Open mic poetry thread.

[peruban]

"Untitled"

Sing to me your bird call echo dew breeze sun kiss!
Were I a grass blade finger pointed up to sky, or
Standing pillar tall with jutting hip like coconut tree, or
Spiky sable with pineapple stem exploding firework fingers, or
Her royal majesty, slinky, slender, dancing with the wind
The sun would drip in droplets on my tongue and
Bathe my face in yellow warm caress.

But I will not shun the sun, no
I will not give insult to the sun, for though

The concrete veins of man do feed the metropolitan
heart, pumping legal tender to a bureaucratic nervous
system, and though inside the stucco jungles ice junkies
hide under florescent veils wearing asbestos hats,
sipping caramel-colored gutter juice, and nibbling cardboard

The clouds do gather in crowds and gossip about the
Earth, ungrateful earth, who never returns their tears of joy.

And no one wails like the sun, whose quantized photon tears
Trickle light speed onto day.

Only the birds can hear.

-Peruban

****************************************************************

Anyone else want to improv something?

[Droopy]

1. Beans, beans musical fruit,

the more you eat the more you toot,
the more you toot the better you feel,
so let's eat beans with every meal.

[peruban]

2. LOL!!

I meant something original.

[Droopy]

3. Okay, but I'm a terrible poet.

That hasn't stopped me from trying to write poetry, though. :) Here's one of my "better" ones, but it's not improv.

Beer

If wine is divine
then beer is heavenly.

You know when life gets going strong
that there is absolutely nothing wrong
with throwing back a cold six pack
to ease you of your panic attack.

And when it seems like life is hell
and everyone is ringing your bell
invite them out to have a drink
and drink the brew until you stink.

And if your mate leaves you one night
old beer never grows trite
it will be there ever faithfully
to share in your poor misery.

But you really don’t need an excuse
to put good beer into use
all you really need is a five spot
and a place to keep it from getting hot.

[peruban]

4. That's great!

I'm always impressed when someone can stick to meter and rhyme, my poems are usually more chaotic, formless, free verse.

And the subject matter is hilarious!! I'm a bit of a drinker and so that just hit home for me. Well done!

[Droopy]

5. Thank you

Your's is over my head. :dunce:

[peruban]

8. It's pretty basic, really.

I was just thinking about my days working in a miserable cubicle and how I would often dream of being outside with nature, like a tree.

My basic trick is to never say what I want to say outright, but instead to allude in metaphor.

[Tuesday Afternoon]

6. hmmm...

that is pretty frantic, kinetic.

not much for improv, myself.

Miss Peggy might contribute something if she sees this thread.

[CaliforniaPeggy]

10. I just might, my dear Tuesday Afternoon...

;-)

[trackfan]

7. Cot Fantasy - from my office poems of 1996. It's an acrostic - note the first letter of each line:

Cot Fantasy

After I rise from my soft warm
bed, and I drive off to work, a
cot would be nice there. My shiny
desk could be used to conceal the
evidence. When I would start to
feel I was falling asleep, I'd
go to my cot's secret drawer and
hurriedly open it up. Then
into the cot I would jump with
joy. No one out in the hall would
know that inside of the room I
lie, sleeping peacefully, and my
mind would be freed from the nagging
noise that disturbs it all day. The
others would not even note my
presence, or lack thereof, as I
quietly made up for all the
rest that I'd lost from a lack of
sleep. They go on with the daily
toil, while I snooze and I curl up
under a blanket. They can not
view me, for there is no clear, glass
window to see through. They'd need an
x-ray to see through the door. I
yearn for a world where my work day
zoomed by, as I lie there sleeping.

[peruban]

9. Brilliant!

I've never even thought of writing something like that. It must have been challenging sticking to that form while keeping to the subject so clearly.

[CaliforniaPeggy]

11. My dear peruban!

Improv is something you never want to see from me!

Trust me on this...

