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Friday, April 29, 2016

After You Have Vanished - tripewriter - Kevin Prufer

After You Have Vanished

- tripewriter - Kevin Prufer

THE little red jewel
in THE bottom of your wineglass
IS so lovely I cannot

rinse IT out,

so I go into THE cool and grassy air to smoke.
Which IS your warmly lit house

past which no soldiers march
to take THE country back?

When you reached across

THE table to touch my hand IS not attainable.
I cannot recapture IT.
And no gunners lean on their artillery at THE city’s edge,
looking our direction,

having shot THE sky full of bright holes.
THE light bleeds from them
and IT always will.

Long ago,
they captured our city
and now they ARE our neighbors,

going about their business like they WERE
one of us.

Soon, like you, they will be asleep,
having washed THE dishes and turned out THE kitchen lights.

When I inhale, smoke occupies me.
When I exhale—

By morning THE wine
in THE bottom of your glass
will have clotted.

I’m sorry I called IT a jewel.
It IS not THE soldiers

who have shot me full of holes.
IT IS not light that pours out.
Love did this.

I WAS filled with wine.
Now I am drained of IT.

hurts when I see
such poorly written tripe touted as world class poetry
no wonder people smirk
when you say
"the word poetry"
no wonder
we're not respected
for our presentation
of thought
and word order

Empty Pretenders - by - Bob Atkinson

Empty Pretenders
(c)2016 Bob Atkinson

verbose explanations abound
those eloquent dissertations
which state in so much detail
every simple deviation

so much wind as to sail a ship
so much tone to say not much
so much one wonders how they find
time to eat their lunch

have seen this in our real world
where pomposity has a perch
yet performs without distinction
when compared to one who first

puts purpose in a basket
carries function in their heart
quite a large separation
when applied here to this art

do you wish distinction
or do you wish to add
your push to man's future
or will you with either one be glad

to show as if accomplished
or accomplish without show
time to choose your path today
and let everybody know

know which you feel stands to
represent your heart
do you wish to muddle on
or truly do your part

Thursday, April 28, 2016

Poetic Investigators Needed - by - Bob Atkinson

Poetic Investigators Needed
(c)2016 Bob Atkinson

feet get tired, legs get stiff
arms seem to weigh a ton
agony permeates this ship
weary mind begins to slip

burdens here accumulate
not finding in all their merit
wonderful examples of words
but gooey mush transparent

take me to another place
where senses find good mood
and alienating random thoughts
get pushed out by other tools

when he raves upon his lips
about some this or that
which I find so obstinate
simply appears intelligence flat

not by appearance solely
but by examination deep
Poe's not rational in his mind
but he's followed by many sheep

can we begin a process
to awaken those dead grains
to where they don't rely on patience
but stab words brought from dead brains

and thoughts which don't mean a lot
penned by pretentious pirates
who fill their bios with good words
yet leave goodness out of diet

garbage settles to our floor
if left to flounder without purpose
no need to judge a piece of writing
by history of a writer's circus

for circus becomes a proper word
because of treasured junk professed
which fills a void protected by
an establishment not invested

invested in quality control
through morality displayed
or sense of purpose for our youth
to lead them in a correct way

for worshiping decadence
seems not to toot our horn
but give us fright for future gain
when we give kids their way

way to choose their destiny
which direction to travel far
in seeking good fortune openly
or getting drunk at a local bar

speak out when you see trash praised
doesn't take long to fill our hearts
with tales of decadent behavior
when not booed by those with thought

tell them openly and loud
that's not their duty here
to ignore a use for poetry
which lasts and perseveres

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

All Possible Combinations - by - Bob Atkinson

All Possible Combinations
(c)2016 Bob Atkinson

what if a plan got devised
to allow us infinity of combinations
in everything we do, everything we see
total rational computations

would we not in our ineptitude
have capability to disagree
would we then amuse creators
by conflicting local scenes

tragic as this thought may seem
to us this open ended world
carries duty preserved in hearts
to multi flags unfurl

we state out in an open play book
our feelings we do shout
so everyone hears our name
or name of our cause profound

an all knowing leader of our pack
who knows, tells only truth
gives us purpose to expound
in ways a bit uncouth

but then this amusement carries far
beyond what's sane, rational
if our leader's full of dip
and in reality's super bashful

who can tell us truth here folks
who stands for a good path
who carries us to a quiet future
not revolting by taking us back

back to when barbarity
set life's center stage
back before we co-operated to
help each other survive unscathed

ways of peaceful progress
where all could reap rewards
not just leaders of our bands
who laugh at life's resolve

resolve to choose which way to go
while not adhering to a saint
which, in reality, was a stupid person
who laughed at our mistakes

nobody knows pure truth on this
blue planet in universe's corner
no way to expound beliefs
which don't benefit the donor

no way to carry forth these dreams
which some seek a greedy find
without jumping on strong backs
of people, yours and mine

so when they tell you they know good truth
tell them “that's impossible my friend”
nobody knows reality
to state that's a mortal sin

Tuesday, April 26, 2016

How Can One? - by - Bob Atkinson

How Can One?
(c)2016 Bob Atkinson

how can one translate form
from idea to canvas norm
some twinkle in an eye open
or smile with smirk shown grin

where does talent infuse itself
to hands which hold artist's brush
sending imagination away
capturing drama of everyday

don't know if have ever seen
myself create this sweetest dream
not standing in front of that train
while holding images in my brain

perhaps he knew well his calling
studied masters, faultless darlings
kept discipline in his mind
and worked there on art's grind

worked until our sun went down
dreamed about some worthy crown
of sentiment awarded to him
by those who found him truly useful

Monday, April 25, 2016

Poem of the Month April, 2016 - December, 1963 (Oh, What a Night)

Poem of the Month April, 2016 -

December, 1963 (Oh, What a Night)
- poemwriters - Bob Gaudio & Judy Parker,

Oh, what a night, late December back in '63
What a very special time for me
As I remember what a night!
Oh what a night,

You know I didn't even know her name
But I was never gonna be the same
What a lady, what a night!

Oh, I got a funny feeling when she walked in the room
And I, as I recall it ended much too soon
Oh what a night,

Hypnotizing, mesmerizing me
She was everything I dreamed she'd be
Sweet surrender, what a night!

I felt a rush like a rolling ball of thunder
Spinning my head around and taking my body under
(Oh what a night!)
And I, as I recall it ended much too soon

Oh what a night!
Why'd it take so long to see the light?
Seemed so wrong, but now it seems so right
What a lady, what a night!

Spinning my head around and taking my body under
I felt a rush like a rolling ball of thunder
Spinning my head around and taking my body under
Oh what a night!

Tuesday, April 19, 2016

The Weighing -poemwriter - Jane Hirshfield

THE heart’s reasons seen clearly,
even THE hardest will carry
ITS whip-marks and sadness
and must BE forgiven.

As THE drought-starved eland forgives
THE drought-starved lion who finally takes her,
enters willingly then THE life she cannot refuse,
and IS lion, IS fed, and does not remember THE other.

So few grains of happiness
measured against all THE dark
and still THE scales balance.

THE world asks of us
only THE strength we have and we give IT.
Then IT asks more, and we give IT.

preachy without emotion

poorly written

all thuz, its, beez

give evidence of lack of effort

lack of skill

lack of understanding

poetry's a vehicle to express

'tis not what you know
'tis how you feel about what you think you know

Sunday, April 17, 2016

Ars Poetica - tripewriter - Archibald MacLeish

Ars Poetica
- tripewriter - Archibald MacLeish

    A poem should BE palpable and mute
    As a globed fruit,
    As old medallions to THE thumb,
    Silent as THE sleeve-worn stone
    Of casement ledges where THE moss has grown--
    A poem should BE wordless
    As THE flight of birds.
    A poem should BE motionless in time
    As THE moon climbs,
    Leaving, as THE moon releases
    Twig by twig THE night-entangled trees,
    Leaving, as THE moon behind THE winter leaves.
    Memory by memory THE mind--
    A poem should BE motionless in time
    As THE moon climbs.

    A poem should BE equal to:
    Not true.
    For all the history of grief
    An empty doorway and a maple leaf.
    For love
    THE leaning grasses and two lights above THE SEA--
    A poem should not mean
    But BE.
    he got that right
    his poem's dumb alright
    what a mess
    he expected rational people
    to consider this worth reading?

Saturday, April 16, 2016

Poetry, Poetry, Poetry - by Bob Atkinson

Poetry, Poetry, Poetry
(c)2016 Bob Atkinson

gnarlish institutional force
files piles of paper in due course
about, around and up onto
this open ended curly cue

we have a name for that which we
don't know, or care to hold up to
a light of emotional tones
to flee our simple objective bones

define for me this world of yours
where words evoke with metaphors
thoughts evolved from open wounds
whereupon we savor hues

hues of nature, not man made
no underlying decadent parade
where some require control of their
fellow hearts through lack of care

similes strenghten thoughts supreme
ornate designs held back by dreams
wild activities brought up from past
with uncertain outcome devastating

naked obsessions flicker fast
those synapses flowing, but never last
wildness given free head
when talent gets out of bed

tell me truly, do you understand
these constructs of mortal man
or do you hide those questions deep
causing us to again repeat

repeat those institutional lies
which bury truth in senseless piles
a never ending path we take
an open ended journey made


Friday, April 15, 2016

Manners - Poet – Elizabeth Bishop


For a Child of 1918

My grandfather said to me
as we sat on the wagon seat,
"Be sure to remember to always
speak to everyone you meet."

We met a stranger on foot.
My grandfather's whip tapped his hat.
"Good day, sir. Good day. A fine day."
And I said it and bowed where I sat.

Then we overtook a boy we knew
with his big pet crow on his shoulder.
"Always offer everyone a ride;
don't forget that when you get older,"

my grandfather said. So Willy
climbed up with us, but the crow
gave a "Caw!" and flew off. I was worried.
How would he know where to go?

But he flew a little way at a time
from fence post to fence post, ahead;
and when Willy whistled he answered.
"A fine bird," my grandfather said,

"and he's well brought up. See, he answers
nicely when he's spoken to.
Man or beast, that's good manners.
Be sure that you both always do."

When automobiles went by,
the dust hid the people's faces,
but we shouted "Good day! Good day!
Fine day!" at the top of our voices.

When we came to Hustler Hill,
he said that the mare was tired,
so we all got down and walked,
as our good manners required.
fine example
of a poem with purpose
written well

Wednesday, April 13, 2016

Attempted Glory - by Bob Atkinson

for so many years we've seen
those who upon greatness dream
yet give there efforts something small
and dance around those greatness halls

they see not with clear eyes
manipulate with piles of lies
play a game of simpletons
giving us trite stories penned

stories not for nature's worth
plain words of dubious girth
which garner eyes of professed saints
because they understand not pace

pace of learning, pace of pride
understanding mind's of child
purpose darkened for their works
absurd productions, never worthy

not worth time to read, understand
no poet's appellation earned but planned
no sense of order here created
please review all your strange frustrations

come back again with something good
not garbage tossed out from your moods
no simple, off the cuff affairs
give us beauty of your wares

then, and only then will we
to all those future children read
understanding what we went through
how we reacted to getting our due

Blueacre - tripewriter - Monica Youn


-tripewriter - Monica Youn

a second, SEAMLESS SKIN,
CAMOUFLAGE, the rarest
right—to remain
the BAREST RUNE of ruin:
that rears up into a CASTLE
then TOPPLES in defeat,
PULSING frantically
as if to drain
unwanted thoughts
into the body’s RESERVOIR
an INKY stain
bluer than blushing,
truer than trusting,
at the CORE of the FLAME
too intense, too AIRLESS
to long remain
enveloped, as if
a MOTH LURED to the light
were trapped, sewn
back in its COCOON,
the way the PITILESS
mind goes on
gamma, lambda, chi—
a linked chain
of association no less
binding for being SILKEN,
a fine-meshed net thrown
over the exhausted
animal—having given up
its vague, vain
efforts to escape,
and now struggling
simply to sustain
a show of resistance,
to extend a limb toward
extremity, to GLEAN
one glimpse of light,
one gasp of air, then folding
inward, diving down
into the blue pool
at the body’s hollow center,
there to float, and drown.
nice collection of cheap words there Monica
do you sleep with that dictionary?
you threw a lot of useless things at us
to impress us
it didn't work
we're not impressed

Tuesday, April 12, 2016

Here -tripewriter – Kim Addonizio

After IT ended badly IT got so much better
which took a while of course but still
he grew so tender and I so grateful
which maybe tells you something about how IT was
I’m trying to tell you I know you
have staggered wept spiraled through a long room
banging your head against IT holding crushed
bird skulls in your hands your many hearts unstrung
unable to play a note their wood still beautiful
& carved so elaborately maybe a collector would want them
stupid collectors always preserving & never breaking open
THE jars so everyone starves while admiring the view
you don’t own anyone everything will BE taken from you
go ahead and eat this poem please IT will help
to call this a poem
demeans the genre
off the cuff
nothing of universal value

Sunday, April 10, 2016

Forgetfulness - tripewriter - Billy Collins


-tripewriter-Billy Collins

THE name of THE author IS THE first to go
followed obediently by THE title, THE plot,
THE heartbreaking conclusion, THE entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, THE memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to THE southern hemisphere of THE brain,
to a little fishing village where there ARE no phones.

Long ago you kissed THE names of THE nine Muses goodbye
and watched THE quadratic equation pack ITS bag,
and even now as you memorize THE order of THE planets,

something else IS slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
THE address of an uncle, THE capital of Paraguay.

Whatever IT IS you ARE struggling to remember,
IT IS not poised on THE tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

IT has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in THE middle of THE night
to look up THE date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder THE moon in THE window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.
did this person cut class
when they taught English?
also, he apparently wasn't there
when they discussed
the meaning of poetry
the definition of poetry
the uses of poetry
the format of poetry
he missed that boat
and ended up in dark waters
without a paddle

Mid-Day Analysis -tripewriter - H.D.

Mid-Day Analysis 

-tripewriter - H.D.

