My first Coup

rioting

Brooding, moody, thinking-he’s walking.
Fading, somewhat jaded-yet aspiring.
Perspiring, sees looting- then a shooting.
Rioting, shouting, touting loudly-a creed.
Talking, focusing, red light on-you see?
Reporting, covering, disbelieving-people bleed.
Firing, running, still holding-shaking lens.
Slipping, gasping-camera man is dead.

Freak

There once was a man who would be
Blind when seeing the sea
Caught in quite the cooky conundrum
He wanders the woods like Paul Bunyan
 
His glazed eyes lock with a lyrical Lark
So he tip toes over the rocks and falls in the dark.
He stumbles mumbling across the creek
Questioning the quandary of why he’s a freak.
 
Rough hands come out and damage the trees
Crooked knees rub against thick and black weeds.
Cracked feet climb the vines up the wall
Up, up, up, and over-timber! He falls.
 
Inside him his skin squirms slimy along
While he tastes the fungi touching his tongue-e
He notices his mind hears pretty, pretty singing
Wondering why such sing-song is appealing.
 
Trip, trip, tripping, the fungi slides toward his tummy
Now a crawling crawdad-in his mind hears “dummy.” 
He continues sliding over stringy vines
His mind insane and high with strife.

The Emotionally Challenged Doorknob

I found this in my journal. In college, a writing professor challenged us to write a poem about a doorknob. Now, imagine yourself as this doorknob while you read it.

“I see you as you rush around disregarding me. It angers me you keep me locked inside your abode. You zip around and I frown knowing you don’t care. You vacuum carpet, replace tile and even dust the shades. But here I sit poking out from this moving wall. What do you ever do with me, you never take me out! I am left here with a noisy ball attached to my snout…And when no one looks the crazy cat paws my shiny self! OH! I can see you coming toward me very quickly-Hand outstretched always wanting never giving-you put your hand on me and I feel the warmth. You touch me and your touch turns me on!

~Suddenly I’m upside down and like a dream you’re gone.”

Desperate

Whatever is a girl to think when groping and fondling these words…a  private act that keeps me from being desperately bored. But, you’re looking at my hands-the perverts, playing like I’m a poet. They search out what can’t be seen and hide out in the trees, just waiting calmly for an opportunity-then, sees it and feels it and grabs it! With treasure in hand she sneaks sneakily along, looking for her study-Down the long dark hall she goes and quietly opens the door… Shades are drawn, what light there is glows dim…her prisoners in tow.