Sizzle by Robin Lipinski

Or jumping off the water fall,
riding a motorcycle one wheel tall
down the center dividing line.
All to put the others to shame
or possibly win her heart and care
or at least her bottom bare.
It's a wonder I'm still alive at all
to answer your poems' new dare!

RT

i like this style you show Rick,
riding the keyboard with style,
hot coffee in one hand,
bunny slippers on the feet,
wondering, what's in the fridge to eat,
while outside the safety room zombies and OWS protesters want your meat.
***

Speaking Of a Bare Bottom

Listen...

Can't you hear?

("What do you mean?")

Look! Over t h e r e...

......................................................................("Over here?")

I'm but the speaking reflection of me
an echo of my past
showing in the bathroom mirror
past screams.

Taking leave of a hot shower
slipping on wet tile
breaking joints of those bonds holding together that which I was
exposing to the world a vivid white rump
mound of cooling flesh
water drops dripping from a mirror left to absorb the hot steam of the endless stream of what I no longer need.

"Help!" my last answer to a question never asked.
Alone.
You shielded your mind in the next room
expressing smile at thoughts of tomorrow
a tomorrow of attention
leaving this soiled marriage to wash yourself
(you think)
clean.

Who are you, really? You should be making a living off your stuff, while the most of us will be living in a cardboard box, on a heating grate, with and up link, stealing juice from the building next door.

making a living is hard to do when taking a living is easy.
first one must choose: to slice or throw dice.
watching my corpse surface, the end is the same,
snake eyes...
+ +

speaking of stealing juice...

Floating Musical Chair

Ethereal view out the portal of atmosphere
///////
/////
///
//
/
Mercury, Apollo, Gemini; missions of sorts to see what is out there.
\
\\
\\\
\\\\\
\\\\\\\
Did you count?
Counting, you say, "Hey, four and six are missing!"
Missing the connecting tissue was something of mankind's own making.
o
O
o
Strapped to this chair of death
result of self actions making,
decision to take life,
making a living.

Fantastic,
Fun,
Foolish four - thought - caught those six years ago,
now sitting.

Electrocution of one leading to lift off of another,
yes, this is how I make my living,
to live and live again,
always seeking,
always learning,
until...

i like this style you show Rick,
riding the keyboard with style,
hot coffee in one hand,
bunny slippers on the feet,
wondering, what's in the fridge to eat,
while outside the safety room zombies and OWS protesters want your meat.
***

Speaking Of a Bare Bottom

Listen...

Can't you hear?

("What do you mean?")

Look! Over t h e r e...

......................................................................("Over here?")

I'm but the speaking reflection of me
an echo of my past
showing in the bathroom mirror
past screams.

Taking leave of a hot shower
slipping on wet tile
breaking joints of those bonds holding together that which I was
exposing to the world a vivid white rump
mound of cooling flesh
water drops dripping from a mirror left to absorb the hot steam of the endless stream of what I no longer need.

"Help!" my last answer to a question never asked.
Alone.
You shielded your mind in the next room
expressing smile at thoughts of tomorrow
a tomorrow of attention
leaving this soiled marriage to wash yourself
(you think)
clean.

Yes folks, this IS the greatest poet Aphelion has ever seen, no disrespect to the rest of us!

Thanks for the very nice compliment Mark, it fuels my addiction of a mission burning to express; stage after stage,
falling, leaving only the capsule being steered by retro rockets until it all crashes and burns.
Yet no one has seen me as only now am I beginning to understand the view...And it scares me.
***

Who Is a Poet

Who is popular these days
days of days leading to such strange ways?

Who is to say 'who' is great, 'who' is bad, 'who' should go, 'who' should stay?

Who gives us the right to begin while other beg for it to end?

Who would think a human brain evolved from mud, taking its place among an intelligent race?

You have met this 'Who,' who is you,
YOU are great,
you trumps those who adhere to words of question when there is no question, no doubt that your parental cells
aided in creation,
creating a poet,
---------- a moment,
-----------a place.

ALL of the space-time continuum are poets (yes, and they may not know it)
all of you reading are rich,
special in your existence,
while I'm but a figment of your imagination,
residing in a place knowing 'who' and what is.
Some would say an angel,
others,
a demon,
some don't even know themselves.
Who knows...

In conclusion Mark, thanks for your friendship,
now go write another poem.

Thanks for the very nice compliment Mark, it fuels my addiction of a mission burning to express; stage after stage,
falling, leaving only the capsule being steered by retro rockets until it all crashes and burns.
Yet no one has seen me as only now am I beginning to understand the view...And it scares me.

Courage...is being afraid, maybe even terrified and doing what you need to do anyway.

No need to be afraid of who you are. Do what you must and the fears will drip away!

Mark

I'm not much for poetry, but I have read and enjoyed Ogden Nash and Edna St. Vincent Millay. I'm adding Robin to my small list of favorites.

gino

keeping the chin up, teeth set in motion, a poem of thanks then off to solve the mystery of the man who said, "There
is not such a thing as creation."
***

Favorites on the Short List

Menu holding many things: Germs, dried snot, blood from that first time, spilled ketchup...and words.
A setting
A place
Listening to piped music as the waitress shuffles around the place
The aroma's
The sounds
Feeling hungers hollow growl picking up the rhythm of choosing,
of choice.

'Hamburger'
'Salad'
'Milk'
'Cottage cheese'
words all to make one pleased,
to sate the hunger,
to fill a need.

Just hearing those words make one wonder,
an anticipation knowing soon the taste will satisfy more than the ear
taste buds salivating knowing the hand will be forthcoming,
can't you just feel the taste?

Searching the pocket for money
wallet worn thin and bare
reality hits hard when you have nothing
your feet lifting this disappointment back to where dreams float;
air.

Hungry in body
knowing emptiness of self
still
seeing those few words on the menu brought the hungry mind a feeling of something
such is the menu of poems.