Derivative of Dull

by Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb

It came up for air,
golden and white,
mottled, from underneath
a lily pad,
in that lush green
garden, where tree huggers
om in the lotus
position.

It came up for air,
its large mouth agape,
like those one observes
from a distance. The ones
whose impatient mouths
articulate from tiny brains.

Für mein Sherrie, mein Dora

************************************************************
I could not have written this Surrealistic poem to anyone but you, but you still may not like it much. Dora Maar may not have wanted to have her portrait done as a Cubist, Guernica-infused Weeping Woman, but she loved the guy, you know?

yB

************************************************************
There is a chocolate fondue fountain into
which lovers could dip marshmallows, black-
berries, or lovers, understanding that
love, perfect undipped love
can be metaphysical, should be;
I will have it surreal, and love you
as I am now, as I wish to perceive you,
mindful, body-full, and full.
It’s potent and paradoxical, like
dreams of wizards or flying fish or
looking at a sunrise in our windshield and not
talking about fire.
Only with you can I see these things
with such clarity that they blind us
and fill us with understanding.

I will blaze unchocolated through your world, through
you into mine and together,
remembering a time unreal and true,
long ago and never, when
we would see fish in the clouds,
I would become your wizard forever
and we’d walk past the unvisited section
of the ancient bookstore, past
an unopened copy of
Liebe ist ein Hund von der Hölle
and remark with pure pleasure
that had he lived, Freud
could have read Bukowski.

By Ben Cassel
************************************************************
Every year for our anniversary, Valentine's Day, birthday, etc., my husband and I write poems for each other. This one was written in 2011, and since it's the 8th anniversary of our first date, and he's right smack dab in the middle of performance night of his high school play, I wanted to share this poem that, to me, said, "I know you."

Welcome to Ode to Internet Troll Week

2829 Hits on our Blog!! Good job, Poets!

Macbeth

In memory of Herbert Nehrlich, the Master of Rhyme. I am not  a huge fan of rhyme, but I do think it's a good practice for purposes of rhythm and for play. I know Herbert would be thrilled that I keep attempting it.

He is such a fun diversion
raging in his mad perversion,
as  she slices with her rapier
his dimwit.

He rubs elbows with his brothers,
while he loathes a certain other, as
she laughs while not giving, well,
a shit.

He is in pursuit, yes, daily,
as she dances oh so gaily,
twirling pretty as he writhes,
as if snakebit.

She sharpens her long talons,
while he drinks, yes, in the gallons,
lying grotesquely face down
in his vomit.

It’s a never ending story,
that he hopes an ending
gory, and she giggles, yes,
of course, enjoying it.

She is quite the little master,
choreographing  his disaster,
as boys behave most badly
when they’re *smit.

Running sadly in one place,
with a grimace on his face,
the audience applauds quite
loudly at this skit.

It is not to end so soon,
the resurgence of this boon,
when Act I has only begun
being writ.


* Archaic word for another archaic word, smote (past tense of smite), also to smear....

~By Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb~

First Amendment

Dedicated to all of Balaam's Asses
wherever they may roam...

Living near the naval base,
she gets to sit in her courtyard...
sipping her coffee each morning,
and listen to the “Star-spangled
Banner.” All these years later
it still moves her.

She is proud to be American,
as others are proud of their
countries, even with cultures
mottled with bloody histories,
imperialism, geno…

He slurs his good mornings
and disturbs her conflicted
patriotism for an instant, and
then he is gone. She is both proud
and repulsed because even idiots
have the right to garble their opinions.

He shakes his fist at the woman
“what done him wrong” – never
having recovered from his wounds,
his heart black as the bruises from his whip,
his mind as victimized as Balaam’s ass.
“Why do you hurt me? Haven’t I been
a good and faithful  [husband]? ”

Bitch, please.

The cops told her that he is insane, but
not a danger. He is only spewing his angry
incoherencies; there is no crime
being committed.

Of course there isn’t.

She finishes her coffee as the ass
goes running into the street screaming
his “truth”,

and the trumpets stop playing.

~By Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb~ 

Standing Behind Her Jab

The pugilist repulses the fan
with his cauliflower ear,
and flattened nose from
too many blows, even
as she  poses
to have her picture
taken with the champ.
Her thick, black-rimmed
glasses and professional
attire defy the avid
spectator’s bloodlust,
and the fighter who
lies beneath her pink
camisole.

~Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb~

Lily

Minimalism appeals to the
neat-freak in me.
I like my world orderly,
and my ribs not-too-spare.

So it is with awe that
I watch my old girl
work every last piece
of meat off that humble bone.
She ravages it with grace.

There is graying around
her eyes, and she is
hard of hearing these days.
I’ve read that dogs also
get dementia.

How easily she slips in
and out of sleep these
days, how slow her gait.
But I will wait until she tells
me it’s time to go,
and with no regrets
I will let her.

I will have her cremated
and her ashes scattered
at sea where I can visit
her at my favorite place,
the unpredictable sea, with
the healing waves crashing
all around me, constant as
her erratic heartbeat.

 

Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb

Bas Relief

By Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb

Sweltering July heat,
foul moods, and the cats
are lazy.
Your presence here adds
to the discomfort.
Nothing that a good
downpour
wouldn't help.
Watermelon summers,
being barefoot at the lake,
and picnics with laughing
children are sepia
memories,
disappearing like sweat
beads
from a strong gust of wind.
The pages of this book grunt
apathetically,
and the stillness of time
is stifling.
Where is God? and
why won't you leave
me alone?
In that very moment
when I find silence,
a horse fly buzzes by,
suicidally,
and I instinctually grab
my book and
SWAT! it.
The analogy works well,
and, at last,
I smile.