Every poem is written, sweated over, polished to within an inch of its life...

And then maybe it's acceptable...

Maybe.

Here's one I did recently:

"Seeing With My Heart"

When my vision fails
And my eyes cannot see
What stands before them

Then I hope I’m
Seeing with my heart

For there the vision’s true
No filters hide reality

So I let the scales fall
And open up myself
To see him
With my heart

I wouldn’t want to miss
This wondrous vision
Because I could not see

Because I would not let
My heart speak its truth

I‘d have missed
So much
That has mattered
In my life

I must not be afraid
Not all hidden things
Are false

I will trust my heart
Its vision tells the truth...

[peruban]

14. I can see how that one must have cost you work.

I especially like the lines:

"Then I hope I’m
Seeing with my heart

For there the vision’s true
No filters hide reality"

I often take my time with my poems, lying around thinking, writing a word or two then erasing them for others. I tend to have my head in the clouds when I write rather than my feet on the ground, that's why I like detailed, ornate poems.

The writing process is boring for most people, that's why there are so few movies about poets. Plenty of movies about painters, composers, and sculpturers. But nobody's really interested in seeing somebody go through the ordeal of composing a poem.

I also find improvisation keeps my mind abstract and focused. It's always fun to see what you can pound out in a short sitting.

Oh, and btw, great to see you again!

[CaliforniaPeggy]

17. I don't recall that this one was very difficult...

And I thank you for your praise!

Great to see you too!

I enjoy talking with you too...

:hug:

[bridgit]

12. What, another one?

Oh what fun another one
Quite nearly done in the oven
After which I'll likely pull it out
Maybe even twist & shout
Oh what fun another one!

Peanuts and cashew shells
Left in the vestibule twixt
Remnants of spy hunters
Where the aspens have already turned
The summers are not hot
They are colder than ice
And the ice it is not slippery nor firm
To any extent but watery instead
Nearer still to inside where
The head it sings in lieu

"Oh what fun another one
Quite nearly done in the oven
After which I'll likely pull it out
Maybe even twist & shout
Oh what fun another one!"

The sing song suckle...
The lyme of a tic-toc malady
T'ween the shells of peanuts and cashews
Dropped in the vestibule with less cares than warrant
Where they are come in due course
And in the fullness of time found

[peruban]

15. Oh what fun!

It's playful. I also like the refrain, gives it a cohesion that the details counter.

[Blue-Jay]

13. "Boss Man"

Big brother, checksigner
and compiler of my
yearly holidays
my urine tester
boiling fester
creativity molester
You cling to me with
a paisley noose
and dangle me from
the building top
with a double windsor knot
like the puppet I've become.

[peruban]

16. Hey, that's kind of like mine above.

I see parallels in the misery of being under authority. Fuck authority, I say.

[pokerfan]

18. sheepskin seat covers

sheepskin seat covers
winter warm and summer cool
little lambs no more

[peruban]

19. Ooooohhhh, a haiku!

Almost Zen, really. Reminds me of Ezra Pound's "In a Station of the Metro".

[Lyric]

20. Not improv, as I am lazy this morning.

God at the Fruit Stand

Every time I spend a dollar I cross
off your name. It offends me to see it, like faith
is something we can trade for California oranges
on a hot highway shoulder.

When I was nine, Sister Sandra cut
an apple in half and said that your story was there
in a circle of seeds. I almost believed her—except

fragile flesh, rigid core, small round infants deep inside,
and a skin speckled brown with the sun.
An apple is the fruit of a mother.

You can burn a bush or part a sea, but you can never know
how it feels to grow a universe, to feel him curled
asleep in your middle, pressing your hand from inside, to weep
and curse and part like the sea to bear him.

How can I trust you with eternity when you've never
felt agony in creation, never risked
your existence for the sake of bringing forth?

How can I do anything but cross you off
every time I spend a dollar
and buy a roadside orange?