Posts tagged ‘short poem’

August 30, 2015

slowly

by jhon baker

slowly slowly

 

everything is working out

but slowly

I’m a big man getting smaller

but I’ll never be small

I was built for comfort

and post-coital embrace

 

but I corner well

 

 

 

 

August 1, 2015

I guess it’s a matter of sensation

by jhon baker

birds evening song

boys weed in the garden

making way for more weeds to grow and insist

 

cicadas sound

make love, make love

here I am, waiting out whatever

 

metal skewers don’t require a soaking

and I love your

face

 

smooth smooth smooth

a moment of several stages

the first one

 

hurts hurts strange

and a means of communication

I wave my hands

 

sidelong and erect

standing to the left of the finished masterpiece

tearing apart

 

and not taking it

anymore

we’re not taking it anymore

 

– Hoc Scripsi

 

July 28, 2015

So Here I Am

by jhon baker

I am a man of chronic conditions

and if you bless me I’ll say thanks

but that’s all

 

no one renders the image well

and while the coffee is hot

the outside is almost hotter

 

and I eat a pinkish apple

drink bottled water

and stare at your walls

 

sugarless scenarios

contemplating my next tattoo

I am a spiritual guide

 

wearing a gun and a leatherman

ready for anything

I’m ready for you

 

– Hoc Scripsi

June 13, 2015

Beneath this grumpy heart

by jhon baker

I would write more but I have little to say and what I do I say to my wife and child.

although I’ve purchased a new guitar I am not playing it due to the pain from old injuries.

Hot coffee on a hot day needs to be double fisted with iced soda or water.

Listening to Muddy Waters while my wife mows the lawn and whacks the weeds with concentration and aggression.

Happiness is a strange notion.

My neighbor is crazy in a different way than I am crazy – she is a lunatic howling at the moon while I am simply mentally abberated and unstable on the best days.

I am selling my motorcycle and have turned down offers I shouldn’t have and been offered some pretty ridiculous trades or amounts.

“I’ve got a black cat bone,

I’ve got a mojo too.

I’ve got a John the Conqueroo,

I’ve got to mess with you…”

 

These are two separate poems…

 

I love you

and that may be all

shared coffee over old television shows

and newer series watched in minute marathons

 

I have flowers dying on the kitchen table

in yellow hues turning brown

in whites turning yellow

– Hoc Scripsi

 

April 12, 2014

beautiful day

by jhon baker

TO NOBODY:

Sitting on the back porch for the second time this year and today the weather isn’t necessitating my normal hoodie. Coffee, cigarettes and my wife in and out cooking dinner while the boy practices his instruments. I didn’t ride today and should have but was too shaken by my car deciding to accelerate by itself and smashing into another vehicle. No injuries, no damage – just an unsafe car which has found its way, by tow truck, back to the dealer where they will find nothing wrong. My electrical lemon. It is time to rid myself of this car and go with something used with a bed or nothing at all and rely on my cycle to get me around.

I need a cathartic experience

something beyond the rapture

of the faithful.

Time passes without thought and I am still here – now sitting in the dark and typing by touch alone. At least there are my glasses and the wildlife which makes noise out of range of sight to let me know I am not alone.

The asshole neighbor yells at the feral cats like they can understand his anger at having cats as wild animals in addition to the plethora of other wildlife in the area. We need to protect our garbage cans from all sorts of creatures – possibly including the asshole neighbor.

Past my sons bedtime and it is my turn to read to him, cuddle close and enjoy it while he is still just young enough to want it. nearly too old for the closeness of his parents. This depresses me immensely as I think it does his mother. And there will be no more.

“five dogs went into the wildreness

only three came back

two died of guinea worm

and one died of you

Jack Kerouac”  – Hunter Thompson

We want our children to be sensitive to poetry but not become poets. My son is a musician and I’m not sure if that’s better. But his talent surpasses mine and anyone I know – I light another cigarette – so he can teach, perform, become famous or whatever he wants – he can be the most musically talented garbage man –

garbage men are the real poets anyway.

and my fucking car won’t work.

– Me

 

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