Since I'm a PoetBay freeloader, I'm only allowed to post five poems per week. Sometimes, a backlog develops. These poems aren't titled because I have a lot of trouble with titles. I just couldn't come up with five of them at once.
You are known. You have to get used
To that. We can see where you are,
Where you've gone, what you've bought.
We can hear what you're saying,
Know to whom you speak, but
You needn't be frightened. We
Don't want to hurt you. We just
Want to sell you what we know
You want. We want you to pay us,
To be in our debt, but we don't
Care about you. Go do what you
Do, just allow us to watch you.
Don't wander away, or we'll
Question your motives. We'll
Find you in time, and conclude
That you threaten the state.
11/21b/14
Here are two birds in their separate
Cages, cooing at each other, birds,
Not humans, metaphors, and each
Enclosed in different ways. You have
Your father and your mother. I have
Children and a wife, but, still, I coo.
You cock your head. You answer.
I believe you do, and dream of
Opening my cage, and, somehow,
With my beak and claws, assisting
You to escape yours, but then
The narrative unravels. Metaphors
Slip out of place, though I, still
Barred, continue cooing. Do you
Cock your head?
11/22a/14
I'll give the journals what they want,
A poem heaped with adjectives.
I'll say I smelled the scent of lilacs
Wafting from your French perfume,
And I did this at 10:00 am, as
Winter's weak and sallow sun
Made shadows on my kitchen
Floor, of chunks of food, of
Crumpled paper. You, of course,
Were in your robe. It's terrycloth,
Of olive hue, and I, my hair in
Need of trimming, scribble from
A homely chair of oak or something;
I don't know, but what I do is that
They'll tell me, all those journal
MFAs, that what I've written sings
Too loudly. Worse, I'm coming to
A point. I should have droned my
Adjectives, and had nothing to say.
11/22b/14
One's hectored into thankfulness
This time of year, and I don't mind.
The family's in a single group, and
We have driven hours to be with our
Dearest friends. The room is warm.
There's much to say. The stories that
Are told are mostly fresh, and liquor's
Close at hand. A feast is coming
Later on. I'm grateful for what's
Here around me. Still, I drift away
At times to think how I am thankful,
Too, for she who couldn't come.
11/24/14
Well, yes, I still can sing her praises,
Still can argue to myself that, based
On observed nuances, the woman
Loves me, more or less, and, thus,
I need not be concerned that: (a)
I've been away from her for several
Days, and, during them, she may,
If what I've argued holds, have
Changed her mind, regained her
Sense, or (b) what I've believed
Is wrong. Either way, that warmth
Which welled up last time we were
With each other, seems to have been
Dissipated, leaving chilling fear.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 127 times
Written on 2014-11-24 at 16:23
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Clearing Out the Closet: Five Poems Written Over Four Days
11/21a/14You are known. You have to get used
To that. We can see where you are,
Where you've gone, what you've bought.
We can hear what you're saying,
Know to whom you speak, but
You needn't be frightened. We
Don't want to hurt you. We just
Want to sell you what we know
You want. We want you to pay us,
To be in our debt, but we don't
Care about you. Go do what you
Do, just allow us to watch you.
Don't wander away, or we'll
Question your motives. We'll
Find you in time, and conclude
That you threaten the state.
11/21b/14
Here are two birds in their separate
Cages, cooing at each other, birds,
Not humans, metaphors, and each
Enclosed in different ways. You have
Your father and your mother. I have
Children and a wife, but, still, I coo.
You cock your head. You answer.
I believe you do, and dream of
Opening my cage, and, somehow,
With my beak and claws, assisting
You to escape yours, but then
The narrative unravels. Metaphors
Slip out of place, though I, still
Barred, continue cooing. Do you
Cock your head?
11/22a/14
I'll give the journals what they want,
A poem heaped with adjectives.
I'll say I smelled the scent of lilacs
Wafting from your French perfume,
And I did this at 10:00 am, as
Winter's weak and sallow sun
Made shadows on my kitchen
Floor, of chunks of food, of
Crumpled paper. You, of course,
Were in your robe. It's terrycloth,
Of olive hue, and I, my hair in
Need of trimming, scribble from
A homely chair of oak or something;
I don't know, but what I do is that
They'll tell me, all those journal
MFAs, that what I've written sings
Too loudly. Worse, I'm coming to
A point. I should have droned my
Adjectives, and had nothing to say.
11/22b/14
One's hectored into thankfulness
This time of year, and I don't mind.
The family's in a single group, and
We have driven hours to be with our
Dearest friends. The room is warm.
There's much to say. The stories that
Are told are mostly fresh, and liquor's
Close at hand. A feast is coming
Later on. I'm grateful for what's
Here around me. Still, I drift away
At times to think how I am thankful,
Too, for she who couldn't come.
11/24/14
Well, yes, I still can sing her praises,
Still can argue to myself that, based
On observed nuances, the woman
Loves me, more or less, and, thus,
I need not be concerned that: (a)
I've been away from her for several
Days, and, during them, she may,
If what I've argued holds, have
Changed her mind, regained her
Sense, or (b) what I've believed
Is wrong. Either way, that warmth
Which welled up last time we were
With each other, seems to have been
Dissipated, leaving chilling fear.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 127 times
Written on 2014-11-24 at 16:23
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text| Texts |
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