DARE
Dare to be dangerous.
Dare to dance.
Dare to speak up.
Dare to say whatever
is in your heart.
Dare to be beautiful.
Dare to say don't touch.
Dare to say when it's ok.
Dare and be Dangerous!
[for Ella]
Mar.19
0
Pete's Poetry
Sitting at Starbucks
(this is not about Starbucks the ubiquitous; it's about a certain place, certain personalities, people that know my drink and have my mug at the ready, people that are happy to see me -- that Starbucks in Itaewon central, that Starbucks is gone now...)
Every day,
laptop laden,
I make my way
to inspiration way,
a soft-cushion destination
for some deep-seated thought.
Sitting at Starbucks,
half aware of the chatter
of the chit-chat girls
And the coffee shop gangnam guys
The table circles
The pseudo art, the big green sign
The walkers in, the loungers
Work and distraction
Muzak in the back
Of my mind
I feel as if I am
swimming in the fish tank
of coffee culture
writing wet
On the be right back
Realizing that belonging can be nice
in this overly independent state of being
I say I, I-I-I—I, I-I-I—I
Just got to be
Sipping latte’s to be free
Of the day’s dedication
To open-laptop contemplation
To indifferent dedication
The tragedy is I can’t stay
late into the night, but I may
be back in the early morn
for the bright feel and the
Welcome to that simple-syrup sweet Starbucks smile.
Eight poets aching for sun
Trapped in Joe's Shirt Pocket
(Class in Ford Hell)
Square block, black and gray floor locked
A red light dungeon, candle dark neon danger
Dollar bill flat frogs hang iron chained
Like Escher wall coverings for the mentally unwell
Riveting me to a garden green Tantalus chair
Eyes ever searching, returning windowless
To eight poets aching for sun
One watch watching
Smiling face timing minds
Testing poet speed traced in an underground particle chamber
Accelerating minds
Tracking lap times, leap frog mental jumps
follow Frisbee neon bright thoughts.
Two poets accelerated to thought speed
Swollen heads collide spewing poetry
Like frog guts on the sidewalk
Other poets analyze
Dissect remains, pick at parts
While my carcass whiles away
Now nervous feet twitch with the rapid-fire ta-taing
Of one watch watching, waiting
Recording to later re-record
As canvas boat shoes begin to splash
In dark blood dragging time from open wrists
Whiling more, a while later
Splashing ceases
With a red-green Christmas color croak
As time runs out to escape
Frogs and watches with flushed faces
Face to face
Trapped in Joe's shirt pocket
The Bag Lady and the Union Man
A lot of people don't realize what's happening to us… What's happening to the middle class, to the working class, to the blue-collar class, to me, to you, to the union man. A lot of people forget because they want only to forget:
Hey bag lady
You old bag
You hag
You're a drag
Bag lady
Hey bag lady
Sitting on the bus
Trying to discuss
All you do is cuss
Stay away from us
Bag lady
Hey bag lady
When you nag
Nag
Nag
For a fag
Or a drag
Our noses sag
From your breath
Your airborne death
Bag lady
Hey bag lady
Is it true
When we rag on you
Does your heart sag
Into your bag
Like a blood drenched rag
Do your eyes sag
From tears
Bag lady
Hey bag lady
Did you die
Does your soul fly
Should we sigh
When you walk by
Bag lady
Did you die…
Or did I?
If you sit on an idea
Light bulb
If you sit on an idea
for a while
you just might
squish it.
I wear them for the characters that come out with full force... I wear them by mood of course.
Hats
I am the boy who wears hats.
Like Bartholomew Cubbins,
I wear them for protection.
I wear them for warmth.
I wear them for flair,
Or to keep my hair—from flying.
Some I never wear,
Only hang them up
Like dreams upon the wall.
I wear them for the characters
That come out with full force...
I wear them by mood of course.
I never wear them to harm or to heal.
Those hats for me are just not real.
I'd rather feel the breeze in my hair
And warm rain on a face all bare,
Than use a hat's frailty
As justification for brutality.
...To find her gone
Blank like the memory
Of my fiction
Cupid's Discovery
I love a child
A newborn smile
A great cry
From a firm slap
To the supple bottom
Of my quiet words
Her cheeks dimple
But smirking chastity
Chases the dream away
I scribble over and over
White on white
As she disappears behind
A liquid corner
I spill around
To find her gone
Blank like the memory
Of my fiction
Yet smiling, dancing
Ink-wise
Flowing
To return amid airs
To attend
To await poison
To take cursive
Arrows of passion
The Lie of the Living
Soaring in the space above words,
it lowers its view to woods and lake,
circles and sees
and circles and perceives
fish and foul words for food.
Then wing, tail and feather
bend as a warped word descending
in a dive from a great height
to capture the food of innocent words
to crush and twist
with crooked talons,
to return to the place beyond words
and imagination.
Immunity
Who am I to swallow a fly
Your thoughts or ideas
may tickle my insides
make me chuckle and think
or worse yet
it may carry a germ of insight
and afflict me with freedom
of thought and even, god forbid,
a moment of inspiration
to swallow other wriggling flies
and spindling spiders;
catchable contemplations
and the deadly disease
of knowledge.
Being me
What's that you say?
"Courage today?"
I'll stick to my insolent self-assuredness,
infuriating, unfriendly and full of fight
and thumb my nose at those who would
take me for less than my worth could bear.
Quarrelsome & confrontational, contrary you shout,
Disobedient, defiant, even demanding, I’ll tout my tack:
Exigent and aggressive, argumentative, yet true.
What's that you say?
"Courage today?"
I’ll be belligerently me… and you be you!
satisfaction
Will we ever find satisfaction
with our situation,
with ourselves, with others?
Send me a scrap, a slice, a morsel,
a moment of peace, a piece of pleasure,
a hint of happiness,
even fleeting fragments of fulfillment,
send me a smattering of satisfaction.
The Stones' sad assertion...
shouting submission to darkness
be damned! I can.
I can.