Victims of Poetic Inspiriation UNITE!

I'm not a poet. That's obvious. But I was overpowered by a sense of poetic creativity by unknown powers. Lately, I've been reading Vonnegut's "A Man Without A Country," "The End of Faith" by Sam Harris, and a few other works but none of them are works of poetry. I would argue that Vonnegut's new work is truly poetic in its philosophy and word-smithery, but no poem is to be found. Regardless, I will publish a few of these that were all written within a 45 minute time frame.

OLD MAN ON A STREET

“Good smoke,” was what he said
Hidden beneath a brow of dust and grime the old man puffed and puffed
A smile returned to his face as he lingered in the night
Slightly rolling his eyes upward he paused amidst the silence found in the noisy city
A smile returned to his face as he hummed in the night
Hidden beneath a row of sky-scraping lights the old man muttered and puffed
“Good smoke,” was all he said

A Young Black Dies

Shot! Shot dead! He was shot dead!
Bang! Banging around the alley in a trash can!
Rang! Ranging out in the night!
A belly of blood soaked through the pain
Lifeless soul draped over a fence!
Burn! Burning pain searing in a gut so deep
Help! Helpless he lay funneling his sin
Deep into the bowels of the earth
A mother’s cry woven into the tapestry of the night
Forever sealed in the wombstone of her heart

Commotion

I heard the way the street boy sang
I heard the way the drums did bang
I heard the calls of the suffering flute
I heard the calls of the lively youth
People running to see all the fuss
People stopping to help where they must
Shoulder to shoulder the band did play
Over and over the mothers did pray
An encore was given again and again
As people reacted to the music within
A tragic song hung heavy in the air
While firemen battled the growing despair
The thundering applaud of the audience’s delight
Gave rage to the fire blazing fierce through the night
The timpani of smoke kept beat with strong vigil
While I kept tempo with the click of my digital
Many cried out from the heat of the moment
But soon fell quiet to the song’s strong torment
Shock and awful waves of sadness arose
Despite the song that the band had chose
I kneeled down to block it all out
But crept forward and began to shout
Gushing distrust of futuring hordes
I lashed out toward those oxygen whores
Flames of hate a most treacherous song they play
A condemnation or boycott will not keep them at bay
No plug to pull, no rain in sight
Chaos ruled our city’s night

A Connection Through Time

Crisp air taunts playfully
As round leaflets of sun speckle the park
The crunch of grass pushes firmly beneath
While a child runs with arms full of future memories
Huddled around an ivory glen
Eight small women of marble bend
An archer stands inside their rubble
Fending off imagined trouble
The child stops and pauses at their site
Several pigeons aroused take flight
He turns to imagine what creature might dwell
In the eyes of the archer and the damsels as well
Quieted by the artists’ touch
A notice of how little says so much
Drawn toward the wonder of the creator’s world
The pondering boy sees the statue unfurled
Yells from across the park demand
That the boy gets going as they command
He hurries off but stops just steps away
And turns to face the sculpted fray
He nods gently as if to impart
A word of thanks to an artist’s heart