Rock Accountant

Category: Poetry

Words that Hate Poetry

Poetry is the last thing
That would occur to letters
that were mulling around
hunting for something to say.

Words, if pressed, would testify
that gathering to rhyme is
only for holidays.

Proud writers feel awkward
leaving only verse,
daggling statements that are
unsure of their periods.

But I prefer the short shit,
it pleasantly matches
the number of readers I have.

Roses Are Red (or Something): Bad Poetry Competition Hits WT This Thursday  | HPPR

Satchels of Silence

Men carry silence

in satchels

filled with oaths,

weaved loosely

from malice

All we are certain o

is that we have forgotten

why.

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Child’s Day

My life has been a child’s day

and I will be slow to fall asleep.

For many are the dreams that come,

and no cause to hurry.

A Child's Day - storytimeplanners

If You Can’t Watch

Every death,

comes with its particular

novelty.

While birth

plods into life

with sloppy

inaccuracy,

tumbling incoherently

through thick,

sticky afterbirth,

shackled to incomprehension.

Still,

we guess birth

to be miraculous

while it’s endgame,

death

is reviewed as a misfortune

accompanied by a chorus

of “if only’s.”

and the tardy

howls of loss.

But of what good is the marvelous

if you can’t watch?

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Neptune does not echo

We are forever

guessing

if we are a song.

Nothing is soundless.

We suspect but are never sure

that our noises carry.

My whistling

may reach Neptune.

But Neptune, like God,

does not echo.

Birds don’t care so much

for their own songs.

They care about eggs

and nests

and the size of baby new wings.

Cicadas lullaby summer evenings.

But the night doesn’t pick up

their theme

and begin to dance.

Flies whizz

their little ditties

by our ears.

And we brush them away,

like eavesdropped insults.

The flowers

exhale their perfumes

​into the winds

blinding the dazzled slave bees.

Nothing disturbs the evenhanded blizzard

that is being alive or the drama​

of surprising death,

and the odd collisions with love.

She sits among her

snowflake suitors.

All sincere,

Each different,

Each the same

all waiting.

Until she finds

the one

that echoes her song.

Pin by Katie Bell on LOVE :) | Kissing in the rain, Love rain, Cute  photography

Waiting for you

Do memories

cast loose

by your life’s end,

wait bewildered

for you

to come back home,

Like pets at windows?

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Little Lifetimes of First love

The little lifetimes of first love

All whirling and crashing

about your heart

like hungry snowflakes,

all different

all the same,

till one

does not melt away.

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What is always left

Love is what the battlefield presents to you

after you have vanquished all it’s imposters.

Never knowing If We Are A Song


There is only the hum of being alive.
Nothing affects this even handedness.
Certainly not how long you are allowed to sing.
Eternity is a grooved spinning record,
and we go round and round,
forever guessing if we are a song
or simply the melody.

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