Please Write A Poem Today

Being A Writer Litkicks Poetry

Please write us a poem today. Anything you want to get out of your system? Any thoughts you want to send into the public stream, either about election day 2012 or whatever else is on your mind?

The new integrated version of Litkicks Action Poetry is still not ready (it'll be here soon), but here's a simple thread for anybody with a verse or a rhyme or a message to share.

This article is part of the series Action Poetry. The next post in the series is Action Poetry. The previous post in the series is What Should Action Poetry Become?.
95 Responses to "Please Write A Poem Today"

by Levi Asher on

November 6, 2012

slow the rise of the ocean
heal the planet
a promise
a promise to slow
rise the slow of the ocean
promise to rise the ocean
promise to planet the heal
rise to promise the slow planet
i promise to help your family
to help your family in the ocean
to rise your family in the ploanet
to promise your family to be slow
to promise your family to the ocean
i rise
i promise
i rise
i promise
i heal the planet
i heal your family
i help your ocean
your family is help
your family is as slow as the ocean
your family is as slow as the planet
you promise to help me rise
your help is the promise
i family to promise the rise
i rise to slow the promise
i promise to rise the slow
your family is the ocean
heal your ocean
i rise
i rise
i rise

by Alex Korova on

We need a funeral procession as of old
Wailers and mourners and solemn faces all in tow
Birds will sing sweetly as they are known to do
And silent men will shut themselves away hiding from the morning dew
Follow now join the song and believe all is made new
I sit in the shadows and watch and wonder, it is hard to be hopeful.

by TKG on

My Boy
Turns Ten
Shun Day
Some How
It Seems
that by some quirk of fate and national magic he will be declared president when all the counting and lawyering is done
Hail to the Chief

by catalyst on

i dig what you did there, Levi. i'll share one.

this is not what i look like
when i am beautiful,
this is not what i would say
when you need words
encouragement, inspiration
just keep moving,
just keep moving,

i walk these streets with
children who never learned
how to swing a fist, but
they certainly know the
weight pressed upon a trigger
could clear a block,
could make a man or a woman
strip to their under wear,
could make mothers weep,
could make men move pens
could put flesh behind bars

only if you get caught

there's a machine somewhere
in Pennsylvania counting votes
intended for Obama as a vote
for Romney, somewhere
Ron Paul is getting drunk,
Jesse Ventura is still asking why
Bill Clinton's dick won't get
sucked by Hilary, Lincoln
turning over in his grave,
Medgar Evers still holding
his black fist in the air,
Huey grabs a cloud and puffs
on a menthol, Angela's afro
is still immaculate,

if i had a choice, we
wouldn't have to vote,
watch the banter on the television
who's winning where. why do
we waste so many resources
on vanity? why is
anybody homeless? why are there
any empty stomachs? why do
children have no parents at home? why
did the bomb ever get invented?

the lungs fill with smoke,
heart races, muscles relax,
i look into the mirror


Action up day
Re election day
Keeping them @ bay day
My night last was fraught
with anxiety
Feeling that some pious fool
just might rule the land of o say
can u see
It was only brief
I woke up full of belief
Freedom will reign
Hell we got Action poetry once again
My beatific friends

by david on

Crucified lips
Cracked and bleeding in the sun
Tremble last words in defiance
Once proud and exulting,
Tonight they reverberate into the eternal canyon of lost voices
Where the cyotes of democracy howl at the skeletal moon
And the cranes of capitalism come with headlights beaming
Lusting to bulldoze all hope

by josh moore on

the continental pole of inaccessibility

You live near the continental pole of inaccessibility
I'm all alone here in Sioux Falls
Orlando says “I'll vote for Obama, Josh.”
The Nunpa Theater
I had to to look the word up
my lexicon no longer uncludes counting in Sioux
Lando was a foster kid 2
He has a hard time maintaining his own home
I do not like being locked like a animal in a cage
I hope you understand my solitary leanings
analogical discussions
I want to talk about Foucault and Kafka
but I don't those books could be found in Martin South Dakota
I just hope you have internet
I could reach out and touch
with entrails and Enrons
smoking haze
as more Mexican brick gets consumed
I worry about consumption
and you
I hear it is a terrible disease
but you'll be free out there in the movies
near the continental pole of inaccessibility
and I'll shiver and shrink
in Sioux Falls

by judih on

ping of fly
struck down by slingshot
samurai slick

by hypcollector on

Chatter chatter chatter
My guy my guy my guy
Winner winner winner
Chatter chatter chatter
Historic and extremely important
It's all a game of dice
God is indifferent
The devil is a political junkie
Hope they pick up all the signs
Don't mess with Texas
Said Willie and LBJ.

by Steve Plonk on

We brought it back with Barack, Jack
We brought it back with Barack
Four more years
Have suppressed our fears
We brought it back with Barack
We brought it back with Barack
Sunshine shines on our national mama
We brought it back with Obama
Liberty, Equality, Tranquility...
No more Romney/Ryan trauma.

by Sheila on

I promise to rise the slow too
I am a pebble in your ocean
Yeah, let's avalanche
Today and tomorrow.

by soyblood on


Shine bright orange

Wind in the sail!

