Thugs & Nice People

Relationships

Every day we make each other cry.

Psychotherapists can tell us why.

Preachers gaze with knowledge at the sky.

Maybe you will hit me in the eye.

Cops will come and get you if you try.

Many years ago (that time's gone by)

Love songs brought us close and made us sigh.

Now we think composers only lie.

Sometimes we remember for a moment.

60 years of this, and then we die.

1-29-14

 

Charlie

Gazing down at me from overhead

Like a maggot looking at the dead,

And with a touch of arrogance he said,

“I think you need to find a better friend.”
I rather weakly smiled. Suppose instead

I'd answered, “Yes I do. It's at an end.”
I see the god of misalliance bend.

1-29-14

 

In The Barber Shop

I don't see how Obama got elected.

A nation full of Jesus Freaks,

Homophobes and racists,

And not a brain among them.

And the barber,

The other one, just got a new tattoo,

Talks in a falsetto like a boy,

Is my age, goes fishing, and tells jokes,

Racist jokes. Obama went to school.

1-29-14

 

Thugs & Nice People

Children are taught to be

Nice by their parents,

Encouraged and loved to be

Thugs by their dads.

“Hit me! Now hit me!”
He laughs to his baby,

Then goes to his woman

To make him some more.

Truth is inherent,

Then twisted, perverted.

Maybe he'll struggle to

Find it again.

And finally think

He has found it in god.

1-29-14

If you like my poems, I have books on Amazon, both paperback and Kindle.  The paperbacks are usually $10 or less, the Kindles $1.  To see them, go to Amazon, click on Books on the drop down, the type Joseph Hart Poetry in the search bar.

To -- Who Thought Of It

Without Poetry

Without poetry I'd die

Or rupture and explode -

The ocean would

Come gushing out my eyes

And nose and mouth -

My head would float toward the beach

And settle in the sand -

And my cadaver like a craft

Would undirected drift

Upon the sea -

 

The Sea

The ocean is an ugly thing.

You drown in its embrace.

From its depths you don't escape

In animal disgrace.

You like a sunken galleon sink

And settle in the silt,

Investigated by the fish,

Eyes closed. Do what thou wilt.

And as the currents carry you

Beneath the sea and far,

You are extinguished like a lamp,

And buried, like a star.

 

The Soldier

He went to Nam.

Jesus! They were proud!

A sniper in the 7^th Infantry.

He killed a lot of gooks

Who were not human,

With no homes, no loves, no families.

When he came back

He hadn't got a wound,

But several decorations. He retired.

As he aged (he never took a job)

He grew slowly taciturn and cold.

At 50 he had ceased to speak a word.

But often in the night he would go mad.

9-21-12

 

Temperate Love

Sleep not in sunlight too intense

Nor in the forest grimly dense

But in the shadow of a tree

With dark, warm, gentle light on thee

And all with no philosophy

But love and sad mortality.

And I shall lie with thee my friend

If thou dost want it til the end

Of daylight. Know the night with me

In sleep and gentle ecstasy.

Our passing thoughts we shall exchange.

No trait in thee will seem more strange

To me than those that are mine own.

And safer love we've never known.

Somewhere a cat

Somewhere a cat

Rubs its side against a fence.

That's sleep.

Cobwebs between doorless jambs

Are doors.

That's the moon.

Dark purple wine

Splashes down the sides

Of a lead mug.

That's the night.

To – Who Thought Of It

Come visit me, my olden love.

Renew and warmly make an

Acquaintanceship in current love

And gently reawaken

Those tender feelings in my heart

That I have not forsaken.

My love requires no design.

It simply can be taken.

The winter's gone, the flowers bloom

Among the matted clover.

Come sit with me and do not say

That yesterday is over.

Be with me as you were, my love,

My ancient love the same.

And lay a flower on my stone

And sit beside my name.

