Frank O’Hara Rondel

“Is it too much to ask for a rondel about a holographic Frank O’Hara and I using the light from the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier to spark our spliffs?”

We take our silent turn;
Hologram Frank and I
Simple stretching of fire
We light a spliff and churn.

He talks and I yearn.
The smoke climbs high
Hologram Frank and I
We take our silent turn.

We call this a sojourn
The unknown soldier shrine
Pale comrade trapped in time
Hologram Frank and I learn,
We take our silent turn.

Brown Boredom

“i think a poem about the loss of imagination/curiosity as people become ‘grown up’ would be interesting”

The echo of brown boredom
calls us to crouch and sleep.
Drift like it doesn’t matter
-like the walls are untouchable.

Life is limited to time spent relaxed
every heartbeat is aimed for blood
to pump, pump, pump for regurgitating reason.

Days long ago were made for galloping-
exploring the scrambled for fun.
Tasting has dissolved into eating
and the rubber of our soles wear thinner.

It is necessary to nurture the wild.
Trap the stars in our eyes.
Cage the craving curiosity.
Weave nets to snag rafts.
We perch on waves of melancholy;
watching our footprints wash away.

Spanish Armada Dolphin Cheese

“Hello

I would like a poem about a dolphin that falls in love with the spanish armada. But it’s actually a metaphor for cheese making. Or, one about love.

Thanks”

My love has slowly brewed
warmed for only five minutes
spreading from fin to tail,
like quiet waves approaching
the clean white beach.

The wooden ships on Spanish shore,
bobbing – blowing gently with natural tendency.
Sweet tender Spanish armada, sleep.
I will wait for dawn before stirring,
because our love can only thicken.

Your covered decks seize the dawn,
stretch your rafters, nest, and sails.
Today our love lifts away from here,
with your elegance – my heart elopes.

I follow you in these changing seas,
but my heart seems to only dissolve in you
as you trudge bravely on to war-
brushing my painted heat into the ocean.

You remain unstirred from my touch,
but I follow your white sails silent.
Whispering heartsrings tug me to you,
forever across this callous sea.

Now hark! What rope is so cruel
as one which turns your cannons.
Lighting the air to new flame,
striking the stranger.

My Spanish sunshine smashed,
a rage of smoke sweeping all.
English and Spanish sweat strain
breaking the peace with gunpowder.

The admiral’s sword cuts swiftly,
turning and cutting through English muck.
I smash against the wooden hordes,
and pieces break from all sides.

My heart flicks unbridled and furious,
but mi Armour is no more.
Shriveled and shrinking, he is cut.

I took the pieces away.
Scraps and splinters.
My wooden treasures I keep,
like clouds saving the sun at night.

Slowly my love comes again,
and I take one piece of the bow under
into the salty depths of the sea
so we can fly from the smoke.

Bloody waters gone,
now we must hold together,
tightly- for the sea is harsh.
We wait for the moon to wane
and wait for the sun to shrug the pain
and my fins can bandage our love again.

Drug Trip World

“A poem about psychedelic trips.”

I sat here calmly waiting,
and now I feel a thunder
crawling in blues and whites
wrapping under reds and purples.

The world is shrieking lovely
in a twisted red blur
in an irresistible spell
that bounces with the beat.

From drab concrete came forests
of gargoyles that dance and fires
that swam up the stairs to sway
with the leaking music from far away.

The glow rips peace in my skin

and burrows fog to rest in me

as I hop like butter in a pan
in my new overflowing world.

Word Birth

“A poem about writing, please, for one writer from another. ^^”

The collisions of grimy memories.
Slurping on the tides of melodies
like freshwater shaking the sea.

Sprung forth from dirt, words
unharrowed, unburned, begun-
pour from pens like spicy wax
coming alive with changing passion.

Now these poet’s words
rest loose on rocks
ready to be splashed and cracked
open for my brave assembly.

My hand plunges into the black
to take what disconnects senses from sense,
which lingers on roots of tongues.
I stitch it into curtains
to decorate and encapsulate
the life that surrounds us
within our swirling existence.

The wooden dusk is foundation.
The heavy rhythms of old rise up
from the depths of rusted fog
whispered from the untied worlds
to caress our unbalanced.

To find the free words
takes only unfeathered focus
and an eye for the unseen
then the knots unlock
and words sprout stories.

Nervous Craft

“Im making dream catcher for a fair.
Im nervous about people hating them. Inspire me?”

Some small crafts I love
like the ones that curve
around and around,
like wooden clouds above.

If you would share snares
that snag the harshest dreams,
then surely you can earn
a bushel of special cheer
to take home with care.

Israel Smiles

“about Israel and taking a lot of photos? maybe
throw in something about awesome people on a trip
going home and me being here and being sad because of
it? anything is appreciated :)”

The photos show some Israel,
but the Israel is here
in the cloth wrapped around me

and the sandy dirt in my toes
it’s in the people who came
and the ones who left.

It’s a traveler’s place,
with food ready to stir me
from my stoop to the golden sunset.

Sometimes I miss

yesterday’s smiles,
but in Israel, they come again
with the spring fruits
that touch life on the warm breeze.

Fish and Poems

“A meta-poem.”

The journey of a fish
water, blood, butter.
Such is a poem’s life
which emerges wet
but often flops.
It bleeds out of scale.
Cut with curious knives.
Seasoned with salty spices
diced, marinated, marooned
on a white plate alone.

Theatre of Life

“I would love a poem about theatricality in daily life. I’ve been thinking
about this topic for a while, I would love to hear a poetic take on it :D.”

The rehearsals of childhood,
repeated, practiced, restructured,
and engraved onto our blank brains.

Our roles are like ropes
which we pull for guidance
and wiggle for fun.

We mold our meat

for our roles,
for what we ought to be.

And the more we act,
the more we see the truths.
Rapturous nature, calming deaths, frivolous passions.

When the moon glows hot during showtime
and our eyes strain to see
what is real or upstaged reality,
we see the real stage.

The podium of stars and trees-
ever changing to fit the actors
who change costumes to fit the weather,
like delicate dreams that shift at night.

It’s these days of overturned acting
that make the moon grow anxious
and the sun takes us backstage again
to find our moldy scripts.

Grabbing Peace. Piece by Piece.

“A poem to cheer up a young woman who normally has great self-confidence but is currently finding it hard to smile. She is stuck at home, alone except for her dog. She has no motivation at this moment, and all she wants is her loving boyfriend at her side but he can’t be there right now. And despite being sick and sad, later she must leave to go do her job (and she knows it’s gonna be a long night). I just wanna feel better. Thank you. I promise I’m normally not this depressing or contain this much self pity. I was happier earlier but already this day has begun to wear me down.”

Stale shackles of loneliness.
Layers of unbending boredom,
like a tender noose that itches
and clamps on the heart’s neck.

But listen, all collars can dissolve,
dissipating into happy heart-beats.
It takes courage to trudge on,
when the weather chokes every step.

The trick is to find a war,
some silly strife to grab.
Make war with a mop, or book.
Find the most reliable weapons,
to combat this dungeon of boredom.

Fill every hole in your step,
with a bounce of joy from jelly
-made from your own hands.
Live with a relishing thirst,
and you will never go thirsty.