Poetry intimidates me. It seems like there are no real rules, and for an engineer, that is anathema. Poetry is flowery language used to tangentially get a point across, written words that seem to trip my tongue rather than roll off. You must get extra points if the meaning is hidden in obscure references, leaving me to wonder what the real message is. I can often catch the scent of deep emotions, or profound truths, but the poem structure blows it away like a stiff breeze. I suppose if I do a forensic study, the poems will yield their story, but is it worth it? Whenever one of the Prose challenges requires a poem, I just try to make the words rhyme, and hope for grace from my readers. I guess when God was handing out poetry genes, I thought He said "poetry germs," so I said "Inoculate me instead."

The Poetic Imagination

The way I best define poetry is to imagine a world without it. We’ve heard the cliché “you don’t know what you got till it’s gone,”and it is rooted in truth- we often understand something’s value more acutely in its absence.What is a world without poetry?Poetry is an outlet to set free our innermost thoughts.

The thoughts we set free in our poem are captured by others, who are challenged to see the world in a new light.

Without poetry, we would lose this valuable avenue.

The social function of poetry is that it creates community, and often spoken word poetry events open up platforms to discuss important social issues.

Poetry broadens imagination as it forces us to explore our experiences in this complex world and leads to novel insights and perspectives.

To quote Albert Einstein: Imagination embraces the entire world, stimulating progress, giving birth to evolution.

My enemy. I try to beat you but I can't. I can't master your techniques. My white whale, I can't ensnare you. I just watch and stare as you fly away. My inspiration, I plan to be like you. Strive to be like you, yet fall short each times. I have seen how you help others speak their thoughts. Hughes' Let America be America Again. Angelou's I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. Frost's The Road Not Taken. My words beg to be like theirs but fall short. My thoughts swirl, trying to craft themselves into lyrics, failing miserably. I am just another wannabe, watching real poets with dreamy eyes, hoping to one day soar with them.

In the world of literate expression there is always the literal.

Poetry: literary work in which special intensity is given to the expression of feelings and ideas by the use of distinctive style and rhythm

Literature: written works, especially those considered of superior or lasting artistic merit.

Each part of these definitions could be analyzed with additional definitions of the words within and still remain unsure of the literal and precise meaning.

To take from these definitions, it could be argued, poetry is a form of expression that has potential to resonate through the ages to its audience.

Classic masterpieces of words yet unknown. Pieces of memory, yet to be more than defined as the sum of rhythm and feeling, more that precisely placed syllable and line.

A literal artwork of words expressed.

Please don't leave me.

I know it's hard. I know life's hard. I know this world has torn you down over and over.

But don't go. I love you. I love you so much it hurts. I love you. I love you. I love you.

God damn it.

Okay.

I know this isn't even poetry anymore or even a piece of decent literature. You've always been the better one at this anyways. It's just I don't think I can tell you how much I need you. 

You live on the other side of the damn world yet I can't help but think of you as my best friend. And I know life is such crap and that you just can't take it anymore. You don't deserve that. But I'm going to be selfish and tell you the truth. I don't deserve this. 

This pain of not knowing whether I'll see your face on my screen ever again or if you'll alive long enough for me to meet you in person. Counting days between our goodbyes is like holding my breath and praying that you'll be okay. That life will be okay.

But I know that life isn't okay. This world sucks. I know. I know. I know. Just please don't make this world worse for me.

Stay. For me, if not you.

Eyes white, teeth grit, nostrils flare.

You were not in control, you were deranged.

     Blood pumped, fists clenched, slow expel of air.

     I had to do something, you had changed.

     You lunged, arms flailed, everything strewn.

     Mum and dad cowered, fight of flight?

I stood, searched frantically, panic ballooned.

I grabbed a carving knife, plunged it to the right.

Legs weakened, mouth agape, blood gushed.

     I realized, I too was someone else.

     Scream galore, tears flowed, expressions crushed.

You laid there, your eyes tried to confess.

