-sweetbrother-• Show poetry

I never know how to fill this space about who I am and what I'm about. I live in shadows and occasionally write communiques to the real world.

Here are some people I like to read around here:

edpeterson666
jenneddin
redstormy
kyattaman
SixHaightStreet
runawaytrain
manicmuze
Sprite;

Here are some people I like to read on paper:

Nikki Giovanni
Billy Collins
Alice Walker
Allen Ginsburg (when he was young and lyrical)
T.S. Eliot (though he is way too deep for me)
Ishmael Reed
Lucille Clifton;

And here is a poem that speaks to me, and I hope, to you:


                   I Said to Poetry
                             by Alice Walker

I said to Poetry:"I'm finished
with you."
Having to almost die
before some wierd light
comes creeping through
is no fun.
"No thank you, Creation,
no muse need apply.
Im out for good times--
at the very least,
some painless convention."

Poetry laid back
and played dead
until this morning.
I wasn't sad or anything,
only restless.

Poetry said: "You remember
the desert, and how glad you were
that you have an eye
to see it with? You remember
that, if ever so slightly?"
I said: "I didn't hear that.
Besides, it's five o'clock in the a.m.
I'm not getting up
in the dark
to talk to you."

Poetry said: "But think about the time
you saw the moon
over that small canyon
that you liked so much better
than the grand one--and how suprised you were
that the moonlight was green
and you still had
one good eye
to see it with

Think of that!"

"I'll join the church!" I said,
huffily, turning my face to the wall.
"I'll learn how to pray again!"

"Let me ask you," said Poetry.
"When you pray, what do you think
you'll see?"

Poetry had me.

"There's no paper
in this room," I said.
"And that new pen I bought
makes a funny noise."

"Bullshit," said Poetry.
"Bullshit," said I.





And this is one from one of my fans:


              Poem for David
                        by Jeffrey Hotz



His verse,
full vigil to the deep blue chords,
takes them scales and miles further
with pensive, choral soul,

(these melodies intrance
long after the chords'
last clang and echo,  
a song book weaving notes
through spaces of knowing)

His verse,
lashed together lyrically
--soft and sharp phrases--
or dangling dangerously,
a fragile string
guided through heavy pearls,
(winding through small tunnel
after small tunnel),
a precious necklace quivering
atop a laughing woman's bosom.

His verse,
hanging in the ear
long after the music stops,
crisp full notes
singing, singing, singing
winding their way,
filling small infinite hearts
with deep blue chords.

His verse keeps company with bards of old
whose weary eyes wink and glisten
the timeless gleam of winter stars.