I love the cherry tree for its blossom, I enjoy the fruit as well and can do neat things with the stem but in all reality the blossom is preferred.
it’s fleeting, beautiful and the center of many poems that range from okay to exquisite. O want to plant several in my yard and rid myself of the conifers. I wish to be surrounded by fleeting beauty, I wish to adorn my driveway with pink flowers that move like oceanic waves in the wind.
I’ve been awake for an hour now and wish that I could have slept through this storm, normally this is a non issue but not last night. After many years I had a good run of quality sleep and now this too has passed, I can honestly say I enjoyed it completely.
My favorite flower is the sunflower, I’ve yet to write a poem to the sunflower directly but it is not for trying. Those poems always end up about something else.
having trouble finding the way in
listening to Rachmaninov with lowered breath
while coffee cooks in the kitchen.
New York Philharmonic in zenith.
typewriter in ribbon bliss.
two floors down the Laundromat takes
four quarters to wash and four quarters to
bring the clothes and towels to a slight
dampness. two floors up, we dance on
tiled floor and make love on soft Chicago carpeting
some stop writing when it feels
finished.
some fight to line everything
correctly – verse/line/stanza.
others never thought about it and
just wrote until the words ran out.
I am fighting to make the end of this not read
‘soft Chicago carpeting’.
– Hoc Scripsi
I am also listening to the Rach III while I write this entry out. The poem was written years ago and revised a year ago. I am able to date this one as it talks about when we lived in an apartment which was a very wonderful time that I know our retirement will look similar.
what follows may be vulgar so I am including a jump this time.
yesterday I happened to go off on another blog and misspelled a word that I inadvertently missed, thankfully I don’t consider my self the most intelligent person on the internet. The gist of the post was about how poets ought to do something more creative and vital to the planet than write poetry which the author considered a waste of time. my response is as follows. Warning: cursing, and strong opinions that aren’t necessarily the actual opinion of the author – just making a point…
A lot of people who ought to be smarter tend to base their opinion of poetry on a few so called poets. Most people writing poetry are writing crap and they are better off lighting their pubes on fire and dancing around calling it art.
I downright hate most poetry but I write poetry – I like fistfights, guns, calling the other guy a cocksucker and pissing in the wind if need be – I like to drink, I used to do drugs that weren’t prescribed and so on – in other words I am not like one of the pussies writing their tinkly pretty shit. I write poetry mainly and consider it a life pursuit. I don’t write a lot of fiction because it is a lesser pursuit that uses a lesser language and only one of 18-21 basic plot lines. best said as – prose is putting the right word in the right order, poetry is putting the best words in their best order – I agree with this but of course I would.
I guess what I am trying to say here is simple – fuck you if you think I am inconsequential, fuck you if you don’t try harder to understand the language of poetry, fuck you if you think poetry is not necessary. without poetry there is no language or without poetry the language dies. I think fuck is a perfectly good expression used by a great number of intelligent men and women.
I don’t think most of what I have written here is true for me 3/4 of the time. I just thought the last paragraph was and is how I feel. The first two are written more out of self righteous anger and I could easily write prose against those and mean it.
the coffee is hot and hand huggable, throat burnable, and mostly gratifying.
have a great day.
the platitudes of willful resemblance 