The Pendulum

And pseudo-intellectual misanthropes are a dozen for a dime.

Isn’t it so? That rhymes though.

I don’t hate mankind, I’m just a pseudo-intellectual that doesn’t like poetry.

Poets sing themselves.
They do not sing for fun.
They perch on this limb and that;
And some folks like their songs;
And some folks shoot them down.

Aussenseite,
I’ve just finished reading 1600 pages of contemporary poetry. Your poems stand up alongside the best.

I’m published. Are you?
This tread was meant to be a poetry tag. Are you trying to usurp it as Trixie did the other thread? Maybe not. Maybe you just don’t get poetry. I wish I could say something to persuade you of its value. You like songs? They are poetry put to music. Rap is poetry.

What on earth do you suppose I may have published? Poetry?

My comments were probably inappropriate, given the nature of the thread, but I don’t think my style is quite as blunt as Trixie’s.

There’s no maybe about it, I totally don’t get it.

Music is my thing but I prefer it without singing.

Flyswat
I sometimes stand here swatting flies
Because they are immediate,
Because I feel superior
To senseless flitting in my face.

I sometimes stand here far too long,
Absorbing meaning from attack
Because the lure of lobbing lies
Can hide a moment’s impotence.

Maybe when you’ve finished swatting flies you should go and dust your pendulum.

Perhaps start a thread on your dislike of poetry to stop derailment of this one further.

I don’t think so, it wouldn’t be worth the effort.

Then I presume that you are done here…?

Yes, I’d like to go now if you’ve finished asking me questions.

I have indeed finished, but remember… you can always start a new thread rather than bring one off topic. I’m always here to help and advise :handgestures-salute:

Happy Holidays to all.

A Dream

One day called life I walked the human zoo.
A lion roared, king to himself at least.
A songbird sang of heavens she once flew;
It saddened me to hear both bird and beast
Cry through their bars to one they thought released.

I answered them with thoughts such sadness brings:
“I also have a cage. Teach me your hearts.
What makes the song our little prisoner sings?
What gives the confidence the lion imparts?”

“Some days”, they said, “When we are fast asleep.
We dream a turnkey comes to watch and weep.
So let us dream a hope and hoping wait
For dreams in which compassion moves our gate.”

These hands
They are not as strong as I want them to be
Not as deft, not as dexterous, not as big
They are tough and calloused
But they let things drop
Things that I know I should be able to hold
Money, my family, my pen, hell…
Other objects just to keep me stable
Most of all, trust and love
All seem to slip right through my fingers
As if my arms ended at the wrists
Useless mounds of flesh and bone
Too rounded to catch anything between them
Even in desperation
These hands
The ones that used to grasp tree limbs
Softball bats, notebooks full of poems
Held books so big my arms got tired
Hands that melted lovers into puddles
Mended broken frames and opened locked doors
They are not now what they once were
These things that used to hold magic in their fingertips
Knitting blankets, sewing torn clothing
Hands my children loved to hold and comfort them
Tired out long before my heart and mind
Less than agile, broken with scars
Arthritic, slow, pained
Swollen and chubby, misspent
Not with use, but with misuse
Right tools that were never doing the right job
Climbing apple trees to get a better view
Instead of picking a few to share with friends
Holding bats and swinging for the street
Not getting the first base runner to second
Writing angry, sad poems to spill my soul into
Rather than bolstering up the heart of others
Turning the pages of books read for pleasure
Learning little more than how to laugh and cry
Molding lovers into what I wanted them to be
Out of lust and selfish desire but not loving them
Mending the frames of pictures I myself had broken
Unlocking doors that were not mine to open
The blankets are all unravelling, the clothing…
In the garbage instead of the secondhand store
My children fall now and I cannot catch them
Too independent to seek my comfort and guidance
No longer used to draw treasure maps
Or paint art projects, or write love notes
They have woven lies into my life tapestry
And pushed away everything I have held dear
These hands
Have made mistakes too numerous to count
So insurmountable that I cannot reach them
To pull them down and unblock the sun
Get the blood flowing, stretch them to the sky
They are cold, stiff and hardened
No amount of physical therapy can heal them
They need to learn how to live without fear
How to forgive and to plead for forgiveness
To love unconditionally and accept failure
To write those love notes not in secret spaces
But on the sky itself so the world can see
That these hands
Were meant to do something much bigger
To be stronger, to be softer
But they hurt instead of healed,
Held down instead of lifting up
All of those people that they should have touched
Family and friends that they dropped, they pushed away
Hands that gripped tight every steering wheel
Of all the vehicles I believed were out of control
And drove me far away to escape to hide
To keep my heart from facing the choices it had made
Some people wear their heart on their sleeve
But I have always held mine in my hands
Grasped tightly, squeezing it so that I would not drop it
Unable to pass it to anyone because I cannot trust
And it has held it out from me, at a distance
Kept my hands so full that it had only my heart in it
So I could feel it beating and knew it was there
I have always been someone who only believes what she sees
So I held it there keeping careful vigil as it is fragile
Because inside I knew no one else would, or ever did
I grew up with people who had bigger problems than mine
Who adopted me to save themselves and ended up in a bottle
Where we ended up learning to swim just to save ourselves
Times I did hold out my bleeding heart for someone else to see
They never stepped forward to claim it, or even noticed it was there
Maybe because I hid it under my blankets of insecurity and distrust
I knew of faith but faith is something I’ve always wished for that never came
Possibly because I did not have open hands to catch it
It wizzed by, faster than a shooting star
And slipped right through
These hands

The Addict

Because he could not stand,
They kicked away the crutch
He took to fit the hand
Their mind love dared not touch.

Because nobody sees
And no one cares that much,
They nourished the disease
That made him take his crutch.

God in Church
God came to church last Sunday;
Left early; reason is–
Looking at the program,
He found it wasn’t His.

published in DLAJ, 1968

Timequake

Jesus shattered time’s flat line,
Shook Sidhartha’s hopeful feet’
And, in this cluttered street,
Makes to tremble mine.