Action Poetry

We can all use some poetry right now. Whether we’re writing it or reading it, we can all use some.

Action Poetry is open to anyone … either post an original poem (using the comment form below) or respond in verse to somebody else.

70 Responses

  1. ..ways to consider..
    ..ways to consider..

    in a distorted panic, the stumble to the window.
    visions of the promised resurrection to come.
    glassy eyes from years of being a dreamer.
    dreams as a way of life, creating inspiration.
    walking shaky ground with careful thought.

    seems like the world keeps going sideways.
    the mind is damaged by what it endures.
    the body, we know, will be wrecked.
    only the soul can escape untouched.

    resisting logic and ignoring common thought.
    reaching untypical and alternate conclusions.
    indignant, restrained, resigned to fate.

    all the frauds are illuminated in the end.
    spotlights will shine and fingers will point.

    ways to consider and steps to take.

  2. Wrote this many years ago
    Wrote this many years ago about a girl I can’t remember. Always liked it though.

    Your outer beauty transcends time,
    It transcends space
    and darlin’, when you walk into the room
    the lights are brightened by your face
    and they glisten off your hair…
    they really do, nothin’ compares

    your eyes are like the sun
    that lights up the horizon when Autumn comes
    and it’s like the rising tide
    cause I know all the beauty
    that they hold inside

  3. Yaeh for yes that wind do
    Yaeh for yes that wind do blow both ways upon that there mighty clifff..

  4. In A Silent City
    In A Silent City

    Walk the streets of this silent city walk
    all day all night and on into the next
    until the sound of your footfalls ebb
    by degrees, an eternity thin as
    a bee’s wing between them, each one orphaned
    to aimlessness stark as a sonar ping.
    Find yourself before a modest house find
    the courage to let yourself in to roam
    empty stillborn rooms waxen in twilight
    leaning lightly on a carved newel that will
    never wear down beneath a warm steady
    erosion of hands, their fingers destined
    never to still the lips of whispering
    lovers or sweep hair back from the foreheads
    of feverish children or ever so
    carefully lower yielding lids over
    grateful eyes spared searing indelible
    etching. Small fingers laced in eternal
    salvation from thoughts of putting a gun
    to God’s temple and pulling the trigger.
    Pray you’ll find the door and leave this house pray
    for all the good it will do, solemn walls
    silent witness to what will never be.

  5. If all we see is subjective
    If all we see is subjective perception
    can we ever know reality?
    all we know is what we perceive
    and fit it into our preconceptions

    The body indeed cannot last
    but if the soul remains untouched
    has it lived very much?
    The future is waning, all we have is the past

    Frauds are illuminated in season
    and aren’t we all in the end?
    Reason is a worthless mend
    because anything can be reasoned.

  6. Try it once addicted for life
    Try it once addicted for life
    here’s the needle the spoon the fork the scale the knife
    it is great big hole in already dirty souls
    definite time hole
    it is the dirty sheets
    of a one night wet dream
    it is the sound on the bed you make when you scream
    it is the meaning of yr dreams
    a sweet tooth but a savory soul
    dreaming Joshua’s trumpets and rock n roll
    it’s moment of Placiating when yr realize you got “Nine fingers on yr left hand and a second nose”
    little Nikki looking for a wedding ring
    on a cheese slide ride
    never to eat fish part stew
    “Do you know that I am sleeping?”
    an Irish poet sighs
    my half Celtic soul wonder where it goes?
    I’m guessing on a Amtrak west
    up in the mountains of Montana
    try on the blue light special
    I think an ink blot is an ink blot
    tolb kni na si tolb
    my reservation emanates in a perfect round triangle
    over 3 old city blocks
    no one I know can read anything but an alarm clock
    and I just smokes lots of pot
    I can hear the voices
    when I am in bed
    disembodied full of dread
    have I taken too many of the Z drugs again?

  7. Excerpt from my first novel
    Excerpt from my first novel “The History of Now”

    She grabbed his shirt, pulled him back to her. More kissing. She sprung onto the table and wrapped her legs around his waist, unbuttoned his fly. “Wait,” he said with his lips touching hers. “Shh,” she said back. His Levis fell to his shins and she rolled down his boxer briefs so they hung center of his brawny thighs. Stroking him now with firm, circular motion. He could feel her filmy g-string, humid, as he kneaded her. She’s perfect, he thought. He wrestled off her jeans, ripped those panties from her body. Theirs a hysterical confusion of flesh, whist meld of blood. Fortuitous sanctum of two, foundling souls. Kissing her deeply, he continued to labor between the extended legs, the sweat misting his hair, coming down his nape in lawless streaks. He cupped her mouth as she grunted, groaned. Kept the noise muffled, squeezed harder, whimpered, let himself go. “Perfect,” he whispered. Pants and underwear at his legs, bare, clammy ass on display in the indiscreet lights of the room, Jake stuck his cheek to hers, shut his eyes. He breathed like a tortured horse. “I love you,” he said.
    “Think I love you, too, Jake.”