If you like my poems, I have books on Amazon, both paperback and Kindle.  The paperbacks are usually $10 or less.  And the Kindles usually $1.  To see them, go to Amazon, click on Books on the drop down, and type Joseph Hart Poetry in the search bar.  The poems in this post are in a book called "Old Charms".

Three Stanzas

Three Stanzas

They took what they wanted – plenty -

They took the best of me.

In my mind I'm 20,

But look at the rest of me.

Living alone in a nook

With some cats and a friend.

I have been given the hook,

But I've cats to attend.

Most are aggressive and win,

Or happen to lose some.

For those with a talent for sin,

You've a whole world to choose from.

1-27-14

 

John

This is the story of pauvre John,

Irretrievably gone. He's gone.

Put on this planet to scr-w and know,

Now he goes where the angels go.

Went to Oakland when he was young

To cure his hang-ups. And he was hung.

It did no good. But when he came back

He preached the knowledge the Schiffies lack.

Very nasty and very vain,

He trod the ground of the sugar cane

With his little cloven feet.

Even that didn't make him sweet.

He loved to lie in a daisy chain

In the meadow beside a tarn.

Make a blunder and with disdain

He'd nail you to the old red barn.

1-27-14

 

Rene

Poor baby, storm and strife

Hound his misbegotten life,

His troubled psyche since he was two,

Held together with tape and glue.

In search of a friend, a lover, a wife,

He'll walk the hell all over you.

1-27-14

Values

Her brain was dead

So keep her corpse alive,

Cried the good and holy

Homophobes.

Pot should be illegal,

And we'll damn sure see it is.

It doesn't hurt a thing,

But we don't like it,

So it goes.

You're living in America.

And Christians don't make sense.

If they destroy a million lives,

All that counts is Jesus.

1-27-14

 

Old Age

When people that you love get old

And look like someone else,

It's worse than getting old yourself.

And cats beside the road.

If nature is a mother, she's

Medea. People try,

Some of them, not all of them,

Just very very few.

Like a shadow in a frame

That's coming into focus,

Republicans are wicked men,

Who only love a god.

1-28-14

Home

You gave me a home

I never had,

Filled with the myth

That you are bad.

Poems emerge

From the deadly night.

Skimming the surface

Of life, I write.

1-28-13

 

Games

One needn't be intelligent

To play a crooked game.

Only think what babies think.

Even cats play games.

A little jerk, a little twitch,

Ingenuously smile,

Or wait until the customary

Moment, and then move.

Life is very repetitious,

Practically a bore.

The cards were dealt when earth was formed,

And every card's a joker.

And all the dice are blank.

1-28-14

Endgame

John

This is the story of pauvre John,

Irretrievably gone. He's gone.

Put on this planet to screw and know,

Now he goes where the angels go.

Went to Oakland when he was young

To cure his hang-ups. And he was hung.

It did no good. But when he came back

He preached the knowledge the Schiffies lack.

Very nasty and very vain,

He trod the ground of the sugar cane

With his little cloven feet.

Even that didn't make him sweet.

He loved to lie in a daisy chain

In the meadow beside a tarn.

Make a blunder and with disdain

He'd nail you to the old red barn.

1-27-14

 

Rene

Poor baby, storm and strife

Hound his misbegotten life,

His troubled psyche since he was two,

Held together with tape and glue.

In search of a friend, a lover, a wife,

He'll walk the hell all over you.

1-27-14

 

Endgame

Desperate and needy -

I feel a little greedy -

I've written all my poesy -

I'm nearly 68.

My vocabulary dwindles.

All I've sold is Kindles.

And now there's nothing left in me

To write about but fate.

I edit and I glean

The books that I have written

And haven't got them printed yet.

Once my verse was good.

1-26-14

If you like my poems, I have some books on Amazon, both paper back and Kindle.  The paper backs are mostly $10 or less, the Kindles mostly $1.  To see them, go to Amazon, click on Books on the drop down, and then type Joseph Hart Poetry in the search bar.

Promises

Quick to respond

Quick to respond with appropriate words -

His heart in the night

Takes the flight of birds.

Deep in his soul of soul a few

Answers just he and his deity knew.

On a ward what will doctors

And orderlies do?
When the sand in the glass runs through,

He'll lie in a casket,

The same as you.

1-25-14

Promises

Promise me nothing. Don't agree.

The age of psychotherapy

And no integrity.

Friendship serves a purpose.

Affection isn't it.

The voices of my lovers

Evergreen in memory.

But my psychotherapist

Assures me I'm worth sh-t.

1-25-14

 

Alone

All alone – no one to care -

No one to talk to -

Nobody there -

On the edge of permanent hell-

So the ridiculous Christians tell -

Full of things I need to say -

Battened down and put away -

I sit in Denny's -

The servers are sage -

Attention, affection,

Minimum wage -

1-25-14

If you like my poems, I have books on Amazon, both paper and Kindle.  Most of the paper backs are $10 or less, and most of the Kindle are $1.  To see them go to Amazon, click Books on the drop down, then type Joseph Hart Poetry in the search bar.

Entertainment

Thieves

Thieves are liars who resent the truth,

Selfish people,

Though perhaps they love,

A gang, a clan, a coterie,

And all of them know Jesus,

Just like honest people

Who buy guns and hunt for fags.

Sartre said that selfishness has charm.

Why must babies grow up to be people?

1-24-14

He told me I'm a paranoid

He told me I'm a paranoid

Which means I'm mediocre.

And everything I love is garbage

To the USA.

Sopranos will not break and leap.

Perhaps they are not able.

And poetry is just a game

That anyone can play.

1-24-14

 

Hate

All that keeps me going

Is to know how much I hate them,

And thinking they are going to burn in hell.

I don't believe in hell, not ever,

Since I was a child.

But god I hope I'm wrong.

I hope there is one.

I was crying as I thought this

Walking in the door.

To write it down is better.

There's no one I can tell.

Let me die.

Just let the cats die first.

1-24-14

 

The Haters

“No haters here,”

They like to say.

It seems they do not know

They're the reason

Other people hate.

1-24-14

 

The Trial

Someone crooked took my butt to court

For libel. Every word I wrote occurred.

It happened 37 years ago.

My evidence was in my memory.

“Ass!” she laughed. “You're going down again.

No one thinks psychologists say that.”

“Prove that you are innocent,” I said.

“Prove that I am guilty,” she replied.

She was right. I couldn't make a case.

I spoke. The jury laughed. She only smiled.

And then I took a gun out of my pocket

And shot her head off. This must be the Rapture.

Then before they grabbed me, aimed the gun

At myself. And now she is in hell.

9-19-12

 

Info

Try to get a loan and see

The dirt they've got on you.

Did you ever change your name?
They've got the info too.

They don't know why you did it, and

There's nothing you can do.

Go to buy a gun,

Whether 22 or splatter.

Start to say your name. You'll find

It really doesn't matter.

1-24-14

Fancy

Staring down a corridor

That ends where I began,

I see things I saw before.

I dip the rusted pan

In the water. Is there ore,

Some grains of gold I can

Gather into poesy

And put upon a frame,

Drawn from someone's history

Who doesn't have name?

1-24-14

Keats & Shostakovitch

Shaped from the gristle of my bones

I write my poesy,

Just as Shostakovitch would have.

Only history.

Junkets was a simple sort,

Flowers in a brake.

“Lamia” - a paradox -

He could have wed a snake.

The poetry is negligible,

And the plot absurd.

That was Keats forever,

The water and the word.

1-25-14

 

Entertainment

They're talking to communicate.

What is grammar for?

But poetry is just a game,

A wall without a door.

To entertain with thoughts and sense,

But never to convey.

This is madness! It's the man

Without a thing to say.

1-24-14

Lies

Apparently

Apparently my verse is very bad

In spite of what the Ginsberg lover says.

I give my books away and no one comments

Ever. Do they read them? I am Bach.

