#publishingpoetry

[buglarvainspector]

Cookie?

Peace-making offer, he nudges the plate -

attempting to placate what must seem like hate.

My favorites. I eye them -

well-knowing they're bait.

(Does it matter the kind? When's the last time I ate?

I could use just a something.)

Folding my arms, we both sit back and wait.

The nerve - yes, I'm hungry. This truce is a plot.

If I take one, I'm stuck - bribed, won over and bought.

My favorites. I eye them -

I think they're still hot.

(Does it matter the kind? It's a backhanded shot

and I think I've lost out.)

Still, he humors my silence, though he chuckles a lot.

I took one. I did. And the argument stopped.

Once my stomach stopped growling, my point simply flopped.

©2013

[poetschoicewriter]

#punjabkesarinewspaper #poetschoice #lakhbirverma #publishingpoetry

[buglarvainspector]

The cafe boy talks

To all freely, at his ease

Over steam and milk.

[buglarvainspector]

John Wayne Western

The plot

Guy shoots some drunken sucker dead,

gets smacked up some and fires more lead,

then cue John's bottle to 'is head.

John hauls him out to jail instead.

But he's got friends. The town's in dread.

The girl

The batting lashes. Wily, head-

strong little card-shark mistress said,

"Why, sheriff, I've purfumed my bed.

A night in jail?

My room's less stale."

And in he struts.

In love? Misled?

The fight

The bad guys keep one step ahead -

they're filling extras up with lead

on dusty streets, while John get fed

up, leaves the jail, risks all, bleeds red

and with one shot

(the last he's got)

at last he sees the villain dead.

The end

Justice hung by just a thread.

The girl waits, pats his thoroughbred.

She'll catch his eye -

stagecoach nearby -

attempt "goodbye," and wind up wed.

[buglarvainspector]

Last lessons of the dance instructor

1.

Head up, dears, the art is finding

art for art's sake 'mid the binding

tempo, tempo, all unwinding,

while you dance. Revolt, and fly.

Capture movement, Earth has tied you

to itself. Head up! Decide you

will not heed tunes that misguide you.

Let your motions tell you why.

Earth desires you. Find the sky.

2.

Back straight, now. Be queenly, kingly.

Though strength may be weakening we

cannot break, for menacingly

time devours you, if you yield.

Find the tempo, tempo folding,

pleasure those who are beholding.

Gravity is always scolding,

beauty, then, must be your shield -

center stage, your battlefield.

3.

Eyes inward - disregard the staring,

longing eyes, the soft despairing.

It is discipline's red herring,

ammunition made of pride.

Tempo, tempo, mem'ry beats it -

only giving in defeats it.

Lessons fade, but life repeats it:

find the music trapped inside.

Dance to love, to fly, to hide.

©2013 Sara Taylor

[buglarvainspector]

Talk awhile

Come talk awhile - the night is young,

and we are young,

and life is soft

around the edges.

Loose your tongue

and speak to me.

It isn't often, honestly,

we cross our separate hedges.

Well and good to sit and stare -

the pot's not going anywhere.

But it won't boil. Not while you're there.

Well and good to turn it up -

the tea bag's sitting in your cup.

My life is ordered:

Perfect, calm.

Its lines are drawn and walls are straight.

Each time my heart is broken down

I put the shell back in the crate.

It doesn't mend it,

Doesn't heal.

Come talk awhile - I've heard good things.

I've heard good things and done them, too.

[buglarvainspector]

The Museum-Goer

The watching walls have heard the wails before -

laments of longings given up to art.

His eyes soak in the silence of her lore;

his feet are frozen by a raging heart.

The docents know his face but kindly pass.

It seems the portrait is his sole intent.

Museum-goer, lost behind the glass

of painted beauty staring off, content.

The painter loved her, so we're led to think,

and leads the hearts of all who look astray -

as his was led. His trace of oil or ink

has drawn eyes inward.

He could stay all day.

What was her name? Her story? Painted eyes

restrain and lend at turns while he stands glued.

Museum-goer, standing as time flies -

a portrait's colors leave his thoughts imbued,

and watching walls embrace the hearts that brood.

[buglarvainspector]

Pacific Grove is / where there is no law for moss / on sidewalk love notes.

[buglarvainspector]

Even the heathen

(A bed-time explanation)

"Even the heathen will clean before serving

their cannibal stew while the night-meal observing.

Once they've washed their faces and sharpened their teeth

(of course, after flossing), they'll gather beneath

all the heads-on-pikes lanterns and kneel for their prayers

and break out the bone bread (and everyone shares).

Then after they've finished the unmentioned meats,

they'll all thank their mothers and push in their seats.

They'll clean up their bedrooms (and floss) and lie down

for brief bed-time tales of the heathen renown.

"See - even the heathen must know when to sleep.

They do homework, too - but that story will keep."

[buglarvainspector]

Simple, Again There is an ancient, unused path that greets my feet and meets the sea; defeats the peat moss crowding down and with its bend delivers me. The breeze is slack - too dull to chase - the gulls cry back and dip a wing: the crash of waves is governing. There is an ancient, unused thought I think while staring past the shore; my days are caught mid-wave and granted crash and hiss, and little more. Just once to strain, to reach terrain unshaped as yet by my own flow, to spread and wane before I go. There is an ancient, unused sky I used to trust with dreams I had; these sands are pale, the time is short. I'm drained of wisdom, slack and sad. One final, chilling, wave-clad dance, alone with time and what it gives: the fate of everyone who lives.

[buglarvainspector]

"EASY SQUEEZY, CHEAP AND CHEESY" or, "Standing in the cheese aisle"

Standing in the cheese aisle, and waiting to be perished,

And wondering while standing here, is life the rind, or cherished?

Waiting to be cut through,

Wax alike to paper.

Or waiting in my shell

And letting Time address my maker?

Am I the wine or whisky?

Or am I now or later?

And if I die while standing here,

would they say "hate" or "plate her."

Would I say "trade" or "crate her."