I didn't think he was up to the task
Because, I hadn't smiled for a while

His silent laughter was so very plain
He had it in him, I realized
To take away my hurt and pain
I could see the smile in his eyes

He was no different than I'd seen before
His mask and gloves were of white
Black skin covered, he was hard to ignore
His merriment showed, his heart was light

She came on pristine feet, with such a soft
ardor, it seemed no man could sneer her gift,
or ignore light’s promise to rise aloft
above the crime that caused the heaven’s rift.

It was as if some stolen light was sent
into the world to find the truth in man;
and I was called to see if it is meant
for one in love of truth to lift the ban.

How would an art
be an art
if it hurts,
if it doesn't bring
a heart to a heart,
if it doesn't stop
a war, or if it gets
a war to start?

Poets aren't just
dream-makers, but
rather the successors
of messengers,

With their
messages poets
can bring the whole
humanity
together
with a clean pen
and a clean heart.

OK here's my poem and I was actually TOLD by 2 different people that the title is weak

CHORE
Submitted by scribbler on Mon, 2011-01-31 09:08
It's time I check the spring pasture
during this rare late winter thaw
beneath bright skies of deep azure.
I'll walk there by way of the draw.

The usual crop of winter stones
which earth has pushed above the grass,
white quartz shining like old bones.
I'll gather up some as I pass.