Many poems, all of them the same,

But each one slightly different. Even Keats

Like every poetaster with a pencil

Thought he knew what poetry should be.

I read my poems and I feel delighted

Til I'm done and put them all away.

Mike, the self-admitted crazy person,

Victoria, the queen of sex and gore,

And Jill, who shot her brain with drugs in school,

Told me I was brilliant. Now they're gone.

Is anybody sane enough to say

Whether I have talent? It appears

I either say too much or say too little,

And say it wrong whichever. If I meet

Another hero, I won't say a word.

1-24-14

 

A Serious Study

Catharsis or practice?

A video game.

Pass around rifles

And let's find out.

Psychology offers

A bushel of answers.

What I was taught. And then

Seven years later.

The nation is rife with

Psychotics and bigots.

How many guns will they

Need for an answer?

Keep the republicans

Turning them out.

1-23-14

 

The Editor

Can editors have all the credit

For a publication?
Don't forget you wrote the

Song they published.

Wise, perceptive, erudite,

They look into a poem

And tell you whether

It is good or bad.

Like a Madam at a séance

Staring at the cards,

The medium knows whether what you've

Written is profound.

1-23-14

Lies

You can't tell other people what to do.

You can, although they probably won't do it.

That's an adage passed through history.

But the biggest lies are psychiatric.

Money sits in chairs pontificating,

Talking to the needy and the low.

If there's no solution, then it's not

A problem. Tell a man who's paralyzed.

Believing this will answer all his prayers.

You can't make other people do a thing.

You actually can. Just scare him silly,

Beat him with your fists or draw a knife.

You cannot make another person feel.

Nothing does. Of course. We're made of air.

All this heady wisdom of the psyche

Is giving me a headache. By the way,

Jacqui Schiff said headaches are delusions.

I am the destroyer of men's souls.

It's preferable to believe a lie,

And fight a war to prove that it is true.

1-23-14

William Carlos Williams

Why did they put William Carlos Williams,

His wife, her plums and their refrigerator

In a poetry anthology?

Or mention, cunning, William Carlos Williams

Had a love affair with everything?
I read he worshiped Keats. It has me worried.

I have worshiped Keats for 50 years.

Am I as mediocre

As William Carlos Williams

Because we both are very fond of Keats?

1-23-14

 

Gone

Dating back for years

Some 30 manuscripts

Or more, I kept in boxes

Waiting to be purged.

All the drek destroyed,

The promising revised,

The magic kept unaltered,

And all prepared for print.

Then arbitrarily

Several years ago,

Weary of the onus

I tossed them half away.

As now I purge the others,

Unearthing little gems,

Like Bach and Donizetti

I wonder what is gone.

1-23-14

 

Turning Off

Able to stop wanting,

I can cease to care,

Brave the benediction

Like sparrows through the air,

Oblivious to treasures

I can no longer share.

Then when the tide comes in,

Like going to the fair,

All my old emotions

Are still there.

1-23-14

 

Brave Men

Brave men tell the truth and don't regret it.

Cowards sluff in dread of a reprisal.

Freedom was created for the brave

To love in. Cowards live in fear of love.

The wars continue. Who will be the victor?

No one after all of them are dead.

Priests and preachers try to be forgiving,

And tell the masses what they want to hear.

Brave men play at treachery like children.

The confused are very easily misled.

A coward sells his soul to please the devil,

Forgetting everything he once believed.

Cowards live in fantasies and die there.

Brave men take the earth and burn it down.

All of them expect to go to heaven.

Love in lonely hearts is not extinguished.

1-23-14

The Strong & Weak

Only weak men wind up homicidal.

Republicans say, “Give them all a gun.”
No defenses. None of them. They take it,

And never answer back, say “no” or run.

The strong stay strong forever, or expect to.

When they're older, what do they do then?
Do other strong men gather to protect them?
Or do they pee their pants like babes again?

Are weak men really weak? That's the impression.

Are strong men clever? They know how to play it.

To get his way with someone who is stronger,

There's nothing any man can do but to say it.

