The time has come for me to say I love you best when you’re away.

How awfully coffeely mornings go.

I’m so full

Defenses are fences

How like a mouth to cheat mind of ear’s tribute.

When breathing fails and I am dead,

I do not exist; You have not seen me.

A world does not go mad

I stand quietly on a busy corner of an itching city

My world comes to an end eight times a week.

My wife picked flowers, some of each bloom we grew together,

Tiny bird lit upon my sill along with sun,

Each day memory places blossoms in your hair

I see horizons etched with acid purity

Figures untranslated by distance

Puddles of liquid light, never underfoot,

Snow fell but didn’t break ,

Whose tracks are those I see anticipating mine

Snowman, how much I’ve erred in making you like me.

My tide is out. I wade in shallows of my soul

The passing storm draws inflammation from the land,

Love welds me to the spot where you last stood.

The Judge, safe within his moat of fat,

Though more bruising than amusing,

Bambi was killed in a fire.

The day my life was lost was lost on me.

You got custody of our heart. I hope you are alive and well.

I’ll be damned . . . I love! I thought my heart was broken, but I love.

Why does the one who turns me on the most

To live, we practice for death by dying with each loss,

I would run right through death if you would hug me,

The problem is not finding love or feeling love,

Since I could not be the first of you,

In the dark people in white walking on both sides of the road

No one can wear a gorilla suit

These creatures are not in pain.

In the zoo among the animals and most of you

“Species almost exterminated by 1900 due to ‘its valuable fur which was used as a trimming for women’s coats”

”Man has seriously depleted Orangutan” in his nest.

Today I may meet the girl drawing the gibbon differently

They say confession is good for the soul.

Compressed philosophy to end philosophy.

I kept a diary, but my heart stopped when I ran out of pages.

I fell while roller-skating in my dream

Some of us, reaching the failing age,

We wove on separate looms all day the fabric spread upon our nights

When three or more are making it,

What are you telling your diary

We came like hammers together, tack and sledge.

You may win your war, but lose your soldier, my general,

I see graffiti while pissing in the snow.

requires the strength to open oysters with fingertips,

God dreamt children, but did not follow through.

I can do solitude

Intimation of the final time

On an olfactory Richter scale of one to ten

Fun is pretty.

Are eyes greenhouses with panes of sight, or planetaria?

Ocean is three hours away, bay is only one, lake, but half of that

I went shopping on the beach today. The tide was in recession,

Somehow each Cupid’s arrow was always too much shaft

A snake let go on snow. How brief, escape.

We know the outcome of this game we play,

Take off the hard hat of thought and stand bare headed

Poetry is a flashlight.

Soul hovering, deciding when to incarnate.

I don’t cry from pain. and no one taught me how to scream.

More than chilly, less than chilled. Interesting dramatic dawn,

I wandered into wilderness until my strings grew taut,

I am in your now. You are in my now.

Instead of just sitting there brooding,

going from having a tiger by the tail

Notice Something! Notice details. Notice anything . . . shadows, silhouettes . . .

The tragedy of love is not cruelty. Where cruelty exists, love cannot.

I’m not sure I could handle success, so I’m working on freedom.

You took my life away from me, and said you fixed it,

I died. Reincarnated,

However soft it seems, deceptive as the water of a brook,

Consciousness in one cup of scales,

After doing nothing for so long, I did some little things today.

I am two: I am the one awaiting her.

I am a ghost. I have died, but wander

Jesus was a preacher, one of many who traveled through our town,

I’d rather walk the plank than be keelhauled,

The past, recollected, is so much future extrapolated.

Tonight we have pudding, which is lovely,

I’m a little crazy. I’m a little mad.

I told a lie and got away with it.

Little butterfly, the flower does yet not know

You are so exactly Mrs. Me.

Things seem very real today. They do not hide or fade away.

Love is the intensity of caring so much for another

You can please some of the people all of the time,

People who don’t have love speak of it all the time.

I create myself and you.

Tempus fugit! Time’s a bird.

Sadness, with the persistence of water:

I smoke outside on marble steps. My name is new on masking tape

Sand is due a holiday. It’s worked hard all its life and hasn’t taken time to play,

I invited you. You came.

Time tenderizes toughest meat gradually.

Young just that once.

Grief is a permanent book in your library.

You’re good for just one man a year and bad for all the waiting others.

Some ladies pout and say there are no givers

Cussing is a way of getting through the day

We can survive three minutes without air,

The rich men’s pool needs cleaning, but we can’t get the job.

For the worm to turn you must stop pushing it and pull instead.

These inner tides, though like the sea,

Though generally complete, we are back to back,

The dream I mourned at dawn as lost

Bitten by loneliness, rabid midnight bat,

What shall I wear to this occasion? is the next question after Shall I go at all?

I used to have a boat named ME until it slipped its mooring, drifted away.

Hubris is much heavier than humility. Who would choose to bear its weight?

In the clinic of the dead you are attended by others just like you

If you’re an artist, you’re crazy.

Does imagination exist?

Suicide was not allowed, but many died for their faith

The mirror is a curtain,

A poem is always many

Science says origination of the things it can’t explain

I can’t face the loneliness; it really makes me ill.

She told me what the windshield wiper says:

He could break things with his hands, and did so,

You pushed me overboard then oopsed over the side yourself.

Traveling on the train of his own thoughts

Pouring enough alphabet soup into a mold

Some poetry is meant to hurt,

Mushrooms we never dared to eat

My life stopped so I’ve taken up another one.

Young , I was in the mirror wondering who the stranger was,

Today, my Void’s a hungry crab, blind because it’s dark in here.

I miss the thorn in my heart,

I gave you the key to my lock. You opened me . . .

Half the time she’s quite a dear saying what I want to hear.

Burrs that please the eye will bite the heedless hand

All paper equal under god, all gods equal upon paper

One by one you’ve rescued from just one tiny cache

Mary had a little lamb. It followed her to school.

This, my love, consumes me. Anorexic, I don’t want to eat.

You speak with two organs With your mouth, words;

I live between the lives of others.

They wove themselves a couple and called it harmony

If this is all you have for me then stand back up and rest your knee

Birds can fly. Cats can’t, but my cat doesn’t believe that.

This is my dog Matt who purrs when I call him that,

Where has passion gone?

When the stopper is pulled below the horizon

She is quiet and good for me,

Sleep stepped aside like a servant

A steady stream of trash and garbage running through my head

My father was a boy when I was young and not yet a man

I’m not willing to trade what I don’t want to say

It’s so unreal- Fingerlessly watching my computer run

In the cold of winter while planning our next garden

Marriage is like barbeque requiring skill and timing

Etymologically speaking, an inkling has nothing to do with ink. That does not suit my purposes. Dictionaries hold many, many definitions, all of which are valid, none of which pinpoints the use I make of it. The closest, perhaps, is: an utterance in an undertone. What’s really being said is between the lines of what’s actually being said on...

I had a pit bull: I kept him on a leash. I had a temper; I kept it on a shorter leash. I have an ego; I keep it on a chain. 724®Copyright 2015 Jack Scott. All rights reserved. From Poemystic.com