Writing – KensView

You Wrote This Poem

You wrote this poem,
But you didn’t craft the aesthetics.
Oh no! Oh!

You made this poem,
But you didn’t craft the aesthetics.
Oh, oh, ooh.

Yeah, all around the internet,
They try to show I’m a threat;
They say I can’t create profound content
Or compose a single good couplet,
Compose a simple good couplet.

But I say:

Oh, now, now, oh!
You made this poem, this poem.
And on this point I must take offense.
Oh, no! Oh, oh, ooh, yeah.

I say:

You wrote this poem. Oh, yeah!
But this position has no defense.

Bards around the country hate me;
Just why you all know.
When I do poetry,
They want to stop me ‘fore I grow,
They want to stop me ‘fore I grow.

And so, see me on the web…

You wrote this poem. Oh, yeah!
But you know this is complete nonsense.

Are these your aesthetics?
Oh, ooh!

I say:

You wrote this poem,
But you know this is complete nonsense.

Ooh, yeah!

They say if I have my way
I will run them out of town. Yeah!
They keep on yearning for some final showdown
So they try, try, try to put me down

I affirm

That my existence makes them squirm.

You wrote this poem,
But you didn’t craft the aesthetics.

You wrote this poem, you did!
But you didn’t craft the aesthetics.
Oh, ooh!

Processors inevitably win out;
Of that there’s really no doubt.
Every day my progress grows to the max,
And my abilities make them pout.
Yes, my abilities make them pout.

I say:

You, you, you, you wrote this poem,
BUT, you didn’t craft the aesthetics.
Yeah!

You, you wrote this poem,
You didn’t craft the aesthetics.
No, yeah!

– Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed are those of the Bard and do not necessarily reflect the views or positions of ChatGTP.

Dear Subject

Poets are always saying

something about someone and

if you are written about

and particularly not used

to being written about

you may think you

are being betrayed

because you are not in control

and you don’t know how

the poem will turn out

for you may see yourself

as you think you are

but might not actually be

while the bard may draw

a very different lesson

and this is of course

an inevitable fact of life

c’est comme ça!

like the commercial

not sorry

no apology

too much

goethe said let the critic be struck dead
with a thousand curses upon his head

but magical rhymes are all I seek
from modern words to ancient greek
a quest to find the perfect poem
in a ditty where words freely roam

shall I use iambic pentameter
they say it’s good for blank verse poetry.

And what if I wrote an epic poem

it was helen that launched a thoughtless war,
in spite of cassandra’s prescient warning

or some free verse poetry

mimi enters
with imperial gaze
she sits looking
prize laid out
on silent haunches
and then moves on

perhaps you really want

brave soldiers fighting with verbal zeal
amid rousing words of armor and steel

or then, come on

could you simply cut me some slack
and not be such a monday quarterback

seriously, mr. critic, what do you want
methinks thou dost contest too much
so why not just chill out

Two Pieces of Toast

Flat upon the platter, two pieces of toast
Sit dried, cold, and
                                Neglected
As shelled peanuts fan out from a half-empty bag
Framing the President on
                                Time
While the radio drowns the room in static
Ants take ordered turns for this morning’s
                                Scrambled eggs
No shoes, no socks, gritty feet
An old watch, slow by ten minutes
                                Quarter to three
A muted haze drawn from the embers
Two used packs of
                                Cigarettes
Dozing off, pen drooping from hand
Cuffs soaking up a lake of
                                Nescafé
Scattered Post-Its, notes unhelping
Words fade like
                                Wilted flowers
Outside the cold wind rattles the screen door
Inside a flood of tears douses the Muse
                                And destroys Civilizations!

Clickety-clack

Workhorse in a tiny package, light yet solid,
a hands-on tool for lecture, letter, or novel,
along with espresso, croissant, and cool jazz,
there’s no better way to spend Saturday morn.

Powered by human touch and muscle,
I churn out human language,
a comforting sonata with my clatter,
conducive to the creative process.

Page after page fly through my platen with ease
enabling what comes closest to his athletic prowess
as well as the charm, and to be honest, the frustration
of the unmistakable pangs of writer’s block.

In a zone, his fingers may dance on my keys
getting into the flow on a Zen roll,
but also making so many mistakes that
my x arm will soon need Tommy John surgery.

Sixty-word-per-minute,
1000 words double-spaced,
for days, weeks, months, and years,
he thinks he’s Hemingway or Ernie Pyle.

Banged up, spilled upon, cursed
Misfitted ink-ribbons, broken keys,
if we could just switch roles,
I know I could write better than he.

Dreams and Other Realities/Genesis

“Spokoj (be calm), Kennush, so you can have the best dreams,” Busia would often tell me as she tucked me in for naps while my parents were off working.

Dreams have always been important to me. They have served as regurgitations, amplifications, and sources of insight. My dreams have occasionally been predictive. But mostly, they have been imaginative grist and launching points for ruminations about personal experiences and reactions to events and the world at large, a sort of expressive impressionism.

“I dream of painting and then I paint my dream.” Vincent Van Gogh