"I'm sorry," you said.

     "Hush mate," I said.

          "I'm sorry," you said.

               "Hush, hush now," I said.

               Lips curled, eyes softened, breathing slowed.

          In that last breath, I recognized that soul.

     Eyes wept, fingers trembled, lips bowed.

In that moment, my heart was a gaping hole.

Your name was Wayne, you were my bane.

     You were my brother, no one knew me better.

I loved you dearly, twas sad you left too early.

     Now you're gone, who's gonna dye the hamster blond?

I sit here alone, feeling the chill in my bone.

I sit here alone, reeling from losing my clone.

I sit here alone, hoping one day to atone.

I sit here alone, waiting to go home.

(Based on a true story)

I walk into a bar and order a drink.

"Glass of whisky."

"You're a writer, aren't you?"

I look to my left. Blonde broad. I like brunettes. Looks thin, but you can tell she's flabby under all those clothes. Skinny-fat girl. Nice eyes. Decent tits. I'm fucking her tonight.

"No." I am.

"Well you sure look as broken as one. All dirty and shit. Sad eyes. You've got those sad, sad eyes."

"And you've got a fat ass."

"Fuck you. Why do you keep looking into that empty glass?"

"I'm waiting to see if there is an answer to my life at the bottom of it."

"How many glasses have you checked?"

"Three." The bartender hands me the new glass. Four.

She sits and watches me. It starts to make me uncomfortable. I wonder if I should fuck her now so I can get rid of her early.

No.

I'd rather be too drunk to realize how lonely fucking her makes me feel.

"What are you staring at whore?"

"Fuck you. You think you're all smart and shit. I know you write. All writers feel bad for themselves and don't do shit about it. I'm just trying to figure out your story."

"There isn't a story. I don't write."

"Bull shit. What's on that napkin? Looks like some fancy words to me."

Didn't know 'distinguished' and 'appealing' counted as fancy words. My temper starts rising. One thing I hate more than a dumb person is a dumb whore.

"Cunt."

"Prick."

"Want to fuck?" She's talking too much.

"Fuck you? Fuck you."

I pinch her ass and she slaps me. Bitch. I look around. No other broads in the bar. Damn. Going to have to do a little work. Maybe I'll just wack off. Let's see how far the whore pushes me.

"I'm Charles."

"Like that prince?"

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Can't deal with girls this dumb. I finish my last sip of Johnnie and pay the tab. I walk away without looking at her. Don't want to spit in her face and have one of these piss stinking old men try to be a hero.

"Hey! Where you going?!"

I ignore her. Keep walking Charles. You can ball up your hand, put a little lotion on it, and make a vagina a hell of a lot cleaner than this bitches. Bet she doesn't douche.

"Wait up! I want to come with you."

...Hesitate...

Dammit.

Got to stop thinking with that other head of mine.

"Yeah baby? I bet you want to come."

"Yeah, I do."

"Oh yeah? All right. I can do that. I'll let you come."

"Yeah, yeah. I want to."

"Better yet, I'm going to make you come."

This shit is too easy. Let anything with a pussy go, and it'll come back. Those things are kind of shaped like boomerangs.

She comes back. I'm not drunk enough. Glass number five. Six. Seven. She's getting more attractive. I can almost convince myself that I want to do this now.

She's squirming. I can smell her getting wet from here. I'm going to put my naked dick inside of some foreign moist cave. The sickening stench is like a bad trip. I'm overdosing on the fumes. I know I shouldn't, but I'm going to. This is how I feel less lonely. For a moment. Then when I see this stranger in my arms, I feel worse than ever. Stomach churning. Nausea. Fucking wretching, writhing in pain.

I throw her down onto my sheetless bed.

...Sheetless pull out couch. I don't actually have a bed.

I'm an angry fuck. I can't hit a woman in public, but in bed it's acceptable. They enjoy it. At least the whores do. Not the nice girls who want to be the one's who change me. I tear them apart. But hey, shouldn't have tried to change me.

