Poetry and Discussion

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.  (Robert Frost)
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Part One: Trapped By A Dream

So I've been kicking around doing a multi part poem/story thing that I publish once a week. Actually, I haven't really been kicking around the idea, it just came into my head 4 minutes ago after I wrote this poem.



As he sat there

In the crowded room

And felt reality crowd in

Thicker than ever


He saw a parting of the mists.

That Exit sign over the door beckoned to him

This was his chance

To break out of the dream.

I'm Having a Baby

I am throbbing with violent labor pains,

I am pregnant,

with life,

with words,

with beauty,

my baby's head is protruding from my...

ok I know it sounds weird but give me a break I just started,

oh boy! Here it comes,

excuse me as I sream in pain,


It has arrived,

nacked, red, wailing with the umbilical chord still attached,

but it will grow to be great and beautiful



Not as morbid as you might think. I never liked the stigma death had. If you are a salvation type person then shouldn't you be happy? Unless you think said person went to hell I guess. And atheists shouldn't care overly much. Death is very liberating if it is the next step and if it isn't then the world probably has no meaning anyway. Or it still does. Who knows.






Being tossed

Off a mid level office building

Or rocky cliff

My Soules


as the clan of the white man

strategize and plan

a globalized, economical scam

we’re left here disappearing.

this pressure that’s been piling up

The A-Side is Ok, But the B-Side is Where Its All At, Guy.



Everyone I meet

Seems to be playing the A-Side.


My friends and I

Are all playing the B-Side.


No reason

To feel sad at all anymore.


Our lives spin

Around the turntable universe


Each track

the sky sings a ballot for you

the sky sings a ballot for you
wings frozen flutter downward
clipped glitter floating flake
sunlight constrained within a box
internally reflected incident angles equal
law holding in even God’s light.

the sky sings a ballot for you
eternity marks its x in you.
an endless sky shines
newly unseen colors
into your cramped spaces

the lights of a million stars
the confines of
your little

the sky sings a ballot for you.
vote with each beat
with each breath break out
the black orthogonal lines
of your little self
so vast an endorsement



 it's sad to know that your raft has drifted so far away. you filled it up with water and i know you're trying to drain it out but it takes time. i miss the way our rafts clashed and collided, the salt water slippery and deceiving on the painted rubber.

i can't reach you from here.

i can't throw seashells anymore.

but you really fell hard for the gulls and everyone told you they were the rats of the sky; i wish you had listened.

you might not have sprung a leak.


(12 december 2009)

I WAKE and feel the fell of dark, not day by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–89).  Poems.  1918.   Hopkins


45. ‘I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day"


I WAKE and feel the fell of dark, not day.
What hours, O what black hoürs we have spent
This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went!
And more must, in yet longer light’s delay.    
   With witness I speak this. But where I say         5
Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament
Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent
To dearest him that lives alas! away.


  I am gall, I am heartburn. God’s most deep decree
Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me;         10
Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse.
  Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see
The lost are like this, and their scourge to be
As I am mine, their sweating selves; but worse.    

My Country

My country tis of thee,

old land of butchery,

of thee I sing,

land where the Indians died,

because of pilgrims' pride,

from every mountainside,

what an awful thing!

A poem by Julie Trusz

We used to play guitar on broken concrete
Simultaneously tapping our feet
Until we filled the entire street
With words no one knew
Notes to heal homeless hearts.
Your laugh was pure, not forced or fake
The sun shining out a rainy day
Like it never happened in the first place.
People left dollars and quarters in your guitar case
I keep it all in my pocket and its cold against my leg.
I watched your smile rust over in September rain
Watched your arms go limp and bruised
I never believed in God before,
But I kneeled, and prayed to Him for you.
You danced with the kids on Park Street
And that’s how I remember you
Not the person I couldn’t save
Hanging from a rope in your bedroom.
by Julie Trusz

Under the Influence: Boredom (At Work)


All the art gazes away

Instead of following me

With their critical gaze.


They look off

In the distance

Like a couple watching seaside sunsets.


I look off too,

Viewing nothing

Not even their picture frame cages.


Sometimes, just looking

Art Under the Influence of Rolling Rock Brew by Dona Maria

this submission is for the feature "Art Under the Influence"- the influence is one pint of Rolling Rock beer-- IT COMES IN PINTS?

art under the influence - highku's


believe me when i

say i adore your French tongue

and your black peacoat.



secretly i used

to hope you would peek when i'd

change behind the door.


sj 3-5

i fell in love with

my seventh grade teacher. i

believe he did too.


Under The Influence: Anger Directed Toward The Self

So I wrote this under the influence of anger directed at myself. Lately, I've been really disgusted with how I have acted towards people in general, especially towards those I respect greatly. This isn't really an apology, but more of a poem written upon my realization thats its time for a shift in how I treat people and govern myself, because I do not want to be the rebel that becomes that which he hates (that is if I am in fact a rebel). It could also be considered the companion piece to my poem about running from the eldritch spirit and confrontation as this is the next logical step to facing the evils that may inhabit oneself.

As we entered the old home

I pointed out the chipped paint

Spreading forth like a wave

Shapes and Spaces--The Sketchbook of Kurt D. Hollomon

 This artist's sketchbook is just lovely! Thought those who are trying their hand at drawing might enjoy.


Staring At The Future

I'll live in the moment

while looking over my shoulder at the future

and keeping the past in my notebook.


I will never give up,

I'll stay here.

Help others with their existential crisis.

It is my mission

Solemnly sworn

To the darkest night.

No dessert Before Dinner

I know you want to have a treat,

but rember, you are what you eat,

no desert before dinner,

we all like cookies cakes and pie,

but remember this is not a lie,

no dessert before dinner,

we all scream for ice cream,

but go easy on the whipped cream,

no dessert before dinner,

don't do something prenmature,

don't do something immature,

no dessert before dinner

The Dragon

Zounds, Leopold what a scary dragon I just wet my pants!

Fear not Archibald I shall smite him with my Lance,

The dragon ate Leopold,

Oh s’blood Theobald, Leopold is dead,

Fear not Archibald, I shall smash the monster’s head,

The dragon ate Theobald,

Oh damn Ulric, the beast just ate two knights,

Fear not Archibald, I’ll put up a better fight,

The dragon ate Ulric

Three knights dead, Samwise oh what a day,

Fear not Archibald, I will make him pay,

The dragon ate Samwise

No one else is left but me,

How can I alone set my kingdom free?

Then Jack the peasant came,

Pardon Sir I can save the day,

I’ll just kindly ask the dragon to fly away,

Archibald laughed at Jack

I know you think I will fail this test,

But may I be damned to hell if my choice isn’t the best,

The dragon ate Jack,

I might as well try this; I know I’ll die,

Archibald’s arrow hit the beast between the eyes,

I am a hero! I’ll be the subject of songs!

I sent that vile creature where it belongs,

The roc swooped down and ate Archibald

Yes, Your Hair Is Important


The muse has struck

For the first time

In a long time

Too long.


The one with the golden hair

Long and cascading

Hiding all the mystery of the world

And all of its truths.


I used to think poetry

About women worthless

But I see now

Random images

  • curves-5363.jpg - By: dbanach
  • Courbet and Death - By: Kimberly Kersey Asbury
  • Floralia-4333.jpg - By: dbanach