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Archive for August, 2013

Sycamore

A squirrel dashes up the sycamore tree,
prey to an invisible hunter,
or so it appears from my kitchen window.

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The Jerk

Jerk sitting in corner
talking loudly
for whole café to hear.

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The Nonconformist

The nonconformist haiku,
independent of syllabic shackles,
sits reading under a tree.

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Outcast

Life isn’t always scary,
but these fears are far from buried.
At times it’s much to carry
when doubt and hate are married.

They kick me when I’m down,
and strike me as I turn around.
I’m the outcast of this town.
I’m of no more worth than a junkyard hound.

I’ll never be accepted,
but I’m used to being neglected.
Placed in a line to be selected,
I’m the one left undetected.

I’m so tired of all the lying,
the stony glares, the endless buying.
At my best I feel like crying,
at my worst I feel like dying.

I’ve become numb to the pain that’s dealt,
though it has left an ugly emotional welt.
This empty sensation is the strangling belt,
and I try not to forget the way I once felt.

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Blank Signals

Screens that might as well
be receiving blank signals
glow in dark bedrooms,
cutting right through feeble eyes
and going straight for the brain.

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Somewhat Whole

Partially crushed leaves
gather upon my front lawn,
somewhat whole again.

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Transformation

Bar lights have been glowing
red, purple, blue, and a sickly green
inside of this room where
average lives are transformed,
no longer afraid of offending,
never even giving a thought to
everything they once held essential.

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Planet

Blowing winds tend to lead one to where
right and wrong become clear as pure water
inside of a pair of crystal goblets
among crude mugs of stone and molded clay
next to men whose power over our world
never takes into consideration the welfare of
everyone making up the populace of this planet.

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Place with No Sound

You’re the most brilliant girl I’ve ever met,
but if I can’t be your man, then I have to forget.

There isn’t a point in waiting for the sake of poetry.
This is real life, and I can’t keep pain from flooring me.

While you’d be worth the patience of sticking around,
I can’t remain rooted in this place with no sound.

You told me how you felt before,
and I realize every word you spoke was true.
I’d never heard such genuine speech,
but it killed me to know I wouldn’t be with you.

So please forgive me for moving on,
and giving up on what may come.
I’ve loved you more for far too long,
and no response has left me numb.

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Coffee Shop

The night is coming to a close
as the baristas clean up the local café,
placing chairs on top those tables
at which no caffeine addict is sitting,

and I suppose since I’m the only one
still occupying a spot here, my mug long empty,
the poem I’ve been writing, the one
about the coffee shop closing for the night,
should be packing up and going home as well.

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