A Good Poem

I was asked,

“When do you know you have written a good poem?”

Oh, the question

I have yet to answer.

I don't know. I haven't written one yet.

Bad poetry is easy to spot,

but a good one

takes time to read, ingest,

digest.- whereas,

a bad one burns

the stomach

and no amount

of antacid, Pepto

or Prilosec

will cure it.

A good poem

makes the poet go mad

looking for

the right word

-not any word-

the perfect word,

torn from the bone

and placed on the plate

to be devoured,

filling the gut.

Yet still needing to

mirror life,

mundane...exciting,

mediocre...explosive!

A good poem,

to the poet,

is as evasive as

The Flying Dutchman,

Elvis or

D.B. Cooper.

A good poem

is best created at night (so says Hank)

anything else is like

running naked through a shopping mall.

It is best created

with a warm buzz

of beer,

whiskey

or cheap homemade wine.

The lack of either creates MADNESS.

The surfeit creates

beauty.

A good poem

rips the heart out,

mends the soul,

exposes the truth

and exaggerates

the

mundane.


© Charles Scott 2014

A Good Poem

I was asked,

“When do you know you have written a good poem?”

Oh, the question

I have yet to answer.

I don't know. I haven't written one yet.

Bad poetry is easy to spot,

but a good one

takes time to read, ingest,

digest.- whereas,

a bad one burns

the stomach

and no amount

of antacid, Pepto

or Prilosec

will cure it.

A good poem

makes the poet go mad

looking for

the right word

-not any word-

the perfect word,

torn from the bone

and placed on the plate

to be devoured,

filling the gut.

Yet still needing to

mirror life,

mundane...exciting,

mediocre...explosive!

A good poem,

to the poet,

is as evasive as

The Flying Dutchman,

Elvis or

D.B. Cooper.

A good poem

is best created at night (so says Hank)

anything else is like

running naked through a shopping mall.

It is best created

with a warm buzz

of beer,

whiskey

or cheap homemade wine.

The lack of either creates MADNESS.

The surfeit creates

beauty.

A good poem

rips the heart out,

mends the soul,

exposes the truth

and exaggerates

the

mundane.


© Charles Scott 2014

Slow Motion Death Sentence

Will someone get me another beer?

As I sit here watching the faithful few,

playing pool, 

as they drink PBR

and hope for sex,

I see the trapped.

Trapped in the mundane.

Trapped in the routine.

Trapped in some white trash birthright.

The flashes of neon beer signs

flicker in such a way

that slows down their mediocre existence,

staving off death one second at a time.

Slow motion death sentence.

I am but a visitor now.

I broke out of your prison.

For now,

will someone get me another beer?

© Charles Scott 2014

Slow Motion Death Sentence

Will someone get me another beer?

As I sit here watching the faithful few,

playing pool, 

as they drink PBR

and hope for sex,

I see the trapped.

Trapped in the mundane.

Trapped in the routine.

Trapped in some white trash birthright.

The flashes of neon beer signs

flicker in such a way

that slows down their mediocre existence,

staving off death one second at a time.

Slow motion death sentence.

I am but a visitor now.

I broke out of your prison.

For now,

will someone get me another beer?

© Charles Scott 2014

Work In Progress

 I stuck my leg through the straps of my duffel bag for security measures,
covered my eyes with my hat,
sleeping, not really sleeping,
yet knowing I was falling asleep,
when I was startled
by a lispy, Cindy Brady voice,
the kind that is only produced by missing teeth.

“Ith thith theat taken?”

(For those in the know,
any bus station in the middle of the night has plenty of seating.)

I pulled my hat back,
looked up and saw her.
Her look was confusing to me.
She appeared to be in her forties, but carried herself like a teenager.
Her eyes were sunken. She was rail thin
and she was smiling with the grin of an old school hockey goalie.

“Well, ith thith theat taken?”




© Charles Scott 2014

Work In Progress

 I stuck my leg through the straps of my duffel bag for security measures,
covered my eyes with my hat,
sleeping, not really sleeping,
yet knowing I was falling asleep,
when I was startled
by a lispy, Cindy Brady voice,
the kind that is only produced by missing teeth.

“Ith thith theat taken?”

(For those in the know,
any bus station in the middle of the night has plenty of seating.)

I pulled my hat back,
looked up and saw her.
Her look was confusing to me.
She appeared to be in her forties, but carried herself like a teenager.
Her eyes were sunken. She was rail thin
and she was smiling with the grin of an old school hockey goalie.

“Well, ith thith theat taken?”




© Charles Scott 2014

In the spirit of poetry month i offer shit

It's poetry month and I have managed to feel the need to produce at least one poem. Well, I have been working on a few poems for the last few months. What I have shared recently have been written hastily. I also feel the need to apologize for posting poems that were written in a matter of minutes under the warm buzz of some spirit. However, due to some genetic defect I am unable to do so. It is what it is folks. The really good poem, the one that will knock me on my ass, leaving me to wonder where in the hell did that come from, is going to manifest itself. Until then I do it out of ego and insecurity.

