A new updated POEM MONKEY logo plus more poems as Market Season gets underway. And who knows? Maybe some Genuine Poem Monkey ProductsTM for you, the Consumer of Poems, Poetry and Poetry Related Products.
Thank you for your patience.
3.26.2009
2.14.2009
Magpies
Perched upon gnarled limbs
in the early morning light.
A sparkle
takes flight and floats
through the air.
The shimmer
of black feathers
and the sound of
song like humanity
murmuring,
gently.
For now, this tree
is home and wary
wings remain
at rest.
In the mirror,
she recognizes
herself at last.
**PM**
in the early morning light.
A sparkle
takes flight and floats
through the air.
The shimmer
of black feathers
and the sound of
song like humanity
murmuring,
gently.
For now, this tree
is home and wary
wings remain
at rest.
In the mirror,
she recognizes
herself at last.
**PM**
2.08.2009
Wedding Ring
He runs his finger
along the inside of the dirty drain,
pokes it deep
and comes up with a
nice ball of wet hair.
He hopes
it's down there
somewhere
and not in the jacket
he left behind.
In his reflection,
he sees trouble coming.
**PM**
along the inside of the dirty drain,
pokes it deep
and comes up with a
nice ball of wet hair.
He hopes
it's down there
somewhere
and not in the jacket
he left behind.
In his reflection,
he sees trouble coming.
**PM**
Death and Taxes
"Sure things, right?" she says.
"Nothing is certain," he says.
They look at each other
as if
for the first time.
**PM**
"Nothing is certain," he says.
They look at each other
as if
for the first time.
**PM**
Dead Battery
"I can't believe it's dead
again," he says,
laying his tired head
against the steering wheel
as frost covers the
windshield in lace and glitter.
His breath is warm
in the stillness.
There are no birds singing
in the early morning light.
The work week dawns.
**PM**
again," he says,
laying his tired head
against the steering wheel
as frost covers the
windshield in lace and glitter.
His breath is warm
in the stillness.
There are no birds singing
in the early morning light.
The work week dawns.
**PM**
War
It's only a vehicle
for the transfer of
wealth
from one greedy human
to another.
It is driven
upon bloody rails.
The sparks glint in the darkness
and
the sound is
death,
laughing.
**PM**
for the transfer of
wealth
from one greedy human
to another.
It is driven
upon bloody rails.
The sparks glint in the darkness
and
the sound is
death,
laughing.
**PM**
Children's Voices
I know you want
this to be about how
wonderful the sound is,
how it makes you smile,
every time you hear
happy children's voices
floating through the air.
But the truth is:
the sound is like rusty chains
being dragged across a metal grate
while a dump truck backs up
on a day you're trying to sleep in
or
after a hard week at work.
Which is usually.
**PM**
this to be about how
wonderful the sound is,
how it makes you smile,
every time you hear
happy children's voices
floating through the air.
But the truth is:
the sound is like rusty chains
being dragged across a metal grate
while a dump truck backs up
on a day you're trying to sleep in
or
after a hard week at work.
Which is usually.
**PM**
Divorce
It's been ten years
and he's never been happier.
He's pretty sure of this
as he
pours a quiet whiskey
on Tuesday
at midnight.
**PM**
and he's never been happier.
He's pretty sure of this
as he
pours a quiet whiskey
on Tuesday
at midnight.
**PM**
Beads
Silver beads hang from the branches of
the trees
in New Orleans.
Purple and gold and green,
the littered memory
of past celebration,
and the
promise
of good times still
to roll.
**PM**
the trees
in New Orleans.
Purple and gold and green,
the littered memory
of past celebration,
and the
promise
of good times still
to roll.
**PM**
1.27.2009
Cold Beer
On the table
his
cold beer
is now warm.
He sits
staring out
of the window
with his
hand around the bottle.
She's not
coming back.
**PM**
his
cold beer
is now warm.
He sits
staring out
of the window
with his
hand around the bottle.
She's not
coming back.
**PM**
1.24.2009
Poem Monkey
I have
a manual typewriter
under a small tent
outside
in the open air.
You step up
and give me
five bucks.
You say,
"Write me a poem,
monkey;
write one
about
my
dirty socks."
I say,
"Yeah,
I can
write
a poem
about that:"
his wife is asleep
and he sits
on the edge
of the bed
in the
dark.
he quietly removes
his shoes
and his dirty
socks.
he can still
smell
the other
woman's
perfume
on his fingers
lingering
in the
heavy darkness.
"Anything at all,"
I say,
folding the five,
as you walk
away
with
your
wife.
**PM**
a manual typewriter
under a small tent
outside
in the open air.
You step up
and give me
five bucks.
You say,
"Write me a poem,
monkey;
write one
about
my
dirty socks."
I say,
"Yeah,
I can
write
a poem
about that:"
his wife is asleep
and he sits
on the edge
of the bed
in the
dark.
he quietly removes
his shoes
and his dirty
socks.
he can still
smell
the other
woman's
perfume
on his fingers
lingering
in the
heavy darkness.
"Anything at all,"
I say,
folding the five,
as you walk
away
with
your
wife.
**PM**
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