  8. Offline

    what does one write about online
    about being offline

    the holiness of blank paper
    and pens

    and their silence
    like a ringing in the ears


    or the distinction itself

  9. yr a salty sour bitter taste
    yr a salty sour bitter taste
    pock marks on the face
    no shoes for your socks
    gotten blisters on yr feet and on yr mouth
    over-sized tits but stretch marks all about
    a bad tooth upfront badly dyed hair pulled out
    a triangle face broken up by thick eye glasses and a snotty pout
    holes all in rags not remembering to bath every day
    had to borrow three dollars when your period came
    (I wonder I what happened to the socks)
    we got a thing called Pine Ridge love…

  10. all writing is done in the
    all writing is done in the mind
    the question of recording it
    either by writing or typing or texting
    having a place to write
    or several
    and opportunities and time
    a true writer doesn’t need daily inspiraiton
    it is excrutiating work
    it will crush you mind, body, and soul
    at least a kernal of inspiration is needed
    at the beginning
    but this could be a brief glimpse
    or a faint sound or a memorable taste
    these seeds of inspiration set the course
    an unattainable and maddening occupation of your time
    book upon book, poem upon poem, song upon song

  11. Interesting indeed
    Interesting indeed
    Just flow with the action
    If interaction comes that’s
    a plus…..

  12. Here we go
    Here we go
    Poets in arms
    Make some word
    Take that 1st thought/best thought chance
    Might just make your day
    a little bit better

  13. I Am A Passenger But Who
    I Am A Passenger But Who Holds The Wheel?

    a stranger has come
    to share my tomb
    i hold a lighter to the stars
    and become enlarged with tears
    i hold silence to my words
    and drown in the chaos
    of my own thoughts

    what has been left unsaid
    continues to haunt the mind

    where go?
    what do?
    who you?
    how to?

    driven as much by denial
    as assurance, i hold my
    shoulder colder,
    tho there is a fire inside me
    my arms cannot reach you
    tho my mind burns
    with every tock of the clock
    i can only provide you ice cubes

    i have no idea what
    i must do to endure,
    i save my rejection slips
    i burn my tongue on the tea

    i stay up late at night
    into the morning
    waiting on nobody
    at all

  14. horsebreath heehaws frekkin’
    horsebreath heehaws frekkin’ up the smallscreen –
    rags to rags junki tales of purple days,
    sombre missives of sherious backalley angst,
    joining in untold agonies, forced to scribble,
    soul-sucked onto the page of dusty
    forgotten already, passing fetish:
    “went to this great site the other day –
    geez they had some awesome pomes –
    geez they had some awesome pomes –
    geez. awesome… awesome i tells ya.”
    speaking of frauds look at me look at me:
    i’m a distant subjectiverse screaming into
    the voi…


    then it came to me, just as
    then it came to her –
    we’re in this silent city together,
    irrespective of never having been
    born – never having died together,
    steaming wrist-flicking articulation of
    panties, of panties and bulging members,
    of bulging members of a people,
    bulging with gusto, customary curvature,
    bulging horsecock panting,
    yellowed teeth behind the yellowed curtain,

    pull the trigger, god-killer.
    finish the job, give a poor slob a chance
    of self-sufficient ennui –
    be, in.
    ter. est.
    in. g.
    for each other’s
    blank outrage, bulging
    horsebreathing pulper,
    god-killing junkie,
    can’t recall the girl butt
    I Remember Her Poe…


    frekk-it, nobody listens to these
    jagged ramblings; lay the light down
    low priority verse is raining like
    sweet november
    cats and clowns
    ballerinas’ first position was
    all about copulatio…

  15. ..119.59..Bella..

    .read from the psalms. Old testament common ground. Written in past tense after heavy thought. Heavy thought man. Gun range went out of business. Houses strung together with plaster. Just got back from a cruise and walked around barefoot. Had our choice of those female pups. Took one and called her Bella. Cash under the table. I’ve considered my path. The steps we’ll take. Get your toenails done. Pluck your brows. Got a birthday party coming up. Sleep well sweet Bella.

  16. THE MILE
    By Steve Plonk

    Arms & legs churning
    Back & forth, up & down,
    Heartbeat ringing in the ears…
    Striving & straining to
    Come in first.

    After the second lap it is
    Heard faintly, the game is
    Going again, it is almost
    Unbearable, it continues
    Like a torture.

    A pool game is going on
    Inside the head—the billiard
    Balls are racked up &
    The cue stick reverberates—
    The spheres scatter.

    On & on the game continues
    Balls sink into the pockets
    One after one after one—
    Must not let the eight ball go
    In prematurely.

