Popsicle

Wrote this one after the last decent snow we got. Sounds like we've got another on the way. I hate snow, by the way. This was from a Zelda's exercise - we had a list of words to use. I'm not going to bother writing the list out here, too much trouble.

Popsicle

Stuck in snow like a popsicle,
Hands reach up to high above.
White cotton flakes fall on my eyes,
Tears on cheeks burn then freeze.
Adjust my arms, alone in the deep.
Soon forgot even by me.

Banjo Player

This is a bit older than the poems I just posted but hey, that doesn't matter.

Also I've noticed I tend to write a lot of poetry about live mics. The reason is that sometimes I get bored when I'm at one. But sometimes I have a really great time - the problem is I don't write poetry when I'm having a terrific time at a live mic, I sit on the edge of my seat and pay attention. So ultimately the impression that I hate live mics is incorrect, you're viewing a biased sample.

Banjo Player

The banjo player stumbles
Around the key like a
Drunk man looking for a
Place to pee. I shift
In my seat.

Across the room- she's got
Earrings like hula hoops-
Looking and flipping through
Her papers like you do
In line at the DMV.

Next to me a man in his forties,
Eyes bright and shining like pennies,
Looks like he's at his first Christmas.
But this fellow's special somehow-

The ladies running this thing are
Watching the clock like hawks. They
Keep one eye on the list as if
There's a bus coming they don't want to miss.

Meanwhile the banjo player's voice is
A thin tin whistle, he's playing with broken yellow
Nails like he searched the hard scrabble road
For a song and couldn't get it to come up.

Why I Don't Talk About My Feelings

Just want to remind my audience that author does not equal protagonist, etc. etc.

Why I Don't Talk About My Feelings

When you agree with someone else
I want to tear their lying
Tongue out of their mouth and burn it.
I want to rip the hair from their head.
To lift them by the shoulder and hip and
Throw them out of the bar.
When you smile at someone else
I want to scratch their eyes out.

This is why I don't talk.
This is why I can't say
I want to be with you
Until the stars die
I want to live with you
In a boat on a river
Seeing no one else
For years
This is why I can't say
I want to explore you
For the rest of my life-

Because if I said all
That I'd have to murder
Everyone else who'd ever
Loved you. Just in case
You loved them back.

Trapped

Trapped

I'm trapped at this live mic
Fenced in by poetry
Stifled by bouncing
Egos, panicked by the
Feeling in the air;
We're all listening so
Closely but there's
Not much to hear.
I am so, so tired and
Cranky. I have only just
Discovered what I need:
To go home to your
Place, crawl under your
Sheets and your coverlet,
And wait in silence, sleeping quietly,
Until you find me, like a long dark
Present you may or may not want.

Coming Home to You

This is the one I got stuck on, about a month ago; don't ask me why. I have two or three poems backed up behind this one so I'm going to try to get it out, but it needs major work / revision / reconsideration / etc / etc.

--------

Coming home to you

Your kiss was lush
Like the wine
And I tasted it long after I went out-
Dancing, drinking, smoking little black cigars
In the cold with hipsters and rastas,
Singing with pop songs, bouncing to rap beats,
Closing out the club, numb with vodka-
So I could collapse into an empty bed.

Honestly the night was a
Waking dream; and I was dreaming about
What I was going to do
I was dreaming about
Coming home to you.

There's a taste in your breath, dear,
Some intoxicating smell that lives
In your throat, and I don't ever want
To tire of it. I try to
Sample it slowly, but I get
Greedy for it - don't want to
Get addicted, so I try to
Separate myself from it
But then I find myself
Dreaming about it
And dreaming about
The way we fit together
And how it will feel
Tomorrow night,
Coming home to you.