Tag Archives: Poetry

Meatloaf

The smiles seemed sincere
as I drove away.
No watery eyes, except mine.

And when I call at night
there's laughter,
as if it's served for dinner -
not the somber meatloaf
and silence I remember.

That's when it hits.
I knew they'd survive,
but I never thought they'd thrive.

It's like when I learned
my favorite song - 
the one we danced to at our wedding - 
is really about masturbation.
I never knew it was that kind of love song.
But still -
I never wondered what else I got wrong.

Titmouse Beak, President of Pungent Sound Community Bank






	


	





	

		
The Poetaster
	


	
	

		

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 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 from my hand.





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

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

	


	





	

		
Neptune Returns Home
	


	
	

		

Lord, could it be I'm not as great
as they've been telling me?





I was told at an early age
that I'm better than the rest.
I have trophies that prove it true,
but now in every contest
I'm beaten by more than a few.





For years I splashed in a tub
pretending to rule the wine-dark sea,
but when I go to Dad's club
no one confuses Neptune with me.





Now here I am back in my old room
(having finished my education)
with an hourly job and minimal pay
and these trophies say participation.





Lord, club-footed Byron couldn't dance
but you gave him eloquence and artistry,
and now he's the avatar of romance.
So, Lord, what gifts do you have for me?

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

	


	





	

		
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

	


	







	

		
Hopelessly Lost
	


	
	

		

I have seen some who appear lost in a maze,
with only a crust of bread in their pockets
as they turn from dead end to dead end
unable to see over the high thick hedges   
and only later did I learn
they weren’t lost at all.





They were making maps.

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

	


	





	

		
The Further Dangers of Being a Pretend Poet
	


	
	

		

The thing about writing poetry is
no one cares that you write poetry.
I found that curious at first.

Then I joined a writing group.

And the thing about a writing group is
no one cares that you write.
I found that curious at first.

Then I read what they wrote
and I'm no longer curious.

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