Good to see it

$5 dollar action tickets

Anyone want to go inside?

Okay, 2 for $5

He might make
A good manager someday

Ball four

You earn your day
In the sunshine

Good swings, that’s all

Giant’s baseball

He’s going to be one of the guys
Who comes up big in the playoffs

[marco scutaro]

He likes to hit long drives
In late innings
In close games

I like that swing!

by John Cassady on

Hey Levi,

Cassady here. I'm currently reading "Beats in Time," well done! I especially enjoyed the piece on page 47 called "A Note from Los Gatos!"

Please keep in touch, thanks. All best, John

by Levi Asher on

Hey John!! Great to hear from you. Yes, I could never have left that interview out of the book -- one of my favorite moments since starting the site ...

by Zuma on

balmy night in oklahoma
on the whole, i'd rather be in colorado
or el coronado even for that matter
but it's okay
any quiet night anywhere is okay
a blessing even

cheers to john for his presence
in the textual flesh
bringing the reality of life
to this world of words

"It's fucking great to be alive." -Frank Zappa

by josh moore on

Littlewood's law sez a miracle happens
every 35 days because by then a million have happened..
synchronicity is only noticed at the places where all the veins
I'm not sure
if its a more of miracle that you found
a job
or if Obama got another shot
but I think I'll thank for both...

I really shouldn't but I worry so much about you

by Alex Korova on

Cold air blows
Hot smoke flows
Young babes grow
Old man knows
Where shall I go?


Good vibes abound
Maryland my Maryland
Been back to stay since '97
Walked them Poe streets
from Hampden to Federal Hill
Wrote my guts out beneath
that domino sugar sign
many was the time
Met the love of my life
on old Hollins St. where
Mencken once ruled
I was schooled at Funk's Democratic
as we moved into the new millennium
Spent the past 6 years at the crossroads
of American history beneath the Catoctin's
Still performing
Still wired
Still willing to hop on board and ride!

by Spiros Zafiris on


the folds, each wave--
they formed,
these imaginings,
teachings bright each day
..(C)2012 Spiros Zafiris
..channeled; spirit Harmony; reaching
into the poet's mind

by hypcollector on

harmonica tones and blabber mouths.
two times the tears as yesterday.
and it's only noon.
left brain maniacs and hopers.
silly dances and wails.
lunged for a slice of muffin.
cobwebs and crazy faces.
our globe turns and speeds through space.
the territorial games.
huffing and puffing.
plenty of h2o.
plenty of love to go around.

by jay mejia on

The Truth About Lies

I was a liar before the truth came
I was a poet before the poems came
I was a liar but the other lovers had no name
I was a poet but the words were all the same
I was a drinker before the smoking came
so when you asked me I told you what you wanted me to say and you sprang me from the tomato pyscho ward that is the supermarket of my brain
and we crept up from the basement to the top of your tenement soul
and then we danced all night on the rooftops lit by ten foot candles in the street
we did the shimmy and the koko bop
and pistol finger shot the dancing ghosts and neon signs
and we sat like indians face to face and fought a duel over art and space and time
riches? screw all that Kerouacky fame, you said
who needs this crap, staring deep into my sockets pulling out the energy of my spine,
like some dinosaur in heat
my god, you could have lit all of Manhatten like that

instead you lit up the Jersey shore and I howled in delight

and like the King Kong of my wet dreams you stamped the bus of my lips to smithereens and sent the little people running for their lives

look out for that monster!


and then when the wobbly moon went away, you hid your face in shame to be seen with me when the sun came up again

you were so radiant in your retreat

Still I will wait for you up here on this rooftop of yours looking down for any broken parts of you in pieces lying there on the ground

I throw rocks over the ledge and they go splat like the eggs that are all that is left of my virgin eyes


I was your lover before the lovers came
I was your friend before the others came
I was your favorite before the end came

Now I am nothing more than a liar in love


Do bop sounds
Ring on fresh
20 years later
Wake up late for work
Realizing, it's midnight
28 hours to go.....relief
Action up
The trumpet always works
So does the harmonica story line breaks loose and I think back on the past, one continuous flow, call it prose, call it out in the night, on currents of fresh air, all beyond compare, a long breath into the abyss of u never can win, beneath the rockets red glare, for now we have peace of mind, liberals with knowing giggles in charge of the sanitarium, for now, for until, for the best, for the test, action up, traction in the rain, coping with the big kapow, we be slipping into darkness.......

by knip on

womb-warm days at the farm,
puppy dog care and eating oysters;
we were our world.

quick shot-in-the-dark glances,
catching each other
and stuffing into trunks?

John? Stoked and headed
on unknown missions
and Hollywood deeds,
womb hero - waning heat
and love burning out
like sopped candle wicks.
Never young again,
carefree no more.


Thinking on JAZZ
Read an article in the illustrious D.C. city paper last week saying that it was time to put a fork in jazz, because it was way past done........

