Sunday, November 27, 2005

Any requests?

Any requests? Email litchick1980@hotmail.com

Saturday, November 26, 2005

Poetry

Poetry is
A dirty word
Long, confusing
And absurd.

No rhyme or reason

To write fast I go unrhymed
The words come rushing,
Too much to say to worry
About syllable-endings

And to those critics who say
That poetry that doesn't rhyme
Is no poetry at all
I say:

I can rhyme
If I feel so inclined

I wrote

I wrote a song once
And it was heard
In those lowly Sunday
Early evening hours
With only you and I listening

I wrote a verse once
I wrote it from you
But it became a
Timely reminder of
What happened to us

I wrote these words
And you soon grew out of them
Grew older, grew better
Wrote your own words
Easily forgot the ones I gave you

My words were too simple
No abstract illusions
To things you keeped buried
In your oh-so-arty
Subconciousness

I wrote you a box
Full of words
Young, trusting words
You kept them in the wardrobe
All my secrets

Locked haphazardly
In a little red box
And to my fear later on
That the red box would be
Discovered, my words read

You reassure that you
Have thrown the box away
Words in the bin
The words that I wrote
And gave to you to be forgotten

So why, when, years later
I tell you I've moved your photos
From album to sealed shoe box
Kept under the bed, why
Are you upset? After all

All those words, in
Poems, songs, little red boxes
You were so content
To give away, in
One way, or another

Three Little Words

I wanted to tell you
But we danced around
The issue, stony and looming
Deliciously over our romance.

I wanted to tell you,
And we came so close
With "I love the way
You laugh/smile/walk."

"I love it when you
Check your reflection
In dark shop windows, or
Laugh at sad films."

So when I wanted to tell you
And had waited long enough
I told you - and you
You freeze, crucified

That horrifying, dizzy
Sense of commitment
Overwhelmed you, and you
Look away, nodding in reply.

Live in

This house
Is old
And in its walls
Are one hundred years
Of secrets
And the secrets walk around
At night
When the streetlights burn
And the pedestrians screech
Their night sounds
And we, we sleep
Watching
And being watched
One more secret
In a house full of secrets