Flicker

 

Talk to me

 

the way you do

on Sunday morning

 

the lingering

of Saturday night

a flame in your eyes

SMG

https://dversepoets.com/2025/08/07/mtb-a-revisit-with-the-cherita/ 

Independence

Autonomous

I’ll call it love

because this one

stayed ’til morning.

She must not have

had a place to sleep;

need and loneliness

often end up

drunk and naked

in the same bed.

When they finally leave

I always try to tell myself

that I am a lucky man;

no woman to nag me

and spend my money.

Independence

is what the lonely

tattoo on the back of their necks

to make it seem like a choice.

I don’t really remember

what it is like to be part of a “we”

that lasts longer

than the inevitable hangover.

I suppose some truths

are much less

self-evident

than others.

SMG

CombatWords!: Combatwords for July 1, 2011: Independence: "Combatwords for July 1, 2011: Independence If I was rich, I'd be stalked by the hungry suits, craving my signature. I would ride the taxi—..."

Urbanality

Urbanality

I was never one to write about sunsets or birds,
to be honest that shit bores me to distraction.
I live in Manhattan so I haven’t seen a sunset
in three hundred & sixty five days, and birds here,
well they're just another pest to be controlled.
I never really liked to listen to sweet ballads
and there’s something pathetic about the blues.
I prefer the hard rocking sounds of Hindi profanity
sung by cab drivers, the tune of droning car horns
and the distant wail of another siren’s song of ending.
I never got much pleasure from hiking or picnics
and I have no real desire to get back to nature.
I’d rather choke down a cart hot dog for breakfast,
avoid piss puddles on the subway platform
and hide behind Ray-Bans and two hundred dollar ear buds.
I never understood the fascination with beauty
or people’ neurotic obsession with falling in love.
I’ve seen a lot of well groomed hair and make up jobs
and have had the shit kicked out of me more than once,
but beauty is a rocks glass, love is a generous bartender,
and the poetry is between the first sip and "hit me again".

SMG

*(Re-printed from The (&) Ampersand III)

Jordaan

 

Jordaan

I was standing on a bridge over the Prinsengracht canal

in the disconnected calm of three joints from a coffee bar

and the cool predawn air. The click of Rembrandt’s footsteps

still echo down the cobbles at this hour-- Once, long ago,

I dreamt of the scene, this moment, fog tickling across

the warm canal water. I thought back to the person I was

when that dream was formed, and I realized that I missed him.

He was young and idealistic, so unafraid, with a swagger

that could only come from hubris and ignorance.

 

The damp morning air sat on the shoulders of my jacket

and I smiled as I watched a young Dutch couple fend off

the chilly dark, oblivious to the painter and me as we took it all in.

The distance between that boy and the man that I would become

seems so much greater than the twenty-five years it took to travel.

That boy’s dreams have turned into my sad reminiscence,

a longing for that time before disbelief and defeat; the un-jaded

days of wonder lost along the way. I wanted to see Amsterdam

before I died; I realize now that it’s too late.

 

SMG

Posted for:  

dVerse Poets Pub

Un-Dead

Un-Dead

Alive, alive, the city is alive

and all abloom with smiles

under the warm and waxing moon

The stern days of winter have faded

from memory and the city is alive.

Streets once grey with soot and sleet

now teem with pale arms and legs.

Heads swivel and twist to take in

the fragrance of the fresh flowers,

all short skirts and décolleté:

We are alive!

A latter day Lazarus ascends

a subway stair and yells “I am alive!”

into the affectionate night air.

Six months hence the grave will call,

but for now we are alive and the city

is paradise.

SMG

Sexual Politics

Sexual Politics

 

Fair azure eyes encant,

oh, how she does enchant.

my heart doth dance,

in sublime hypnotic trance,

 

His angry eyes askant,

fearing I shall supplant,

and her love enhance,

if she be mine per chance.

 

Vainly does he forestall,

as I endeavor to enthrall.

 

SMG

d'Verse Poets

Alcatraz

 

Alcatraz

The words,

etched on the cell wall

a lifetime ago, contained a truth

wrought by pain and loss.

“No one is innocent”

As I thought about the author

I watched the tourists, 

oblivious of their own guilt, 

pass hurriedly, never noticing

the crude engraving.

 

SMG

d'Verse Poet's Pub Writing Prompt:  https://dversepoets.com/

 

Mourning Jay

 

Mourning Jay

I can still see her sitting on the edge of the dance floor

of another gala evening. Adorned in red and white, she pulled

men’s gaze like the first cardinal of spring. A wallflower

that could not be ignored as she looked around the room at nothing. 

He never failed to invite her, something I didn’t understand

at the time. For me she was a familiar connection, a batch

of mom’s cookies or a copy of the hometown paper.

For him, she was door that closed when left unattended. 

The parties were not to be missed, all the wealthiest of Eggs

in attendance. He however, rarely if ever showed his face. 

The opulence and excess were for her, while he pined

the night away locked in his room of regrets and second guesses. 

I think of him now, not as the shadowed figure staring across the bay,

nor the limp body floating face down in a pool of blood

and mistaken identity. I only recall the gentle conversations

we had as two men seeking our place and hoping to find our loves.

SMG

Writing Prompt from d'Verse Poets Pub

https://dversepoets.com/#:~:text=https%3A//dversepoets.com

She Calls in the Morning

She Calls in the Morning

In the end, it ended,

like all bad relationships;

she was a puddle on the floor,

as I stumbled out the door.

She used to call in the morning

seeking her daily diversion and I,

lonely and filled with doubt, answered,

beginning my daily digression.

“Let’s meet for breakfast” was met

with “I can’t, I have to work today”.

She had a way of removing my resolve,

with a seductive longing in her voice.

I may never understand her true motive,

but she knew my true weakness.

I wanted to taste her on my lips

and feel her warmth deep inside.

Logic and will were always inadequate

against the sway she held over me.

In time, like all bad relationships, my drunk dials

started going to voicemail as she became aloof.

Increasingly less willing to satiate my need. She

left me one night, a broken shell, in a pool of tears…

…but she called in the morning.

SMG

Life on the Line

Life on the Line

The Tuesday sun

set and carried with it,

the lies of New York and

a thousand broken dreams.

The shattered pieces fell

together in the bars

and bedrooms of the city.

Glue is another fairytale.

I let the sorrow wash

over me like fine whiskey

across my tongue and stared

out the window at the passing city.

The train car couplers creaked

and groaned in a sad staccato.

A preview of the death rattle

waiting in the distance.

SMG