Way past the way past
No new standards for
how many decades?
Forget the years
Sometimes ya got to hit bottom
before you rise back up
Remembering Jaco
Thinking about Trane
Miles gone
Mahavishnu John remains
What wrong turn did you take
Road that winds leads all things
back around
Jazz you were
Jazz you still are
Jazz your past illuminates
Jazz your future is deep
Like the Blues
Like the Grand Canyon
Like the sunrise of the coming day
Long may you live
We await your return

by K10 on

So Im on a quest for answers…
wherever it takes me and however it changes me
dropped my anchor in the east, but still Im driftin to the west
and with these words like a bird, I’ll fly away from the nest
..facing straight into the sunsets, and still pacing when the sun rests..
but yall.. Its not that im lost.. I just don’t progress upon request

Ever since my adolescense, I Been askin unanswered questions
i look up for some directions, but instead I get a checklist
..on how to live my life, but I cant hide behind a necklace
lucifer had to lie, you crucified me with deceptions/
so if I need understanding.. explain all these exeptions
cuz ive thought this thru a lot its not all thoughtless misconceptions
my thoughts were misdirected, now im distraught in my confessions
n its not what I expected that I cant learn from others lessons/

You may not be impressed-with, these solemn thoughts im tellin
you but check it..

I wanna run free from what they want me to be – n achieve freedom
from not writin to please, but please believe
I write to set my expressions free
.. From the narrowmindeds and their righteous squeeze
Free from the guilty feelings that are riding me
n from the constant wallows of my my pride n greed..
.. my god, I gotta put my mind at ease
Guess that’s why I gotta try n speak
But nothings settling down inside of me
Id better be ready now or I will die you see
I can feel it building up as I write n think about
the butterflies in my spine, when I tried to sing
like im paralyzed by the lives that have lied to me
no turnin back now and they can finally see
what blind eyes might find when they mind is free..
a silent sigh’s my reply when-I-hear “whyd you leave”
..ive been neglected now im tryin to live a life of peace
you can see all my imperfections..
cuz aint runnin for elections Im runnin until im breatheless…

..I never hide behind my lines
n one could say my lifes been wreckless
guess I shoulda learned my lesson the first time I got arrested
and advice can be a blessin, that ill always be ingestin
But I make my own mistakes.. and not out of rebellion
zonin out while their yellin, about him bein a felon
..he was told “ caton, wait you should know better”
..But they better let him go, or they’ll watch him drift forever
Cuz he’ll take his own road, no matter what they tell him.
, and he never raised his tone, when he spoke back he wasn’t yellin
“look, I know your words are worth more than gold,
…but somehow you didn’t listen, when I spoke up and responded.
Or maybe you just missed it, when I said I wasnt flawless.”

..Im sorry if its scarring but im just being honest
And I made a promise, to let him talk to my conscience
..But the problem is, Im not a saint like my father
I was blessed with the best, but im the black sheep that wanders
And strays away from the rest, no matter where the flock is
…guess i gotta learn my own lessons…. Im sorry

by Alex Korova on

I caught a glimpse of her precious angel face
The sight still warms my cold heart
Moments past they can never be ceased
Moments present can never be seized
We rushed off into the night with wild music and burning ideas
We longed to live but left life behind
We danced we gorged all went black
It never comes back

by ms on

hey geronimo

in this theme-park
future is and already gone
I wish i could run
thick bitch youngster blues tones
swallowed up soon by steady air-plane-flows
motor motives and light thought groves
tobacco brief looks of interrupted eyes
some love at least, dog sniffs at me
cat scratches my cheek

the chunks jump
crazy busy drunk
rushing marching on
hick hack stomping
heels click clack
flip flap picking
panic-stricken cackle-cluck
just like headless chicken

one step back
away from the flock
where's your head?
observer of scenes
on sunlit roads and offside
dally with dreams
more tiger-like

I went down
And I tasted lightening
But I slipped the noose
just as it was tightening.

I swept my Soul
Out of that valley

The only song the rifle sings
Is blacker than a Ravens wings.

In the Shadows of Death.

I got high
Yeah, I climbed that Mountain
Fell down so many times
Learned to stop counting

I swept my Soul
Through the Valley of Death.

Planted seeds and watched 'em bleed
I plead.
I Beg and Borrow
I stole and schemed.
I dreamt of Death and Sorrow.

And the only song I heard was the ravens wings
And the lonely song the rifle sings.
I went down
then I tasted lightening


Psychotic reaction
1st thought/best thought bliss
Threads rambling down the page
Awesome visual display
These things remembered
Feelings sender
Give and take
Shake and bake
Just don't call me late
You know I won't answer

by hypcollector on

good morning, my name is general punk.
all day and night i salute the flag.
don't you dare question my patriotism.
all the risk taking i do for you.
that's right, the late night dates.
the winking and grab-ass games.
it's all very dangerous.
i'm an american, by golly.
and i deserve a second chance.
if my wife don't care, why should you?
remember, i'm a hero.
the finest in the nation.
i fight all the boogiemen.
a leader of the highest order.
a man has needs, ya know.
all the pressure i'm under.
washington think tanks and hearings.
sending kids home in body bags.
boobytrapped streets and voodoo people.
hold on a minute.
gotta email my honeybun.
she has a nice butt.
even my wife says so.
some tell me i'm a disgrace.
bur her rack! her rack!
i mean iraq! iraq!
she asked me the other night.
general punk, who's your sweetest tart?
lordy, lordy girl, you know you are.
and she finished the job good.

by ms on

Flee...take flight

I remember how I used to come from school
How I used to dance instead of walking
How I threw things in the air
Maybe a cigarette box
My schoolbooks
Sometimes my shoes...

