I have 25 years of uncompleted poems. On scraps of paper, envelopes, napkins, in yellow notebooks, sketch books etc... For the sake of maintaining some semblance of creative hygiene I have been rather staunch about throwing away clutter and snippets of things that didn't come to any finished product because I've always believed if an idea had force and vigor it would return when it was ready to come to fruition. Last night was an unusual night, and I got out a few of the fragments I've kept over the years and gave them a once over, trying to determine if I could make anything out of them. I went to sleep. Today maybe I'll try again right here at Outsider Poetry. here is poetry improv number one.
The End Times
Repent, the zealot dinner guest, invited
For purposes of theological correctness, chides.
Repent, and sin no more, he advises, for the end is near.
But isn't that like asking a carnivore to turn vegan
Moments before the serving of a pampered calf's liver
he takes special care in the fall of a sparrow
The zealot replies, eyeing me as I set
My peas to one side with my fork.
Yes, but it was just that one, I retort.
A well intentioned
Off a basket of learning
Tools for my niece and nephew.
Among the colorful array
Of big red dogs
And purple dinosaurs
I find a book titled
"God Thought of It First."
I paused to consider
Gary, Indiana, Republicans,
The Ford Pinto...
I sure never would
Have thought of it.
The mechanics across
The street punch out
And leave behind
All that is fixably broken
The Night No One Wanted To Party Like a Rock Star
One Sunday night
A rock star fell
On to our planet.
A local rock star.
A small planet.
That's about all I have from ten years or so of notes. Sometimes I think it is just better to let it all go because all these snippets you keep around just clutter up your work space and your imagination.