So I tear the skin off of her back with my pathetic excuse for finger nails.

That was for the dumb girl who asked what "a nigma" was.

And I pull strings, ropes, curtains of blonde hair out of her head.

And this is for the bitch who told me my writing was "icky."

I pinch her thighs until the white starts to purple.

And that's for the Prince Charles comment. Dumb cunt.

I'm losing control

Then I see her face and control is lost.

My dick becomes this dagger. My balls, it's marble handle. I'm cutting into her. I'm not going crazy. I know exactly what I'm doing. And it feels good. So fucking good. I'm orgasming, and I can't stop. The come just keeps coming. Her blood is everywhere. Her insides are dripping out. I've never had sex this good in my life.

She's crying.

I'm laughing.

She's screaming.

I'm screeching.

She's clawing.

I'm gnawing.

She's dying.

She's dying.

I'm smiling.

Joy to the fucking world the bitch is dead.

Now out with my head.

I release.

I look down at my masterpiece. A true work of art. Puts Picasso to shame.

I'm not going mad. I'm not being mad. I'm not acting mad.

But I'm so damn mad.

Yet I've never felt so perfectly sane in my entire life.

Within the silvered glass I spy

the mask I wear, my perfect lie.

This happy face, it is not me;

I show them what they want to see

while deep inside I slowly die.

I cannot let them see me cry,

so I just smile and wave goodbye

then check for signs of pain, set free

within the silvered glass.

With broken wings I’ll never fly;

I turn away and softly sigh.

My world consists of tragedy -

a scream that echoes silently.

The fools can’t see, it is not I,

within the silvered glass.

(c) 2016 - dustygrein

** The rondeau is often able to convey a depth that somehow transcends it's mere fifteen lines. This one was written for my daughter. Since the loss of my grandson to SIDS  in 2011, she has worn her mask almost all the time - and only those of us who know the pain can see behind the smiles.

i think, therefore i am

i borrow from rene decartes 

to ponder philosophically

and share my thoughts of thinking

i think that because i think- i am,

but there are exceptions, 

to modify the great descarte's expression

i am, regardless of whether i think or not

because when i sleep i am unaware

unless i ride along as a thinking passenger 

with my subconsciousness driving me its plot

however, i am not thinking, 

my dear rene,

as in the case of a dreamless state

or knocked out cold under anesthesia 

and yet i am,

because upon waking and rising and reflecting,

i draw upon the conclusion, clear

that i am,

because i still was, 

though asleep

by another proof

my wife perhaps, by my snoring

knows despite my unawares,

that i am

i exist, i lie beside her alive

although i do not know myself 

that i am, at that point

because i am unconscious

i think therefore i am

and if i find myself not thinking 

i nonetheless still am

i am to someone

i will forever be

whether thinking or not -

think of a rock, for instance

it does not think, 

but it is -

it exists

a rock cannot say i am -

but it is

and if a corpse cannot think

it still is,

it exists,

even as it cannot think

as the decomposition of a corpse takes effect

and its state changes biochemically -

the transformation of matter -

where has its thinking gone?

. . . to the place from whence it sprang?

after all, matter cannot be created or destroyed

something is missing,

. . . isn't it?

. . . the corpse was,

therefore it is

the trick is to find its missing piece

which has passed to another state

another place?

my body is only a part of the real me

i think because i am

the power to think is a blessing

Do you think 

of the pavement with each

graceful prance, each careless

step a mocking pressure 

upon its squalid face?

If it paused 

in its hopelessness

and anguish 

to take stock of 

infatuation and take

offense at your naive

snub

(note: sidewalks, to my knowledge

do not, as a rule

love, think, or bear grudges, still)

it would rear

up 

and skin your

damn-lovely

porcelain knees

even as it daydreams

fondly of that night two

months ago when you, inebriated,

besotted, clung to it 

for dear life 

and whispered 

your numerous sorrows

as it caressed and soothed

your flushed cheek.