Neon, poem by Janet Kuypers

Neon

by Janet Kuypers

from the “ Periodic Table of Poetry” series

Walked toward the entrance
of the now-closed dance club
I used to go to every weekend.

(You see, I’d get the free
weekly newspaper, with coupons
for free admission for girls before midnight.)

Now I go to the Vortex
look for Shelter
and only see broken neon signs.

It reminds me that neon
is common in the universe,
but rare on Earth —

and the only way we get neon
is by liquefying our air,
then actually distilling the neon out.

So I guess it’s fitting,
seeing the broken neon signs
of the once-popular dance clubs,

knowing that all I can do now,
everywhere I go,
is just breathe the neon in.

Immortality a Poem by Seymour Shubin

Immortality

Grandeur is lost in dust,and strength in clay
Yet beauty is more beautiful to the eye
That sees within an object its decay
And loves it knowing it must die.
Say, love, if we could live forever
And death were dead and time a thing
Becalmed and stagnant, powerless to sever
That taut yet gossamer like string
That binds us each to each, would we then be
Happier and more content? Would we not waste
Hour after hour, knowing that we could see
The next day’s hours? And living without haste
We might spend endless hours in delay
While now we’re conscious of passing time
And spend each moment in a deathless way.
Immortality Poem Copyright 2012 Seymour Shubin
All Rights Reserved

Seymour ShubinSeymour Shubin-02Seymour Shubin Witness To Myself

What Shall I Say Poem by David Michael Jackson

What Shall I Say

 

Shall I say I have drifted in silence
with the leaves on this creek
or
I have lain in quiet solitude
with these bleached logs.
Shall I say I am the wind
and have seen the river
into which the creek flows
and the sea.

No,
simply this
and only this,

bottomland corn
a creek
and a young man throwing rocks
at leaves.

***

 

 

david michael jackson  circa 1970  I was 22

The Secret Of My endurance poem and video by Bukowski

The Secret Of My endurance by Bukowski

I still get letters in the mail, mostly from cracked-up

men in tiny rooms with factory jobs or no jobs who are

living with whores or no woman at all, no hope, just

booze and madness.

I get most of their letters on lined paper

written with an unsharpened pencil

or in ink

in tiny handwritings that slant down to the

left

and the paper is most often torn

usually halfway up the middle

and they say they like my stuff,

I’ve written from where it’s at,

they recognize itt. truly, I’ve given them some chance

chance, some recognition of where they’re at.

it’s true, I was there, even worse off than most

of them.

but I wonder if they realize where their letters

arrives…

well, it is dropped into a box on a wire fence

behind a six-foot hedge and a long driveway

to a two car garage, rose garden, fruit trees,

animals, a beautiful woman, mortgage about half

paid after years residence, a new car, two cars

fireplace and a green rug two-inches deep

with a young boy to write my stuff now,

I keep him in a ten-foot square cage with a

typewriter, feed him whiskey and raw whores,

belt buckle him pretty good three or four times

a week.

I’m 60 years old now and the critics say

my stuff is getting better than ever.