Poetry Website

I’m the greatest poet who has ever lived-
Or at least, the greatest who’s just like me!
My awesome rhymes will blow your mind
Like a cinnamon-flavored breeze.

Yes my poems are so delicious
You eat them up like toast.
I’m sure you like other poets,
But like my poems the most.

My verses are entertaining-
And I’m sure that you’ll agree-
My poems need no explaining,
You understand them—perfectly.

Other poets are confusing-
And they write to be obscure.
But me, I’m always amusing
I’m not the sickness, I’m the cure.

There is a conversation here
I am not aware of, a group of words clustering,
looking for a new home

There is a meaning hidden, like a child
playing a game, tucked inside a line,
a Derrida-like violence to language

What I have said is what I have said
but then that word passes through the mind
and like a prism, bends the light

And what we are left with
is the best we can do to love each other
with syllables and syntax.

There is no need, they say
to reopen the wounds, and I would
not want that to be my vocation

I would rather be the staple
that closes up the gash, or the thread
running through the seam

I would rather be the bandage
covering the soreness, or the light
and arid balm spread across skin

But sadly sometimes I am the one
who reopens, prods, and remembers.

More at http://spinrockreader.blogspot.com.

The shifting seasons
pulse and cycle
as magnetic poles
in the celestial spheres
twist and turn…
so, too, do the seasons
of the soul
rotate and revolve.

To be
or not to be…
in alignment?
This is the question
which always
seems to determine
whether one shall be
sane or not.

More at https://17numa.wordpress.com/.

Was it a blessing or a curse to have parents
whose faith left no doubt that God was always with them?
Looking over their shoulder like a trusted friend
guiding them as they raised their son

But I was the gay son not perfect in their world
I was lost to them
in trying to live within their spiritual values.

Did I let them down?
Taking drugs to feel less imperfect?
Having unprotected sex at 14 to feel loved
By those who also lived imperfect lives?
Who hated a pompous God
unwilling to make room for them.

What pathetic irony: I needed my parents love
their willingness not to be blind-sided
by a faith that turned their hearts cold
blinding them from looking me in the eyes.

of course, now we record
them using the variegated
lenses we carry on our person

but I remember a time
when a being could thrash
and shout and the only
evidence was the casual
eyewitness or security cam

I even recall a time when,
to my ultimate Chagrin, I myself
engaged in a small tantrum
and thankfully there was no one
to hold it up like hieroglyphs
on our digital cave wall

One question leads to another,
one truth becomes a new
page, and new answers to
be found, new questions,
new words, because all we
have in the end are words,
and we sit in a pile of them,
sorting for what’s true.