The Machine’s Operation – A Poem by Jp

The terror storm is not yet here for us
so children’s lullabies can still be sung;
aboard bodies are pressed against the gears.

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Calliope

Now rise to life again, sweet poetry!
She is chief among my muses this art.

Let Calliope go and sign her song
Her old wisdom knows not a passive note.

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Socialism is a Sickness

Do not let the wind towers make you sick;
it’s hate and fear that resonates with men
and makes demons of rotors spinning on the wind
there’s no sickness, except men mid-panic,

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Long Live Our Lady

We need the Old Colossus now
with it’s defiant blazing torch
as architype for our goddess

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A Carpenter’s Tools

How many year ago
did the carpenters tools
become useless
to understand the world?

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The Bluebird and the Apocalypse

There is an apocalypse in my chest,
and there is a bluebird beating its wings.

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O’, Do Not Speak of the Soul

Not in leaflets or amid the marching
of nuclear niore to be found,

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Endless Weight

I have gone out into the snow,
braving the winter’s fiery cold,
and searched for rabbit high and low
when frosty mitts refused to hold.

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Dance in the Fire – A Villanelle

Do not let your spirit be leveled flat,
your laughter should rise with the coming sun,
laugh, cry, and dance in the embers of life.

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To The Scientific Minded

We adapt and flex as rubber,
because, for us searchers, wonder
finds answers that aren’t writ in stone,

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To Be Human

To destroy is to be human,
we’d sell the sun to buy a candle;

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Telescope Eyes

Often I think that people are distant
and only look close when viewed from a far;
Each star its own among the crowded streets
and lonely bars; each a beacon that peers

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The Swoosh

The Reaper’s cloak swooshes across the road.
A feeling of doom sweeps over my bones,
I hear the sound of sharpening up in my throat,

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Backlash of Tongues – Poem

The re-inspection
of words, that were his, or his,
is often entombed
in the backlash

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Her Autumn – Poem

When among the trees will autumn come?
What multitude of words will I have lost
among the soft-dying of sweet summer poppies

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Alliteration, Assonance, and Consonance

Alliteration, assonance, and consonance The Raven – Edgar Allen Poe “Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping

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Another side of Poetry

Before beginning the second post on great poetry, I want to take the time to talk a little about myself. About ten years ago, slightly more, I made a conscious derision to stop writing, thinking, or doing anything to do with poetry. This was not because I did not want to write it,

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I Looked for You

I looked for you
in places we used to go,
I returned, I had seen,
and was conquered.

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It Was An Honor To Know Him

To think a mans fate is decided
not by the battle won or lost
but by the heart alone, is more
than one can bare. Atone we will

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You Can Do This – Part 2

But that was then and this is now.
Today, even the gods of Rapa Nui

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