Lovelorn Poet in Savannah, GA: Kind Of Love

Breathing Like a Spaceman by mindgallery

Breathing Like a Spaceman by mindgallery

On the way to the grocery store
this morning, I fell in love.
It wasn’t the marrying kind of love,
or even the fucking kind of love.
It was the kind of love whose shadow
stays with you for the rest of your life.
The kind of love that poems are made of.
The kind of love that takes the kind
of courage you don’t have.
The kind of love that makes you skip
a step but keep walking.
The kind of love that, once you buy
a pint of milk and a loaf of bread,
makes you treat yourself to some
fancy marmalade.

–Bison Jack

Her Two Cents

Lovelorn Poets Her Two Cents Icon

Bison Jack (Savannah) and mindgallery (Brooklyn) have been posting poetry on the MC for years, and I’ve saved many of their poems during their brief appearances online. However, this is the first time one writer’s poem reminded me of work by the other. I discovered “Breathing Like a Spaceman” back in 2010, and it’s re-appeared with slight edits under other titles, but it still remains one of my favorites. I don’t typically place two poems in one post but in this instance, both complement each other in such a lovely way. Step into the sunlight, laugh, and enjoy some fancy orange marmalade. It’s summer, still.

Breathing Like a Spaceman 

I walked out at my stop on the f train this morning
and saw him playing his plastic keyboard
filling the station with a soundtrack for
the new day

as I climbed the stairs, I heard him say
I hope you fall
in love

and as I stepped into the sunlight
I realized I was laughing
and I was

light

 

Lovelorn Poet in Salt Lake City, UT: Like A Messenger Bird

A Small Gathering by Phillip Kirk

A Small Gathering by Phillip Kirk

It’s that time of year when if you stop talking and start listening, you can hear the birds sing.
Even with the traffic, you can still hear the birds.
What is it that they want to tell you?
They are so frantically trying to communicate their message.
But you just won’t listen.
You just look at them and say, “Dumb birds. They should learn English.”

But if you stop talking for like, five minutes, you’ll start to hear the message.
And therein lies the rub.
Who has five minutes to devote to listening to birds?
Not you. Not me. Not anybody.
So we are where we are…
in a world where our useless babble drowns out the voices of the birds and their real message of the importance of loving and being loved.

I love you.
But you already knew that.

Her Two Cents

Lovelorn Poets Her Two Cents IconOnce upon a time, in a far-away, distant land, I lived next-door to an elderly woman who was a avid gardener. From my kitchen window, I could see her every morning, walking and working amongst the blooms and greenery. Occasionally, small birds would alight on her arms and shoulders and chatter would ensue – communication no different than if a neighbor had stuck their head over the hedge or the letter carrier came around with a package to sign for.  Simply, friendly conversation. “Nice to see you. How do you do? What about this weather…” Lovely, yes. Yes, love.

Lovelorn Poet in Philadelphia, PA: There’s A Crack In The Sidewalk

Goodbye 2008 by Art Siegel

Goodbye 2008 by Art Siegel

There’s a crack in the sidewalk.

No one who walks over it remembers where it started, but there it is, between their soles. Everyday it leans on itself a little more. It grates on itself until bit by bit it chips away at its own crooks and reaches out new dents into the concrete. It’s as much a part of the sidewalk as the footfalls, and one day someone will walk over the cracks and wonder if there was once sidewalk in the pebbles and sherd.

When the sun is hovering about ten feet above it with unbearable, wavering arms, then the downcast eyes of passersby are upon it. Then, it’s a splitting, fracturing trail. It’s a sweatless enervation and anyone who sees it is really only thinking about the shade and the coolness and the relief at its end.

There’s a little yellowing leaflet, there in that crack. Right there in the elbow of the third weariness from the center – it’s lying flat, and it looks downtrodden. It isn’t clear whether every footfall smashes it down, whether drought grinds its edges, whether solstice squeezes its life out of it. But it won’t give up.

The city may walk upon concrete paths, but all things crumble. This here is a little crack in perfection, and here the leaflets may grow.

Her Two Cents

Lovelorn Poets Her Two Cents IconTo you, Missed Connections. Keep sprouting.

Lovelorn Poet in San Francisco, CA: A Little Song I Wrote…

Rattlesnake by Chase Elliott Clark

Rattlesnake by Chase Elliott Clark

(tuning guitar)

This is a song I wrote when I was going for a drive through the back roads of where I’m from.

It was late at night time (or early in the morning). And I caught a flat. And I didn’t have a spare. So I said “fuckit” and I walked home. And tripped over a goddamn rattle snake in the dark. No flashlight.

(continues tuning guitar)

anywho it goes a little something like this…

(ahem)

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

I wrote me this song
and it didn’t take long
cause there was so much I’d had left to say

leftover from the night
that we had our big fight
and I drove home the following day

with the sun in my eyes
yeah I just about cried
but I couldn’t because I was numb

and it’s lasted for days
cause you pay for your ways
and it’s double-e so when it’s love

oh the nights here are longer
and you pour your drinks stronger
and you chase all your water with wine
and there’s nothing to say
about the one who got away
but she’s gone and has been for sometime
and you count all the ways
that things could’ve been changed
but you know you’re just wasting your time
so just pick yourself up and say “who gives a fuck”
and go put another hook on your line

so you’re piss drunk again
and the girls at the inn
are out calling your name from the stairs

and they challenge your pride
and guess your johnson size
cause they know just what’s grindin your gears

but your better than that
plus, middle one’s fat
and they’re ugly and dirty to boot

so just tip down your hat
wave goodbye and then skat
cause you’ll catch a lot more than the blues

oh the nights here are longer
and you pour your drinks stronger
and you chase all your water with wine
and there’s nothing to say
about the one who got away
but she’s gone and has been for sometime
and you count all the ways
that things could’ve been changed
but you know you’re just wasting your time
so just pick yourself up and say “who gives a fuck”
and then put another hook on your line

oh now your almost home
couple miles left to go
and you’re aching from shoulder to shoe

and you’re moving so slow
that you don’t even know
…what the f***…
F*** F*** F***
IS THAT A F****** RATTLE SNAKE?!

omg…omg…omg i almost died…holy sh*t

(ahem)

thank you.

(c chord)
(applause)

Her Two Cents

Lovelorn Poets Her Two Cents IconAnd the rattlesnakes sing,
“Don’t tread on me, you drunken cowboy, our song is plainly sung
boots are made for walkin’, so quit your jive talkin’,
put a hook on the line, you’ll do just fine.
Now get back on the road and let us be!”

Lovelorn Poet in New Orleans, LA: Keywords

Magnetic Fridge Poetry by Steve A Johnson

Magnetic Fridge Poetry by Steve A Johnson

the funny thing about the “o” ‘s (though it’s a formality)
control in all of its formats
former northern explorers
Amazonians
ugly garments
drive thrus
numerous holes in the head
black dogs
Northern pacific
the hippies
planting portably
my favorite place to retreat
Seattle
global politics
kamakaze fish
Twix v. Reeces v. Whatthefà ‚ £{=à ‚ ¡!ever that was
things that float
the “Robin” issue
determining distance
superhumanism
street signs
DYNOHUGS!

if you thought I loved you then,
I wouldn’t even know what to call it now.

Her Two Cents

Lovelorn Poets Her Two Cents IconKeywords are used to reveal the structure and focus of a writer’s reasoning – a shortcut of sorts that provides a reader with a glimpse or “sneak preview” of what can be found within the body of work. Quite a story, many stories actually, could be generated from our poet’s list. If we write the keywords before we write the story, how might the outcome be different? Hmmm …