Recent Articles In Poetry » Page 2
January 12, 2009 by Buddah Moskowitz on I Hate Poetry
The world is vacant this early Sunday morning   except for the newspaper deliverer   and the liquor store and the customer who waited for 6am.   Mostly people are inside sleeping off hangovers   slumbering in a warm bed of post-coital narcosis   lone desperation passed out at a kitchen table splayed with overdue bills and trepidation.   Some greet the day with reluctance some will ride bikes and some w...
January 8, 2009 by Buddah Moskowitz on I Hate Poetry
Your lips are missed as are the long weekends we spent as one.   Replaying those old songs, memories come back stripped of any imperfection.   There was intrigue in your kiss and I became dizzy with the possibilities.   I could spend an hour holding your hand and every moment had the thrill of finding an undiscovered river.   Where there was once mystery building a life together has brought comfort ...
January 6, 2009 by Buddah Moskowitz on I Hate Poetry
My father taught me to develop good habits.   “Make it second nature so you don’t have to remember so much.”   Clean up after yourself. Iron your work clothes the night before. Work first, then play.   These habits hum in me silently in the background like a trusted computer program.   But every January 6 th I am trapped because the post office doesn’t deliver to his new location ...
January 5, 2009 by Buddah Moskowitz on I Hate Poetry
I apologize, but I honestly didn’t know – I thought it was all some primordial fairytale written to mete out shadow retribution for some unspeakable incestuous rape.   I disguised my lust and gluttony as joie de vivre and followed them from every well-intentioned lesson as I blazed my pathetically predictable path.   I thought I was gifted with a vision, but now I see I was just another in an unending line o...
Turkey of the wild met by the roaring musket became the first feast.   Stacked hay and pumpkin companions under the skies warm the vagrant’s heart.   The children from art made pilgrim hats and wore them over thankful eyes.   Mom sweetens the yams, Grandma whips the potatoes And Gramps carves the bird.   In feasting too much and the tummy aches, give thanks for alka-seltzer.  
  There at a glance Are hundreds at a dance, Rumps abounding, shaking, The less endowed, faking; All but one having A grand time hazarding The Deejay’s pomp For Saturday’s romp — Poor lass, her heart intertwines In ’Nam’s unending headlines.
October 27, 2008 by Buddah Moskowitz on I Hate Poetry
which is the struggle walking through the fire or resisting God's will?
October 22, 2008 by Buddah Moskowitz on I Hate Poetry
the muse comes to call I'm too busy to visit-- two silent mourners.
  one night in a blizzard of snow and madness in a little Indiana town lost to the interstate Christopher cut his palms with a butcher knife and worked through the night painting his heart in broad strokes   swearing in ten second breaths at what a slut she could be he’d leave his mark dripping on canvas then sobbing he’d cry out his love for the slut that ate his heart her cannibal ways left him crippled with only ten fingers and ten toes and nothing to pu...
  mo cooks five days a week down at the horse head bar and grill he practices his art on a circle of drunks that crave his special flavors not all of them food   but he’s not just a cook-ie cutter form of a man that fills the bellies of the jovial crowd waiting on his creations his art is in his heart and the desire to find that other half to keep his insanity finely tuned has ruined better men than he   but like every man before him his dick leads the...
  lil’ t wakes with the sun two hours from the last time she cracked her eyes full of sweat to cry the pain in her back and get ready to work another day with smiles for the tips and kind words for drinkers getting drunk killing their pain   all around pain   but behind the smiles and false promises a little girl silently cries as she goes about the hard moments of living not knowing why or when or who will come to ring the bell of wonderments that raise...
  bob’s got two heartbeats somewhere in redding ca. the courts take his check every other week but the heartbeats can’t be seen through the wall of a vindictive mother   so he downs a dozen vodkas a night chased by forty milligrams of synthetic smack to kill the pain and keep the blood in his veins   cause the feelings cold and all he wants is to be warm—even if it’s just for a night.   J. Masuda © 2008
  they told her it was pre-cancer like she was pre-registering for wedding gifts   don’t worry they said the next test will tell us more and more and more   but the test cost money and no smiles from the financial counselor will discount the little pre-cancer cells into a willingness to wait   they keep dividing and mutating and growing stealing hope like vultures feasting on road kill you’ll be better—for a price   but firs...
  there’s an old man in white shoes he walks in circles around a green planter that holds a dying tree slumped to the side   on the third revolution he lights a hand-rolled cigarette then he walks in circles   pausing to stare at the burning ember of his cigarette and the dying leaves of the tree then back to walking circles   when he has finished the cigarette he field strips the butt and slides the remains into his pocket before he leaves he ...
October 16, 2008 by SanChonino on The Suck!™
This originally started out as a pantoum , but I took some rather hefty liberties with the form. (But hey, I kept the basic rhyme scheme while trying some diversification with the lines.) At any rate, it's nothing special, but I thought it would be worth posting. But then, I've been wrong before. Anyway. If you read, let me know what you think. Continental Drift Now you pull away from me, hesitant and cold; are you shaken by something you see, the things I've said, or what ...