Submissions by patrickbirdener (Patrick Birdener)
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
Hmmmmmmmm...
is
a poet is not a poet
is a poet is a toe nail swept away,
a figment,
a filament,
flame and its shadow.
sit in the box to think
outside the box.
the “genius”
in squalor
is pallid
and smells
flowers.
is a poet is a toe nail swept away,
a figment,
a filament,
flame and its shadow.
sit in the box to think
outside the box.
the “genius”
in squalor
is pallid
and smells
flowers.
54 reads
9 Comments
odd old miscellaneum from a time of passive searching (what the hell?) II
And the rain battered your balloon
as it climbed for the clouds.
And the sun blasted me into dust.
I reformed after dusk.
As the sun rolls over the hill,
you ride my horizon.
At a distance a dust cloud
looks like a dust cloud,
sounds like a bell,
and smells like the dew
on the ground.
A call to action: look around.
But we don’t suggest you look down—
you just might glimpse
your shattered reflection.
The shade of a tree
depends on the breeze.
The shape of the breeze
depends...
as it climbed for the clouds.
And the sun blasted me into dust.
I reformed after dusk.
As the sun rolls over the hill,
you ride my horizon.
At a distance a dust cloud
looks like a dust cloud,
sounds like a bell,
and smells like the dew
on the ground.
A call to action: look around.
But we don’t suggest you look down—
you just might glimpse
your shattered reflection.
The shade of a tree
depends on the breeze.
The shape of the breeze
depends...
32 reads
2 Comments
odd old miscellaneum from a time of passive searching (what the hell?)
Shouldn’t have bothered.
No bother.
hidden in an enclave,
fresh cool breeze,
seagulls,
cries.
Stairwell worries.
Whole lot of moments.
This is the star of the shadows.
The shoulder of the water falling
ignores the growing rolling sensation.
You have prospered
since I’ve been gone.
Light this.
Cut that.
Sit here.
Ponder there.
I am finding nothing works.
Exhale.
Exit care.
This is what happens when someone
who could really be a character in a story
--the insane one...
No bother.
hidden in an enclave,
fresh cool breeze,
seagulls,
cries.
Stairwell worries.
Whole lot of moments.
This is the star of the shadows.
The shoulder of the water falling
ignores the growing rolling sensation.
You have prospered
since I’ve been gone.
Light this.
Cut that.
Sit here.
Ponder there.
I am finding nothing works.
Exhale.
Exit care.
This is what happens when someone
who could really be a character in a story
--the insane one...
33 reads
2 Comments
another old(ish) "sid" poem...
life-long dead, nothing to say.
he’d guarded corners at parties years ago.
his cousin wanted to catch up on the last few dead years,
and he tried his best to speak, but couldn’t stop focusing on
the blank wall next to his cousin.
so he stood around, a ghost.
he helped the host.
he guarded the coffee.
“it’s Strong, French Roast,” she said.
he wanted some coffee.
careful how much he took from the living, he allowed himself half a cup.
and another half a cup. and as he drank
he realized
he liked the cheap instant stuff better.
he’d guarded corners at parties years ago.
his cousin wanted to catch up on the last few dead years,
and he tried his best to speak, but couldn’t stop focusing on
the blank wall next to his cousin.
so he stood around, a ghost.
he helped the host.
he guarded the coffee.
“it’s Strong, French Roast,” she said.
he wanted some coffee.
careful how much he took from the living, he allowed himself half a cup.
and another half a cup. and as he drank
he realized
he liked the cheap instant stuff better.
28 reads
2 Comments
old poem from an old chabbook now hopefully defunct...
(i did post this here once before. i gave it a bad introduction. well, here it is again, with no introduction save this.)
i saw her shoot a few men from the back of a big car.
somehow the bright white seats remained completely clean.
then we both left the car to enter her house.
i met her little daughter while she reached into the fridge.
but when she offered me food, i had to leave.
she said she’d made some Klondike bars for me,
and i told myself, “that’s it. it’s time to wake up now.”
but when i did, i wondered why. i really
should have stayed...
i saw her shoot a few men from the back of a big car.
somehow the bright white seats remained completely clean.
then we both left the car to enter her house.
i met her little daughter while she reached into the fridge.
but when she offered me food, i had to leave.
she said she’d made some Klondike bars for me,
and i told myself, “that’s it. it’s time to wake up now.”
but when i did, i wondered why. i really
should have stayed...
34 reads
2 Comments
A Chapbook Called "June, I Suppose."
(I put a couple of these pieces up here recently. Well, i'll put them here again, as part of this, which i'd already pretty much written when i put them up here. They're all pretty short pieces, with no titles, separated by "..." One of them begins with just a colloge of words. You'll probably be able to guess which one. Actually i might keep editing this thing as a work-in-progress yet. But i'll post what i have of it now.)
...
June, I suppose.
...
...
June, I suppose.
...
33 reads
4 Comments
what the hell are you doing
! riding jack down the hill.
53 reads
4 Comments
syllables...
june, i suppose
37 reads
6 Comments
Fun with Sid
Sid swallows his self within himself
‘til he walks amongst people,
and regurgitates in public, and the mess
tells him how to behave.
No one waves.
He doesn’t wave back.
One day he met a woman and began this procedure,
spilled himself out at her feet.
Before the mess could lecture him, she scooped it up
and ate it.
.
‘til he walks amongst people,
and regurgitates in public, and the mess
tells him how to behave.
No one waves.
He doesn’t wave back.
One day he met a woman and began this procedure,
spilled himself out at her feet.
Before the mess could lecture him, she scooped it up
and ate it.
.
40 reads
5 Comments
aliens
i am alien to you.
you laugh.
you are alien to me.
i sigh.
what?
you laugh.
you are alien to me.
i sigh.
what?
65 reads
7 Comments
a generalization. the poet at 23. whimsical requiem# ? ...
It is pointless, so I’ll
play with smiling, childlike voices
and vulgar mundanities:
the lip of the toilet pulls at my leg hair
sometimes.
Write a poem for a toe nail.
Write a poem on a toe nail.
Now that’s devotion.
We are fading through clippings.
But of course we’re always doing that,
Charlie.
Poets generically reach through their hearts,
pulling out oil or blood,
reach through the sky, pull down the sun
or the moon or the stars,
rattling heaven.
There has never been anything really to say.
...
play with smiling, childlike voices
and vulgar mundanities:
the lip of the toilet pulls at my leg hair
sometimes.
Write a poem for a toe nail.
Write a poem on a toe nail.
Now that’s devotion.
We are fading through clippings.
But of course we’re always doing that,
Charlie.
Poets generically reach through their hearts,
pulling out oil or blood,
reach through the sky, pull down the sun
or the moon or the stars,
rattling heaven.
There has never been anything really to say.
...
64 reads
6 Comments
From a file I titled White Noise, Whimsical Requiem
Join the noise.
Nothing was the news
and is.
Blow away.
Lo’, behold,
an end is a beginning again.
This will become known as a circle.
Lick the lock
and pick the key
that doesn’t fit so you can
have fun
coaxing it.
Lovely little
bits of
pieces of
puzzles that,
when solved,
pose more questions
to keep you breathing.
Prick the clock.
Swallow the noise,
tasting its protest.
See jagged veins of glass
opened to the air.
It still tells time,
but obscurely.
There is no cure...
Nothing was the news
and is.
Blow away.
Lo’, behold,
an end is a beginning again.
This will become known as a circle.
Lick the lock
and pick the key
that doesn’t fit so you can
have fun
coaxing it.
Lovely little
bits of
pieces of
puzzles that,
when solved,
pose more questions
to keep you breathing.
Prick the clock.
Swallow the noise,
tasting its protest.
See jagged veins of glass
opened to the air.
It still tells time,
but obscurely.
There is no cure...
58 reads
0 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by patrickbirdener (Patrick Birdener)