Week 10

I wear disappointment in my eyes

Like sunglasses

I stretch the scars on my back

Like angel wings

My fears cover me

Like the night starry sky

That shines through my window

As I dream of yesterday and tomorrow.

I grieve those alive and dead

Grey tombstones hairs on my head

A rose casket

On my bed

An open book unread

Crumbled letters in my throat

Unsaid.

The full moon rises

The energy of mercury

Pulls me towards the sun

The astros calls my name.

As I am the dark sky

I swallow the universe whole

And I control

the galaxy
that rotates within me.   

Sound Poem

Roaring water running down
sizzling against melting snow.

footprints racing
through the dancing winds
crushing earth
beneath the icy cracking surface.

Growling hungry howling wolves corner
the squeaking bouncy baby bunny
over a singing mountain

the child jumps,
the mountain splits
into two,
water splashes
rotating rivers around
the screaming wolves.

Cubist

To Dream

To dream
in time and space
where space could go back in time.

To walk on a cloud
where at any step
the cloud becomes a crowd.

To sleep next to a farmer
and wake up to a horse.

Counting sheep
turns to counting beats
to counting sleep
then counting streets.

We live on dreams.

Dreams take us,
here,
there,
everywhere.

But are dreams, dreams
If they're really dreams?

List Poem

What if I told you I don’t give a fuck?

What if I said I felt like I ran out of luck?

What if I ask why am I here?

Not my appearance, but existence.

I don’t care no more.

I don’t sleep no more.

I don’t eat no more.

I just drink some more.

Are dreams dreams,

If they are still dreams?

If I don’t give a fuck about this problem,

Is that a problem?

Im melting,

But does that make me a witch?

Or does that make me a bitch?

I can’t decide which?

I don’t care if he hates me,

I don’t care if she hates me,

I don’t care if they hate me,

Fuck them all just hate me.

If the shoe was on the other foot,

Not not yours,

But his,

You’d take the spit off my face,

And clean that little bitches shoes.

This is why I don’t fuck with y’all no more.

This is why I don’t talk to y’all no more.

This is why,

When your fake asses walk by,

I look at God through my sunglasses,

And don’t open my mouth to speak no more.

I walk through doors,

I look through ceilings,

I levitate on water,

I fuck your feelings.

Imagry

I determine to break lines in a poem when I feel like the beat is too long. Poetry has to have
rhythm to flow for the tone and the reader. Without the beats, there is no style or soul to the poem.
It could also run too long if the poet does not break the poem into beats, which is problematic.

Ezra Pound describes imagery in poetry as a different illusion, or concept of art. When he says image is the poets pigment, it shows how a writer cannot write without a vision.  Pound’s alos states that the image is not an idea, which means that no one just picks an object then says they’re going to write about it. The image will come from the mind of the poet. Pound's theory on how poetry is radiant code or cluster vertex of in which or through which or by which the ideas are constantly Rushing shows how peory is another form of contemporary art. Poetry, especially imagery in poetry, is a form of artwork that not only connects the reader visually, but also spiritually. Poets are talking to the souls of the reader by giving them a vision of a concept illusion.

Seed

Roaring rain,

Pours down from the clouds,

Intertwines with soil,

Conceives the faith of the earth.

The growing green leaf glows out,

Of the brown slik dirt,

Dies,

Rebirths to orange,

Then yanked away,

From mothers arms.

Rabbit

Racing running rabbit,

Yanks the orange sharp sperd child,

from it’s mother’s walls,

To feed her hungry children.  

As she hops through,

The stormy wet desert,

The bloody red beast chases her,

Under the hollow stars.

The sun rises,

Past the moon,

The children waited for dinner,

Til noon.

Fox

Skinny little fire fox,

You stand there with flames,

in your eyes,

And under your feet.

You hide under rocks,

Away from the pride,

That tells you to run south,

Or to other side.  

Breif Case

Dimmed secrets,

are held between,

A golden rusted lock,

inside a brown suede leather skinned briefcase.