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 The Wind Rolls In On Cartwheels Of Sand, Each Grain Carefully Planned To Coat Our Desert With A Scattering Hand, Drying Us Out And Prolonging The Drought. We’re Waiting For A Flood Of Rain To Float Us Out Again, And We Study The Sky, Ten Thousand Miles High, But It’s Dry, Dry, Dry.
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 *Jean Bernard Restout* Morpheus I Wish
The Idle Gods Would Make It Snappy, And Bring Back The Time When We Were Innocently Happy. Every Day Now Is A Death Threat, Disease Plotting To Steal Our Breath, And Crazed Gunmen Haunt The Street, Ready To Make Our Day Complete. How Can We Fashion A Drastic Change, And Rearrange Our Stubborn, Collective Head, Before We’re All Dead?  *Duy Huynh* And
I Tried To Tell Him, Baby, It’s The Straight And Narrow Or The Ditch, And You Need To Choose Which. But He Went Waltzing On His Way, And There Was Nothing More To Say. No One Listens To Advice As They Slice Through Life, As If They Could Do It All Twice.  *Monsoon Sky* 16" H X 20" W Oil On Linen The
Monsoon Is At Play, And All Day, Held Out The Promise Of Rain. Grey Clouds Gathered In A Frown, But No Showers Came Down To Bless The Flowers. They Marched On By, And Left The Town Parched. I Can't Complain, Everyone Has Their Climate Pain, But Jeez, I Wish It Would Please Rain, Or I'll Be Out There With The Hose Again.  The Critics
It's Wise Not To Be Caught Holding An Outré Thought. Folks Don't Like It When You Stray, And Slip The Bonds Of Everyday. They Object To Language Play And Will Shame Radical, Poetic Games. Keep Close Track, Be Strong, And Watch Your Back, Or They Will Arrive In Herds To Trample YOur Words, And Without Heart, Denigrate Your Art.  Tonight,
I’m Gonna Catch A Flight And Get Out Of Here, This Warring Country Without Cheer Can’t Hold Me Down, I’m Getting Out Of Town And Going Over There, To Get A Righteous Share Of A Sunny Life Without Strife, Or Frantic Politics, Or Nuts With Automatic Death Sold In Faceless Stores, I’m Not Taking It Anymore! Hey, Don’t We Have The Right To Choose? I’ve Got Little Left To Lose, And There’s No Way I’ll Fight To Stay.  *Ben Shawn* Futility Old
Joe Green Was Feeling Mean, Running On Sugar And Caffeine, All Wound Up From A TV Show, He Looked For A Way To Firmly Show His Grim Frustration With His Situation And The Entire Godless Nation. Joe Went Out And Brought A Glock, On Sale Right Down The Block, Drove To A Store, Barged In The Door, And Shot Ten Shoppers And A Teenage Clerk Coming To Work. The Cops Put A Dozen Slugs In Joe’s Otherwise Empty Head, And In A Blaze Of Anonymous Glory, Joe Was Stone Dead. End Of Story.  *Paul Bond* Flight Of The Muse As
A Painter, For Me, The World Existed In 2D. Later, With Ambitious Intentions, Sculpture Took Me Into Three Dimensions. Poetry And Metered Rhyme Involved The Fourth, Time. The Fifth Dropped Me Into Endless Space, And I Landed Here, My Proper Place.  To
Me, Writing Only What You Know Is Kind Of Slow. What Happens To Secret Murder Schemes, Or How Another Century Seems, Or Satires On The Comic, Tragic, Entire Human Race, Or Sexy, Well Hung Lovers From Outer Space? I Say, Do It Any Way You Can, Without Somebody Else’s Plan. When Writing From The Heart, Reality Is Where You Start.  Once,
I Had A Friend Who Thought The World Would End, And She Wouldn’t Have To Die. Jesus Would Fly In Or Some Such, Touch Her On The Head, And She Would Never Be Dead. For All I Know, She’s Still Out There Somewhere, Waiting, Anticipating That Happy, Collapsing, Day, When The Big Man Comes To Personally Take Her Away. |
AuthorJeanette Collins Archives
June 2021
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