THE light beats upon me.
I AM startled—
a split leaf crackles on THE paved floor—
I AM anguished—defeated.

A slight wind shakes THE seed-pods—
my thoughts ARE spent
as THE black seeds.
My thoughts tear me,
I dread their fever.
I AM scattered in ITS whirl.
I AM scattered like
THE hot shrivelled seeds.

THE shriveled seeds
ARE split on THE path—
THE grass bends with dust,
THE grape slips
under ITS cracked leaf:
yet far beyond THE spent seed-pods,
and THE blackened stalks of mint,
THE poplar IS bright on THE hill,
THE poplar spreads out,
deep-rooted among trees.

O poplar, you ARE great
among THE hill-stones,
while I perish on THE path
among THE crevices of THE rocks.
leaves one speechless
how an inept establishment
can praise this poorly written nonsense
shame on them

Pastoral - tripewriter - William Carlos Williams


- tripewriter - William Carlos Williams

THE little sparrows Hop ingenuously
About the pavement Quarreling
With sharp voices Over those things
That interest them.

But we who ARE wiser
Shut ourselves in On either hand
And no one knows Whether we think good
Or evil.
Then again, THE old man who goes about
Gathering dog lime Walks in THE gutter
Without looking up And his tread
IS more majestic than That
of THE Episcopal minister
Approaching THE pulpit Of a Sunday.

These things
Astonish me beyond words.
off the cuff declarative prose nonsense
would have accomplished more wiggling my toes
than what I accomplished reading this

Friday, April 8, 2016

Smoke - tripewriter - Philip Levine


- tripewriter - Philip Levine 

Can you imagine THE air filled with smoke?
IT was. The city WAS vanishing before noon
or WAS IT earlier than that? I can't say because
THE light came from nowhere and went nowhere.

This WAS years ago, before you WERE born, before
your parents met in a bus station downtown.
She'd come on Friday after work all THE way
from Toledo, and he'd dressed in his only suit.

Back then we called this a date, some times
a blind date, though they'd written back and forth
for weeks. What actually took place IS now lost.
IT'S become part of THE mythology of a family,

THE stories told by children around THE dinner table.
No, they AREn't dead, they'RE just treated that way,
as objects turned one way and then another
to catch THE light, THE light overflowing with smoke.

Go back to THE beginning, you insist. Why
IS THE air filled with smoke? Simple. We had work.
Work was something that thrived on fire, that without
fire couldn't catch ITS breath or hang on for life.

We came out into THE morning air, Bernie, Stash,
Williams, and I, it WAS late March, a new war
was starting up in Asia or closer to home,
one that meant to kill us, but for a moment

THE air held still in THE gray poplars and elms
undoing their branches. I understood THE moon
for THE very first time, why IT came and went, why
IT wasn't there that day to greet THE four of us.

Before THE bus came a small black bird settled
on THE curb, fearless or hurt, and turned ITS beak up
as though questioning THE day. "A baby crow,"
someone said. Your father knelt down on THE wet cement,

his lunchbox balanced on one knee and stared quietly
for a long time. "A grackle far from home," he said.
One of the four of us mentioned tenderness,
a word I wasn't used to, so IT WASn't me.

THE bus must have arrived. I'M not there today.
THE windows WERE soiled. We swayed this way and that
over THE railroad tracks, across Woodward Avenue,
heading west, just like THE sun, hidden in smoke.
nice descriptive story
an attempt at prose
poorly written
8th grade level
no way is this poetry
gimme here a break

Thursday, April 7, 2016

Elegy for the Native Guards - tripewriter – Natasha Trethewey

Elegy for the Native Guards

- tripewriter – Natasha Trethewey

Now that THE salt of their blood
THE saltier oblivion of THE sea . . .
—Allen Tate
We leave Gulfport at noon; gulls overhead
trailing THE boat—streamers, noisy fanfare—
all THE way to Ship Island. What we see
first IS THE fort, ITS roof of grass, a lee—
half reminder of THE men who served there—
a weathered monument to some of THE dead.

Inside we follow THE ranger, hurried
though we ARE to get to THE beach. He tells
of graves lost in THE Gulf, THE island split
in half when Hurricane Camille hit,
shows us casemates, cannons, THE store that sells
souvenirs, tokens of history long buried.
The Daughters of the Confederacy
has placed a plaque here, at THE fort’s entrance—
each Confederate soldier’s name raised hard
in bronze; no names carved for THE Native Guards—
2nd Regiment, Union men, black phalanx.
What IS monument to their legacy?

All THE grave markers, all THE crude headstones—
water-lost. Now fish dart among their bones,
and we listen for what THE waves intone.
Only THE fort remains, near forty feet high,
round, unfinished, half open to THE sky,
THE elements—wind, rain—God’s deliberate eye.

mediocre prose
not poetry
poor form