someone wrote me saying he liked the poems, apparently didnt see the
"all poems by
maddeningirl@yahoo.com (Maddeningirl) wrote in message news:<ec0edd51.0407170104.24b98174@posting.google.com>...
> Sexual Mismanagement
>
> We all want to save our children from, shall
> we say,
> our
> own "ineptitude d'amour"
> and endless, Laurel and Hardy love lives.
>
> We
> hope our kids can remember their first loves
> without disturbing mental
> images of dirigibles
> diving into the earth while horrified crowds
> scatter;
> ending in a monstrous thump of flame.
>
> But we won't tell them
> how we undid ourselves,
> or give them practical advice, like:
> "try not to
> put an elbow into anybody's cheekbone,
> because it's sex, and you can't
> say:
> "I'm sorry, I was thinking of something else,
> just for a moment"
>
> or tell her
> "Gee, dear, I was concentrating on Curling",
> while she's
> lying there half-stunned.
> ______________________________________________
>
> Love is all Box and No Cornflakes
>
>
> Now that we both know
> the
> opposite sex
> is grief's retail outlet -
>
> And you won't spit on my
> grave,
> in case something grows -
>
> Now that I've taken the fly off my
> neck
> I wore when I heard your husband say
> he wouldn't hurt one,
>
> Now
> we're both angry as cornered pacifists
> because forever didn't last
> long
> enough for me to get
> my shoes and socks back on....
>
> I'll admit - that
> when I cooked,
> and we were short of vinegar
> - I just used Windex.
>
> _________________________________________________
>
> The Good Poet
>
> A good poet in this day
> is rust and iron
>
> tastes of old
> concrete pilings,
>
> does not
> lapse into beauty.
>
> Only a dull poet
>
> would seek out a flower,
> instead of
> the electric whine
> of a garage
> door
> opening.
> _________________________________
>
> No-one can tell
> what God or Heaven will do
> If you divide by zero.
>
> ______________________________________
>
> My memories of you go by
> like rows of butterflies on crutches.
>
> We were the blind desperately unbuttoning the blind,
> lost in the blur of the forbidden.
>
> Until your voice, like the shock of cold chicken,
> ripped my heart out
> and beat it like a seal pup,
> into your front porch.
>
> Suddenly, my life was invaded
> by a drunken synchronized-swim team of emotions...
>
> As the book of my soul began to fill with coffee rings.
>
> Now I know that my life is a only metaphor,
> for something infinitely worse -
>
> But your cruelty can never keep its freshness.
>
> One day, your beauty too, will be gone
> like lost socks from a dryer.
> _____________________________________
>
> Hans Holbein's The Ambassadors (painted in 1533 (National Gallery, London)
>
>
> All poems by In ancient times a broken lute string
> was a traditional symbol
> of death and decay
> Apparently, the ancients were easily depressed
> That,
> or there was a vicious lute string monopoly
> oppressing the people.
>
> Or
> there weren't that many good lutes, so people said:
> "Look, if you're just
> going to paint the damn thing,
> how come you can't use the broken lute?"
>
> And took the good one out to go visit their
> girl, ...or boy
>
> Most
> probably the broken lute string symbolized
> a really hot date gone bad,
>
> when everything was moving along quite nicely,
> until one silly string
> broke
> and you could never get the mood back.
>
> After all,
> what better
> symbol of death and decay could there be,
> than having to go home by
> yourself holding a broken lute?
>
>
>
>
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