Everything flew
Everyone around stood still

And before those things could fall and reach the ground
I ran
But never found my home
And I never went to school again

Those things may still fly somewhere in the air
Never saw them again
I got far away since then
I still dance instead of walking
Tossing things
And run before they drop


Mid November
The cool broke loose
with the first spoonful
of the pumpkin soup
Always regretted paying
for it after Halloween night
All those restaurant chefs
On the prowl, up that profit
margin, "them pumpkins be free!" I was originally saying it's mid November, Thanksgiving is coming fast.
Action poetry's on the 1st page and from all indications it's active to say the least.
Interaction would make it really active I feel. There's no substitute for Action Poetry, it's damn near my religion.

by mc on

Irreverant me,
tonight the sky has no face.
Ink and stars whisper
time has no space within you.
Non-linear life matters.

by Poetpunk on

Home Is Coming

It's seemed like
an eternity
in the coming,

Gay marriage
Marijuana legalized
all in my home state

and best of all
Action Poetry is coming back.


Moby Tall Tail
Just found out Jimi was God
Jack was Moses
We all burned under the same treel
Polyrhythmic mass confunctions
Just found out 'bout Jean Harlow
and Billy the Kid's affair
How they were set to adopt
Ravi, only he was a dancer
not the sitar master that we've
grown to love
I swam with the 20 foot Anaconda
tonight we was dancing down old
Hollins street, wired
He woulda let me touch himi
but then I blinked
Jimi was God and
Jack was Moses
A tale to be or not to be told
Bigger than a white whale

by Silly Sili on


or tether coil on grumby tooth,
backtrack beat slipping
stacatto, beneath wires,

or a tooth grows between teeth,
like weed on aching ground
of bumpy gums.

or that unrefined pain
experienced during brushing --
spit to exorcise. Spit.


when you are jealous
i can see it crawl out from your pores
this green icky goo
your envy cannot contain
you struggle to detain it
but it engulfs you still
and when you want to pretend
to be nice to me and comprehend
all the nice things people say to me (but not to you)
this green slime from your body
slams itself in bits and blobs
all over me and saps the cells i thought were mine

and then you smile while i am trapped
in this green viscous bubble of your resentment and fury
and you ask me what was it they said about you
that they couldn't possible say about me?


Saving you
Saving me
In the land of
O say can u see?
The beyond belief
and the ever so brief
It ran down the hole
I was never so bold
as when I jumped in
and began to swim

by Joshua Akinbami on

My mind is hell
I fell so quick
trapped by it
lost in a maze
a haze of thoughts
I try to sort
Nowhere I get
So I cry and fret
Over lost regrets.

by gadfly on

And if I did have a point, I think it's that we citizens of the world have been trapped in a cycle of brinksmanship, winding ever tighter, at least since VJ day. There is only so much tension or pressure that any system, whether a simple one like a spring, or a complex one like global military and economic alliances, can bear before the system dramatically and quite suddenly finds a mechanism of release from it's high-energy state. I'm reminded of an incident that occurred when I was in the 5th grade. I was assigned to learn to play the viola that year in music class, and to be honest I resented the shit out of that assignment. At any rate, I was fiddling around with the tuning pegs, playing with the tension and exploring how it affected the sound the instrument produced, and really enjoying how direct and obvious the connection was between high pressure and high pitch. But I pushed it just a smidgeon too far, and when I put the bow down on the then ridiculously tight string -mind you I simply rested the bow-hairs on the string without even drawing the bow to produce a pitch- the string snapped and whipped apart in both directions, one end lashing my face and the other my fingers draped across the neck. Let me tell you, THAT. SHIT. HURT. Now, if this anecdote has a point in this context, I suppose the point is that it's fun to play with tensions in "closed" systems, as the Israelis appear to enjoy playing with tensions in Gaza and the West Bank, but the "closed' nature of the system is in fact illusory, and when the tension gets beyond a certain threshold the system is liable to open up in a fairly chaotic way, and anyone or anything near to it is pretty sure to get a lashing from the energies thereby released. Now, obviously, systems can reside within systems, and sometimes when a tense system is unbound it propagates a pressure wave which may loose further tensions in the encapsulating system or systems, if they too are already wound fairly tightly. This point now brings us back around to the bomb. It illustrates both the internal physicochemical mechanism of the bomb, and the sociopolitical mechanism of the employment of the bomb. So, yeah, have fun with that.

by Wojciech on

eat when you eat
shit when you shit
listen when you listen
talk when you talk
see when you see
walk when you walk
sit when you sit

the head is filled with doubt and fear
the heart is filled with light

chasing my shadow


Poetry in action
Ever ready and willing
when enabled
Waiting on Jack
Wondering the reaction
Have the times changed?
Yet the folk remain
Same shells
Same wishing wells
With cellular technology
by our side
I remember pre Kennedy time
How did we survive
Waiting on Jack
Wondering if there's still
a connection
60 years & the worlds
still beat

by Zuma on

The Extinquishment

life as a biological flame
down to embers
and radioactive plastic

blind and angry, armed and insane, we will end as we began, painting on cavern walls...