    Keeping legs from coming
    To a halt—finished third lap—
    Now, the game ponderously
    Crawls on to the last three—
    Eight, nine, & six.

    Faster & faster—cue to
    Nine to six, right corner pocket
    Eight ball in side cavity—
    Quickly across the finish line,

    Circa Spring 1967, Revised Dec. 21, 2012.

    Also posted on my “Amazing Dawn Poems, Part 2”, in “Algonquin’s Table” Poetry Zone, Dec. 21, 2012.

  17. ****************************
    New addiction
    It could be worse
    All consuming
    Time to read again
    Wiring mules
    Cervantes on my mind
    A touch of the Tang Dynasty
    floating round my brain
    Thoughts of snow in
    it’s white silence
    A walk around this old town
    Action always on my mind

  18. ..central nervous system
    ..central nervous system.completely shut off for an hour.time to think about how we think.or why we think.and why we think because we think we are superior to other brain equipped animals on this world.only the soul elevates us.the hope for always.this is why we think of death.animals think of death only when its upon them.the lifelong dread and awareness is not there.for humanity, our minds are active in self awareness only.a selfless person has not been known.for the last two thousand, or so, years anyway.prior to that, bands of cannibals roamed the land.violence is nothing new.brutality is old.persecution is real.protect and serve.echoes repeat on the other side of the valley.progress and civilization advancing.move aside you fighters.stand down you gangsters.look ahead and see where the path leads.romeos of all colors selling the plan.for themselves, coast at the chattered about wisdom left behind.just a past..

  19. Poetry night turned 21
    Poetry night turned 21
    here in Frederick MD. U.S.A.
    all new poets amidst the freezing rain
    Poetry is alive and well here
    @ the foot of the Catoctin’s

  20. folding the hands / the hands
    folding the hands / the hands
    are wings
    these are not words
    but a vessel
    where would you like to go?
    i cannot take you there
    not because i am incapable
    but because you must take
    yourself there

    truth, beauty
    hollow bones, hollow head

    a mind of a water’s well
    thoughts of buckets and pitchers
    emotions of thunder head clouds

    the eyes are dark
    and sad and lonely
    tho i know they are real

    folding the hands / the hands
    are wings
    unable to rest the head on a halo

    i close my eyes and see
    the light

  21. white as snow
    white as snow
    that’s the way you go with a drum machine ticking
    the big white dog
    has got a tongue for licking
    hair like the winter sky and winter blue the color of your eyes
    that’s the why we go
    on a boat to some kind of Germany
    wooden boats
    wooden goats
    wooden nose
    wooden clothes
    with drum machines ticking
    I feel numb
    could be the winter outside
    have to turn the oven on
    just to stay warm
    and its cold up north
    wearing winter coats
    making winter jokes
    1,2,3, vier
    release yr fear
    the coming down is soon
    on the floor on the ground
    all around
    mother mother mother mother mother mother
    gotten to preserve wotten basking shark
    and a bag full of barf
    click click click clicking like a basketball cart
    a box full of Rittersports Hot Sauce Brautigan and other obsolete technology
    by god
    did she say
    you had a big dog as I was walking by…

  22. You rely on me for shelter
    You rely on me for shelter
    you rely on me for truth
    you lie to me for comfort
    you lie to me for the truth
    I got something
    that you shouldn’t use
    I got something
    that you couldn’t refuse
    I got something
    You rely on me for shelter
    you rely on me for comfort
    you lie to me for the truth
    I give you comfort
    because you have nothing to lose
    and everyone is broken
    and everyone says the same thing
    and no one is happy because you can’t begin…

  23. …day to day rocket…
    …day to day rocket…

    .bleary eyed and restless.
    .let me be honest.
    .this day to day rocket.
    .our wilting tolerance.
    .forever makers.
    .icehouse owners.
    .night of the soul.
    .when no one is awake.
    .words are corrupted.
    .the raging men.
    .the disgusted women.
    .get to your feet.
    .invite the devil too.
    .he’s likely to no show.
    .we got skin in this place.
    .check the archives.
    .an automatic silencer.
    .summon the will.
    .request a happy tune.
    .flaunt your silk face.
    .walk with a sway.

  24. Abigail dogs on the prowl
    Abigail dogs on the prowl
    Walking by with a growl
    Doggie dogfight
    Chock full of fright
    Cut it out carving knife
    Lou waiting for his man
    Downtown salsa and chips
    Screwdriver wired
    All of us waiting for the plan
    There must be some kinda way
    outta here

  25. Quaking ashen rains
    quaking ashen rains
    a sound like water on stones
    rattlesnake threaten
    as tight circling hawks hunt
    the red slow dying kokanee

  26. ..pecan clusters..
    ..pecan clusters..

