Posts tagged ‘short poem’

December 3, 2010

December, snow, ice and the general good time with whiskey

by jhon baker

Apparently the 44″ snow thrower attached to the front of my John Deer is going to come in handy tonight and through the weekend. Also of use will be the seed spreader that pulls behind filled with ice melter.
December already and it’s going to be a white my birthday.

This is for Troy

1. the bending of steel

poetry.
coffee.
a love of hard liquor.
rifles, shotguns, pistols
revolvers.

men were bound by
thinner threads then these.

2. hammering to form

poetry.
coffee.
a love of hard liquor.
rifles, shotguns, pistols
revolvers.

man’s bind was broken by
thinner threads than these.

3. the fine blade

beauty.
art.
love.
the eyes and body move
of a naked dancing muse.

man’s mind was broken by
thinner threads than these

 – Hoc Scripsi

I am looking at the Magpie image and thinking now; I am looking at my own door, painted red with window, and thinking casually.

I’ve been reading a lot of blogs lately and seeing some quality writing and some not so much. I comment on about 1/3rd of what I am reading as time does not allow for expression and reciprocation on everyone’s thoughts. On need to get back to Rabbit on his poetry as I said I would and am still pounding through the fall of man.
This blog needs more energy – needs more poetry while it is looking like I will finish the year slightly ahead of where I was last year. A good thing but I can see where I didn’t use all of my time wisely.

Almost nap time.

This above poem was written for Troy, because without him it would not have been written. Although it has been turned down by two publishers I believe it to be a solid poem and have high hope for it over the next few months.
Any publisher that reads me and wants it may use it with notification.

ad a good breakfast with a friend this morning with coffee that rivals the best of normal coffee houses – she only need a better coffee maker to bring it to the next level. Good range of topics covered and I left before I may have gotten boring immediately following saying some profound things. To include, on the subject of the impossibility of perfection or an impossible definition of perfection as to human achievement – If I am the sum of my life’s experiences, then I am perfect as I am. Some may say that leaves no room for improvement, but I counter that with I am only talking about now, not what is possible with the possibility of tomorrow.

Putting Sparklehorse’s last album to play I am now going to close my eyes and pull the night mask on. The safety word is “revenge”

 – J.

November 22, 2010

by jhon baker

Rain poured this morning so I stayed in bed until after noon. Sitting now at a local shop (okay, it’s a Starbucks) and it started raining hard again. How did I know this? it was not looking out the window or seeing the bright lightening flashes but the sudden increase in pain in my leg. The chunk of metal astc as some kind fucking antenna for weather changes and sudden ones are the most painful.
Waiting for someone to appear here and in the meantime looking like one of those writers with their MacBook open writing all alone, against the world.

I’ve nothing to write about right now other than right now. There is no-one interesting here and my new friend has yet to show up. It is raining so hard I hope he has a ride but I don’t know as  I can’t really say I know him all that well yet.

had rain outside the local coffee shop

bad art, pale blue walls
children left alone in
the vestibule, waiting
for their mother to bring
the car round

 – Hoc Scripsi

October 18, 2010

I could tell you many things from Aa to Gh but would then require a break

by jhon baker

in
general

there are only
two ways
to see things

with the
eye
or
the brain

what could
be more
simple

succinct

September 25, 2010

Streetlamp desperation

by jhon baker

we move back and forth, swaying – we move. we are not barnacles – darting out but concrete in place, the tides affect us and coffee awakens us. we move, together or solitarily our tides effect the ocean we wax and wane, grow and become substantial – shrink and become embittered, embattled. It is our narrative.

for me writing is a solitary art, I cannot go into cafes or restaurants and write, I cannot have company at all and produce at a rate any faster than the raccoons under my porch hunt in the daytime. The exception would be a bustling cafe where the noise reaches an apex that become a humm, analogous to the noise that my brain produces in silence –  there is anonymity then and in place you are alone without social contact unless you will it or welcome it. Restaurants always have the server to interrupt and they unequivocally hate it when someone sits there and writes no matter how good the tip is or how short the visit is. the perception is always of the wanna be beat emo clown who nurses coffee for hours believing that they alone are granted rights of intrusion into another persons livelihood. So I normally sit in a small room at the back of the house, where the walls are a dominating red, where there is a couch in case I get tired, where there are my books in case I want to pretend I have laurels to rest upon, I don’t.
I’ve chosen to go back through my poets – from Sappho to J. Milton and maybe find the right right muse to alleviate me from this consistent creative drought – but maybe I ought to go into the mountains or get lost in the desert. I would bring along WCW or Ignato because bringing along either Huxley or Morrison would be less a learning experience and more an exercise in imitation.

I am having trouble finding an end to this narrative so here’s a photo.