Last leaves
River runs blue
Headlights on, dusk

by hypcollector on

Sober Girls

.all the sober girls tell lies.
.how happy they are.
.and blessed.
.the unaltered mind is full of melancholy.
.the decline of years and days.
.drink life.
.smoke it too.
.stack the cans high.
.laugh out loud as the spirit shines.
.all you toasters.
.all you dirty minds.
.yes, the sober ones are sad.
.drink the wine that is true blood.
.line 'em up on the bar.
.shots of tequila and salt.
.make the bottle last.
.throw it in the river at the end of the night.
.damn devil liquid.

by mc on

I knew where I was,
in some other place dreaming.
My reality
was tender and quite fragile.
I did not surrender it.

by ms on

wind cries
sun bleaches and dries
a plane sounds from another far away sky
here falls a leaf
there breaks a drop of I don't know what
the reflecting face of a shallow slough
revealing its ground of sea moss and mud

by ms on

damn devil
liquid life
flooding you
will bleed

by mc on

In this place I breathe
all of life and bright color.
With arms full of hope
reaching towards my horizon,
I'm anxious beneath the dream.

by hypcollector on

Texican hands were rough. Full of earth spots, sun spots, and nicks. From the fertile dark soils of the northeast to the dust left over from the dust bowl of the previous century, there was a purpose for all the dirt. Sands of Galveston, Padre Island, and the Yucatan Rivera met the Sea of the Gulf. Baja and Acapulco bid farewell to the Pacific. It does always go east to west it seems. Follow the sun.

The family farm was a thriving industry in Texico. Robust local economies supported direct trade. Producer to consumer was the normal exchange. Only manufacturers of large or specialized items used middle men. Mostly, it was direct and modestly priced. America's corrupt institutions included its economy, where several deals were contracted and negotiated before the buyer got to decide. Persuasions to fool the masses represented the largest industry in America. Advertising and media. Billboards were not existent in Texico, where anything to burden the evening views and morning sunrises was scorned by the population. Money was a means to end, not the end of the rainbow. Many American farmers migrated to Texico to live the life they knew. The estado of Trinity, with its spring rains and rich soil largely supplied the nation's food and textiles needs, allowing economies of other areas to focus on other industries. There was cooperation and strategy, not competition and sabotage, among the estados of Texico. Oil energy in Delta, sugarcane in Veracruz, wind energy in Ogallala, technology in Pecos, automobiles in Chihuahua, media and tourism in Yucatan, telecommunications in Mexico, financial services in Brazos, sports in Tabasco, music in Galveston, beer and wine in Louisiana, foreign exporting in Baja, and the farming and ranching of Trinity. Never had the world seen a well coordinated and executed strategy applied to an entire economy. The results were spectacular for all Texicans.

The term limits written into the Texico Papers ensured innovation and evolution of thought. Creative solutions to problems and, more importantly, the avoidance of creating new problems motivated the politicians and their actions. Like the economy, middle men were cut out of government. Politics was not an industry like the still-greasy Washington D.C. of America. The lobbying profession barely existed and went underground. Offenders would rightly be brought up on bribery charges, usually convicted, and sent to an Ogallala tent prison.

by Steve Plonk on


By Steve Plonk

Stories of cosmic flowers
Coming alive for dull eyes
Breathe of hallucination—
A poised question
Gathers before time freezes it over—
Better that we realize (goes the answer)
A few manifestations
Than be self-deluded
By holding back our fancy…
Night is a friend to all who dream
Even though ended by the
Crimson courage of the day—
Sometimes there is hope in brute despair
Hope is the beginning of a new tale…
Wayward children are we
Shown our great destiny—
Or is destiny just a poised question,
With a lame paradoxical answer?
Gamble on the flipped coin—
Is life more like a gamble,
Than a paved road to certainty?
This question is poised much too often—
Better not to ask it &
React to the flow—
What is now arriving on our thoughts,
Was dreamed before we know,
Like east & west, above & below,
We are caught in between like a feather
Floating down,
Like potential heat in an unstruck match,
Poised for action,
Like an agreeable answer—
Which takes away our breath…

Written Circa 1986, Revised slightly, November 2012.


