Worthwhile Pursuit: Poetry

Poetry plays an important role in my life.  It has become an outlet for me, a filing cabinet to organize the ideas in my mind and my soul.  On my 19th birthday, after living a full 18 years, I wrote my first poem, and wrote over 50 in the next 6 months.  Over the past 3 years I've compiled another 100 or so. I plan to continue to write throughout my life, unless something compels me to stop.

I wish to unveil here a sample of my poetry. I have both longer and shorter and different attempts at poetry, but I generally stick to free verse. I've never shared this on a public scale, only to friends who have been in the same room as me. This is a personal subject, though some poems are more personal than others.  I share here a few, because more than anything, I'm interested in feedback. To improve at writing is to learn to be criticized.  Well, hope you take something reading this, and if you don't feel comfortable leaving any comments, I thank you for allowing me to share this with you.



forgoing sensibility

clyde sleeps
in his two bedroom apartment
accompanied by nurturing blankets
two tall impressionist paintings that hang symmetrically
on each wall
a final thought of forgiveness and
one eye open

his hunger his paranoia his tribulations
all rectified through his
one eye open

clyde dreams
in his floating misty castle
just the right temperature
six martian women
all immaculately curved

his face saturates the bed with sweat
his paintings breathe life
his ceiling plunges to an inch below his face

clyde swims below
to meet his adversary
in a game
of chess

clyde desires and insists
that he can beat anyone at chess
while conscious
while sleeping
while dreaming
all with one eye open

as clyde’s expected adversary
i wonder
i assume
i hope
that clyde wears an eye patch


Dartboard on a Hot Air Balloon

I cracked a joke and
reached behind my back
to grab my bow

a frog pulled my pant leg
apparently he was against
aimless shooting

ignorant frog!
I was targeting the hot air balloon
carrying 600 school children
wearing the exact same uniform
that will pass precisely at
midnight

waiting
immobile as a cliff
I hoisted my arrow back to
its breaking point

inanimate objects, oxford commas and frogs
all hope for a
bulls-eye
in the name of
perfection

I hope      
for their sake
I don't dissappoint them


A Story Met With Derision

I awoke into a third dream
apparently two wasn't sufficient
this one though
was penultimate
I could feel it

the chainsaw was difficult to come by
but when there is a will
there is a way
I've never destroyed
like I did that night
and boy,
I finally felt
springtime

a cowboy, a fighter pilot, a pirate, a boxer
and a stage for us
against evil
against me,
I'm ready

this one plays out
as I write
and reminisce
the times I didn't get caught
having sex in public,
what a rush

here’s to a life
upholding irrational claims
hoping sloppily organized words make sense
when the lights dim
cheers


want

they want a war or a lawsuit, a way
to justify their lives with a social logic
which coincidentally falls asleep with the sun
not a tiptoeing gypsy racing against highway traffic
or a mocking laughter causing the contours
of our faces to cringe the way they would
after a beating from local fists.

bukowski wants a quiet finish line
even if that entails enduring a quiet surrender
while drinking in the irony at a fixed race
my ears want ceaseless drumming
to remind my heart not to shrink and
shrivel
when the inevitable is asked of it

this poem wants to evolve but is
inhibited
by the space on this page

we want our words to rest
in decrepid alleyways
where we singsong most lucidly
in crevices of bedroom floors
where we rarely lay supine without a
cushion
though the spiders never complained

i want a time machine to correct the wrongs
my blackened eyes witness
just as the moon every couple of weeks
is able to reboot and shine onto our laps
its fresh burning soul

i want to run
until the ends of time
to a sacred green field
where the grasshopper
and preying mantis
exchange phone numbers


The Spirit of the West

when you're at a loss
fret not, an infusion
of vibrations
will express themselves to you
in gift wrapping with your name
on it, signed by:
the mystics

I tipped the bartender double,
(he shares your forename)
Frank the bartender;
he wore shades, a hat and
an irrevocable smile

Frank, not you, served me
a double shot of whiskey to which
I replied ‘thanks,’ and
left him some green placed
neatly under the coaster

I discreetly made my way out
with casual clicks from the sparks,
a tip of the hat and arms outstretched

following tradition, I busted
through the loosely hinged
double doors without the intent
of looking back

under a slanted hat, two
incandescent eyes from the dingy corner
scrutinize my every step
enabling me to question
what lights my feet as I walk outside,
if not the sun?


Long Island Doldrums 

I hear the train coming
as
I trespass
into northern skies

she
Tells me
I’ve accomplished more in my room
than
The zookeeper’s elusive daughter

take that
            Alley cat.      
enjoy your breakfast, I bet
it’s as delicious as yellow fever

she
Reassures me
the walls are not shrinking, ‘It’s
you
who is growing.’

with a hand supine
and
fingers on the fringe
of sussing the candle’s wick,

the Watch’s hands tick
ticktick      

tick


Mahalo,
Matthew K.