Friday, May 13, 2011

ONCE written, TWICE shy...

for the cover of the POETRY ANTHOLOGY...

You are welcome Kim, Helen, and the rest...

Poems I Once Felt Like Writing...

abandon this heart, nicholas jay liebrecht

A slave on a throne of golden stones
shame is the name of your brutal game
again, it's the same stupid weakness to blame
your father turns trust into silty, fine dust
as his sweeping lust is gone in a gust...


After Reading Some Dana Negev To Her
I read to her
a poem about almond blossoms,
and angst,
and the perfection that can be left by a good memory.

She asked me who wrote it
and then was
drape-faced at my answer.

"Who is that?"
She asked, maybe expecting a different answer,
or one that meant something more to her.

Maybe I was hoarding some gemstone of information that
would make it all clear to her,
that would unfog her ears,
that would clean out her eyes-

Instead of mustering up
what to me was an impossible reply,
I hunched my shoulders,
raised my palms up,

and stopped speaking.

akoplishmant (appockalypseshment), by nixlus jeh leebrikt
stands as my greatest accomplishment -
would that i could die in such a poetic
((and yet universal)) way
it is this life that is grimy
and repetitive
and too easy
and too long
that i detest (understandably) so so much
however-apparently-not enough to actually-
about it-
(like live well or exit loudly)

angst-tious, by n j liebrecht

i am itching for a fight
fair is a word made mostly of air
headed in the wrong direction always
and forever seems shorter to a lover's
leap from a page to page and a body to a body
bags under your eyes and in yoru hands
down town and that's the way
side - stepping domino dancers move
ahead in the lines leading us all home
bases aren't only there for the score -

At Her Passing

Thirty thousand days of hours
and twice times that in years

Affection twists, and time, it sours
salt curing newformed tears

She owned a name around her face
her heart hung on a chain

And every man within her grace
ticked his minutes by in vain

Sweet life, gone on and running down
more memories filled than dreamed

No king could keep her in his crown

Love's left her, so it seemed...

bad enough, by nj liebrecht

bad enough
that she smuggled in
a 'was' and a 'could have'.

what murdered me

is when she put a sharp
'probably not' in her mouth

and kissed me goodnight

Battle Of The Hands
She is sliding more and more
under this April than ever -

Her wrench-like scowl lifting
only lightly at each end -

We wonder, in whispers, if we
should go from coming close
to the hard cement
of dead-center sentiment-

Always looking her way
with the whites of our eyes
waving like little flags of surrender-

Nicholas Jay Liebrecht