Posts tagged ‘just a poem’

May 7, 2011

regret

by jhon baker

I
   regret
  things
 like
         parking
           spaces
but never lovers.
one
        thinks
       of
            looks
         across
                      tables
                              or
           rooms
but never someone who broke your nose.
 – HocScripsi
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April 21, 2011

poem

by jhon baker

@font-face { font-family: “MS 明朝”;}@font-face { font-family: “MS 明朝”;}@font-face { font-family: “Cambria”;}@font-face { font-family: “Century Schoolbook”;}p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: Cambria; }.MsoChpDefault { font-family: Cambria; }div.WordSection1 { page: WordSection1; }

without dismissal
1.
I am your opus,
your final creation,
an abstraction
from acts of love or anger.
it was accidental
without dismissal.
2.
how do the mute seek absolution
in anonymity,
how are curtains drawn against Johari,
freedom exhausts itself drawn in circles,
concentric and misleading, misled.
I am your opus,
your final creation,
an abstraction
from acts of love or anger.
it was accidental
without dismissal.
3.
the scars are there, mine
imbalances accounted for, mine
glass walls firmly held in situ
but cleaned.
the stale air loosening.
4.
I am number three, four if your must know.
but I deny one as I am not denied;
bearing witness wasn’t easy but I never turned;
now bearing the marks of each life I saw took.
I am your opus,
your final creation,
an abstraction
from acts of love or anger.
it was accidental
without dismissal.
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April 16, 2011

the artist dreams of nightsong and thinks of his paintings

by jhon baker

I wish the birds would sing
in the middle of the night
in winter,
though the windows are never open.

I wish the birds would sing in winter
though I stoop to pet a plant
inadvertently knocking over a light fixture.

I wish the birds would sing
in the middle of the night,
lights low, the party over
and missing every painting I’ve ever sold.

I wish the birds would sing
in the middle of the night
in winter,
though purple flowers want their bloom

 – Hoc Scripsi

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February 27, 2011

Untitled

by jhon baker

@font-face { font-family: “MS 明朝”;}@font-face { font-family: “MS 明朝”;}@font-face { font-family: “Cambria”;}@font-face { font-family: “Century Schoolbook”;}p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: Cambria; }.MsoChpDefault { font-family: Cambria; }div.WordSection1 { page: WordSection1; }

my breath stinks
my armpits smell
my stomach aches
I am not the man I thought I was
better to be dead
then have to spend a
lifetime dying. but
I’d be awkward as anyone
else in anyother life
so there is only
this and
with all,
it perseveres.
I cannot wash the
stain of maleness
off my clothes
I am not the man I ought to have been
only recently realizing
that I have to obliterate all
that should not be known
or read, less it be known
and read.
and still,
my breath stinks,
my armpits smell.
my stomach aches.
 – Hoc Scripsi
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January 26, 2011

wearing this flesh

by jhon baker

@font-face { font-family: “MS 明朝”;}@font-face { font-family: “Cambria Math”;}@font-face { font-family: “Cambria”;}@font-face { font-family: “Century Schoolbook”;}p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: Cambria; }.MsoChpDefault { font-family: Cambria; }div.WordSection1 { page: WordSection1; }

it always amazes
me
in conversations
when the perfect word
coalesces
into the
argument.
 I have to stop a
moment to collect
it back
and see
that maybe words
are a skin
we wear.
    That
wearing this flesh
has endowed me
a language.
 – Hoc Scripsi
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