    .led down a hall to a room full of pecan clusters.glazed with sugar and steaming.the smell was incredible and stays with me always.morning dreams and fireproof unions.more good days than bad.heartbreaks and last second shots.move the body and expand the brain.this life, full of cliffs.jumping jacks flashing the containers litter the room.old ways of thinking.when liberty was for the courageous.only love matters in the end.the love of it all.pleasure and pain.old and new.of things not even new yet.this ain’t no American dream.laws and regulations and socially acceptable long as the checks keep coming and the roads get all the people in the the streets after robbers.make maps of the city limits.plunged into poverty and the texicans built barbwired fences.

  27. The Unclimbable
    The Unclimbable
    Like a beacon
    out there on the
    edge where the
    razor flips

    Ghost mountain
    Shiva’s home
    Crashing thunderbolts
    above your steep faces
    Many images coming
    from within

    Alive, as pilgrims trod
    your magical circumference
    Beckoning from half a
    world away

    Mt. Kailash your vision
    touching my core
    I can feel you in these
    foothills just past the
    emerald city known as

  28. like the bear,
    like the bear,
    in some but not all ways,
    I grub and I den, and

    perhaps we have even stopped
    once, at the same tree
    to wonder

    What’s the rub? Or,

    Where’s the grub?

  29. ..shucked and jived through
    ..shucked and jived through the escalator maze..
    ..the fooled and the envious all around..
    ..all this styling and profiling not for me..
    ..pretend glam rockers and hussies..

  30. sewn into the fabric of these
    sewn into the fabric of these
    gadget to gadget lives
    clowning, drowning the home in the celebrity of the clones
    the mimes on primetime
    like an alien with an
    alias, morphing, seeping
    power from the stoop to the steeple and beyond,
    raving the radius of this radiance is such
    not nonchalant
    is trending

  31. one has to deal with things
    one has to deal with things on their own terms. why not take it all in wholecloth. why not take it all the way. on one’s own terms. why not go to france, back in time, to the moon, to 3am, to the end of the river, to ground. why not go, go, go. be a gone daddy-o, as offbeat as any. a 100% reality channel switch. out. one can. he did, and he did, and she did, and that other guy. an entire roster of heartful good people of quietude and solitude. unratified artists all. unamerican for all that, and nowadays would mean unearthly in a noncultured world as wordless as disney world.

    one must deal with things on their own terms. one must. one must deal with one’s self on one’s own terms. what are your terms. these are mine.

    i left my home in the valley and went up cold mountain. coming down, i went up the other side come the inevitable flood. as gone as any. as dead as if offline. skyrise, skyfall, and the sky bent down to cold mountain. han shan gone, no whisper left. cold mountain has it’s own terms. count your blessings. the fish are still clean there and safe to eat, and as plentiful as the snow.

    i went where the old weirdos were. i went where the mad felt right. i went where no children were, or should be. i went where the holy were as quiet as the wind and even more unadorned. i went to that impossible place where all was gentled by it’s own very nature.

    tiny statuettes in the ditch. tiny paintings in the branches. the road lined with ancient telegraphs. the sky dotted with zipatone. the rocks lined with mascara. the dirt sifted clean every day. out entirely. this was not america any longer. this was an older earth, a newer earth, a different earth. not earth at all. nothing that the word escape could even ever apply to. the ever undiscoverable itself.

    come the earthly scenario, zenith far behind, a time and place for everything as always.

    my name is the radiating grin of sheer triphammer heart.

  32. parrots perched
    parrots perched
    upon Battleship chips in
    well-lit cages, fenced in and famous
    within the scope of a household
    setting refrains
    in furious melodies, uttered repeatedly
    between belting the Beverly Hill Billies theme
    bet, “get me cognac,” is what it means

  33. grabbers.. grabbers..

    .name of a new year.the money grabbers keep grabbing.take it all you pathetic grub.wrap yourself in my money and save yourself.create a legacy of robin hood justification.little John is the thug.pull your tights up to your navel.put a feather in your’re on the up.we need to move the spring fashions.budgets adjusted.not enough votes for that.each generation has its get the bill.and the tip.for protection and service.for fines and fees.pulling the strings.

  34. The expedition
    The expedition

    Deep in my expedition within the water
    I thank them,
    For all the guidance, healing and protection
    They give.
    I see myself in another place sowing seeds and sprinkling water from my bare hands
    I feel the fertility that’s to flourish
    And I give something back to the land.
    The angels of fire are dancing into octagons their numbers multiplying from reality
    Transforming into tigers and tee pees with camp fires.
    The bubbles flow over my body
    Gentle, slowly as if time had became irrelevant.
    They take on new forms constantly moving and forever yearning,
    To be at ease.
    As I sit and watch what my energy can create to transform them
    It comes to pass that I am the one creating this scene
    A single twitch sends a new motion into flow.
    It conjures in my mind that if I can be the creator of this space at that moment in time
    Why should this stop only in that environment.
    I should be able to do the same with everything around me in my life.
    We all have this power.
    It’s being able to see and accept this small perception
    That allows me to make a change.
    I’m already on this expedition, the water calls to me.