Writing feeling night. Reading Richard Brautigan revenging the lawn. Inspired by Rumi words and Coleman Barks comments. Future music at the bar, and it is electronic. Wound tight and wired as as I should be. Head up to mi casa to get a dose of Joni, refuge of the road. All about these mountains today. Small they might be, but o how they loom above all the hullabaloo below.

by Zuma on


somewhere in between brain centers it all becomes cinema
and the cloying seductions of preoccupations of form
finally gives up the ghost and shuffles off
as content saunters ondesk
and asks for it's script
and asks what is my motivation
like some method actor
and asks and asks and asks
why over and over like a two year old
threatening to topple the desk
and just hit the stage and just do improv
risking vacuity, boredom, waste
and failure to connect
in a miasma of meta

no myth, no boon
no story, no time
but to stop time like lyric poetry
and more
a virtual heart
on sleeve or not
as a place, as a headspace
or a home, a cave
or the source itself, grace

all to be threaded into this tiny ass window
where it's all different, like a late night quiet near-empty chatroom
with just enough others
of like minds
and kind

one hopes

by Zuma on

Girl With A Woman

girl with a cat
woman with books
girl at a manual typewriter
woman in a dream of a girl in a dream
woman standing nude in a garage at night with no lights on
girl with her head down reading notes and standing silent at a podium in a large mostly filled auditorium
woman with disheveled hair and dressed in a bathrobe seated at a table with her knees up drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes
girl on a park bench reading the New York Times Book Review while eating ham and cheese on rye with mustard and wearing a trench coat
girl standing still in a garden with her hand up shading her eyes for an hour at midnight
woman reading a novel in one hand and smoking a hash pipe in another
girl at a table concentrating on the composition of a poem with a pencil in her hand and the eraser's worn down to a nub
woman at storefront window in NYC 1958
woman and girl lowering a new 350 into a mat black '58 Chevy Bel Air
woman drawing on a wall a scene of a girl seated at a table
woman with a cat
girl with books
girl with a woman

by ms on

blue lioness

m.bathing in dolphin's tears a seaweed garden
breathing their cry into your ears

m.soaked through ceilings drips on your sheets
m.jumped off your lashes
warm gush at your feet

m.snows down just to melt
m.drunk ghost with teeth
miss in wet shirt

m.your narcotic thrill
m.dwells in a twinkle of many eyes
straight spine spinning wheel

m.your xl-jacket soap to your skin
m.munches hours like cherry chew
morning dew drinks of guilt and gin liquid leaking
m.girlman womanboy
tide bleeding

m.the 'fuck me with toys'
m.her own mother
lovingly poised

m.dreaming of octopus arms
m.seeking tongue plants
with radical hands

m.sucking your thumb
m.your baby
your child your tomb tear dept
m.close to the end

m.sheepish rubber doll
m.the deep water
vest open heart full

m.coming unglued blue blue
old school tattooed midnight flag gown
m.flying with still wings
riding you home

m.wet dog doggy style weeper
m.almond breath catcher
curious finger creeper

m.spread knees shifted ass witch
m.miles away
milkjuice brewing bitch fuck me high heels
m.splits stocks in stockings
asking tied mouth how it feels

m.centred more outside than ever
m.dancing despite dumb ears
floor flung face fever

m.with lion locks
m.pleads for keys codes or power saws
eyes and fingers the box

m.buzzes off
earning applause

by hypcollector on

creekbed day

she really works for her supper.
all day long worry about the little ones.
waking her deep sleeps.
every day is its own.
a sunrise and a sunset.
dusk and dawn.
the day makes sense.
seasons too.
changes are evident and recurring.
a week and a month.
all the days already named.
named before they arrived.
it is a tradgedy.
i want to name my days.
yesterday was creekbed day.
the previous, follow the sun.
today, maybe earning applause.
but she does awake.
and works.
works to keep that spark.
breathing in heavy.
his enthusiatic row.
sleep is easy now.
her work is complete.
hopefully he's been tamed.

by Zuma on

this is no response poem just a response:
i liked this piece.
i quite appreciated the viola string analogy. (your actual experience is scary to even imagine.)


Action poetry thread
Almost forgot you
were here
57 strong posts
toasting on the blog
Waiting for some interaction
For without it
the Action can't provide
no satisfaction

by hypcollector on

..floppy shoes..

him who brought levity and grace.
who told you about the mistakes.
lighting the path all the way through.

aware of each specific experience.
aware of the thoughts of others even.
but uncaring and resolved to fate.

blend in with the marching band.
waive flags and throw flaming batons.
wind blown tangles and floppy shoes.

all the days are owed your attention.
attend to the particulars of your culture.
make your written words count.


Did I hear 60?
Keep it going
Growing w/the
Still going down here
at the bajo
Secret spot that only
the kicker homies know

by Zuma on


old newspapers blowing down...
...a bleaker street
beat, man, just beat
and when you look at all your books and stuff
wondering just what you won't sell to eat
you know what they're worth to you
or not

but for all the books you can't sell
that really bring a grin
cause you haven't
written them yet
is the most love

by Zuma on

The Man

kenneth goldsmith, m'man of the hour still
headspace city, mama
is all i can say
the ubu man
does it for me for all the others he rallies and gathers and proffers
& i wanna celebrate him

recently found his site's twitter link held unheralded gems
otherwise unproffered praps, or not
eh, wot?
who knows

and so on
and so on
and so on

from deep in the late night
in oklahoma city of all places
i'm drinking really really cheap coffee
and missing all my very very old typewriters of yore
and giving thanks to The Man

by Duncan Brown on

We mill dog vile him
Keep ex-nun mine
Sister kinda zany.

by ms on

I need time I need time I need time I need some more time All I ask for is time I want more time I need some time I need so much time Please don't take too much of my time I need time Give me more time I need some more time I want more time I need time Some more time I need so much time Please give me more time I need more time I need so much time I need time I need time I need time Slow slow Slow it down for me I need time


Into December
Waiting for a true home
The Action floating
in limbo

by mc on

Their misconception.
Scarlett wishes with blue dreams
have taught me restraint.
Language signed with unknown tongues
often paint me with eyes closed.


