art music poetry

Scorched earth poem by Andy Derryberry

by

i stand in a burned and smoldering
40 acre field

a field of ruination by my own hand

i played with the matches carelessly

and brilliant beautiful flame of pale blue

flared into a conflagration that left me

scorched with regret and

solitary in this field of smoke

now all i see is what was before

what is gone and will be nevermore

was it real or imagined

or only a phantom

i lost the time to know

because i was careless

and now the only sensation i have

is that of the heart pounding in my chest

and the pulse surging through my veins

and so i am alive and maybe

given the time to nurture a field

and perhaps time to forgive myself for

burning this one

My Friend, A Cat Poem by Clay Derryberry

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My Friend

How perfect is the gaze

Through his marble eyes

And legendary his grin.

When we meet he makes

A feline for me caressing my soul

And raising pause

To consider the clause

Of life binding us close in love.

Licking life is his destiny,

And at times,

Snoring musically, he sleeps soundly

Deep in his own dreams.

Clay Derryberry

August 15, 1998

The best poem ever written ~ balloon poem by e.e. cummings

by

who knows if the moon’s
a balloon,coming out of a keen city
in the sky–filled with pretty people?
(and if you and i should

get into it,if they
should take me and take you into their balloon,
why then
we’d go up higher with all the pretty people

than houses and steeples and clouds:
go sailing
away and away sailing into a keen
city which nobody’s ever visited,where

always
it’s
Spring and everyone’s
in love and flowers pick themselves

Bentley All I See is Carpeting Poem by Joan Pond

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All I ‘See’ Is Carpeting
by Joan Pond

The streets of Kensington gave me trouble,
so I doubled back to the flat.
Driving on the wrong side
I panicked at an intersection,
threatening to cut me in two.
I should have listened to you
and taken the tram.
Sheer hell will break loose,
for dinging your Bentley.
My ass is in a sling,
then over your knee;
while you explain why Yanks
should leave driving to the Brits.
Yet all I
‘see’,
is carpeting.

Schmutt — Andy Derryberry

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Schmutt

The alarm when I knocked on the door
The phantom under the couch
That knew when the cats wanted in
He often sqweaked like a kiddy toy

A pat on the head was his reward
For being a good guy
And it was enough for him
To be the household friend

The last time I saw him, though
He didn’t bark when I knocked
That puzzled me a little but
He got his pat on the head anyway

The Guy whose name can’t be said
Whistled for his sweet little invention
To finish his business and
Come on home

I hope there is a fine couch to sleep under
And a knock on the door occasionally
Take a nice nap there my friend
Three firm knocks; that will be me.

******

Life’s Footprints by Andrea Simantov