  35. Slipping into the new year
    Slipping into the new year
    Like it was a comfy bed
    Time flying
    Truth be written on walls
    Fate a disclosure, inevitable
    Diamonds glisten, but less
    Before the rains came
    After the lights dimmed
    Playoffs a more creative way
    to not watch
    A nation of voyeurs & pundits
    Full of opinions
    Some good, most bad
    Doggie dog world
    Never could be a bartender
    Only a tightrope walker
    That’s the life for me

  36. Action Poetry
    Action Poetry
    True action
    Action satisfaction
    1st thought/best thought bliss
    Running down this page
    Word thoughts on parade
    Comforting to know it’s
    still here, as I sit here at
    the Nola bar drinking
    a beer

  37. Smoking riddles of the mind
    Smoking riddles of the mind
    Written in ten years time
    So wonderful to the eye,
    yet when they’re in the air
    they’re sanctified.
    Relied on or cumbersome
    rhymes in the past
    the true words spoken
    at last.
    It lingers in your ear
    long after the sound waves
    travel on and upward.
    Long after you’re sober,
    and forward.
    You don’t always have to look far
    for the answers behind the stars.

  38. walking through the district
    walking through the district running from distraction collecting smiles by the roadside of perception at about the time when last late evening joggers dart out into the opaque night I cross a huge deserted parking lot lying like a shallow sea before the resting discount grocery mirroring some old flutter-winged sensations and those half broken neon signs….humming flickering….

  39. what to make of this
    what to make of this lonliness and longing?
    what to do with the cloud’s tears?
    where to go when no place is home
    what to say when the tongue ties itself

    reach into the heart
    and be content
    with what is found

  40. Action word sketching
    Action word sketching
    Long train ride
    Day into night
    Making all the stops
    But for how long?
    She sits…rattle-rattle….
    Face buried in the window
    Strange reflections in the darkness
    Me in my ray charles shades
    Blinded by the light
    Click-clack….up the tracks
    Boyd’s….Point of Rocks….Monocacy
    Jubal T. & Abraham standing tall
    Almost got his stove pipe blown away
    @ Fort Stevens
    Ride that train
    Reading Tristessa
    Jack amazes me
    Again and again
    Next stop beautiful
    Downtown Frederick

  41. bunk off
    bunk off

    a lofty bunk – grab the trunk!
    slit tongues split ears
    the machines are working on

    all stacked – jam packed
    close packed densely tight action packed out
    just a narrow gap – for one alone and black

    huge rooms
    I may visit once again – I will
    explode in slow motion

    there’s energy
    things got destroyed – lighten up
    it’s simple – no it’s not !!!
    to enjoy the loss

    phone booths with
    five million fine rifts – somebody spits
    puerility upon my face

    a big bowl of cloud scraps
    room around my head
    my roomy head

    whiles and wilds
    I love these days – any of their miles
    I walk with bouncing steps

    a thousand eyes
    few somewhat shaping lines – it’s true all true!

  42. Final Slumber (edited version
    Final Slumber (edited version)

    I lay in bed sleepless again
    last night
    I could hear
    his laboured breathing;
    his heart still working
    in unison with his lungs,
    as it had done
    so for 79 years,
    while the rest of his organs
    shut down slowly
    one after another
    the odor
    of a dying body
    permeates my senses,
    things I’d sooner forget
    if I only knew how to,
    his eyes frozen open
    dry, red, and raw,
    rolling back into their sockets
    when the next dose of morphine
    began to course through his veins.
    The withering body of a man
    as tall as the heavens,
    as strong as a marble pillar,
    as gentle as a lamb,
    as loving as the father
    that I will never forget.
    For three days we cooed
    and crooned and cried
    at your bedside,
    but we sent you off with love
    and kisses
    dear father,
    an undying, unwavering,
    unequivocal love,
    as you have instilled
    deep within each of us.
    A love that will endure
    beyond your grave
    because you gave
    it so unpretentiously,
    with no finality
    to test it
    just eternity.
    Rest now father
    with your eyes closed
    and know
    that our love goes
    with you deep
    as you now slumber
    that merited and righteous,
    that ever-peaceful

    In memory of my father who passed away Dec. 20, 2012
    (9 days before my sister’s passing on Dec.29, 2012, the same day as my father’s funeral service)

  43. “Epiphany Penny Haiku Series”
    “Epiphany Penny Haiku Series”
    By Steve Plonk

    Camel trains were coming in ships,
    From the east, from the east,
    Three wise kings brought
    Special gifts from their feast,
    From their feast…
    Upon the sighting of a star,
    Three wise kings came from a-far.