My blue dreams
Especially on the weekends
when the nights
are longest
In & out of blue dreams
Sometimes catching the
same dream again and again and again

by louigi on

its best to slip in
a few errant words...they become relevant.
like a wish someone gave you.
close to.
fond glance
memory and another place.

by Zuma on

Where There Is Air

even in the dew
and crusty mold
this busted world
breeds new

by mc on

"Not a Real Poem"

Limitless perceptions,
perhaps we are
but one conciousness
experiencing itself.

The old ones of my family
got up from the porch
and then closed the doors.

The older I get the less fused
to reality I become.
There are more holes in it now
than there ever was.

by Wojciech on

i don't know peace,
i know this world

by Steve Plonk on

"G.O.P. Stinkin' Penny Haiku"
By Steve Plonk

Party of Lincoln
Be stinkin',
Be stinkin',
Time for them
To get wise,
Stop livin'
With blinders
On their eyes...

Also posted on in Studio Eight, in my thread, Some Penny Haiku, Part 3, page one, on Dec. 7, 2012 in the Poetry Forum.

by ms on

Sit broken promise struck by too much of always a bad teacher no idea
you perfume! you perfume! note any train take any train

I take any train
remote consoled by repetition again
I need time I need time I need to spit spew spout out more time

...what should I do?
Get new-tattooed? Be impressed by you, your statements? Be in love? Talk? Talk too much? Get hysteric? Cold? Get old? Die young? Cook up some art? Fall (on someone) apart? Get drunk? Be cool? Be smart? Be fun? Be d dif diffe ferent? Mo mom no come on no mo mon no one no you know no none not one no mo moan no you no none. You don't know. And stars don't know. And cards don't know. Maybe scars do know. But you don't know. And I don't know. And god doesn't know. And mom doesn't know. Some books could know. But the writer doesn't know. And days don't know. But nights do know. And pets don't know. But cats may know. Blow doesn't know. And wine doesn't snow. But snow knows. Snow knows. Snow does know. What your love doesn't know. Your child doesn't know. Sadness knows nothing. And joy knows nothing. Walls don't know much. But time. Time doesn't know a thing. Music, in the sweetest way, doesn't know. Hands know. Hands know. Feet know. Ways don't. And signs don't. But feet know. And wise wise hunger knows. No. Probably it has no idea. Pain is clueless. And so on. So...

by Zuma on

> by Wojciech on Sunday, December 9, 2012 02:31 am god, that was a strong poem...
that i never read those particular eight words before, and to do so now, is incredible to me. literally.
breathtakingly original, powerful, and terse -my jaw is still dropped.
i didn't expect to be so blown away just now.

by Wojciech on

@ Zuma - thank you for the kind words

@ ms - I enjoyed your (response?) poem

@ Duncan - welcome back, sir. We have missed your voice dearly.

by Zuma on

rage & wonder

color trammel cluehouse
clashing camel crawl
dollar dremel drainpipe
dashing dharma dolls
where exactly is this?

by ms on

yes Wojciech, response to your real good short-poem...happy you enjoyed it

..sipping from the dish..

.part the sea again Lord.
.free your people.
.sing holy songs and blow trumpets.
.those girls want a tree.
.and a list.

.hide your sneeze in your sleeve please.
.we can do without you for a day.
.or two.
.renegade wranglers.
.tophat chasers.

.respectable reputations.
.all dignified and trusted.
.adversity absorbed.
.sponge of madness.
.shaken loose by use.

.proclaim your future.
.set the scene.
.watch her sip from the dish.
.sipping like a cat.
.and barking like a dog.

by Wojciech on

The Sky Is A Magnificent Ceiling

i taught Malcolm X how
to aim a weapon,
then he put his forehead
to the ground,

i taught Huey how
to hold a gun
then he gave lunch
to school children,

i'll teach you how
to love yourself
if only you would step
away from that mirror

i taught the bear
how to fish
then it went climbing trees

teacher is student
lessons, leeway

they call certain paintings abstract
because they do not understand,
they point their finger at you
because they do not know

you are an outcast, weird, different
iconoclast, decenter, sooth sayer

would you rather be thought of as normal?

by ms on

proud jurek dies

blind spy blank faced
his best friend in shreds over the place
red – red – red
closed eyes
now that they pay you
inward wars last
blank faced blind spy

by mc on

Where the shadows fall
the softest words are whispered.
Far too many thoughts
will conclude that the sunrise
always shows up late for me.

..spanish roots..

a room full of wine drinkers.
talking of the great grape harvest.
texas roots and imported spanish vines.
spanish roots can't make it in the texas soil.
some sort of hybrid was developed and nurtured.
care was taken to allow for several years of oversight.
the vines now robust and mighty in the large waves of rows.
the explanations were magnificent and i understood the reasons.
get it to the bottle and capture the liquids of the earth with a cork.
finest grapes in the world grow on mitas hill in north collin county.


