20100130 Poem Favouréd(s)

Got a few of these for you today.
First is by a fellow blogger I stumbled upon,
or rather by whom I was stumbled upon.
He’s rather great. Give him a look.

Death of a Poem

10 years on the blood trail
Of a gut shot poem
Sleeping by tainted indentions in leaves and grass
Dreams of its death – oh to put this thing out of my misery
No compassion for the beast
As it confounds me in red maple leaves
Camouflaging on the ground and
Swirling around my head in scarlet confusion

So thankful for the broom straw
Red tipped broom straw waving me on to victory
To the smell of death
Juxtaposed with
The pungent aroma of the taxidermist’s tight rubber gloves
Dreams of long talks ,smoke rising, interest increasing

A widow maker falls beside me and brings me back to reality
My left hand rusted solid to the lantern
My back permanently stooped
The trail leads down now
They always die by the water
Hopeful and wanting
Soon the leaves will fall again
Death by the water? Victory by the water?

A decade has passed when I find the beast
It falls two steps from the stream
It’s warm breath clouding
Rising into the red maple leaves


Now some lovely Bukowski.

Consummation Of Grief
Charles Bukowski
I even hear the mountains

the way they laugh

up and down their blue sides

and down in the water

the fish cry

and the water 
is their tears.

I listen to the water

on nights I drink away

and the sadness becomes so great

I hear it in my clock

it becomes knobs upon my dresser

it becomes paper on the floor

it becomes a shoehorn

a laundry ticket

it becomes

cigarette smoke

climbing a chapel of dark vines. . .

it matters little

very little love is not so bad

or very little life

what counts

is waiting on walls

I was born for this

I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead.

As The Sparrow
Charles Bukowski

To give life you must take life,

and as our grief falls flat and hollow

upon the billion-blooded sea

I pass upon serious inward-breaking shoals rimmed

with white-legged, white-bellied rotting creatures

lengthily dead and rioting against surrounding scenes.

Dear child, I only did to you what the sparrow

did to you; I am old when it is fashionable to be

young; I cry when it is fashionable to laugh.

I hated you when it would have taken less courage

to love.

Charles Bukowski

there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I’m too tough for him,

I say, stay in there, I’m not going

to let anybody see


there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I pur whiskey on him and inhale

cigarette smoke

and the whores and the bartenders

and the grocery clerks

never know that


in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I’m too tough for him,

I say,

stay down, do you want to mess

me up?

you want to screw up the


you want to blow my book sales in


there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out

at night sometimes

when everybody’s asleep.

I say, I know that you’re there,

so don’t be


then I put him back,

but he’s singing a little

in there, I haven’t quite let him


and we sleep together like


with our

secret pact

and it’s nice enough to

make a man

weep, but I don’t

weep, do



One comment

  1. jingle · January 30, 2010

    beautiful collections.

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