    Three ships landed at Haifa, at Haifa,
    Heading for Jerusalem & Bethlehem…
    Warned against King Herod in a dream,
    They reported not the star they’d seen,
    In Bethlehem over a stable rude.
    Kings came with gifts, but stopped for food.
    To share upon that wondrous day & night,
    When they stopped to share with the Divine,
    A side of mutton, dates, legumes, & some wine…

    Three Kings viewed the Divine Child,
    Lying in a manger, in a stable,
    Said to be the Son of the One True God,
    Shepherds & angels praised, a nice preamble,
    As Into the stable the three kings trod.
    They exclaimed amazed, “Surely,
    This is the Son of God.”

    Mary & Joseph praised such gracious guests,
    Who entered their humble stable cave,
    Giving great gifts of a feast, & gold, frankincense, & myrrh.
    Baby Christ was surprisingly smiling & demure…
    As gentle beasts about them all stood,
    In the cozy stable cave so rude…
    In the skies was a rainbow shining star,
    Bathing the stable in glory from a-far.
    Also published in Studio’s Poetry Forum in my thread, “Some Penny Haiku, Part 4” On Epiphany, Jan. 6, 2013.

  44. ..tulum waters..
    ..tulum waters..

    .clear as the tulum waters.
    .wave after wave after wave.

    .coming over from the island.
    .been paddling since dawn.

    .ready for the big bonfire tonight.
    .heard the server girls were coming.

    .after the late seating at la cruz playa.
    .they got those margaritas that glow.

    .late night beach walk in barefeet.
    .as always the ocean winds blow wild.

    .as ever the duos kissing and wandering.
    .smelling of sweat and mexican lust.

  45. Stumped
    Invisible to the general
    populace once again
    This gig that is rrrrrr’s
    O so many years
    I woulda thought
    Way back when
    That the movement
    Would be flying high
    by now
    But it isn’t
    Personal puter
    Personal poetry
    Personal thing
    Why do I care
    Why do I cry
    Why do I carry
    heavy loads
    All the live long day
    Into those wild nights that
    be calling
    Come on out and dance
    Come on out and make
    a little romance
    Poetry alive
    @ the Cafe Nola
    Frederick, Md.
    Last Wednesday
    Every month
    The word will be
    Heard “ALIVE!”
    Action up my friends

  46. If I Was A Thief
    If I Was A Thief

    if i was a thief, i’d steal
    the music from your heart,
    the lamp shade of your laughter
    the inclusion of your spirit

    this is not a risk–this is the
    first brick of a bridge

    if i was a thief, i’d steal
    the pillows from under your eyes
    the boundaries of your breath
    the snakes from the grass of your thoughts

    would you like to go mad?
    would you like to go joy?

    i ride the thin line between the two
    so i can peer into the edge
    and enjoy the view

    if i was a thief, i’d steal
    the blanket of your breakdown,
    the beauty of your bringing,
    the focus of your hope

    if i was a thief, i’d steal
    you from death

    this is not a list–this is the
    blood that binds the spirit

    if i was a thief, i’d steal
    your heart from hatred,
    haven, whatever will have ’em–i’d steal
    your hands from heaven

  47. ..tranquil mobs..
    ..tranquil mobs..

    .please please please wipe that smile off your face.don’t you know people out there are suffering.all sick and depressed.ashamed and disgusted.worn by the years.jaded by the scenes.broken down and busted up.pride and stupidity collide.get some shelter from the through puddles and slide on the novak.had my fill and wrote my words.sang my songs and smoked my smoke.not for now.these glowface and tranquil mobs.just let it out.accept the truth.mick told you about no no.driving in my car when that man came on the radio.I can’t get no no.

  48. “Christopher (From the West)”
    “Christopher (From the West)”

    Speak to me my friend from Kentucky!

    Be with me for awhile my model New Yorker,

    Because you are “generationally” much bolder!

    Kentucky is were I came to know

    Christopher from the West—he told me!

    On video/cam I saw him so virtually there!

    This child from the South of the border

    With message in hand instantly speaks

    About the world in space—a virtual-like place!

    Favorite website to play with words,

    And to let bygones be bygones, and…

    To learn how to be best of friends—soon!

    Christopher from the West do you hear

    The sounds of a friend to be See you—

    And IM you (Online!)—on m-space?

