Tag Archives: verse

Rhythm Method

RHYTHM METHOD

Athena
Touches me
Appropriately

I’m inside her
When her baby cries
Just out of breech
In the other womb

My mania cycles
Sorrow despairs

I spill poems
In Athena’s lap
End a sentence with
A proposition

Hips full of mischief
Pique my interest
Loose lips sink
My battleships

Athena measures
Romantic poets
By the girth
Of their verse

Sorrow draws
Short breaths
Mania spray paints
Sixteen chapels
In a low-cut dress

Hips full of mischief
Pique my interest
Loose lips sink
My battleships

I spill secrets
In Athena’s lap
Squeeze myself in
Big boy pants

Sorrow prints cursive
Mania face paints
A traveling circus

Athena counts
Contractions
Backwards
In fractions

Sorrow grows in sighs
Mania builds
Soundproof nurseries
In the blink of an eye

Hips full of mischief
Pique my interest
Loose lips sink
My battleships

I’m beside Athena
When her baby
Throws momma
A bridal shower

Mania cycles
Sorrow despairs

I’m beneath Athena
When her baby
Throws momma out
With the bathwater

c b snoad
7-9-17

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Just The Tip

Just the Tip

Fucking is easy
As free verse
She says
Try falling in love

Mouths aren’t lips
I’ve read

Just the tip
Of a tongue

She’s all diaphragm
Swallows nesting
In an iron lung

Other than words
I repeat
Nothing rhymes
With love

c b snoad
1-14-17

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Common Bond

SIMILAR SADNESS

I find it hard to leave home
And ease into the day
Feel like a raging river
Told to flow a different way

But today I met a clever girl
Chronically amiss she cries
Behind her sense of irony
A similar sadness lies

I find it hard to venture past
The limits of my comfort zone
Feel like a scattered cloud
Afraid to test the winds alone

But today I met a clever girl
Chronically amiss she cries
Behind her sense of irony
A similar sadness lies

I find it hard to face the world
Without a thought to hide
Feel like an avalanche
Too wound up to slide

But today I met a clever girl
Chronically amiss she cries
Behind her sense of irony
A similar sadness lies

c b snoad
9-10-14

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Writing Is Knowing

BLANK LINES

I.

The world is a word
between thought
and expression.
The moment just before
the silence breaks,
a pregnant pause
inducing wonder.

II.

I write with passion,
out of impulse.
Nothing but blank lines
behind my words.
You can’t take them
literally, they’re already
spoken for.

III.

The poet tries
to lighten up:
“The beaten path
I have a way
of getting off
so follow me
before we’re lost.”

IV.

I read somewhere an apple
needs to be eaten
to know it’s an apple.
So it is with the page.
It needs filling out
to realize how
empty words feel.

V.

There’s an art
to crossing out
or scribbling in
the margins.
The writer even
brainstorms
grocery lists.

c b snoad
7-29-14

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