Tag Archives: Poems

A Tiny Voice

Yes, of course,
we, too, care about
a neglected rose struggling to survive
among the scattered bricks
of a crumbling house,
but we’ve already done
all we can.
Remember  
a child has a tiny voice
and no money –
hardly the sturdy platform
on which to make demands.
Yet here she stands
with her small voice,
empty pockets, and
accusing eyes,
while we continue to tell her
to trust the spider
who swears
he wouldn’t hurt a fly.

Luvgood Carp, Editor in Chief

The Poet Taster

Why does Homer's Muse disdain me?
Why won't nymphs touch my flute?
When heroes sail the wine-dark sea
why do I stay home and salute?

When will I know love from lust?
Why do both turn my brain to peat?
Why are lies the only words I trust?
Why is mud the only pie I eat?

My miserable muse is a mouse in a cage
who refuses to obey my command
and when I touch the cold, chaste page
it slaps the dry pen out of my hand.

Wicked muse, eat your stale cheese
but blow your foul breath on another fake,
allow my feeble tongue to unfreeze
for I've forms to fill and calls to make
and I'm nearing the end of my coffee break.

Luvgood Cap, Editor-in-Chief

Mrs. Muzzle

By Monday morning,
a furious Mrs. Muzzle
pounced on Uncle's lap,
took her petite paw
and gave his smirking lips
several wicked whacks.

But he continued to talk
as if he was used to that
repeating a tedious tale
about a dubious time
when Smear the Queer
was a Hunger Game
the neighborhood kids
would play.

And everyone was proud and happy
though no one was proud and gay.

Problem people stayed silent
otherwise they were gagged,
and proper people spoke English
with a mid-West accent -
the same one Jesus had.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Crows

I like how you describe that poem
more than the poem itself.
You see things I don’t,
and the things you see have deep meanings –
deeper perhaps than the poet intended.
You see birds symbolizing change.
The young leave the old
and neither knows the impact of the parting.
Shockingly this lack of comprehension is of no consequence
because there is love in the leaving.
Even after reading the poem several times,
I see crows.


I am not sure you are right,
but I know you are not wrong.

I would like to see that poem as you see it.
But whenever I see you and me in a mirror,
I am reminded:
you have poor eyesight and a temperament that is too tender.
They are your most egregious shortcomings,
and I have benefitted from both.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

The Summer Adam Sandler Filmed “That’s My Boy” on Cape Cod

Jim!  Jiiimmm!  Is that Adam Sandlah?

Yes, yelled the bald Eagle Scout,
who in my youth told me once not to lie.

A pugnacious copper-toned Shar-pei pushing a walker
inchwormed as fast as she could to her dock on the bay.

Is that really Adam Sandlah?

Yes, the bronze-beaked Eagle replied
without ruffling a single feather.
Adam, what's wrong with you?
Wave to Mrs. Boucher.
Make an old woman feel special - 
though I questioned who wanted to feel special.

Preening is not a sin on Cape Cod,
not in the summertime, 
so I waved and wondered.

How could anyone believe Adam Sandler would be
on my dad's treacherous Boston Whaler - 
a boat famous for its mysterious brown stains,
mildewed cushions, and inattentive outboard?

Adam . . . Adam . . . Adam,
come over to my house for dinner.
I'll make a brisket.

Being a New Englander himself,
Adam knew how to crack the lobster-shelled heart
of every crab-faced Masshole in each sandbar town.
He tipped 100% for everything.

And Cape Cod rewarded him the only way it knew -
with tilting towers of maple walnut ice cream teetering on tiny cones
and overflowing cardboard cups of tepid chowder infiltrated by 
chunky potatoes and chewy clams.

Osterville's elders, a large, comfortable and opinionated lot,
adored him more than their own sons because they heard he was polite - 
that he loved and respected his mother.

All the sunburnt seniors had stories of how Adam had sought them out;
how he had gone away enlightened and grateful.

Dropping the name of someone you've never met
is a victimless crime on Cape Cod in the summertime -
similar to prominently placing a movie star's name
in the title of your poem in the orphaned
hope that now someone may read it.

By the way, Adam,
the brisket was delicious.
You would have loved it.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Dry Cleaned

It's a coffee-spilling day
despite my desperate need
for every drop that drips
on my formerly pristine 
dry-cleaned white shirt.

The sun hasn't risen yet.
The bundled-up homeless are still asleep
under the bridge as I drive by.

It's a middle-management day -
where dire budgets are discussed
behind softly closed doors
and layoffs loom.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Kissing Cousins

Despite what Prius driving, pious posing
virtue vigilantes may tell you
heritage and hate are not kissing cousins.

They do not share a liver 
like those conjoined twins -
unfair housing and workplace discrimination.

The truth is heritage detests hate
just as wasps despise Jews.

Heritage and hate are shackles
on entirely different whipping posts.

They are lynching trees located 
in separate parts of the park.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Jelly in a Jar

Look at old Alabaster 
in all his power and glory
grasping his silver spoon 
in a palsied grip.

He knows the spoon holds power
and power is jelly in a jar.
If someone somehow gets a spoonful
it must have been taken from him

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Each Spring Beckons Me Out the Door

A fuzzy pink sweater adorns the cherry tree 
and all the ladies half my age are smiling at me. 

Or so it seems - 
maybe they're just smiling near me. 
It's hard to see with such watery eyes, 
as if I'm looking through melting ice. 

Each spring beckons me out the door, 
but I'm moving slower than the year before 
and can't keep up as the ladies walk past. 
When did these women get so fast?    

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Easter Service on Stone Mountain

When the sun began to rise so, too, did the deacon
scaling that sacred rock to the Nimbus Arena
where the Holy Trinity resides in petrified consternation.

He plopped himself down at the left hand of Lee,
gave a grim nod to Stonewall on his stony steed,
and from the lap of Jefferson Davis
proclaimed the good news:

Heritage is the Way                    of preserving power;
the Truth                                        tamed by tradition;
and the Life                                    lived in the past.

Heritage is the burning cross illuminating
the Master's house in the cotton-filled clouds.

So blessed be heritage’s most zealous defenders
for they shall inherit the blistered remains of the earth.

Blessed, too, be any deed done in the name of heritage,
no matter how heinous, for heritage sanctions everything
except change.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief