Poems

Rambling On

Even Jesus walked with thieves.

They hung him on a cross.

I don't work and I write poems.

You don't work. You lie and screw.

When the world is over,

Both of us will be forgotten.

Everyone is prejudiced.

It must be based on something.

Christians want to murder me.

A Mexican's just brown.

Nearly every shrink I saw

Said I was atrocious.

I trusted them and told the truth

And now I am insane.

Jesus Christ! Does nothing go

According to tradition?

Everyone pretends it does,

And sends his kids to war.

7-4-13

 

Samantha

She'll ask you for a favor

And she'll rob you while you grant it.

She has a school of children.

All their fathers are in jail.

She lives with shit and roaches,

And she has her nails done weekly.

She never worked a minute in her life.

She never will.

She used to be attractive

(Very moderately so).

She's fat and plain and homely now,

And covered with tattoos.

She never did a thing

For anybody but herself,

Or gave away a dollar.

And in twenty years from now,

She'll be 42 and look

Exactly like her mother.

She cannot pay her Edison,

And I don't give a damn.

7-3-13

Myths

They think they're going to live forever.

So the war continues.

A soldier dies. Another takes his place.

Children carry rifles.

The Minotaur of earth.

United by their bigotries.

If it seems too good

To be true,

It absolutely is.

If your mother didn't like you,

Why should anybody else?

He doesn't like your poetry.

Give up!

7-3-13

Truth

Only god and nature know

Who her babies' fathers are.

I can say it in a poem,

Almost everything I think.

Though my verse is not poetic

And identities are veiled,

Only Jacqui Schiff was wholly

Open, and she's buried now.

7-3-13

 

The Butterfly

I am weak, a butterfly

Frightened easily away,

Born to colors, born to beauty,

Born to last a single day.

By the boulder by a stream

A thousand butterflies alight,

Making rainbows in the morning,

Ready to erupt in flight.

Things of beauty lost to nature

Years before the talons tear,

Hide in shadows and in darkness,

Caves and coves. And I repair

To the fortress of my slumber.

Here in Denny's I just dream.

When the building's nearly empty,

I am there beside the stream.

7-3-13

 

I crave originality

I crave originality

As Edgar Allen Poe expressed it.

I seek a theme as Keats implored

The Muses. Limpid streams of words,

Sweet and clear dash over pebbles,

Stones and rocks. The meadow's free,

A thousand butterflies and birds

In the sunlight and the morning.

No one's seen this place but me.

I shall find a grassy barrow,

And relax and write a song.

Songs of glades and songs of nature,

Songs of oceans, songs of sleep

Are passe, but not forgotten.

There shall be a renaissance.

Music will replace the noises.

Ugliness will not endure.

Yes, it will. The common man

Who built the churches that support him

Isn't smart enough to sing.

Pavarotti's malediction!

Where's the turn? The road heads perfect

Off the very edge of earth.

7-3-13

Dreaming In Denny's

Here I sit alone in Denny's

Wishing I could write a song

Or several, deep, sarcastic, true

On impotent New Jersey's Christie.

But I'm nearly half asleep.

All my sting is gone. I'm merely

Writing poesy again.

This is good. It's what I wanted.

Poesy. The little crippled

Boy with skates one night a year

Who went to regions hitherto

Unknown, unseen by other boys.

He left his parents' home completely

For a never ending shadow

By imagination lit.

7-3-13

 

Love Everybody

A singer on the Musak

Is telling me to love

My fellow human beings.

They're ugly. And I won't.

The nice ones are affected.

The angry ones are mean.

The people I might like to know

Are sad and old like me.

Or in his little world

While on a little walk

With earplugs in his ears,

He's listening to Bach.

7-3-13

 

Same Poems, Different Places

Anyplace but Denny's

Reading what I wrote,

It comes across as drivel,

Written by a goat.

But sitting here in Denny's

A couple blocks from home,

There's coruscating brilliance,

In even the same poem.

I read the selfsame verses,

In two different places.

First they're dead and boring,

Then subsequently aces.

7-3-13

Folding

Jacqui Schiff was indiscreet.

Her counselors came from the street.

I heard she moved to London Town

And shut the whole damned clinic down.

David Myers had the goods

So he sat around advising

Little crazies in the woods.

I guess he's back in advertising.

7-3-13

Sunday School Remembered

Jesus Christ – the mob expects

Him to return – said nix on sex,

Except to make a family.

Instead of love, just decency.

Forgiveness which replaces blame

For the forgiven is a game.

See the poor are eating hash.

When you give them all your cash,

Your soul will sparkle like a gem,

And you'll be poor instead of them.

Don't throw stones and do not lust,

If your eye is naughty, just

Leave it lying in the dust,

And be careful who you trust.

Where's the Christian who will do

These things as he is done unto?

Jesus saw the cherubim.

For this they executed him.

7-3-13

My name is Joseph Hart.  I have several books on Amazon and Kindle.  On Amazon, most books are $10, on Kindle $1.  The ones I recommend are "A Collection Of Poems" (poems published in Mike Strozier's Audience Magazine), and "Ten Chaps" (a collection of 10 short chapbooks).