Started this blog to put my poetry in one place, which would be better than on generalized writing blog. The blog’s called Poetry salad because poetry is an aside to the writing I have usually done like the side salad in a dinner of fish and chips. It’s often the revising of a poem and getting the meter and rhythm sounding right that is most off-putting. So my poetry is more likely free verse, not exactly adhering to way of meter. I write poetry with the sound of it in mind. The plan is to publish poetry on this blog from all sorts of inspiration.
Sleep in the next day,
Late for everything.
Exhausted still but must go on.
Faster than ever to catch up,
Go so fast, too tired for dinner.
Go to bed too early.
I don’t know you, but
You slip into my mind,
A long forever in this moment,
Staring at you
From afar, life came to light my night
Mine and everyone’s
In a moment with you,
I can only think,
You came to give us light—
In the dark, dark night
I was calling out, you weren’t gone;
I was too far gone,
But you stayed there with me.
Not far away, but still, right there.
I remember the day I was forlorn;
But you didn’t leave me alone,
You were always there, you were present,
Jesus stayed his Spirit never gone
Where? Is milk for the bones? Calcium on demand?
Not that I’m demanding
But need some drive sooner or later.
Where to find that spiritual essence?
Am I lost searching?
Weak. Let spirit come to me.
Inspiration for the bones in a single touch.
To make me more than I am. Lost, but needing to be found.
So not vogue;
Facing the crowds with sorrow deep in the eyes, what the camera may hide.
Something someone promised, but it died,
But broods inside, the lie.
In her eyes the stress of struggle
In deep purple green,
Drawn into sockets
Black rings bagging underneath
Night is calling
Save me, she says.
Sadness not my friend, neither death’s haunting prediction.
One’s days begin, their ending make life a flourish.
Oh death, your betrayal stings, but for the life story that each person brings.
Girl in black’s secret style she wears on herself, so some say,
Dying inside a room of sorrowful denial walking the street, happy-go-lucky like.
Clamouring crowd of thoughts I can’t hear mine drawing
me close to a street at night from where I drink
from a cup of silence and the clamouring subsides
The rancid cake in one’s well-used mouth,
A god-send in a dieter’s hardest day.
The swift, stale taste,
After months in the cupboard,
Waiting there for him to eat.