Sarah Slam

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.

Gibbous


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?

Now,
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

Overgrown Potential 

  • Possibly green
  • Possibly yellow-brown
  • Possibly short
  • Possibly round
  • Possibly pushing a baby in a carriage
  • Possibly pushing a bomb in a burrito 
  • Possibly looking
  • Possibly eyes closed
  • Possibly breathless 
  • Possibly self-composed 
  • Possibly mail’s come
  • Possibly it never will

 

K. Shawn Edgar
 
K. Shawn Edgar | Bike Builder | Porkchop | Butterscotch 

Gardening Leave

Being paid to not show up to work.
It sounds like a fantastic deal, doesn’t it?
What could be better?
What, indeed.
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.
Rotten Resentment.
Hard Bitterness.
Sour Self-Doubt.
All very difficult to swallow and digest.
There’s no pleasure in this garden.
No satisfaction.
Only missed opportunities,
Still clinging to their branches,
But well past their prime,
And peak freshness.
Dried up and no good.

Wednesday’s Aether is a Facsimile


Wednesday’s Aether is a Facsimile

o6o

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.

K. Shawn Edgar | Burnished | Cumulative | Alarmed

 

Bird Bicycle

Driven wings, driving cranks.
I rode ahead with the Geese, charged by their metered blackness. Heralds. Their calls magnetized my blood. Honk, pedal, honk, pedal, honk and I did my best to bunnyhop curbs and dodge cars while staying close to the sunset-bound birds.

K. Shawn Edgar | Darth Mash 

There is a Place on a Small Island

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There is a place on a small island.
A place so full of stories and feelings,
That it feels heavy with them.
Like its history has gravity and weight,
And you can feel the very pull of it.
Reminders are everywhere.
Piles of obsolete household items.
Old rowboats and oars.
A boathouse with an ancient padlock.
The company that made it no longer exists,
But it still works.
And every now and then,
Some surprising and special,
Piece of the past is rediscovered.
Like a horse-drawn buggy,
Forgotten in the corner of an old shed.
Long dead are the horses that once pulled it.
As well as the person who put it there.
Other reminders aren’t so well hidden.
Old farming machinery lying exposed,
In the fields of grass that used to be wheat.
The Old Man and his wife used to make bread,
From their own milled wheat flour.
Until eventually they stopped farming,
And he left the machines lying there.
Gathering rust, abandoned to the elements.
Maybe the Old Man meant to remove them,
But eventually became too infirm,
And died before he had the chance.
Now those rusty skeletons adorn the landscape,
Like pieces of modern art sculpture.
Permanent artifacts, telling tales,
Of the island’s agricultural past.
However, not everything has changed.
The sheep are still there,
Still kept in a two-hundred year-old barn.
And still eating the same grass,
That countless generations,
Of their ancestors ate,
At the place on a small island.