  49. An Extravagance Of Art
    An Extravagance Of Art

    Dancing On Gravel
    the warehouse is dressed in an expensive shade of gray throughout. diffused minimal light leaks in through the painted panes up high. a scrolling marquee of words, barely discernible, lies just below. the soft orchestra reels out from the leftward darkness, plucking from the opening silence some bare motes of notes and builds upon them as the bay door rises.

    one by one, trucks slowly roll in through the big door, crunching the gravel beneath their tires. they line up beside one another and halt and open their doors in unison. dancers disembark slow and graceful as clouds.

    the music is smooth as smoke. seamless with the haze. quiet. soft with dim light. gravel crunching beneath their feet, the dancers array themselves slowly into patterns of diamonds, melting into order, and they dance.

    it ends ninety minutes later as it began, only darker with the sun completely set. the performance over, the dancers embark and depart much as they arrived, leaving behind them only the patterns in the gravel from the dance.

    Photographing The Grain
    the next day, or some other nearly as soon, a photographer haunts the warehouse, careful with her footsteps. shooting the patterns in the gravel from the catwalk high above. shooting them on the ground from afar. shooting them up close. shooting many shots, many rolls. she takes lunch in between. she considers her shots carefully, patiently. she meditates on the dim light as the day passes. dust motes hang in the air like microscopic christmas ornaments. she finally departs as evening finally arrives, her volvo trailing dust down the rubble-strewn street.

    He Wasn’t Just Another Poet Of The Apocalypse But Hers
    what fish dare one catch in such times. what nettles, what berries, what rabbits. for all that, he had food prepared that evening. candles were lit.
        he wrote only by pen, and only upon her negatives.
        it was another kind of a literature.
        it was another kind of a dance.

    she developed her film in the evening. he sat before their wall, remembering, waiting. pen in pocket.
        looking at her day’s work, he saw patterns in the patterns. he saw the footprints, the choreography, the passage of the performnce, the perverse aesthetic of desperate art. the sheer hope of it all. he saw her own desperate hopes in the photography, the angles and lighting, the particular images caught, the very number of shots taken. he took his pen out and wrote upon the negatives, with great calm and confidence, as if the world depended on it. he wrote with no fear, no fury.

  50. I want to do this and this
    I want to do this and this and then i do that
    my world is on fire and i just pour
    more fuel
    my eyes could not be big enough to gather
    to gather the stuff i could call:
    with wide open mouth i try to ingest it
    you! And you, and you, and this and that i want to
    All is love and i want
    to grab this love
    but i am apart
    i am

    take me where no money is
    take me out of sight
    let me starve
    let me crave again, against the hollow eyes
    of blight ….yea,

    feed me to the monster-god
    i’m getting there
    i’m late

  51. What joy a holiday brings.
    What joy a holiday brings. Some sort of honor bestowed. Martin Luther king Jr. Named after his father who was named for Martin Luther. Luther, who stood up, peacefully but boldly, to a church gone wrong. They threw him out of that church. And he persevered. Martin Luther the king Jr was tired of getting thrown out and kicked around. He really organized his community. The original, and best, community organizer. His stage was the alter. His voice was his sermons. ‘I have a dream!’. And massive prayer. Martin’s old German bones were proud. Proud to call him brother. The hucksters and shakedown artists come later, mocking the sacraments and lying to themselves. A Lily was born in the Eldorado valley. This was before the towers fell. She’ll confront a foe one day. She’ll demand change. A wild pack of glowface dames will follow her and become heard. Once heard, the music will continue forever, melodies and stories. Just remember, my darling’, can’t nobody control your dreams.

  52. “Mississippi Madness”
    “Mississippi Madness”

    Greyhound swaying, rolling
    dark cloudy rainy chill
    3 am express bus Birmingham to Jackson
    waves of nausea chuck and puke
    hammering hangover drunk sick again
    origin Georgia Augusta
    ben long, laboring hours ago
    Bound for skid row Los Angeles
    through Atlanta Dallas El Paso
    and points beyond
    jacked up on black coffee (blues)
    strange fat white guy
    wearing a crucifix for an earring
    a snoring black guy
    stepping on his toes
    it seems like…
    I’ve done this before
    it wasn’t fun the last time
    and it’s even worse now
    trapped in a midnight of madness
    a journey juxtaposed
    between melancholia and mania
    it’s very humid
    on this particular bus
    a sixty passenger Petri dish
    sweating and nodding
    and now it’s six am
    and we are pulling into
    the capital city of
    our nation’s poorest state
    I see the chain motel light
    illuminated through the cold mist
    across from the terminal
    on the backside of downtown
    the last stop before the psych ward
    the passing freight train
    rumbles through my brain
    an insane bastion of chaos
    soon to be quelled psychotropically
    in a surreal garden oasis
    Of my mind’s own creation

  53. “Turning Point”
    “Turning Point”

    spending time
    deep in a pine thicket
    at a picnic table
    by the fire station
    reading beat poetry
    breathing clean, cool air
    I am not writing
    a love letter
    I am here to heal
    I am bogged down
    with terminal well-being
    thoughts and meditations
    point to home
    this is all very real
    the machines of time
    are going on without me
    and I need to get back
    go forth and rise
    and rejoice with
    the respite provided
    be charged with strength
    and be well

