Collection of poems

A friend of mine wrote these, not me, but I felt that they deserved the potential of being discovered, stumbled upon by a wanderer, drifting in hyperspace for eternity trying to make sense.

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not-a-chance
would a young Ed Poe
or a young James Joyce,
have a hope to get in,
have a good college choice?
Quoth the corvid, not-a-chance.
And I ponder, weak and weary
As my eyes are growing bleary,
Sadly thinking thinking thinking,
Eyelids blinking blinking blinking
Why the heck would Harvard take me?
When will daylight come and wake me?
Quoth the corvid, not-a-chance.
Now my brain fills up with questions,
perhaps my mind will start to gestion:
in this age of plutonium geese,
will the earth find lasting peace?
When the oil-wells finally stall,
Will there be enough food for all?
After this age of octane force,
Should I keep my car and eat my horse?
Quoth the corvid, not-a-chance.
Learning is a life-long reading,
And my eyes keep feeding feeding.
Now my head is getting dizzy,
The candle’s flame goes flicker flicker,
The shadows grow a little thicker,
I need to keep my fingers busy,
To keep my head from nodding nodding,
To keep my progress plodding plodding,
What more has the wise man than the fool?
isn’t wisdom more than just a simple tool?
The sage’s mouth’s words are gracious,
and his imagination spacious,
But the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the tall,
Since time and chance simply happen to us all,
Quoth the corvid, lotta-chance.
The gathering of learning is like picking berries,
My left arm crooks the bowl it carries.
but when the golden bowl is broken,
Or the pitcher shattered at the fountain,
Can I take my wisdom with me,
Far beyond the distant mountain?
Quoth the corvid, not-a-chance.

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Why walk in darkness?


I’d simply rather walk in lightness,
than walk in darkness.
It’s not that I’m afraid I’d trip over a rake.
It’s just that I don’t want to miss the glimmer of the rainbow,
Or the dew glistening on the morning clover,
Or the snowflakes floating in the evening breeze,
Or the twinkle in your eye.

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Writing poetry is like masturbation.
I’m playing with words
Squeezing them out of thesauruses and dictionaries
Squeezing them out of my mind
Stroking them
Re-arranging them.
It’s getting hard.
My fingers fly across the page
My hand goes up and down
Am I doing any good for humanity?
Am I creating anything worthwhile?
dubious.
I’m struggling now
The words I seek are piling up inside of me
I feel their pressure.
I want to get past this writers’ block.
My hand slides up
My hand pumps down
My fingers squeeze my pen
My hand is moving faster now
My fingers grasp tightly around my instrument
I feel the release coming
I lust after the release
Here come the syllables:
Oooooh, aaahhhhh
Yeaaahhh baby
That feels so gooood
The words are coming now
They’re coming, they’re coming
My thoughts are gushing out onto this clean white paper.
Oh God, what a mess!
Who’s gonna clean this up?
Where’s the tissues?
I think I got something in my eye
Maybe it’s a teardrop
Where’s the tissues?
Where’s the issues?
Am I planting any seeds in any fertile minds?
Am I doing anybody any good?
Am I doing myself any good?
Dubious.
This paper, along with all these tissues
Need to be thrown quickly into the trash.
Writing poetry is like masturbation.


-----------------Read Between The Lions-------------------
John lived underwater.
Under the frozen ice
Of a winter pond.
I told him:
Rise up,
Break through the ice,
Breathe the fresh, crisp air of day,
And stand in the presence of the sun.

Erik lived in an egg.
Curled up in a dark, small space.
The walls were hard.
I told him:
Crack the shell,
Push on through to the outside,
Stretch your legs,
Push your toes into the soil,
Find your mother earth.
Run free.

Steve lived in a cave
A deep, dark, dank, musty blackness.
I told him:
Grope, wander,
Keep moving,
You can find your way out,
Of the labyrinthine maze of your life.
Follow the seductive wisp of fresh air,
That blows across your dusky, dank dreams.
You will find an opening,
that opens into a new world,
where brightness, and color,
and the fragrance of springtime-blossoming,
flowery buzzing bees
will awaken you.

Ulysses lived in a hall of mirrors.
Everywhere he looked he saw his own reflection.
He was not a bad-looking guy,
But grew tired of looking at only himself.
I told him:
Pick up a stone,
Break the mirrors,
You will find a magnificent, complex world,
A world that surprises you.
You will see faces other than your own;
Maybe you will even see the face of eternity.

Sam lived inside a woman.
Curled up in a soft, wet womb,
Sucking his thumb,
Dreaming of a new reality.
I told him:
Wake up,
And feel the labor pains.
The waters are breaking,
Squeeze yourself out through a small tunnel,
A small tunnel that is a gateway to life,
A small tunnel that, for many,
Is a gateway to happiness and bliss.
Squeeze yourself out,
Into the arms of the doctor,
The doctor is waiting for you,
He wants to catch you.
If he spanks you,
It’s simply for your own good.
Don’t be afraid,
The breast of your maker awaits you,
With a warm, delicious, nourishing sustenance.

Christopher lived in the zoo.
His place was in the lion cage.
He had one lion on his left,
And one lion on his right.
He was afraid.
He was sorely afraid.
He was always afraid.
He was genuinely afraid.
He was even terrified.
Why be afraid Christopher?
No one lives forever.
Reach out,
Touch the lions,
Pet them,
Caress them.
If you don’t want death to caress you,
Learn to caress death.
Saddle-up the lions;
Open the cage.
Ride the lions out into a glorious new arena,
And stand before the king.