When those creative juices,
Do not flow very well,
And inspiration, it reduces,
And you have nothing to tell.
There are no new rhymes for you to make.
And no new metaphors to bake,
Into a nice poetic cake,
Served at a picnic by a lake.
There is no picnic.
There’s no cake.
No trees, no water.
There’s no lake.
And the inside of your head,
Is more dry than a dry lake bed.
You’re stuck inside a barren hell,
When you’re going through a long dry spell.
There goes Sarah Palin,
Railin’ against country and king.
Rocking that beat poetry thing.
Has she ever endeavored poetry?
Because never so clever was she.
Takin’ the time to toe to line and find a rhyme.
She’s got the drive to stay alive and to thrive you know.
At least she said so.
Just like a feral Lewis Carroll,
She’s using words you’ve never heard.
Words like, “skwirmish” and “refudiate.”
To elucidate or make it clear,
She said she’s a no-fear Shakespeare.
She was a bad politician, that failin’ Palin.
Should have made poetry her mission.
Ladies, are you here
only to bestow laurels?
Are you here only
because some god(awful)
plucked a rib from a jackass?
Are you simple fodder for texts?
Or are you the corpora keepers of Earth?
One vang of Ship and Stars,
essential oil to the rough hand,
you’ve phased like the moon
from slim to bold—
illuminating more than semicircles.
Don’t let the other vang control
our entire voyage, emphasizing their weight.
Ladies, haven’t you of late outrun
the phony blame? The transferred shame?
not every page should be rewritten.
But tear away this old book’s false cover.
Change the font, don’t hurt for the past;
this newest alphabet is yours to form.
The oldest prints came from the leaf,
the petal, the hand. And stamped by Man.
Ladies, bestow our perennial history, instead
onto the interior-lighted electron images.
Make them as tangible as the paper page
was to the Suffragettes. Show us all
what’s full and ongoing, a portmanteau
for our journey forward.
K. Shawn Edgar | Electric Candle | Post-Punk BMX | Night Shifter
Being paid to not show up to work.
It sounds like a fantastic deal, doesn’t it?
What could be better?
How about not being considered so much of a threat,
Or so unpleasant to have around,
They don’t need to pay you to stay home.
What is one supposed to grow in this garden?
Delightful sweet Gratitude, perhaps?
Or maybe, some other fruits.
All very difficult to swallow and digest.
There’s no pleasure in this garden.
Only missed opportunities,
Still clinging to their branches,
But well past their prime,
And peak freshness.
Dried up and no good.
Tuesday Afternoon turned Wednesday ongoing into Summer’s Evening
The tents are red tinged green, inside seashells at sunset. When ladies at picnics merge with chaos and cream, every possible perspective looks the same. It’s overlapping snapshots of fingers, truffles, mouths and the smiles in between. All daffodil parasols twirl, as cranberry winds blow in from the fields, a dainty voice heard whispering: “Eat the truffles, sip the Earl Gray; the sun has stopped moving, all day, all day, all day.” The ladies are spun and spin in harmonious concentricity; the grass is green, the sky is blue, the cream is sweet. All curves, ergonomic; the effortless bending of elbows and rotating of wrists compels cocktail glasses to tip, and to connect, with rounded lips and eager mouths, until pomp turns to graveled lullabies inside soft eardrums. Oh, what the laureled gods will do when blind, ignorant faith runs amuck at a party of the privileged.