God was only made for acquisition,

And vengeance for the weak. And old men die,

Weak or strong. Is solitude a fortress?

The weak and strong put angels in the sky.

1-23-14

 

Vengeance

Tell a man he's crooked and he'll hit you,

Even though it's absolutely true.

Call a cop or soldier to defend you.

With mace and guns and sticks he'll hit you too.

The world was never moral, just religious.

Greed and vengeance. That's what god has sown.

However I am weak. If I were stronger

I would seek some vengeance of my own!

1-23-14

 

Like My Mother

Very understanding. I'm a fool,

Beaten to submission by my mother,

To whom I said “I love you”

When she cried.

To find a girl who loves me like my mother,

The same devotion and tenacity.

Christ! She'll put

Cordelia in her grave!

She'll take me til I'm dead

Then go away.

Nothing moves her. With a ready smile,

She can talk and whisper like a lover.

A spine of steel.

Like god, she is eternal.

And when she is old -

What happens then?

1-23-14

 If you like my poems, I have some books on Amazon, both paper and Kindle. The books are mostly $10 or less, the Kindles $1.  To see them, go to Amazon, click Books on the drop down, then type Joseph Hart Poetry in the search bar.

"Existence precedes essence"

Crazy Poems

Painful feelings, crazy thoughts -

Is this insanity?

Not when my imagination

Dominated me.

Years ago a cretin said

His brother was psychotic

And the poems that he wrote

Were crazy. That is all.

Even Merwin makes no sense

And he's the Poet Laureate.

Is he crazy too? He scribbles

With no punctuation.

Punctuation gives your writing

Purpose. He's the man,

A poet for the USA.

Yankees have no purpose.

Will they lock me up like Pound?

My poems have some talent.

1-22-14

 

“Existence precedes essence.”

Everything that Sartre said

Was silly or insane,

That is except his magnum opus.

It just baffled me.

What are genes if not the essence

Of the personality?

And if Freud is still considered

More than just an artifact,

Certain structures are innate

In every animal.

Nonetheless I dote on Sartre,

Fascinating, warm, not wise,

Interesting. And he lingers

Like an echo in my head.

1-22-14

 

Sartre

Existence before essence.

That's what Sartre had to think

To support his thought

Of total freedom.

Like every other Christian

And philosopher, he parred

Reality to suit his
Master plan.

One emotion doesn't matter.

Lob it off and limp away,

And say, “Behold!

The person I imagined!”

But he had a gift for writing

(There's an essence he forgot),

And so he ranks

Above the common man.

1-22-14

 

Talent

Are these poems better?

Or perhaps they're merely older.

A magic I have lost

Or had forgotten.

I long to come upon a date

From several years ago.

It makes me think

The poems will be better.

Does talent ebb?

Lloyd Webber's did.

And even Rodgers faltered,

But after he was

Very very old.

A chromosome. A single gene.

Perhaps a hateful mother.

No one knows,

But soon somebody may.

1-22-14

 

Like My Mother

Very understanding. I'm a fool,

Beaten to submission by my mother,

To whom I said “I love you”

When she cried.

To find a girl who loves me like my mother,

The same devotion and tenacity.

Christ! She'll put

Cordelia in her grave!

She'll take me til I'm dead

Then go away.

Nothing moves her. With a ready smile,

She can talk and whisper like a lover.

A spine of steel.

Like god, she is eternal.

And when she is old -

What happens then?

1-23-14

 

Vengeance

Tell a man he's crooked and he'll hit you,

Even though it's absolutely true.

Call a cop or soldier to defend you.

With mace and guns and sticks he'll hit you too.

The world was never moral, just religious.

Greed and vengeance. That's what god has sown.

However I am weak. If I were stronger

I would seek some vengeance of my own!

1-23-14

 

The Strong & Weak

Only weak men wind up homicidal.

Republicans say, “Give them all a gun.”
No defenses. None of them. They take it,

And never answer back, say “no” or run.

