Poems

his breath is mixing with the season's frost
the mustang lords over the rolling hill
and wonders how it was the West was lost
or maybe it is just the morning's chill

frozen, frigid, fruitless
U.S. nearly lootless
facing such an "other"
should we even bother

The drums fall silent as the rock guitar
cries mournfully; the vodka burns my throat.
The saxophone joins in, and as they spar
I draw another twenty from my coat.

The table to the right is short on beer;
the waitress makes her rounds, a loaded tray.
Exhausted, but her smile appears sincere.
I wave, the bill in hand, as if to pay.

"Another one?" she asks, points at the drink.
The Bloody Mary about halfway done --
"You busy later?" -- a half-hearted wink.
"Fuck you", she mouths, then pats my hand, and gone.

The cocktails drown in atmosphere and beat.
The poet and his muse, on Bourbon Street.

Author notes: written 2/19

umbrellas mushroom as the drizzle
accelerates from drip to drop
splish splash, the raindrops hiss and sizzle
the melting street a cooking top

the air, still thick with pregnant pauses
expels the acid from its veins
the drenched, so certain of their causes
won't let the rain dictate who reigns

the fever breaks, albeit slightly
prevailing upon cooler heads
those that can disagree politely
those seeing more than blues and reds

the torrent ends, as if by faucet
transforming into finer mist
I fold umbrella and then toss it
and practice opening my fist

wealth and power's final hours
tend to focus on regret
in that way they're much like ours
fantasies of "miss me yet"
what we'd give for but one second
but one glimpse of future bliss
rich or poor, can't miss the check in
bliss as fleeting as a kiss

the wave tops chase each other to the beach
and crash, exhausted, foaming at the mouth
I sit, observing, safely out of reach
admiring sailboats leaving for the South

the water's ageless color wets the sand
erasing childish forts and fragile hearts
the hermit crabs don't dare to make a stand
and move their pearly homes to finer parts

the moon will soon give up its vain attempt
to purify the spot on which I sit
the waves break, in frustration and contempt
their froth recedes as they admit defeat

the last sail leans to starboard and winks out
they're gone now, till the summer makes them sprout

Author notes: wc108

here are some proposed amendments
to the listed ten commandments:

do not steal unless you need it
or the amount is kinda small
do not labor to succeed. It's
not ever your own fault
honor mother, honor father
neither, both, whatever goes
studying is such a bother
make sure others know their flaws
these important changes, know 'em
to remember, here's a poem
but remember, rhyming verse
is colonialism's curse

they rise each year, Dutch masters of my garden
bright flowers tower well above their beds
each year, as if the bulbs expect a pardon
ashamed of when sheer mania filled their heads

He thought he saw an article,
reporting without spin
He looked again, and found it was
original as sin
'At last I realize,' he said,
That's all there's ever been'

Author notes: https://allpoetry.com/contest/2799264-Lewis-Carroll-Contest https://www.thereader.org.uk/featured-poem-the-mad-gardeners-song-by-lewis-carroll/

the bridge to nowhere found at last
and those in government, aghast
though finding it is sure a thrill
now they can't use it in their bill

form follows function
the function of a haiku
is preserving form

I didn't come here just to hear you clap
or gush about my feelings
or use you as a platform for my healing
I came to snap you back, confused and reeling
eyes widened, scared, till I say it's a wrap.
now you can clap