poetry Poems and Poetry

WHER ARE THE POEMS?

davidallen — Sun, 23 May 2010 05:07:36 -0700

WHERE ARE THE POEMS

Where are the poems?
I looked in all the familiar
Places and failed to find
A line that I could use.
I wanted to ask my muse
For a shot of inspiration,
But she slept the sleep
Of the jet lagged
And I feared waking her
Would result in words too tart.
I looked in the bathroom
And behind the bar,
But found no Bukowski hidden there.
The fridge offered no Ferlinghetti.
So I went out back, but Jack
Must’ve been somewhere on the road.
No words, no poems.
No Ginsberg in my ginseng tea,
No Billy Collins cropped
Up in my cup,
And Cummings apparently

Kierkegaard Regards

kpaul.mallasch — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 20:58:25 -0800

A poet is an un-
happy being whose
heart is torn by secret
sufferings, but whose lips
are so strangely formed that
when the sighs and the cries
escape them, they sound
like beautiful music...
and then people crowd
about the poet and say
to him: "Sing for us

scattered sketches

kpaul.mallasch — Fri, 22 Jan 2010 15:03:10 -0800

slips and pieces
partial thoughts
and it ceases

images and thoughts
assault his network
neural connections

time and happiness
mixed metaphors
of fog and snow
and some ice

words and emotions
run rampant through
his mind or what's
left of it - right of
it - above and
or below it

stutters and stammers
trying to get it out - let
it out - shout about
the rings around
certain planets
devoid of mass

HAIKUS

davidallen — Fri, 04 Sep 2009 04:31:51 -0700

I am a journliast and a poet. I run the Okinawa News Bureau for Stars and Stripes. In between deadlines the farflung staff (in the Pacific we have reporters in Okinawa, mainland Japan, South Korea and Guam) participate in Haiku challenges. Here's a few I wrote about trying to cover the military:

NEWS HAIKUS

Good news story ledes
are no longer than a breath
a Zen news haiku.

The questions are old
I await the brasshole’s call
And his blank reply.

Deadline is looming
The telephone remains mute
Desk says, “Killing me.”

“Why don’t you write good

all mixed up

kpaul.mallasch — Sat, 11 Jul 2009 16:21:40 -0700

i remember
the future as
memories. on
the beach lying
back reading my
poems, wondering
about the man i am
now.

warming up...

kpaul.mallasch — Sat, 25 Apr 2009 17:51:22 -0700

hello my dear
reader. dear
dear read-
er... ok
maybe
not.

keep the
time and
keep the
beat. keep
it away from
me, far far a-
way from me
no more to
weigh upon
me - all up
on me or

the words
pour out.
not a pout
not a spout
maybe just a
little shout at
the top of my
poet lungs
for the w-
hole w-
orld to
hear.

i could use someone

kpaul.mallasch — Sat, 29 Nov 2008 17:43:18 -0800

i could use someone
to talk to occasionally
for long periods of time
to block out the world and
recharge my ability to love &
my ability to create and i box &
i crate those thoughts in my mind
and write poems and i promise they
wouldn't dry up and wither away if i
could just use someone for a little
while to talk to and have them nod
and say they understand even if they
don't understand all the way .

"not if it's yours. not now. please not now. please thank you please."

like bards of old

kpaul.mallasch — Fri, 18 Jul 2008 22:32:07 -0700

there's something about
print.

many
more people see me
online perhaps at the
moment, but the thou
-ght of my words, my
design out there with
the people - getting
wet and warped, the
newsprint #35 paper
fades eventually. it
went through a
process to get
to homes. almost
20 thousand of
them.

out back counting clouds

kpaul.mallasch — Sun, 22 Jun 2008 08:26:26 -0700

out back
on swing
looking at
clouds pass
slowly - a thought
or ten connected to
each one.

and the sun
beats down
and my arms
and hands
turn red.

no charcoal
pencils today.
just listening to
the way the world
spins without us
feeling it some-
times.

the image is
sketched in
my mind,
though,
as time
slows
then goes
faster.

each cloud a
fairy tale kingdom
complete in itself.

out back counting stars

kpaul.mallasch — Wed, 18 Jun 2008 19:46:25 -0700

out back
counting
stars, lying
back on a
swing,
staring
up -
trying to
stir feelings
of being afloat
on the open sea
in a dinghy perhaps,
just a rucksack to
take short naps.

the metal bar
holding the
swing takes
away from
the illusion
a bit, but
the
rocking
motion
slight back
and forth...

poetry is useless

kpaul.mallasch — Wed, 26 Mar 2008 13:50:18 -0700

poetry is useless for
the majority of the
people on the
planet.

and yet for me it's
mana, meat and
potatoes, nourishment.

like anything, though, if
you have too much of it
you tire of it - it loses its
ability to excite or soothe.

poetry is use-
less, full of
shit tricks
w/words
don't cut it
in the real
world and
that's where
all the people
are - not out here
in magical realms
that don't really exist.

12:12

kpaul.mallasch — Mon, 27 Nov 2006 23:40:33 -0800

ready.
steady.
go. time
flows. years
go past so fast
after a certain point...
(gravity again methinks)
space related to time, the uni-
verse a grid. swimming through it.
rivers of it.

i passed it. i keep popping up in
different locations, wondering
when the future me will con-
tact me. tacky. wacky.

wandering the halls up here.
the ever present moon-
base mentioned enough
you begin to wonder if it
just might be real after-
all.

word on the street

kpaul.mallasch — Tue, 22 Aug 2006 21:24:25 -0700

it's funny how sometimes you don't really feel your age. i don't know if it's the fact i'm a poet and don't want to ever grow up and live in the real world or not, but it is like i'm living in some kind of fantasy that most normal people would laugh at or look down on. and i'm looking back down the road i've been on. i dunno. the words flow, tho, and sometimes, for the poet that has to be enough. momentary pleasure of seeing far into the distance.