FOR THE LOVE OF WORDS                       949-939-6029
  • Home
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  • Instructors
    • Robbi
  • Classes
  • Publications
    • Short Poems Ain't Got Nobody to Love
    • DEATH OF A SNOWMAN:WHAT THE PUDDLE HAD TO SAY
    • A POET IS A POET NO MATTER HOW TALL- The Anthology
    • Episode II: ATTACK OF THE POEMS

Jerome

The boy was bored in class,
His mind a blank slate.
“What to do next?” he
Started to debate.

Deciding on graffiti,
He pulled out a pencil
And on the bare desk,
He began to stencil.

A warrior formed under his hand;
Instead of legs, he had a pole
And an amputated arm-
This sketch was not a whole.

The class came to an end,
And the boy went home.
But the soldier stayed, and
Called himself Jerome.

Next morning came,
And girls sat at Jerome’s table.
They didn’t see him at first,
And then they were able.

The girls gave him hair,
And a screw for a hand.
They made it so he was
Standing on grassy land.

They too left him,
Again he was lone.
The sun had gone down
It no longer shone.

Jerome was by himself
All through the night.
Then he was accompanied again,
Come morning light.

A cleaning man came,
With damp rag and mop.
Prepared to clean
Every tabletop.

With his cart of dusty water
And his bottle of cleaning stuff,
The tired man wiped Jerome’s life away
Not thoroughly, but enough.

Jerome died a brave soldier,
His head and torso a puddle.
The pole of his legs
Had become a muddle.

When the boy came back
To see the product of a bore,
He saw that his beloved
Jerome was no more.

                                                                                     

The Anticipation of Winter

My face pressed against
The cool glass of the window,
I breathe,
And my steaming breath blurs
Trees with bare branches
No green grass
The world is dead
With me living in this
Barren wasteland.
Waiting, watching
For a sign of life.
Other than me and my
Silent, sleeping
Dreaming dog.
Wrapped in
A soft, warm blanket,
My hearth roaring
With blazing hot fire,
I anticipate
The first snowflake.
Suddenly what I see
Outside of my
Frosty window
Opens my heart
To feel better love.
Down falls the first
Snowy white flake of winter.
Twirling and twisting
Like a ballerina.
Followed by many more just like it.
Followed by my satisfaction.




Coco

She would trot ahead of us,
Her head held high.
She’d yell at the children
And make them cry.

When we got home,
She’d go straight to her drink,
And vomit into
The kitchen sink.

Someone came,
And knocked on the door;
She yelled and yelled,
At the poor

Mail man who ran,
Dazed and afraid,
Then she went to her bed,
And proudly laid.

Coco was the worst dog
Who could be;
A literal bitch,
Who hated me.

                                                                

Daedalus,
  Clever creator of
the labyrinth
in which the minotaur lay,
Gave the gift of
Flight, or so he
Thought.
Prisoned, lying
In the dark,
He and his
Son, Icarus,
Collecting feathers
To escape on wings.
Wax held the wings together,
And Icarus, young Icarus,
Heeded not to his father.
Up he flew, closer to the sun.
His winged glory melted, and
So Daedalus watched in vain,
While his son died.


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  • Home
  • About
  • Instructors
    • Robbi
  • Classes
  • Publications
    • Short Poems Ain't Got Nobody to Love
    • DEATH OF A SNOWMAN:WHAT THE PUDDLE HAD TO SAY
    • A POET IS A POET NO MATTER HOW TALL- The Anthology
    • Episode II: ATTACK OF THE POEMS