The strong stay strong forever, or expect to.

When they're older, what do they do then?
Do other strong men gather to protect them?
Or do they pee their pants like babes again?

Are weak men really weak? That's the impression.

Are strong men clever? They know how to play it.

To get his way with someone who is stronger,

There's nothing any man can do but to say it.

God was only made for acquisition,

And vengeance for the weak. And old men die,

Weak or strong. Is solitude a fortress?

The weak and strong put angels in the sky.

1-23-14

Brave Men

Brave men tell the truth and don't regret it.

Cowards slough in dread of a reprisal.

Freedom was created for the brave

To love in. Cowards live in fear of love.

The wars continue. Who will be the victor?

No one after all of them are dead.

Priests and preachers try to be forgiving,

And tell the masses what they want to hear.

Brave men play at treachery like children.

The confused are very easily misled.

A coward sells his soul to please the devil,

Forgetting everything he once believed.

Cowards live in fantasies and die there.

Brave men take the earth and burn it down.

All of them expect to go to heaven.

Love in lonely hearts is not extinguished.

1-23-14

The Reluctant Exhibitionist

A Symbol

A symbol of America

Is running through red lights.

Getting rid of immigrants,

The NRA and rights,

Policemen at a trial

Wearing shirts that say,

“Free Dan White” - a murderer

Who shot a man who's gay.

1-21-14

Instinct

A chicken just hatched

Will flee for shelter

From the shadow or shape

Of a chicken hawk.

A cat that has never been
Out of the house

Approaches with caution,

Regards with care

A picture of a dog.

1-21-14

 

Reading Poems From 2010

I read my poems and I like them,

But the feeling doesn't stay.

The memory is all forgotten

When I put the book away.

Fresh, alive – the poems written

Many years before today.

There is nothing in my psyche

Now. I don't know what to say.

Verses without depth or meaning -

Meant for happiness, for play.

1-22-14

 

On Time

Once upon the cover

Years ago of Time,

Someone drew a cutaway

Of a human brain.

And pictured in the head

Were a gadgets, guns and toys,

Preachers, soldiers, TV sets,

Bumper stickers, cars,

Tattoos, games, computers,

And things I don't recall -

A cacophonous unconscious.

Jesus! This is me!

1-22-14

Children in America

Children in America

Have nothing but a prayer,

In a world of videos,

Only money there.

And the only music

Growing up they hear

Doesn't soothe the senses,

Only violence and fear.

Pugnacious to the full -

How to drown a cat -

Intelligence maligned -

What there is of that.

Infants in the streets -

Never had a past -

Every generation

Overthrows the last.

1-22-14

The Reluctant Exhibitionist

His buddies call him Rover.

Before we moved from Dover

For eight weeks the neighbors held us over.

And I said, “This had better be love.”

We fumbled and we panted

And took it all for granted,

But we left Judith Crist enchanted.

And I said, “This had better be love.”

His buddies to a guy were

Impressed when he and I were

Acclaimed in The National Enquirer.

And I said, “This had better be love.”

And thanks to his clinicians

With similar ambitions

We now reach eleven new positions.

And I said, “This had better be love.”

1970, NYC

Lyric (fragment)

If you think you could content a

Girl who's lovely in magenta,

You may sit and tell me.

If your fancy vaguely traces

Half remembered names and faces,

You may sit and tell me.

Such a pretty hand

So gentle and so fine.

It's so large that one of yours

Holds both of mine.

If you feel a faint affection

That must not escape detection,

Sit there and tell it to me.

Underneath a quilt

We will be safe and warm,

Snuggled like two children

Hiding from a storm.

1970, NYC

Lyric (fragment)

In the apse

A couple of chaps

Will sing us a rhapsody.

Perhaps they'll get a fee.

I assume

That she and the groom

Are able to spawn the kin,

So where do you fit in?

1970, NYC

 

Lyric (fragment)

The Countess came from Typangu.

I took her to The Purple Shoe,

A little nook she'd overlook

Because it's in no tourist book.

It's Percy's place. The boy's a whiz

But not the man his sister is.

And thereupon the Countess flew

Directly back to Typangu.

Sherridan not wisely loved,

But loved too well.

We saw Stravinsky's “Rite of Spring”,

A rather hectic night of spring,

A most alarming song of spring,

It should be called “The Wrong of Spring”.

The cellos swept. The trumpets soared.

But peacefully she slept and snored.

And when the whole ballet was done

I had to say the trumpets won.

Sherridan not wisely loved,

But loved too well.

1970, NYC

If you like my poems, I have books on Amazon, both paper and Kindle.  The paper are usually $10 or less.  The Kindles are usually $1.  To look at them, go to Amazon, click on Books on the drop down menu, and type Joseph Hart Poetry in the subject bar.

After Purging Old Books

After Purging Old Books

He's determined never to get angry.

Apparently there's nothing there to fear.

I'm dwelling on the edge of my existence,

An emasculated chanticleer.

I can write. My poesy was better

Several years ago when I was dead.

Reading it again – I've lost my talent.

Can I recreate what I just read?

Or I'm foolish. I'm not really good,

Then or now. Hammering at god,

A poetaster, just like any other.

Untutored and inept. Another fraud.

Is it in my genes or situation?
Better than alone it would appear.

Running from a phantom malediction,

Why do I live in dread and constant fear?

He is good. And anyone who sees him

As I have, and listened to him talk,

Knows he's worth a heaven, not for milking.

Small myopic refugees of chalk!

Flowers that will never come to bloom,

With a single end in mind – a tomb!

1-21-14

Foretaste

Boring conversations

Of the trivia of life,

Like reading something deep

By William Inge -

Without a little humor,

Little gossip, little life,

Are deserts filled with sand,

A little taste of real death.

1-20-14

Aggression

I am not aggressive.

I never had a friend.

Perhaps there's some connection.

The others came for me.

They expressed affection

And made me feel at home.

I did not reciprocate.

So they went away.

Yet a little residue
Lingered in their souls.

I don't know whether

Or how much I cared.

Like Nietzsche I ran out

And kissed a horse.

1-20-14

 

Garrote

Twice I took a chance

And asked someone for friendship.

Either time was landed on my face.

But he and I approached each other slowly.

Then like the sea, I flooded over him.

To a gibbet reaching outward from a cliff,

I dangle in the morning

And turn circles in the moonlight.

I am dying slowly in the rain.

Terrified of heights,

I don't look down.

1-20-14

 

The Fool Speaks

“Animals were put on earth to serve

People, fool! The Bible makes it clear.”

I said, “Like roaches, sharks and silverfish?

And lizards long before there was a man?”

She invoked the wrath of god on me,

Then fell into a faint. I left her there.

1-20-14

 

An Artist

People who prevaricate go crazy.

I don't know why. Maybe they forget

Or else it's in the stars. A ghostly brother

Who never was remembers what was said

Forever, til his brother's in the grave.

Spectral tombs and stars invite the ocean

To the poet's page. Amanuensis!

An artist's only an amanuensis!

But anyone who calls himself an artist

And can do nothing – writes for none at all.

Artist was a word of fine distinction.

Now it is a coin that is debased

By iron, lead and copper. And the crowd

Loves it – like the promises of god.

1-20-13

 

Geeks

Never read a poet

After 1983.

Ignore the aging geek who goes for

Shakespeare, Keats, Millay.

Or leaks that he likes Bach instead of rap.

Vilify the phony with his

Seven dollar words,

Pompous authors, rhythm, meter, rhyme.

He's forgotten.

We will last forever.

Inspiration, beauty and a Muse

Are artsy words that winners never use.

1-20-14

If you like my poems, I have books on Amazon, both paper and Kindle.  Paper books are mostly $10 or less.  Kindles are mostly $1.  To look at them, go to Amazon, click on Books on the drop down menu, and type Joseph Hart Poetry in the address bar.