© Charles Scott 2014

In the spirit of poetry month i offer shit

It's poetry month and I have managed to feel the need to produce at least one poem. Well, I have been working on a few poems for the last few months. What I have shared recently have been written hastily. I also feel the need to apologize for posting poems that were written in a matter of minutes under the warm buzz of some spirit. However, due to some genetic defect I am unable to do so. It is what it is folks. The really good poem, the one that will knock me on my ass, leaving me to wonder where in the hell did that come from, is going to manifest itself. Until then I do it out of ego and insecurity.

© Charles Scott 2014

One Should Never Surf The Internet Looking For Art While Drinking Whiskey

 

Everyone is an artist, writer,

poet or some sort of bullshit

creative type.

The shitty “artists”

are the famous ones,

famous for making shit.

The real artists,

the ones who are greatness

work, create and starve.

Marketing is king,

art (good or bad) is relegated

to clicks and likes.

© Charles Scott 2014

One Should Never Surf The Internet Looking For Art While Drinking Whiskey

 

Everyone is an artist, writer,

poet or some sort of bullshit

creative type.

The shitty “artists”

are the famous ones,

famous for making shit.

The real artists,

the ones who are greatness

work, create and starve.

Marketing is king,

art (good or bad) is relegated

to clicks and likes.

© Charles Scott 2014

A Bit Of Something I Am Working On

She dropped her bag on the floor

and plopped all 95 pounds

of her body into the seat next to me.

She had a smell of cigarettes,

day old Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific

and bus toilet sanitizer.

She had just smoked a cigarette,

washed her hair

in some bus station bathroom the day before

and, as far as the toilet smell,

if you use the bus toilet

while rolling down the great american highway

you will have that lingering smell

until your next chance

to wash your clothes.

© Charles Scott 2014

A Bit Of Something I Am Working On

She dropped her bag on the floor

and plopped all 95 pounds

of her body into the seat next to me.

She had a smell of cigarettes,

day old Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific

and bus toilet sanitizer.

She had just smoked a cigarette,

washed her hair

in some bus station bathroom the day before

and, as far as the toilet smell,

if you use the bus toilet

while rolling down the great american highway

you will have that lingering smell

until your next chance

to wash your clothes.

© Charles Scott 2014

Because I Like This Poem: Humanity by Gregory Corso

What simple profundities
What profound simplicities
To sit down among the trees
and breathe with them
in murmur brool and breeze —

And how can I trust them
who pollute the sky
with heavens
the below with hells

Well, humankind,
I’m part of you
and so my son

but neither of us
will believe
your big sad lie

Because I Like This Poem: Humanity by Gregory Corso

What simple profundities
What profound simplicities
To sit down among the trees
and breathe with them
in murmur brool and breeze —

And how can I trust them
who pollute the sky
with heavens
the below with hells

Well, humankind,
I’m part of you
and so my son

but neither of us
will believe
your big sad lie

Toxic

 

I had to leave, under the cover of night. Any other way

would have made me second guess my feelings for you and

I would have stayed.

You cut me deep, the wounds are still bleeding.

They won't heal. The blood a constant reminder,

along with broken bone limp.

It was hard to stand tall with the weight of

those who suffered before. Standing in line

for the next handout, from the benevolent adviser,

from those who control.

But I see you are broken too. I see through your veil,

a glimpse of your pain, of hungry nights, lonely days

and yearning for something better.

As I pick at these wounds, I see bits of you inside,

I tweeze them out with medical precision;

casting them aside for the dogs to eat.

One day the wounds will heal and the scars

will be a distant reminder.

© Charles Scott 2014

Toxic

 

I had to leave, under the cover of night. Any other way

would have made me second guess my feelings for you and

I would have stayed.

You cut me deep, the wounds are still bleeding.

They won't heal. The blood a constant reminder,

along with broken bone limp.

It was hard to stand tall with the weight of

those who suffered before. Standing in line

for the next handout, from the benevolent adviser,

from those who control.

But I see you are broken too. I see through your veil,

a glimpse of your pain, of hungry nights, lonely days

and yearning for something better.

As I pick at these wounds, I see bits of you inside,

I tweeze them out with medical precision;

casting them aside for the dogs to eat.

One day the wounds will heal and the scars

will be a distant reminder.

© Charles Scott 2014

Hey France, hook me up!

According to Blogger stats I am building an audience in France. Any French followers looking to pay for me to come and read hit me up. 


© Charles Scott 2014

Hey France, hook me up!

According to Blogger stats I am building an audience in France. Any French followers looking to pay for me to come and read hit me up. 


© Charles Scott 2014

Found Fortune on the Way Home

 

Walking, at 3 am, in the land of

Bathtub Mary, low rent and cockroach colonies;

I find a 10 dollar bill.

I pick it up, smile and know

that tomorrow I eat.

© Charles Scott 2014

Found Fortune on the Way Home

 

Walking, at 3 am, in the land of

Bathtub Mary, low rent and cockroach colonies;

I find a 10 dollar bill.

I pick it up, smile and know

that tomorrow I eat.

© Charles Scott 2014