DA KNOWN POETS

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Tags:
  • Dark Poetry
    • Iridesse
    • is loving the way the words flow, the body glides and his everlasting love

    DA KNOWN POETS
    They call us
    The leggers.
    Shimmer.
    Jacks. 
    Lovers.
    Creative writers.
    Yes we follow.
    Doubt strikes.
    Potential arises.
    Men molest.
    Women do to.
    They speak.
    We speak.
    Legs crossed.
    Blood dripping.
    Drip.
    Drip.
    Drip.
    Where does it come from?
    The wavering sound of the calling birds.
    They ask us to let them be.
    “LET US FREE”
    They scream.
    Who are these birds?
    We are the birds.
    The men who walk amongst 
    The roots of this earth.
    They are the Jews, the Blacks, the whites, 
    Asians, Hispanics.
    The people of our time. 
    I’m dressed to kill, so are they.
    Clock ticks.
    Almost over.
    She sits behind me.
    Her chair rattles
    As if playing the theme song 
    Of 
    Godfather.
    I look behind me. 
    A person  I see.
    Yes, a person.
    This makes no sense.
    Why do I speak of this?
    Oh, they will be mad.
    Damn it.
    Times up.
    I’ve lost it all.
    What do they call them?
    I’ve forgotten.
    I’m trying not to cuss.
    Damn it.
    I don’t know.
    I remember.
    They’re part of me.
    How could I forget!
    DA KNOWN POETS. 
    That’s who they are. 
    Once more.
    I say again:
    We follow.
    Doubt strikes.
    Potential arises.
    Men molest.
    Women do to.
    Just listen.
    Hear them.
    They scream.
    They say, this time with silent whispers,
    “Let us free”
    They call us
    The leggers.
    Shimmer.
    Jacks. 
    Lovers.
    Creative writers.
    Yes we follow.
    Doubt strikes.
    Potential arises.
    Men molest.
    Women do to.
    They speak.
    We speak.
    Legs crossed.
    Blood dripping.
    Drip.
    Drip.
    Drip.
    Where does it come from?
    The wavering sound of the calling birds.
    They ask us to let them be.
    “LET US FREE”
    They scream.
    Who are these birds?
    We are the birds.
    The men who walk amongst 
    The roots of this earth.
    They are the Jews, the Blacks, the whites, 
    Asians, Hispanics.
    The people of our time. 
    I’m dressed to kill, so are they.
    Clock ticks.
    Almost over.
    She sits behind me.
    Her chair rattles
    As if playing the theme song 
    Of 
    Godfather.
    I look behind me. 
    A person  I see.
    Yes, a person.
    This makes no sense.
    Why do I speak of this?
    Oh, they will be mad.
    Damn it.
    Times up.
    I’ve lost it all.
    What do they call them?
    I’ve forgotten.
    I’m trying not to cuss.
    Damn it.
    I don’t know.
    I remember.
    They’re part of me.
    How could I forget!
    DA KNOWN POETS. 
    That’s who they are. 
    Once more.
    I say again:
    We follow.
    Doubt strikes.
    Potential arises.
    Men molest.
    Women do to.
    Just listen.
    Hear them.
    They scream.
    They say, this time with silent whispers,
    “Let us free”

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    Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

    Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

    Iridesse’s Poems (5)

    Title Comments Submitted
    Title Comments Submitted
    DA KNOWN POETS 0 10/17/2009
    Mold Me Into That Woman 1 10/12/2009
    Forget Me Not My Lover 0 10/12/2009
    Lets Make Poetry 1 10/12/2009
    Anything is Our Love 0 10/12/2009
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