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A thin poem...to be read slowly, word by word.
What's wrong with this picture? Scads of lilies raised above the muck the scum floating on golden pond --sheer light-- on one a fat frog croaks-- Bhudda! Bhudda! to the weeds and sky eternally his eyes are old-fashioned key-holes-- under sticky webs lilies crimp-edged deep ceramic green pie-plates-- above each waves a streaked pink-white blossom held up by nothing save love and in that no sense of error ever
Gregg Glory
7/20/2010
A plain old rambly run-on of a poem.
Rapunzel was happy in her sexless tower. Untouchable, and looking down on everything. The birds that visited her gave her just enough to chew on. Just enough news, just enough beauty. Any extra was an annoyance, and besides, Good food still grew in the fields. Sunsets still came And went away in darkness. Life was working Just as it always had, even with her not in it. No colony needs every single ant. Ants die. The hive thrives. Still, some days did feel a little hollow. A whisper you remembered overhearing, but Still can’t quite make out--all those lousy vowels. The sill below the window was thick with dust, Velveting her idle finger. The mirror never surprised her anymore, And the books talked like strangers amongst themselves. Still, all this went on for years and years in just the same way Until there was no more shuffling back and forth, room to room. The birds found another friend to talk to, and did. Still, people pointed to the empty tower for years and years, Turned to one another and told her story for her.
Gregg Glory
2/07/2009
Ran this off last night. I have to admit, I haven't been writing much, but with four kids running around it doesn't leave much time. Nevertheless, the times kind of dictate more writing. If no one else is going to speak, it is the poets who are called on to give voice to the woes of the people. And the woes, regretably, are many. I hope not to browbeat with depression and doom (my perceived forte), but rather to instill a pride in ones being, a recognition of ones unfettered will, no matter what else may seem to be happening around us. That's what inspired this poem, my first in ages. I hope you enjoy it.-- Chuck Moon
The conscious mind is free, Breathing dustcloud, I-beam symphonies, Straight talk walking with HD digital, Dolling out expense in excess of compensation, The conscious mind is free, To grasp at expert desk analisis, Reason billion dollar bailout heists, Midst billion dollar energy hijacks, The conscious mind is free, Scrambling hi-tech eavesdrop monitoring, Deleting temporary browsing histories, Unloading the cell phone GPS tracking technology, The conscious mind is free, Recalling Jefferson, King, Lewis, and Neitze, Hearing Nader, Guthrie, Guevara, and Ron Paul, Reading Smith, Sandburg, Spengler, and St. Paul, The conscious mind is free, Discerning the corkscrew tongues and liars eyes, Dividing debate between light and darkness, Checking the balance, receipt versus outlay, The conscious mind is free, Never abandoning it's righteous humanity, Always in reasoned circumspect obeying, Not losing that sense of collective mortality, Free in rational contemplation, Mind on eventual alleviation of, Consciousness kidnapped by pirate overlords, The conscious mind is free.
Chuck Moon
12/28/2008
I am desperate to love you, to know you, Like a bride who burns off her wedding dress, Like lips waiting, misshapen, to kiss. Kisses fell out of of us like water falls, Bursting to earth and deafening the onlookers! When we kissed, we could hear the sea crashing around us. But where are they now, those slippery kisses? What's left of their vast wetness? No child has grown between us. Even a puddle leaves its residue of mud, Some softening of the way Despite whatever volume of traffic. Stirring the syrup of your sweet sweet life, Letting the licks insist their way into me, inside me, Surely my lips remain sticky? How many feet have been here before us? Every foot. Every pace of the path is hard with old passages, old passions. Every route is known; no star blinks undiscovered-- Except by us, two blips on the periphery, Elliptical with longing, our lips chapped by the long wintering over, Too stiff and dry to even whistle! Our veined and florid maps are still tucked in our backpacks. Our tents are not yet ready to unroll with sleep. My eyes keep blinking, keep looking, no matter how dark the way. There's still so much to see, I think, When your hand brushes mine under the pine trees, And the sound of our walking fades into the background, And I close my eyes to breathe. If love is, then love is what happens When you forget where you're going.
Gregg Glory
11/25/2008
What sound does a soul make when it goes down the hole? Is this a rhetorical question?
This keeps happening:
In the field outside
Mist gathers in little clutters
Unswept. It glitters and sags.
Nothing in my life is very tidy.
The stamp collection from when I was 12
Blows off the shelf in a windstorm
Of colorful, cancelled leaves.
I am older than I was yesterday.
When Lisa calls on the phone, casually blank,
I don't care. It hurts.
Shaving, I cut someone else's face.
The watery blear of blood flows away from him,
Down the well-formed hole in the porcelain
Made for the purpose.
Gregg Glory
11/22/2008