Tag Archives: Love

JOHN AND MARY

Poems about Poetry / tagged , , / / by

JOHN AND MARY

John Berry writes a poem
for his dear departed Mary
and reads it at all the open mics

It is a lovely poem
about parallel universes
and all the other ways
they might have met
or never met at all

He tells me that it changes
every time he reads it

which makes sense
since it is well known
that you can never step
in the same poem twice

I hear that it is also true of rivers

QUESTIONS FOR THE NEXT SÉANCE

Relationships / tagged , , , / / by

QUESTIONS FOR THE NEXT SÉANCE

Dearest Mother;

Sorry to disturb you
in your well deserved bliss,
but here’s a short list
of things that I forgot to ask

And, if it isn’t too much trouble
I’d like the answers as detailed as possible

It will be understandable
if you can’t conjure up a voice,
but one rap for yes, and two for no,
on a floating table won’t quite do

However, if you can look up Samuel Morse,
(who may well be bored and available),
he can give you a quick-study course
and I will dust off my old Boy Scout manual

I believe “talk to me” In Morse still becomes:

-/•-/•-•/-•- -/— –/•

So, now that we’ve got the hang of it;

– What was the best day of your life
– What was your worst

– Your greatest triumph
– Your greatest disappointment

– What you are happiest that you did
– Saddest that you didn’t

Why exactly did my uncle shoot my dog

Whatever happened to my baseball
card collection, with the rookie
Mickey Mantle

and what is heaven like

HI HO HI HO

Audio Recordings, Poems about Poetry / tagged , , , / / by

HI HO HI HO

Work

I sometimes think about it, but not too hard

Like, shouldn’t there be a different word
for doing what we love or hate, for money

Like how I got to drive big trucks at eighteen
that I dreamed about at eight
and they paid me

Like playing cowboy and riding the range
where the deer and the antelope play
and getting paid

Building buildings bigger than Lego
and getting paid

Maybe work is about being serious
but I seriously question that too

I mean, what can be more joyous and serious
than a child adding one last block to his tower
or me, as I write this poem, and look up
to see it is 1:25 in the morning