Recycled words

The words he wrote for you;
restored from the recycle bin of his life –
tweaked a little, saved as ‘for you’.
A generic ode that speaks to all,
much as the words of a tarot reader.
Each believes their substance is ‘for me’.
You hold the message in your hearts,
watching and waiting for the future,
when all that is told becomes truth.
I spoke to one whose fortune was told.
You are waiting for synoptic lives to come to pass;
a tall, dark, handsome man
whose palm you cross with silver and gold
before he disappears into the night,
notebook and guitar in hand.
He wrote you a love song,
and when you played hard to get,
he gave it to another.


Lyrics are not poetry

Poetry is boring me
I think I’ve lost my muse
There aren’t so very many
Words that you can use
To get across a feeling
To touch one deep inside
I used up one just yesterday
Today’s just wants to hide
Some poems are too fluffy
Others gone too quick
Others think they’re funny
And some just take the mick
I think I’ve gotten word blind
Each one looks like the next
With tones of sea and cloud and sky
And flowers oft bedecked
And then there’s the romantic ones
Filled up with words of love
I’m guilty as the next poet
I’ve writ all the above
I need to take a break, methinks
Besides, I’ve things to do
Like writing lyrics for silly songs
Could that be poetry, too?

Your Words

The words pour from your heart;
torrential outpouring of feelings
with little thought to substance.
Articulate ejaculate;
literary sustenance.

Your words flow on the page;
raging rivers of expressions
you long to forget.
Wine-soaked memories;
ink-blotted tearstains of regret.

The words blur in the rain;
blue-streaked papier mâché form
thrown without elegance
into the storm;
lost to the elements.

Picture credit: Casablanca