Jan Sand Poems
|122.||The Sea Of Night||5/19/2013|
|124.||The Speed Of Light||5/21/2013|
|127.||The World Awry||5/19/2013|
|128.||The Young Pheasant||5/21/2013|
|135.||Up There, Down Here||5/21/2013|
The Poet As Dr, Frankenstein
My floor is littered
The older they get,
The more they stink.
Each one began with great hope.
The idea was the seed.
Three or four words
That held hands in cunning design.
Poised, I thought, to dance and laugh.
Some of my blood,
Some of my guts
Was fitted to their syntax.
I rocked back their heads.
Their eyes opened with a clack.
'Dance! ' I commanded.
Each in turn faltered, spun,
Seemed, to my ear to have grace.
I left each one to live.
When I returned to look again,
They lay there on the floor
In disordered clumsy ...
Frank In Contemplation
They call me Frank these days
And the name implies me many ways.
My character is blunt, somewhat unswerving.
My features rather crude, I am a creature
Of many parts, they say, unnerving
In random chaotic fashion. But, anyways,
I function. Admittedly with little passion.
Those hormone fires sparking desires,
That smolders into what inspires humanity