Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. Leonard Cohen

Friday, September 11, 2015

Le Sang d'un Poète

The blood of a poet
is no more precious than
the blood of a child
the blood of a gangbanger
the blood of a survivor

The blood of a poet
is no more profound than
the blood of a mother
the blood of AIDS
the blood of transfusions

The blood of a poet
is not special
It is not art
It is only human
And that is enough.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Words Count With Mama Zen

Tuesday, September 8, 2015

Which Princess Are You?

Photo by Christopher Jobson for Colossal
The princesses of Dismaland
are dismayed
by their company's poor marketing strategies
and lackluster consumer demand

is desperately seeking a hook-up
She checks her phone constantly
disappointed by the dearth of hot guys

Snow White Lives Matter Too
thinks she's socially conscious
and not at all racist
but just doesn't get it

escaped her country on a crappy little boat
filled with convicts and the mentally ill
and nearly drowned in toxic waste-filled water

is a brilliant artist
She is addicted to heroin
and will eventually be found dead in the Castle

Belle Jarre
is quite melancholy
and wanders the park 
with her head in an oven

Chip and Dale
two washed-up ex-strippers
try to enliven the girls by offering lap dances
There are no takers

Even Pluto
the princesses' favorite pet
can't help cheer them up 
Corporate deemed him no longer a character

He now sits outside the gates
howling at passers-by
and begging for scraps.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Tuesday Platform 

Sunday, September 6, 2015

It's Not Art Unless It Has the Potential To Be a Disaster

Photo by Christopher Jobson for Colossal
The gallery’s ready
The artist is in
The crowd stands waiting
For it to begin
The doors are open
The Chardonnay flowing
Critics’ heads nodding
With insiders’ knowing
Wallets are bursting
With checkbooks and cash
While patrons muse anxiously
“Genius or trash?”
The gasp is collective
Rejection? Disdain?
“It’s perfectly awful-
He’s done it again!”

Thursday, September 3, 2015

Summer Night

Nocturne in Black and Gold, James McNeill Whistler, wikimedia commons
Night softens the day's edges
The moon erases
Rubs out distinctions
Sky becomes earth becomes trees
Feet become sidewalk become paws
Arm becomes leash becomes dog
Separateness becomes oneness
Footsteps blend with
the clicking of paws
the thud of heat lightening
the trill of crickets
the bass rhythm of frogs
A soup of sound,
thick and nourishing
We walk,
an aggregate of bone and skin and fur, 
wrapped in the warm muddy mist
of a summer night.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Non-FB Friday, Finding the Right Tone