Daily Archives: February 2, 2015

Odd Little Man

The world didn’t stop – street lamp glowing –
throwing – hues of light upon the corner’s darkness.
Walked I – walked I – right on by –
lest the man say “You there, odd little man –
with odd little head – why do you walk so fast?”
Fast walk I, walk I, said I,
that in my stare step world
I should get on past – lest I
not see my footprints further.
To let me know I was here,
that something lived and I
did see the hues of the street lamp –
who didn’t cry itself to sleep,
but as I walked by I said softly
“you deserve to be loved.”
Nothing more than glowing cherry-red
footprints to show his existence now –
To know that once the warmth of his
hue made me feel real – something
other than odd little man –
with odd little head –
something other than just he
who nods gracefully, loviningly,
to those cruel others not even worthy
to light the lamp….
The beautiful, loving lamp.
And I hide in the shadows
until they leave or until
I lay down in his hue –
soaking up his radiance –
pretending it is my own….
and for just a moment –
I become normal.
Famine stricken,
ravishing love,
leaving dabs of cherry red glowing footprints
so I can find normalcy again tomorrow.
Will you hold my hand and come with me?
You make me feel normal.

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© 2015 John Allen Richter
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Prim and Proper Buts and Participles

I think it shall be called –
How to make a poem float,
by the incomparable and always
dry – master of ceremonies.

Float, float, poem,
when I let you go down the stream…
flurry your seams with resin
as you dodge chunks of misused grammar
and scopes from submarines.

Submarines, submarines,
always on the prowl –
always checking for those prim
and proper participles…
always sifting through
rhododendrons on the murky
river floor….  Dying, of
course.  Too much water
for them, just moist to the
touch – when not covered in
several tons of carp waste..
You thought I said crap-waste,
didn’t you?  Dirty little
peeping eyes…

“Rhododendrons don’t live in water,”
nor do they concur with proper
nouns and adjectives –
itself’s very spelling a mystery to the rules.
“The poem can not float!”
“The poem can not float!”
Screamed the ring master…
“Remember your rules of threes!”
but can only remember Sister Collette
trying to beat them into me.
“One! Two! Three!
You little rule breaking bastard!”
“Listen boy or your poems will never float!”

But dead rhododendron leaves
replaces rules of threes.
That’s why I sighed, and cackled loudly,
when I threw them in the river.
They make my my poems float.
With all their ‘wuzzins’ and reasons
to start sentences with “But…”
and made-up words that can sometimes –
tickle imaginations…

And apostrophes don’t count –
when you only hear them –
because they sigh very quietly.
And rhododendrons are much prettier…
than they spell.
You thought I was going to say –
smell – didn’t you?
Silly peeping eyes –
you can’t smell them under water…

Float little poem, float.
But I can’t.
But you will.
But I shouldn’t.
But, and yet, you will.
Float, float, poem… Please?

Psssstttt….  You’re making me look bad…

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© 2015 John Allen Richter
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