I was avoiding ever posting my poetry (if you could call it that), but I'm sick, so I'll let some odd haiku-ish stuff do the talking. Please hold your applause until the end.
Suntanned Terry
flexes his oiled abs
silently imagining
that he could lift 250 clean jerk
and wow the regulars.
Don't feed the fish, dammit
she screamed at nine year old Sean.
Don't you know how to read?
She realized he might not, so she
patted his arm, and dragged him away screaming.
What possible reason
could Sergei have to leave her?
The painting, she realized
must have been bought.
He's leaving tonight,
bus-bound for Hollywood.
John held her hand in the car
and sadly realized that he feared her.
She would hurt him, and as much as he would enjoy it
he'd still be alone in the end.
Better the evil you know, he thought bitterly,
and watched her fumble for her keys in the yellow lamp light.
Tatty and torn, Lisa lifted the green apron over her head.
Instantly she was like all the rest, young, full of potential,
working her way through college.
She wiped a rogue tear from under her glasses
as she made her first grande latte of the day.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
7 comments:
OY! Well done! Especially John and Lisa, I liked.
Now you've got me writing in some odd rhythmn. Stop that!
It's
a medicated thing
cough syrup and pills make me
write in cadence.
Lots of mystery and quiet sadness. Who says you're not a poet?
I used to think I didn't need coffee. I was wrong.
That was terrific.
These poems would make terrific starts to stories.
I'm especially curious where Sergei is going all bus-bound, and what the painting has to do with it.
thanks guys! I might be a writer yet!
Post a Comment