Here comes another
classic case of
writer's block.
Cock soft,
I spew
across the
white pages.
Maybe age is
catching up
with me.
Time has been
a friend,
but I'm only as
good as my last poem.
I long for the days
when songs filled
my heart, where every
part of me smelled
the rain and the
wet dogs, and the
streets of Spain.
The pain was always
fodder, the joy, the sadness
the madness of love and
sex and passion.
The rancid anger and rage
became the words of
a sage when I broke
out the notebook.
Not tonight though,
I will wait for the
erection and the blood
to simmer in
the red dot on the
white snow.
Patiently waiting for
the hemorrhaging of
the soul.
If you send me a TITLE and ASK me to read the poem, I probably will. Which of MY poems did you enjoy? ? hmm?
You seemed (in a message to me) to want me to read some one or more of your poems. Today I've read two, including one I'd left a comment on months ago, and probably told you I had in a message.
Thomas, I'm glad, for you, that my PH friend Linda Bella enjoyed your second stanza. I did not. I tend towards writing and appreciating (and understanding) lines whose words are to be taken literally, not symbolicallly.
I don't THINK this poem will be (unread by me as yet) about a limp rooster. Will it be 'bout somethin' needin' a 'hormone booster'?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A brutally honest look at one of life's everyday problems. I think the second stanza is very powerful. The images are extremely well done.