Each month, write a new collection.
WHISPERS AND MUMBLESWe never remember to lower our eyesKeep our hands by our sidesOr to stand at removesIt’s the passing delusion of still being humanIn the morning by the mooringsWhere the fishmongers gatherWe forget that we threatenThose innocent women and uppercrust childrenBy speaking and laughingWith breath so decrepitIn the morning by the mooringsWhere the fishmongers gatherWe remember once walkingAt dawn along boardwalksBuying fruit fresh from vendorsLooking down with displeasureIn the morning by the mooringsWhere the fishmongers gatherSo we huddle in shadowWhere the fishmongers gatherLike the specters of men
Nice. I love the repeated lines. "In the morning by the mooringsWhere the fishmongers gather". great music in the lines.
that's a really good one.
Mr. Brantingham, I got it! You're brother here, shouldnt just be a street rapper, he should do Gregorian chants too.
That's great Mark! I love the repetition.
Ya, look at the comment i left him. Lol
Breakfast in BedThe clock is glaring at me. I close my eyes, open again, I see large red blurs. I roll over, close my eyes. I hear the door open. I look. I see her blurry shape, admire her blurry shape, squint, and try to see her more clearly. She is smiling, “Good morning, breakfast.” I try to imagine how those words can somehow work together. She leans over. I’m still watching her. Her breasts move in her nightgown. A plate blocks my view. In my face an eye, unblinking, stares at me. An eye surrounded by scales. “It’s a trout,” she says. I like trout, but there’s an eye. I look up at her breasts, shifting in her nightgown, then down at the unblinking fish. I take the plate and put it on the stand, pull her towards me.
That's fantastic man! I love that!
I love how you use the repetition.
The trout thing really happened. I'm not a morning person, and I'm not interested in food until late morning. Pretty sure the rest happened also - maybe not at the same time.
Used a lot of I & eye, hoping that would satisfy. Just got your The Gift of Form. Looking forward to using it.
Great man! I hope it helps!!
My friend the Pen Green awningwith a sea monsteraround the hot surfaceIn the corner of the coffee shopall aloneWhen really I am notIt is a paradoxWhere nobody bothers meStudying and writingSipping their cupUnless to ask for an empty chairAs they ask me,"Are you using this?"I calmly look awareAnd look upTo say, "no, not at all"Not catching their eyeNot missing a beatTo what I was writing downin my journallistening to the pop musicBeing piped in and going withthe flow as the pen knowsWhat to sayas if I am having a conversationwith itThen I look upA glance to a lifting of a cupto sip and then back downnot to awake the surfaceOf social invitationNot interested I figuredBeing busywith her computerworking on homeworktaking a call on her cellHe sat down next to meas I look up to sip my own cupThe beat of the music continuingNobody interested in conversationApparently, busy, in their own livesI do not come to socializeBut, there is potentialA place of simple motivesto congregate and order the daily coffeeAs I sit in my cornerWriting it all downas a person would do on a morningwith nothing to do, other than cometo terms with writing and wonderingwhere the conversation has goneWith my friend the penAnd then, she happened to catch myglancethe Baristadoing her workor the girl at the computeror the one on the phoneStill in a conversationNobody interested in anythingEverybody looking at the manIn the corner writing feverishlyNot of any concernonly lonely for conversationAs I sit and waitin a conversation with myselfThere are rock and roll concertswhere thousands go, and still weare all aloneThere are coffee shopswhere the throngs gowhen we are gracious and properwith formal conversationin publicBut still, we are alonewithout a friendThere is the music in the background stopping as the coffeecup needs to have a refillTo try again and create a conversationwithout a friendVenti, Grande, Tallany size will doshe visits in the way she sitsacross from me crossing herlegs toward me instead of away
This is great man. You really have an imagistic poem here. Great job!!
Thank-you it was sad, but true
A SMALL TOSSThe group on the lawn the smell of cut grass and dead flowers one by each they showed in the cold morning mourning cold knowing side by each knowing loss without the sun before the rain after the words side by side silently gripping a small toss of earth
Great. I love the pacing here
big latte small latte scones with butter, jamlemon curd whatever that is i'll take itand a sandwich but i'm in a hurrybecause she might be in a hurryand I'll be in a hurry eventuallyso that adds up to being in a hurryif you quotientize the mights-and the grilled cheese if that's fastestbut isn't chicken salad faster? No?that seems counter-intuitive, but ok okexcuse me excuse me this is formy daughter and she's in a hurryand i'm in a hurry or might be at some point in the futureso, i'm sorry but i have to takethese scones and this sandwich and race up the street but still stopto talk with this lady who is WITH heradultdaughter, and the lady laughing when I explain whatI'm doing. "They don't got no patience," she says to meand her daughter smiles wide with eyes that sayoh yes we do.
The frenetic pace of this is marvelous! Love the poem.
Being at a Program in the Mornin'I think I've cheated everyone todayI'm up before the crowd but traffic hitsHard, crushing me, each body like a mack truck.Boom, pound, ouch, yikes, ouchWorse than traffic, more like really beingCrushed, hit, crashed into, cut, sliced, severed...To be stitched is the goal because at least you survived The impact. I miss happy, joyous mornings where greetings and salutations were pleasant. But now,Its aim to kill like cheap video games sold at bunk ass yard sales.
That's great. I love that ending especially!
you're keeping the reader at a distance by not revealing the emotional core of this story. you've established that there's more to tell and have done that very effectively, but you don't give enough to make a connection with the reader. stop hiding.
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Thanks Mr Brantingham. To Mr. Brantingham's brother Mark. I appreciate the pointer. I'll definitely think on and reflect on that. I wanted to make clear that waking up at a state funded place is not pleasant but the opposite, where people have so many emotional problems, they cant help but hurt eachother even at the breaking of day by the things they say and their attitudes. I dont expect the reader to know exactly what it feels like, the reader can only understand so much.
Sweet SixteenIt's two weeks past JuneHappy Birthday to youget up, get dressedno time to clean your roomthe car's already runningroom-a-zoom zoomfall out little soldierit's job hunting for youno time for cakeadulthood doth loomGot a pen?Got your ID?if not, it'll be your doomjobs don't find themselvesput on a smilemake those employers swoonwipe off that lipstickyou look like a loonsay please and thank youDon't roll those eyes!and give a firm handshakethey'll be pleasantly surprisednow stop that poutingwe'll have your Birthday when we get home.
Fantastic! Love it.
I said helloTo the folks who know meMorning time in their desert homeSpoke real slowAnd loud to the old oneSpoke real lowTo the one by the door.She hurt her shoulderSaid my sisterIt's how she sitsThat lets me knowShe will need a dr visitHope it's not hurt in the bone.X-Rays, medics, pens and clipboards,Medicare and meds and recordsPharmacies and pills and ointmentsCopays, forms, and historyHas she had a surgery?Cancer? Heart attack? Ennui?Are her parents still alive?Of course they're not, she's eighty-five!Maybe sometime they will tell usWhat she had wrong with her shoulderIf they can put down her folder Long enough to read the x-rayForget her height and weight and pressureForget her age, pick up the phoneAnd say what's wrong before she getsBetter all on her own.
I love the rhyme that comes in especially at the end and the near rhyme too. It really gets into the feeling of this poem.