  54. itsz da ganga
    itsz da ganga
    itsa trip hop
    brett ellis easton
    automatic reflex
    can’t be depraved as dat
    3rd person?
    Family Practice Doktor
    god knows
    I want a Maserati
    1st person
    that’s the trip hop gem
    of dirty unmade beds
    electronic apartments
    Computer Love
    Synthetic Drugs
    I’ll be combing my hair back
    I’ll be using analog playback
    I’ll be singing about that

    Pining scorned born adored
    Laugh fast
    make a verbal trap
    but I can tell that yr eyes are so goddamn beady
    the why you suck cock
    and want money
    this is ain’t Zion
    this is my flesh eating prion
    don’t bathe
    don’t wear socks
    I hope you catch aids
    and your feet fall off

  55. Jason, well done! I
    Jason, well done! I particularly like the line: “trapped in a midnight of madness”

    slog, go man! I enjoyed the line “Pining scorned born adored” and in general the first stanza, tho you kinda lost me with your conclusion.

    keep it up you guys, y’all got the juice now!!

  56. It’d be real nice if there
    It’d be real nice if there was a headline for Action Poetry. If someone new comes to the blog they’d be clueless…….

    Stinging cold daze
    Caution walking black plastic
    Hawk snatches pigeon

  57. Marching in Reverse
    Marching in Reverse

    What kind of person
    Abandons his house
    Minimal possessions in tow
    Going away to lala land
    Via a rolling hell
    To a place without promise
    The horizon bleak
    And well knowing this
    The confused soul
    Soldiers on to the
    Edge of the cliff
    He reaches the precipice
    Peers over and ponders
    He retreats into
    A shadowy realm of solitude
    Marching into the abyss
    Aware of nothingness
    Caught in the destructive void
    Always minding the gap
    Salvation is elusive
    But not impossible
    A long way off
    The soul marches backward
    A self-imposed renewal
    Luminous stars guide
    Him to a small town in Georgia
    Where demons and aspirations
    Are exorcised
    The weary traveler readies
    For a wintry Carolina
    And for what ahead
    Lies anew

  58. ” Dinner at Ryans “
    ” Dinner at Ryans ”

    Truth has many layers,
    sometimes one is not enough.

    Art and stars are the only place I can reach you
    so I paint abstract sextants, guided by poetry,
    in an attempt to force my words from the page
    and into the ether…

    Hoping beyond hope,
    this time you’ll
    hear me.

  59. …Roman Numbers…
    …Roman Numbers…

    Happiest are those who do the most for others. Booker T had it right. Didn’t worry bout getting respect. Although he earned it in the end. Deserving nothing. Certainly no made up American dream. The kind that must be bought. Or begged for. Dream about stolen songs and wise women. This court is in session. Dropped by the wine bar and sat by the fire. Winter still chilling the night. Like those Roman numbers. The minute hand movements. Smooth and constant. Never been older than right now. A statement that is always true.

  60. Action sketches
    Action sketches
    Painting the canvas…….word
    Wired yet liquid night
    Connections working selves out….they always do
    Heater hums
    Washer, it’s out of commission cause it froze
    Yogurt to neutralize
    Fellini on my mind
    Portraits of civil war generals
    amidst abstract structures
    Floating in infinity
    Sink or swim
    The hum persists

  61. …another trillion or ten…
    …another trillion or ten…

    ..hardy har har har.. ..had a good long laugh.. ..this roundtable of talkers.. ..hope finally realized.. ..keep running the cards.. ..the starvers and homeless.. ..another trillion or ten.. ..good rates and a printer.. bills need to get paid.. ..that’s a big pie to eat.. ..thick and full of ripe fruit.. ..still picking fights and stealing..

  62. I love it! Just waiting for
    I love it! Just waiting for someone to start strumming along?

  63. The Watchers
    The Watchers

    Not agony at all,
    undressing the dire fatedness
    of things settling out
    of joint with long-harboured fantasies:

    more a sullen drumbeat,
    kept-up, buoyant;
    the orchestral magnetic field
    which draws even those neutered inert particles.

    Over the heads of elm
    the wind pets its partial knuckles;
    midges spectral, golden,
    are moment’s nymph then dissipated sparks.

    Love is working her broken
    morning in all things
    (though with aberrant intensities).
    The Grigori, or Watchers, are homing to roost.

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Litkicks will turn 30 years old in the summer of 2024! We can’t believe it ourselves. We don’t run as many blog posts about books and writers as we used to, but founder Marc Eliot Stein aka Levi Asher is busy running two podcasts. Please check out our latest work!