Keeping action roots
In the 80's
Thread looking for
a doggie bone
We be growling
the word
Every poet needs
a chance to be

by peter stanford on

siren song

my love for you is deep
to the pillars of the earth
it would stand in the face of ruin
it's a haven
shelter in your storms
and it's forever
as it is
and as it was
so it shall always be
I love you
it is the way of things

and should the darkness ever fall upon you
I shall find you
wherever you are
and wielding a light
bright as the sun
cold as the moon
sharp as the evening star
shall put to flight the shadows
that have broken your beautiful heart
and take you away from this battlefield
to a place we’ve only ever been
when we dare to dream the dreams

this is our place
it’s where we belong
it’s home
and it’s so far away
but I shall take you there my love
and we shall never leave
and I shall hold you in my arms
and love you till I die
and you
the love of all my lives
you shall be my princess
and I shall be your knight
in shining armour
on a great white charger
I shall be the wish you wish
on all your shooting stars

© peter stanford 2007

by gesso cocteau on

…crumpled paper wings…

the morning drifts into being
under the strain of night --
awakened words willfully wind up their syntax
and the metered music begins.
Black birds with crumpled paper wings eat paragraphs for breakfast....
we seem to regurgitate more than we eat, we seem to write more than we read....
Who is the Subterranean Soul who cut a path close to the weeded word?
sometimes I wonder about the emptiness....
We are all hurling through space brushing against the nothing trying to hold on to a poem.

by Hazel COle on

And you Were told,
Before the somethings and can't remembers,
old of the slashing nibs and bleeding blues.
There is no silent, rhyming scream.
We scratch a century of lead into iPads.
(And we don't care)
Consider yourself told off . X







The Sea Shepherd

Waves are shushing mothers,
soothing, mopping tears
from the face of the bay.

I sit high among the rocks,
weed-strewn, and watch
the sky for signs of day.

Night drops her gown,
a witch's deeper blue;
the indigo gives way

to bright Phoebus’s rays,
enlivening my flesh.
Here I remain,

Guard of the shallows,
Where the frail fish swim
and pale birds play.

Derelict Hearts

The pull of the things lost to us and those others, half revealed, but which remain curtained in mystery. Our streets were filled with the cadavers of domesticity; the bare bones of lives long lived, for good or ill. Amateur vandals, we roamed the ruins, tourists at Pompeii , in search of sacred relics - hearth tiles, windows miraculously unbroken, heartbreakingly withered strips of weathered wallpaper, floral and flock. Sometimes, a door would be forced on the wavering wreck of a house, half-submerged in its own demise, and we'd violate its space, climbing skeletal stairs to rooms where flesh and blood had once loved and fought; where babes were born and others perished. Careless of this history, we hurled our half-bricks through rotting floorboards and daubed empty slogans on walls that would once have been lovingly decorated to familial taste. If the ghosts of these Englishmen's castles bore witness, how they must have wept as we trampled on their sweat and dreams. Something draws me back - the promise of the forbidden and so long hidden in those careless summer evenings of trespass and pillage; the glow of the sinking sun that made these broken pieces of our city a song in the heart of the wild-eyed and roving boy.

where the hell did all the old action poetry poems go?

by Steve Plonk on

By Steve Plonk

Broken threads never die,
They gain internet space,
Then forever fly,
In the beholder's eye...
If you first don't appear,
Forever try...

by Steve Plonk on


By Steve Plonk

Don't worry about the showers
Much noise & thunder
Doesn't always light up sky with lightning--

The branch lightning threads
Through the sky,
Brings us a show by & by--

Gullywashers come & go
Splash & dash & run
For Impromptu internet fun...
As our keyboards go pitter patter
Bringing out renewal of chatter...

by Steve Plonk on


By Steve Plonk

He took a trip to the end of the line
He told the world that he was not fine
He broke his neck & he cracked his spine
He took a trip to the end of the line

His life was hell in that morbid room
Where he was discovered one afternoon
There should be an inquest to light up the gloom
End of the line....End of the line...
The world found out that he was not fine.

Robin lived a generous life, it's true
He was there for friends feeling blue,
What happened in his mind, that last night?
What happened to cause an unwind
So that he couldn't see the next light?

They say he appeared to die by his hand,
But I didn't see that part of the plan,
He boarded the ship at the end of the line
He took that last trip at the end of the line.

Oh Robin, I know your folks miss you so,
Why is it you took this time to let go?
They said too much, they didn't say enough,
What killed you, must make us tough...

You were a hero to many & fought the good fight,
Where were helping hands on that last night?
You needed to take your own advice,
Before you succeeded on giving your ice...

The ice man came & took you away,
You didn't live to see that next day,
You join some of your friends long passed away,
It's hard to find words to know what to say.

Rest in peace is the best I can do...
You're a better man than me,
I hope your soul flew...
I hope your soul is rested in a quiet place...
With no more demons giving you chase...

Add new comment