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A Steppenwolf prowls the archives of experience
only to find chaos and perfection cocooned
in a wilderness of matter and light being born.

Economic guns aimed at the temples of poets
forcing them to key canned soup, spam,
into a hobo's gumbo at a sonnet and song banquet.

Painters create "little happy clouds" near paradiso
reminding, that even for Mario, there is beauty had
in the chase and struggle to succeed.

Creation gallops with imagination, boundless
across the fields and back yards of Whoville
searching for the exact reflection of concord.

-cec
challenge you to write a poem that takes its inspiration from the life of a musician, poet, or other artist.
wooden heart sawdust
swept up, glued, shapped, painted red
waiting for life's spark

-cec
White confetti trees wave in the wind
a blizzard of petals race and spiral earthward.

Swallows dart over water chasing transparent wings
small exoskeletons full of jet fuel for these bird dynamos.

Hammered glass ripples appear in the lake
touched by invisible breaths blowing betimes.

The turtles still sit and bask in the cool sun,
warmer than the cold mud that kept them in winter.

One lone resident heron stands tall and still
waiting for a foolish fish to fatten his lean frill.

Walking slowly on this dirt path, concrete does not suit,
nature unfurls it flag to the weather, proclaims fruition.

-cec
The sky spills liquid gold across the fields,
and every blade of grass hums a bright song,
ripples of honey laughter swim through the air,
as the trees burst into wild, kaleidoscopic blooms.

Clouds skip like stones across a sapphire lake,
the wind flutes silver melodies through the valley,
and the mountains wear crowns of glittering flame,
grinning, howling, singing at the top of their lungs.

The rivers are ribbons of melted stars,
the earth quivers with candy-colored sparks,
and hearts—oh, hearts!—
they pop like fireworks in a velvet sky,
sending ripples of giggling stardust everywhere.

Every breath tastes of spun sugar and sunlight,
every blink unwraps a prism of newborn wonder,
and my soul—my soul!—
is a thousand kites soaring, shrieking, bursting,
carried far beyond the hills of happiness.
It's a different
day and age now.
I used to write my
poetry on scraps of
paper or napkins,
paper sacks, whatever
was handy.
One time, I wrote
a poem
on a paper plate--around in
a circle.
I get dizzy thinking about it.
They always got lost, or beer
spilled on them.
My girlfriend blew her
nose on a sonnet.

Now, I keep all my
poetry and short stories on
the computer.
A file for this.
A folder for that.
I have to use a password, and
PIN.
It has to be something important to
me or I will forget it.
Lower case.
Upper case.
Symbols.
Numbers.
It's enough to drive me
batty.
Actually, it's a short putt.
Summer is coming soon, so I
thought some golf humor would
be appropriate.

The things that used to be
important to me aren't anymore.
*****.
Drugs.
Having a woman around
constantly.
I like to think I've gained some
wisdom with age.

Passwords, ugh!
I can't tell you what's important
to me now.
You might hack into my
computer and steal all my
pretty posey.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CEeNcBC_mnM
Here is a link to my YouTube channel where I read my poetry from my recently published books, Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems and It's Just a Hop, Skip, and Jump to the Madhouse, available on Amazon.com
bulletcookie Apr 26
Sitting next to an active Marshall speaker for hours
while the band pounded bleeding rock & roll
has left a lasting whistling in the ears, a toll.
Day & night, where these ringing pitches play
not so a melody but avant-garde whining days.
A roadie for fun proved life altering to one
as these constant companions adorn every hour
and your words may arrive with a fanfare, or nyet.
There's a chance that some vowles will fall short
from this barrier erected by (feat. Stones) and rest.

-cec
challenge: write a poem that recounts an experience of your own in hearing live music, and tells how it moves you. It could be a Rolling Stones concert, your little sister’s middle school musical, or just someone whistling – it just needs to be something meaningful to you.
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