Under the Bus by Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb

You silly boy.

Graying at the temples
and still you mope
over the water
under that bridge.

Our friends say
you’re not yourself
these days, that
you seem small,
fragile.

In spite of your, well,
spite, I believe them.

Your words spew
out of you like a
screaming tea kettle,
insistent, and then
easily put aside.

Compassionate people
care about those who
are hurting, and I’d like
to think that I am, you
know, compassionate.

I'm remembering vividly
that one scene, after
she hurls Burke down
the stairs, turns her head
around an entire revolution
and then giggles.

Yes, with a shit eating
grin, I remember.

Warning: Caustic Cautionary Tale

Five to Life

By Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb

Prison is your
drink of choice.
Lap it up, like
a dying drunk,
cirrhotic and
stupid,
brain cells dead
as toes tagged
in morgues,
cold and blue.
Five years have
passed,
and still you
lick the festering
wound,
bacteria swirling
in your saliva,
infection
resurrected
each year,
as your heart
lies rotting
in your
hands.

Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb's "The Absence of Gravity"

 

The Absence of Gravity

By Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb

Vitriol lies impotent
on the floor of the
well-calcified.

While sticks and stones
play patty whack
on the ungirded
loins of whimpering

boys.      

http://www.amazon.com/The-Outlaw-Bible-American-Poetry/dp/1560252278

I love this book...it is filled with well-known and lesser-known poets whose forms vary beyond my own experience and knowledge of poetry. Some of the poems I absolutely love, and others, not so much. I try to stretch myself as a writer/poet. I play in and with language. I am in awe of the written word, and I am blessed to be able to navigate in and through it.

Would love your insight about the poem below. I fell in love with it the minute I finished reading it for the first time.

Lineage

by Jeffrey McDaniel

When I was little, I thought the word loin
and the word lion were the same thing.

I thought celibate was a kind of fish.

My parents wanted me to be well-rounded
so they threw dinner plates at each other
until I curled up into a little ball.

I've had the wind knocked out of me
but never the hurricane.

I've seen two hundread and sixty-three rats
in the past year, but never more than one at a time.
It could be the same rat, with a very high profile.

I know what it's like to wear my liver on my sleeve.

I go into department stores, looking suspicious,
approach the security guard and say
what, what, I didn't take anything.
Go ahead. Frisk me, big boy!

I go to the funeral of absolute strangers
and tell the grieving family: the sould of the deceased
is trapped inside my rib cage
and trying to reach you.

Once I thought I found love, but then I realized
I was just out of cigarettes.

Some people are boring because their parents
had boring sex the night they were conceived.

In the year thirteen hundred and thirteen,
a little boy died, who had the exact same scars as me.

Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb's "Janis Ian"

Janis Ian

 

By Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb

The record revolves
on the turntable, a
relic from the past,
a past in which singers
made you face yourself
in the mirrors of their
45s, when music
was a solitary experience
meant to heal the wounds
of loneliness in the dark
rooms of introverts.

Introduction to Sojourners -- The Impossibility of Being Formless

Form is an important topic among poets. As a writer who likes to experiment with different forms, and as a rebel who likes to "break out" of forms, I've come to find out that breaking out of form is truly an impossibility. For example, e.e. cummings, while  viewed as a rebel, couldn't break free from the constraints of his primary language. Read one of his poems and you'll feel where the punctuation is, even without the symbols being present. We each write in the patterns of our speech, from the patterns of our primary caretakers. Just listen to the tonal inflections of your family of origin and hear your own voices as they speak. Even in long-term relationships, people begin to sound like their partners. Ben and I have been together for approaching 8 years, and we already have picked up each others language patterns. It's funny that we think we can escape form.

Sooo...I cut my teeth on Emily Dickinson's form. I followed her form closely as I took my first steps in writing verse of my own. I was floored when I compared the rhythm of one of my poems with hers, and it was the exact same rhythm and meter. I unknowingly mimicked her! I've since read so many writers, from so many eras, who write in many styles, and I'm developing my own. I owe my love of the written and spoken word to many people. Now, I'm no literary critic in the truest sense, which is to say, I am no expert on the technicalities of poetry. My husband could tell you all of that, and some of you contributors, I hope will kindly share your expertise here. I do know what I love, and I LOVE poetry. I write as a hobby, in between being a student and a whole lot of other roles I play, so just know that your work and your insight will be respected and appreciated and learned from here.

I'm not much of a rhymer these days, but early in my writing life I used rhyme often, and I am grateful for the rhyming poetry, which helped me find my own beat, in a manner of speaking. The late great Herbert Nehrlich, a masterful rhymer also helped me bring into finer form the offbeat rhymes I attempted over the past few years. In honor of Herbert, here's one of my favorite rhyming poems:

Oh Who Is That Young Sinner

by A. E. Housman

Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists? And what has he been after that they groan and shake their fists? And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air? Oh they're taking him to prison for the colour of his hair.

'Tis a shame to human nature, such a head of hair as his; In the good old time 'twas hanging for the colour that it is; Though hanging isn't bad enough and flaying would be fair For the nameless and abominable colour of his hair.

Oh a deal of pains he's taken and a pretty price he's paid To hide his poll or dye it of a mentionable shade; But they've pulled the beggar's hat off for the world to see and stare, And they're haling him to justice for the colour of his hair.

Now 'tis oakum for his fingers and the treadmill for his feet And the quarry-gang on Portland in the cold and in the heat, And between his spells of labour in the time he has to spare He can curse the God that made him for the colour of his hair.

Please weigh in on the form you think your work most closely falls into. Thanks in advance for your contributions. ~Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb~