My Childhood Is Still

Another found poem - this from "Celebrating Childhood" by Adonis (translated, from the Arabic, by Khaled Mattawa)

My Childhood is Still

My childhood is still
someone else's story

I see her in a photograph
the pigeon-toed girl
with worn-down heels,
brown skin and pedal pushers

her strong body
made for swimming
and climbing trees

standing between the two;
her half-crooked smile
looks familiar

but only because
I've heard the stories
so many times

I can't find me in her
between the two
I don't even recognize

01/2007

Lover

This is a "found" poem, meaning I've created a poem from the work of another. In this case, the poet is Rumi - his work is italicized.

Lover

Lover, you
are ever-true
to a reckless appetite

like a cockroach
insatiable and
desperate
as night wanes
and hints at
day's gray arrival

desperate for
any skin
beneath
your jagged
need's teeth

you ran in
all directions,
and escaped
down the gutters

0227

Incubus

incubus

finger to lips
you unnecessarily
silenced me

my lips numb, tangled
as lifeless limbs
strewn like tentacles
on the shore of consciousness

your final black act
hidden in the folds
of my dark memory’s cloak

every day my mind
is witness to the
permanence of
a flashback nightmare

white socks
little boy briefs
creeping across
the room towards me

you the centaur
of my own private myth
my beast of shame

I remain branded;
silenced, seared

022707

Woman's Cookin'

she's simmering on the stove;
most don't notice

on the back burner baby's
a slow cooker bubbling - flipping her lid,
her percolating self pops rich and saucy,
spicy-nice, content to stew

shaking her roasting round ass
over a red hot beat
her heart snaps wild,
sweetly deep
tasty woman - luscious treat

Ms. Misery

misery finds me
buried beneath paper
where I've made myself
another small scrap
not unlike the others

she lifts corners with
fingers like thin-bladed
swiss army knives
she's pretty on the outside
sharply wicked on the inside

her indiscriminate slices
do random damage
like paper cuts
I don't detect until later

I eat my words;
I am learning
to use invisible ink

Verse Ain't Free

the poet competes -
words are sport
of an individual kind

accolades and
applause shave
our insecurities
like seconds off
the clock

a ribbon of response
proof that our words
are not unremarkable

we grow flabby -
cigarette in hand,
drink on the desk
with melting ice -
making rings mother
wouldn't approve of

we exercise the one
gray matter muscle,
hunched over the broken
"f" key on the keyboard,
the sticky, clicking, echoing
typewriter that doesn't always work

our ink-stained fingers,
clutch crumpled napkins,
stuff torn notebooks
into backpacks, purses -
piles on the floor

all that paper a
steady diet for the
silverfish who live
like us; stuck between
two sheets of paper,
disintegrating when pressed