Red

Red

What becomes

Of the color red?

A fiery passion,

No one can contain.

Does it yearn to be

Something it’s not?

A purplish hue

Or a yellowy hot?

Does it desire to be green?

As the wind kissed fields,

In the months of spring?

Or transition,

To an aqua marine.

The teal

Of the ocean’s pristine?

Jet black at night,

Not wanting to be seen.

Or does it simply fade?

Like night into day.

Losing its luster,

Marching endlessly,

Towards dull grey?

Selection from The Satchel of Dreams. Available on Amazon!

J.a. Wine

The Narcissistic Poet: Must Every Poem be about your Crappy Love life?

"Poetry is Narcissism."  
-- Loose Quote 


A friend of mine said that, and I'm misquoting a bit but it's pretty close.  When you read most poetry out there do you ever ask... "I wonder what the poet was thinking about when he/she wrote this?"  Consider the selection below.  
__________________________________________________________________

I Love You

I see her in the distance

A place afar off

Her beauty ever present

Her skin so soft

My heart begins to race

With the passage of time

As I behold her grace

And wish she were mine

My lips are sealed

My legs grow weak

Only my mind

Is brave enough to speak

I Love you.

She grows closer

A place so near

She fills my heart

And soul with cheer

She is close now

A place so nigh

I could reach and touch her

Though I dare not try

So I whisper the words

With a weak voice of fear

A sound so low

Nobody could hear

I Love you…

She is past me now

A place far away

My mind goes numb

My heart led astray

She secretly killed me

When she walked away

She secretly killed me

And she didn’t even see

It’s a price I pay

As I stand all alone

For daring to say

Words not condoned.

I Love you…

__________________________________________________________

As embarrassing as it is to admit I wrote that in high school (circa 2001) what was I thinking?  Well I was head over heels in love with this girl (Name concealed to protect the innocent).  I couldn't get her out of my head, I would think about her all day every day.  When she passed by my heart skipped blah blah blah all that love stuff.

She inspired me to write poem after poem, most of which was lost because I didn't care as much about poetry as I do now.  

"Who gives a F*** about your love life?"

-- Loose Quote

Good question...

I'm quoting my friend again but why should the reader care if you're hurt, or if you have an intense love for somebody?  Why should the reader care that you asked your high school crush out and she mercilessly shot you down with a chain gun?

Should others care, and why?  Must every poem be about your crappy love life?

The Time

“Excuse me sir,

Do you have the time?”

I asked hoping he knew, and

If he did, he’d be the first.

He glanced at his watch

Gold.

So fancy and new,

And proclaimed,

“Why yes,

It’s ten past noon”

With an arrogant grin;

A cocky smile

He tips his hat,

All the while

Never realizing

The clock hands were

Frozen on his dial.

Without protest,

I thank him,

I politely play along.

For how could I

Correct him

If mine too,

Was wrong?

Mannequin (By Choice)

A mannequin by choice
You know you’re not real
You believe you’re alive
But you can’t truly feel
You have flesh of plastic
A hardened heart of stone
Wires for veins
And rigid iron bones
You cry acid tears
Scorching the green grass
Burns solidified, like
The scars of your past
You truly blend in
A source of envy to your friends
Shaped like flawless art
With sleek glossy skin
You have the whole world
Yet have an empty soul
You lay in bed at night
Wondering where it will go
You have a thousands friends
Without having one
To be crafted by hands
Forever the product of someone
To be loved only in lust
For an instant you feel alive
Only to be left
Feeling dead inside
You feel the emptiness,
Of having no vision to see
To be trapped inside
An invented personality
A mannequin by choice
Crying out to be free
Behind solid glass
On display for the world to see
A vision an entire nation
Aspires to be
A mannequin by choice
Seeking its identity.


J.A. Wine