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Fucked Up College Kids Poetry 022
F U C K E D U P C O L L E G E K I D S
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- t h e p o e t r y v e n t u r e -
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It is amazing that a good poet can tell an epic story
in 20 lines when Stephen King can't rip out a good
thriller in under 1,000 pages. Poetry forces the poet
to suffer a stringent economy, even in the book length
epic poems beating to the rhythm of iambic pentameter.
Support these talented souls. Buy poetry journals and
books. Show publishers that a good poem is worth it's
weight in dollars.
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An electric galaxy startled by reality,
an earthquake that tests fearless mortality,
you question this event but lost is the answer,
a cost you resent not paying when it was asked for,
in a time of disbelief, dismay, and displeasure,
at a time of impulse, anger, and whether,
you act with diligence depolyed too clever,
you provide a reaction uncontrollable as laughter,
a disaster it is when turned to frenzy,
it takes a new twist when taken seriously,
you see its creates time in sudden matters,
its after the fact in which you attack,
and excuse yourself from fault without question,
and refuse yourself from forgiving this exception!
sadia
chia pets and high octane soda
i spent all day today
trying to get you outta my head
every last one of my thoughts today
was of your beauty
and oh how your beauty makes me feel
(how you make me feel for that matter)
you just blow my mind
all into little bits and peices
you sweep me away
on wings i never knew i had
you make me feel oh so high
like i can fly amongst the twilight
take me away
and show me where you want to go
show me how you feel the way you feel
cause i wanna be there too
i wish i could be with you
and hold you in my arms
i wish i could feel you right here beside me
(i know what i want and i think you do too)
help me feel the night
you seem to wear it so well
carry me into the night
and show me how to wear myself
boogah
EMILIO JUAREZ DIES
left front row -
dense country breeze
gently rains down.
inadequate crowd -
naked in tears
for showing up
empty-handed.
someone speaks -
i have never met him,
but he knows names,
places, accomplishments.
stone-packed field -
i see two for my parents,
and my sister, fragile,
drops a tulip between them.
civilian tradition -
no honorable flag,
no guns, no bugle;
generic newspaper ashes.
it's unbelievable to think
poets die like everyone else.
Indiana Poet April 27, 1998
Swirled Twirl
Poems of lines, that wind through.
My mind is full, always busy.
Never before reading and reflecting back.
Now I sit and am astounded by
what all I have found.
What is this inner beat,
that keeps going and going,
seeming to never to stop.
How do these things spillout
and form their own life?
Crazy swirls and low spirals
spin around, make about as much sense.
Why then do I wonder why
I can sit and be kicked and never cry.
My out pouring of emotion kept in rythme.
Kamira March 20, 1998
MY SHADOW ON THE WALL
Morning's dawned, another day.
I wish I knew some other way
To say goodbye to those I love,
Tell you what I'm thinking of.
But the words refuse to form.
All the seeds of reason shorn
Simply lay upon the floor.
You won't see me anymore.
Oh my baby, gently sleep.
I didn't want to see you weep.
It's a shame I have to go.
There are things you'll never know.
'Cause I won't be coming home.
No, the streets are where I'll roam.
You won't know me when I call
Nor my shadow on the wall.
Think of me in tender times
When I sang you gentle rhymes
And I rocked you fast asleep,
..."I pray the Lord my soul to keep."
Oh my lover, think of me
When you're standing by the sea,
And you feel the windswept spray.
Think of me while I'm away.
For I won't be coming home
No, the streets are where I'll roam.
You won't know me when I call
Nor my shadow on the wall.
Over by our favorite pier
Hold a seashell to your ear
And above the ocean's noise,
In that shell you'll hear my voice.
I'll be saying, "I loved you,
But there were things I had to do.
Though I had love in my hands
I was such a lonely man."
What a pity it should be
That you never once knew me,
But such things are part of life...
...I await the reaper's scythe.
Cancer Omega
resolution to failure
as i lay my head on the leather bound book
tension flows out of me, muscles relaxing
the will to move on is lost forever
strength to keep up the good fight faded
the time of vibrance decades removed
subtle power, natural leadership, lost friends
a gaunt relic of what i used to be
my will is caving in, dooming me to solitue
i take one last breath... again
mea_culpa
one night stand
shame is oil on the mirror
the morning after
left behind, an impermanent
memoir of a hot cheek
against cold glass
demonika
will the cycle ever end:
A great emptiness beholds me
a flutter of the heart
a feeling of fullness
a change in lifestyle
a change in temperament
realization dawns
this is not me
a great emptiness beholds me
blaise
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E D I T O R S: jericho@dim.com & demonika@dim.com
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A V A I L A B I L I T Y:
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WWW: http://www.sekurity.org/~poetry
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(c) Copyright. All poems copyright by original author.
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F O U N D E D: October 30, 1997
