Archive for the poem Category

A Case of the Existential Blues (poem)

Posted in creative writing, poem, Poetry, surreal, Uncategorized, writing with tags , , , on December 13, 2017 by Robert Crisp

Are all blues existential? Maybe. This termite thinks so.

turntable

Photo courtesy of Flickr and the Creative Commons license

 

A Case of the Existential Blues

I feel neglected and rather unimportant,
if I’m going to tell the truth, something
I don’t especially enjoy doing
, says the
termite with the mustache and a terminal
case of the existential blues, evidenced
by his less-than-jolly demeanor and the
Blind Lemon Jefferson blaring from tinny
speaker of his ancient, brown turntable,
a gift from his great-grandfather, a termite
of inestimable worth who cast a long shadow
over his progeny and is responsible for the
sad feelings of the termite with the mustache
who at this very moment is considering his
place in the vast, unfeeling, cold cosmos.

The Goddess’ Love (poem)

Posted in creative writing, poem, Poetry, surreal, Uncategorized, writing with tags , , , on December 12, 2017 by Robert Crisp

I was toodling around the house the other day when a voice in the ether said, “My love for you is pigeon-toed and like a marmite sandwich.” Thus, the following *poem:

The Goddess’ Love

“My love for you is pigeon-toed
and like a marmite sandwich,”
the goddess smiled and told me.

“Well, I’m relieved,” I said.
“I was worried it was normal.”

We toasted our robust health
as winter closed in around us
like a blue, kind-hearted fist.

goddess

Image courtesy of Flickr and the Creative Commons license.

*when I posted this yesterday, I neglected to add a title. Shame on me.

The Whale-Shaped Man (fiction? poetry? both? neither?!?!)

Posted in character development, characters, creative writing, daily writing, flash fiction, poem, Poetry, short stories, short story, surreal, Uncategorized, writing with tags , , , , , on November 30, 2017 by Robert Crisp

The Whale-Shaped Man

Is he in his office? asked the whale-shaped man.
Is who is his office? the woman in sparkly pants replied.
You know.
I don’t.
Him.
That doesn’t clear it up.
The whale-shaped man grimaced. I’m talking about your father.
Oh. Why do you want to see him?
To ask for your hand in marriage.
That’s stupid, the woman laughed.
What?
Why would I marry you? You’re shaped like a whale.
But I love you.
That doesn’t change anything.

So the whale-shaped man left. Inside his office, the woman’s father sighed in relief.

Web (poem)

Posted in poem, Poetry, surreal, Uncategorized, writing with tags , , on November 26, 2017 by Robert Crisp

I’ve finished the rough draft of the mannequin story and I’m letting it sit for a few days before I returned to tinker with it. I’m back to feeling normal after a week of being under the weather, so that’s good. In the meantime, I was looking for poems to submit and came across this one.

Web

I get tangled so easily
in her strings and I never
think to extricate myself,
even when she rolls her
eyes and chides me for
using a word like “extricate”
when, she says, untangle
would work just as well.

“That’s the thing, though,”
I try to say, my words muffled.
“I said ‘tangled’ in the first
line and it wouldn’t do to say
‘untangled’ just a few lines later.”

She sits farther back on the web,
her legs tingling with every vibration.
“So this is about poetry,” she sighs.
“Haven’t you learned anything from me?”

Not enough, apparently, I think to
myself, brimming with gallows humor.
I can no longer speak, but that’s okay.
My eyes dilate like I’m drugged, and
perhaps I am…tomorrow, she’ll free
me, and we’ll start from the beginning.

spider web

Image courtesy of Flickr and the Creative Commons license.

A Dream of You (poem)

Posted in creative writing, poem, Poetry, Uncategorized, writing with tags , , , on November 11, 2017 by Robert Crisp
woman in ocean.jpg

Image courtesy of Flickr and the Creative Commons license

Okay, so I said fiction was next on the agenda, but I really like this poem and wanted to share it.

A Dream of You

When I dream of you,
you smell sharply of valor,
and I taste the air around
us, finding it sweet and tame.

How unlike the last time we
saw each other, in waking life,
and the atmosphere leaked
grief, and I inhaled the scent
of damask roses and cruelty
that rose from your hot skin.

I wake and find sea shells
littering the bed, the dull sound
of surfing echoing in my ears.

I pretend I am not afraid of water.
I pretend that you still love me.

Working Class Poet’s Blues (poem)

Posted in creative writing, poem, Poetry, writing with tags , , , , on November 8, 2017 by Robert Crisp

I submitted this piece to an anthology collecting poems inspired by Bob Dylan…that was 680 days ago. When I saw the rejection in my email, I couldn’t remember the market’s name. I suppose 680 days will do that to my brain.

I probably haven’t laid eyes on this poem in that length of time. I still like it, especially after a little more revising.

Working Class Poet’s Blues

I’m a blind man drawing a man,
a deaf-mute composing an opera,
a singer/songwriter without a guitar.

“Jesus, you’re not Dylan,” Anne says
and makes another cup of coffee.
She lingers in the kitchen.

I’m Bob Dylan writ large and small,
macro and micro in my conceit
and mumbled phrases, my blue harmonica.

“Do you plan on actually doing anything?” Anne calls
from the bathroom where she plucks herself,
a preening bird on a swaying branch.

I’m doing everything by writing,
shaping the world with word and line,
encouraging kings and paupers to feel.

“Wash some clothes at least,” Anne mumbles
and she saunters naked to the bedroom
where she puts on her armor.

I’m the great galaxy washer man,
holding the suds of creation in my hands,
tweaking the temperature, dark earth, white sky.

“I should have married William,” Anne tells herself,
snatching up her purse and walking out the door,
unready for the night but keeping that quiet.

Once, a Man Knew a Woman (poem)

Posted in creative writing, poem, Poetry, Uncategorized, writing with tags , , on November 6, 2017 by Robert Crisp
paris

Photo courtesey of Flickr and the Creative Commons License

I’d forgotten about this little poem until I stumbled across it this morning.

Once, a Man Knew a Woman

A man of lowly birth found
a trumpet and taught himself
to blast the hell of it, making
a name for himself on the jazz
circuit before moving into the
avante-garde world of Gay Paree,
where he met a legless woman
who sang like only a fucked-over
lover can, her doomed heart beating
hard whenever she saw the man,
his breathing turning ragged when
he picked her up and carried her
onto whatever stage would have them.