The dancers glide across the stage
on Mercurial wings.
Swirling tutus and muscular thighs
in suits of spandex and bare feet.
Young, athletic bodies, sensual
and fluid, whose arms and legs
are splayed in all directions.
A dichotomy of motions,
rushed and languid.
Like cats,
they leap above the stage,
float through the air,
quietly descend,
to leap again as,
multi-lived felines.
The contoured beauty of the body,
is choreographed,
to reveal a voice,
in pantomime,
that provokes mental images.
Terpsichore inspires the dancers,
and enchants the audience.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009:Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Happy Birthday Hal
A party birthday/
I answered the call.
Resondez sie vous plait/
Yes, I’ll bring wine from Gaul.
Pleased as invitee/
to this gay soiree.
I would not miss, prithee/
on this special day.
It’s nice to see/
one age so well.
That all of we/
can shout and yell.
Happy Birthday, Mr. Parker!/
and many more to pass.
I will be chief barker/
at this annual repast.
We few, we happy few/
we band of brothers, meet.
Where Bard and I agree,
in merriment, drink, eat/
toast Hal, from all and me.
So, again we say/
Happy Birthday.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009:Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
I answered the call.
Resondez sie vous plait/
Yes, I’ll bring wine from Gaul.
Pleased as invitee/
to this gay soiree.
I would not miss, prithee/
on this special day.
It’s nice to see/
one age so well.
That all of we/
can shout and yell.
Happy Birthday, Mr. Parker!/
and many more to pass.
I will be chief barker/
at this annual repast.
We few, we happy few/
we band of brothers, meet.
Where Bard and I agree,
in merriment, drink, eat/
toast Hal, from all and me.
So, again we say/
Happy Birthday.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009:Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
My Presidents (+ Paul Harvey Haiku)
Dwight Eisenhower/To the future.
John F. Kennedy/Too brief.
Lyndon Johnson/Too long.
Richard Nixon/Too sad.
Gerald Ford/To pardon.
Jimmy Carter/Too naïve.
Ronald Reagan/To Berlin.
George Bush/To Iraq.
Bill Clinton 1st term/Too Gay.
Bill Clinton 2nd term/Too straight.
GW Bush 1st term/Two World Trade Center.
GW Bush 2nd term/Two wars.
Barack Obama/To the future.
Puma/MMIX
----------------------------------------
Paul Harvey
Paul Harvey is dead/
Now the rest of the story/
Only in repeats.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009:Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
John F. Kennedy/Too brief.
Lyndon Johnson/Too long.
Richard Nixon/Too sad.
Gerald Ford/To pardon.
Jimmy Carter/Too naïve.
Ronald Reagan/To Berlin.
George Bush/To Iraq.
Bill Clinton 1st term/Too Gay.
Bill Clinton 2nd term/Too straight.
GW Bush 1st term/Two World Trade Center.
GW Bush 2nd term/Two wars.
Barack Obama/To the future.
Puma/MMIX
----------------------------------------
Paul Harvey
Paul Harvey is dead/
Now the rest of the story/
Only in repeats.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009:Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
Fountain
Each second an
Orgasmic event.
The spurtle unfolds as a
Halo and rainbow meet
The upstart new stream.
A collision of water
Defies and yields
To that certain
Natural downward spiral.
The fountain’s watery rhythm
Matches my aortic beat,
And I contemplate
my own time.
Each upstart new stream
Brings me,
one second closer
To my own,
downward spiral.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
Orgasmic event.
The spurtle unfolds as a
Halo and rainbow meet
The upstart new stream.
A collision of water
Defies and yields
To that certain
Natural downward spiral.
The fountain’s watery rhythm
Matches my aortic beat,
And I contemplate
my own time.
Each upstart new stream
Brings me,
one second closer
To my own,
downward spiral.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
NYU (For Frank)
Roses are red
Violets are blue
I would not be
caught dead
With a blue Violet
at NYU.
A loyal alum
Of Washington Square
Where guitarists
would strum
To no-ones aware.
With sheepskin in hand
In Latin no-less
I roamed this great land
Seeking success.
I did the school right
By making my mark
Never losing sight
Of my roots in New York.
With a look back nostalgic
In those rose colored glasses
With my school reunion clique
And wish I was back in classes.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
Voices in my head, verses to be read.
Violets are blue
I would not be
caught dead
With a blue Violet
at NYU.
A loyal alum
Of Washington Square
Where guitarists
would strum
To no-ones aware.
With sheepskin in hand
In Latin no-less
I roamed this great land
Seeking success.
I did the school right
By making my mark
Never losing sight
Of my roots in New York.
With a look back nostalgic
In those rose colored glasses
With my school reunion clique
And wish I was back in classes.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
Voices in my head, verses to be read.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Play Ball!
Gray rain pours down on/
Burgundy slate roof.
Red, white, blue, bunting on/
Emerald snack-bar hung.
Lemonade cold in/
Clear plastic bucket.
Orange bus on/
Black pavement, wet.
White lines criss-cross, run/
Red clay infield, mud.
Brown patches in/
Green grass outfield.
Golden sun waited-on by/
Purple-clad Little Leaguers.
Yellow rain-slick worn over/
Navy suited Umpire.
Play ball?
Puma/MMIX
Copyright: Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
Burgundy slate roof.
Red, white, blue, bunting on/
Emerald snack-bar hung.
Lemonade cold in/
Clear plastic bucket.
Orange bus on/
Black pavement, wet.
White lines criss-cross, run/
Red clay infield, mud.
Brown patches in/
Green grass outfield.
Golden sun waited-on by/
Purple-clad Little Leaguers.
Yellow rain-slick worn over/
Navy suited Umpire.
Play ball?
Puma/MMIX
Copyright: Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
Leavings
I.
The leaves gather in a
corner of the yard,
driven there by a
Dervish-like whirling,
until stopped by
the corner walls.
They lie still and quiet
imperceptive, until they
cannot be ignored,
a drab corner of the yard
made vibrant by a
flamboyant coalescence
of colors.
The chlorophyll canopy
that kept the yard in shade,
now takes refuge in that corner,
after one more frantic dance,
one last farewell,
to its parent-trees.
II.
The branches wave
in the October breeze,
shaking lose its
off-spring,
and bidding a melancholic
adieu,
to their children’s muddled
good-byes.
Bare branches looking
old and brittle,
the canopy now a
web of emptiness.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009:Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
The leaves gather in a
corner of the yard,
driven there by a
Dervish-like whirling,
until stopped by
the corner walls.
They lie still and quiet
imperceptive, until they
cannot be ignored,
a drab corner of the yard
made vibrant by a
flamboyant coalescence
of colors.
The chlorophyll canopy
that kept the yard in shade,
now takes refuge in that corner,
after one more frantic dance,
one last farewell,
to its parent-trees.
II.
The branches wave
in the October breeze,
shaking lose its
off-spring,
and bidding a melancholic
adieu,
to their children’s muddled
good-byes.
Bare branches looking
old and brittle,
the canopy now a
web of emptiness.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009:Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Peter W
You are the pupil who
excels his mentor.
You are the son who
outshines his father
You are the spark that
ignites the flame.
I am maestro.
I am paterfamilias.
I am a dying ember.
Puma/MMIX
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
excels his mentor.
You are the son who
outshines his father
You are the spark that
ignites the flame.
I am maestro.
I am paterfamilias.
I am a dying ember.
Puma/MMIX
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
Petar/Uncle Charlie's Host
On east forty-fifth
On second floor is/
Petar, man-boy gift
A Fleur-de-lis.
A sprite that waits
‘I Serve’, like Wales/
A princely gait
Tornado gale.
From portal-to-patio
Glides on Mercurial wings/
You await the god-boy
And his swivel-hip swings.
Floats on ocean-of-air
A Bulgar bliss/
With a unique flair
You don’t want to miss.
His eyes draw you in
Like horizontal gravity/
Once met, puts you in a spin
You look, and curse the brevity.
A tight body spun
Angelic face too/
You bite your mute tongue
For lack of words to woo.
Hello and a bright smile
In the darkened night/
You stay awhile
By that warm light.
Petar, ecstasy/
Charlie’s angel/
Eye-candy for thee.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’
On second floor is/
Petar, man-boy gift
A Fleur-de-lis.
A sprite that waits
‘I Serve’, like Wales/
A princely gait
Tornado gale.
From portal-to-patio
Glides on Mercurial wings/
You await the god-boy
And his swivel-hip swings.
Floats on ocean-of-air
A Bulgar bliss/
With a unique flair
You don’t want to miss.
His eyes draw you in
Like horizontal gravity/
Once met, puts you in a spin
You look, and curse the brevity.
A tight body spun
Angelic face too/
You bite your mute tongue
For lack of words to woo.
Hello and a bright smile
In the darkened night/
You stay awhile
By that warm light.
Petar, ecstasy/
Charlie’s angel/
Eye-candy for thee.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’
Monday, January 18, 2010
Wake-Up Call
Ha, so this is, ‘one-of those-days’.
5:19 digital awakening,
Slept through the night,
bad sign.
No wake-up thoughts for verse/
No dreams/No nightmares/
No one to hold onto.
Alone/O.K.
I am only inspired by my own company.
No inspiration this morning.
I reflect:
A Hank Williams lonesome blue.
How can I write when my feelings
are numbed by loneliness
Is this the bane of the artist?
Ha, I call myself an Artist,
Solitary confinement delusions.
Where do I go from here?
Rambling-on about not being
able to ramble-on.
A Hanoi Hilton kind of day.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009: Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
5:19 digital awakening,
Slept through the night,
bad sign.
No wake-up thoughts for verse/
No dreams/No nightmares/
No one to hold onto.
Alone/O.K.
I am only inspired by my own company.
No inspiration this morning.
I reflect:
A Hank Williams lonesome blue.
How can I write when my feelings
are numbed by loneliness
Is this the bane of the artist?
Ha, I call myself an Artist,
Solitary confinement delusions.
Where do I go from here?
Rambling-on about not being
able to ramble-on.
A Hanoi Hilton kind of day.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009: Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
Hawk
The Hawk is dead.
Johnny told me,
I should never have asked:
“Have you seen the Hawk?”
Johnny don’t tell me that,
Why did you tell me?
Why did I ask?
Your answer saddened me.
I am very sad and mad.
Waking-up knowing the Hawk is gone.
I feel like throwing my hot coffee
At my clean white shirt
Draped over chair.
Why, after all these years
I dreamed about the Hawk?
Why such a sad ending?
I was jolted awake.
Is this the end of the Hawk?
Did the Hawk really die?
Did I die?
I am spending another day
in reality
And my night bereft of a piece
of unreality.
My friend.
My buddy.
The Hawk.
Gone.
Puma/MMXX
Copyright:2009: Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
Johnny told me,
I should never have asked:
“Have you seen the Hawk?”
Johnny don’t tell me that,
Why did you tell me?
Why did I ask?
Your answer saddened me.
I am very sad and mad.
Waking-up knowing the Hawk is gone.
I feel like throwing my hot coffee
At my clean white shirt
Draped over chair.
Why, after all these years
I dreamed about the Hawk?
Why such a sad ending?
I was jolted awake.
Is this the end of the Hawk?
Did the Hawk really die?
Did I die?
I am spending another day
in reality
And my night bereft of a piece
of unreality.
My friend.
My buddy.
The Hawk.
Gone.
Puma/MMXX
Copyright:2009: Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
Clearing
The fog is lifting from the hills
Nature’s industrial smokestacks.
I can see through holes in the mist
The wet chlorophyll leaves
Reflecting spots of sun-light.
I know, given time and sun
The fog will be gone and
The hills clear and perfect.
The fog vanishes and I
Question the clarity
My own mind still in a fog.
Where is my clarity?
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009: Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
Nature’s industrial smokestacks.
I can see through holes in the mist
The wet chlorophyll leaves
Reflecting spots of sun-light.
I know, given time and sun
The fog will be gone and
The hills clear and perfect.
The fog vanishes and I
Question the clarity
My own mind still in a fog.
Where is my clarity?
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009: Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
Fiore
I pick the flowers in the garden
Yellow and pink and purple and blue.
Flowers to brighten my living-room
Same flowers that darken the parlor.
Contrasting exterior pigments
With interior colors.
Scents and colors reflecting moods
A back-drop to life around them.
I broke the vase.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright Tony Puma/2009
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
Yellow and pink and purple and blue.
Flowers to brighten my living-room
Same flowers that darken the parlor.
Contrasting exterior pigments
With interior colors.
Scents and colors reflecting moods
A back-drop to life around them.
I broke the vase.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright Tony Puma/2009
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
Visions of Wyoming
It came in a box of Cheerios.
A little replica of a
Wyoming license plate,
With a relief of a cowboy
Riding a bucking Bronco.
Along with other license plates
That I was collecting as a young boy
Only Wyoming remains,
Fixed as a photographic image
in my memory.
A documentary of
Yellowstone Park, on TV,
Jogged my memory, that as
A young boy in Brooklyn,
I yearned to be a cowboy
And roam the frontier.
I see Wyoming once again.
The tumble-weed on the mesa,
Dwarfed in valleys by the mountains,
Where the pastel greens and
Browns of the valley fade into
The grays and whites of the mountains.
I trod the ancient Americans’ pathways
With their gods above and beside me.
A sacred feather, a paw print,
The calm, the quiet,
I am alone and lost,
Lost in amazement and
amusement.
I shout in the wilderness
that I am here;
A cowboy on the frontier.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
A little replica of a
Wyoming license plate,
With a relief of a cowboy
Riding a bucking Bronco.
Along with other license plates
That I was collecting as a young boy
Only Wyoming remains,
Fixed as a photographic image
in my memory.
A documentary of
Yellowstone Park, on TV,
Jogged my memory, that as
A young boy in Brooklyn,
I yearned to be a cowboy
And roam the frontier.
I see Wyoming once again.
The tumble-weed on the mesa,
Dwarfed in valleys by the mountains,
Where the pastel greens and
Browns of the valley fade into
The grays and whites of the mountains.
I trod the ancient Americans’ pathways
With their gods above and beside me.
A sacred feather, a paw print,
The calm, the quiet,
I am alone and lost,
Lost in amazement and
amusement.
I shout in the wilderness
that I am here;
A cowboy on the frontier.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Trabajo
Laborers loitering
on street corners
Morning cold drizzle
T-shirts and hoodies.
America 1939?
America 2009!
No bombs strapped
to their bodies
No agendas
just work-boots.
Middle-aged men with
determined looks
Street-wise young men
with pretty looks.
No eye contact with
chicos bonitos.
Ola, Buenos Diaz.
Smiles greet my
lame Spanish
No, I am not your
salvation today.
Adios.
I retreat to cafe
black coffee and poetry
Leaving the four corners
to hombres, who mutter:
"Ningun trabajo hoy".
(No work today).
Puma/MMIX
on street corners
Morning cold drizzle
T-shirts and hoodies.
America 1939?
America 2009!
No bombs strapped
to their bodies
No agendas
just work-boots.
Middle-aged men with
determined looks
Street-wise young men
with pretty looks.
No eye contact with
chicos bonitos.
Ola, Buenos Diaz.
Smiles greet my
lame Spanish
No, I am not your
salvation today.
Adios.
I retreat to cafe
black coffee and poetry
Leaving the four corners
to hombres, who mutter:
"Ningun trabajo hoy".
(No work today).
Puma/MMIX
Thursday, January 14, 2010
To My Existentialist Friend
Who are u
Who am i?
Who cares!
What are u doing
What am i doing?
What does it matter!
Where are u going
Where do i go?
Where roads cross!
When do u end it
When do i end it?
When the time is right!
Why did u end it
Why did i end it?
Why not!
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009
Who am i?
Who cares!
What are u doing
What am i doing?
What does it matter!
Where are u going
Where do i go?
Where roads cross!
When do u end it
When do i end it?
When the time is right!
Why did u end it
Why did i end it?
Why not!
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009
You & I
You are silent movie/
I am Opera.
You are East/
I am West.
You are Tiger/
I am Taurus.
You are Jade/
I am Emerald.
We were lovers.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
I am Opera.
You are East/
I am West.
You are Tiger/
I am Taurus.
You are Jade/
I am Emerald.
We were lovers.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
Bouna Natale
Bouna Natale.
My grandparents lived it
My parents spoke it.
I tolerated it.
My sons don’t
understand it.
Happy Holidays.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
“Voices in my head, verses to be read”.
My grandparents lived it
My parents spoke it.
I tolerated it.
My sons don’t
understand it.
Happy Holidays.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
“Voices in my head, verses to be read”.
Blue
The car is racing
away from me.
I am running after
this driver-less vehicle.
My old Pontiac Le Mans.
I am awakened from
this sub-conscious riddle.
Is Pontiac my Poetry?
If conscience,
'makes cowards of us all'.
Then my valiant sub-conscience
jolts me as to my
plight as an artist.
To pursue my goal;
Poetic verse as poetry.
I will keep running after
that car, my destiny.
When I catch car;
My goal or my death?
Puma/MMIX
away from me.
I am running after
this driver-less vehicle.
My old Pontiac Le Mans.
I am awakened from
this sub-conscious riddle.
Is Pontiac my Poetry?
If conscience,
'makes cowards of us all'.
Then my valiant sub-conscience
jolts me as to my
plight as an artist.
To pursue my goal;
Poetic verse as poetry.
I will keep running after
that car, my destiny.
When I catch car;
My goal or my death?
Puma/MMIX
M & T
It’s 11:59 P.M.
We leave Happy place,
For a lovers rendezvous,
To a spot near to Heaven.
Traffic sounds float-up to Aerie,
Voices like vines ascend walls.
A homophony of white-noise,
Silenced, by our sweet murmurings.
No sleep for lovers first met.
No dreams, no rude awakenings.
Naps to replenish body,
Eyes meet, replenish spirit.
Tempus Fugit, I am gone.
Like a fledgling from the nest.
Spent, but exhilarated,
A new love and friend met.
Out onto Second Avenue.
A New York City country scene,
Yellow Jacket taxi’s buzzing
Cafe’s bedecked with greenery.
I smile to myself,
With this new view, and
Reflecting on our
Time spent together.
Ricordate Amore.
It’s 11:59 A.M.
Puma/MMIX
We leave Happy place,
For a lovers rendezvous,
To a spot near to Heaven.
Traffic sounds float-up to Aerie,
Voices like vines ascend walls.
A homophony of white-noise,
Silenced, by our sweet murmurings.
No sleep for lovers first met.
No dreams, no rude awakenings.
Naps to replenish body,
Eyes meet, replenish spirit.
Tempus Fugit, I am gone.
Like a fledgling from the nest.
Spent, but exhilarated,
A new love and friend met.
Out onto Second Avenue.
A New York City country scene,
Yellow Jacket taxi’s buzzing
Cafe’s bedecked with greenery.
I smile to myself,
With this new view, and
Reflecting on our
Time spent together.
Ricordate Amore.
It’s 11:59 A.M.
Puma/MMIX
Poetic Bench
I am alone on
Campus bench in June.
Flag on pole flapping,
Crows crackling,
Summer overture.
Poems by Frank O’Hara read
Channeling him aloud, and
Taking the rhythm of
His poetry in silence.
Squirrels visit, quizzical
As to why no victuals.
Ants too, looking for hand-out,
Fly taking aim at my head.
Frank, this is distracting, yet
Tolerate the intrusion.
I am not alone anymore
On campus bench in June.
Puma/MMIX
Campus bench in June.
Flag on pole flapping,
Crows crackling,
Summer overture.
Poems by Frank O’Hara read
Channeling him aloud, and
Taking the rhythm of
His poetry in silence.
Squirrels visit, quizzical
As to why no victuals.
Ants too, looking for hand-out,
Fly taking aim at my head.
Frank, this is distracting, yet
Tolerate the intrusion.
I am not alone anymore
On campus bench in June.
Puma/MMIX
Campgrounds:Late Summer
The sun’s rays are still hot.
Oak and maple trees keep
the cabin cool in shade.
Night-time breeze
accompanies Owl in a
nocturnal chorus.
Brown and green leaves quietly
fall to the forest floor.
The end of summer,
beginning of autumn.
It is that time again,
when the cabin
will be camouflaged
by flamboyant colors.
As the quiet green pigment
of summer, yields to the
loud gay palette
of autumn.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
Oak and maple trees keep
the cabin cool in shade.
Night-time breeze
accompanies Owl in a
nocturnal chorus.
Brown and green leaves quietly
fall to the forest floor.
The end of summer,
beginning of autumn.
It is that time again,
when the cabin
will be camouflaged
by flamboyant colors.
As the quiet green pigment
of summer, yields to the
loud gay palette
of autumn.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
Penis Envy
I masturbate; words.
I am a poet.
Poetry excites me.
I am passionate
About this art form.
That lobe embedded in my skull
Triggers emotional responses.
Spurred on by chemicals, Estrogen
Serotonin, Testosterone.
The petrol that energizes
My hand in Rhythmic motion,
pen-to-paper.
To manipulate flaccid words,
Into a tumescent phrase.
The anticipation of the
poem as art.
The result of this entire psychic
energy.
Wait:
I can’t finish too quickly,
No pre-mature endings.
Hold it:
What was Mickey Mantles batting
Average in 1963?
Get mind off work.
Relax, refresh,
Take a break.
Tantric poetry.
Words again flow rushing
Through my lobes.
Emotion to logic,
Left to right.
I come;
to the conclusion of the poem.
Is it art?
Only the reader can
Render that judgment.
Reader, please no false reactions,
Did you enjoy the poem?
Well, if I smoked I would surely
Light-up a film-noir cigarette.
It is after all masturbation.
Where I derive singular psychic
And physical pleasure,
A self-indulgence that
I want to share.
So, reader take comfort
In my masculine ways.
Where my orgasmic pleasure
Is only one poem at a time.
Dear reader, enjoy all the
Poetry;
As a multi-orgasmic treat.
Puma/MMIX
I am a poet.
Poetry excites me.
I am passionate
About this art form.
That lobe embedded in my skull
Triggers emotional responses.
Spurred on by chemicals, Estrogen
Serotonin, Testosterone.
The petrol that energizes
My hand in Rhythmic motion,
pen-to-paper.
To manipulate flaccid words,
Into a tumescent phrase.
The anticipation of the
poem as art.
The result of this entire psychic
energy.
Wait:
I can’t finish too quickly,
No pre-mature endings.
Hold it:
What was Mickey Mantles batting
Average in 1963?
Get mind off work.
Relax, refresh,
Take a break.
Tantric poetry.
Words again flow rushing
Through my lobes.
Emotion to logic,
Left to right.
I come;
to the conclusion of the poem.
Is it art?
Only the reader can
Render that judgment.
Reader, please no false reactions,
Did you enjoy the poem?
Well, if I smoked I would surely
Light-up a film-noir cigarette.
It is after all masturbation.
Where I derive singular psychic
And physical pleasure,
A self-indulgence that
I want to share.
So, reader take comfort
In my masculine ways.
Where my orgasmic pleasure
Is only one poem at a time.
Dear reader, enjoy all the
Poetry;
As a multi-orgasmic treat.
Puma/MMIX
Hard Rain
Dark and dreary/
Wet and weary.
Rain comes down/
Soaks my crown.
Wipers thump/
In mood funk.
Noah days/
Sans sun's rays.
Drops race down window/
Bet on win, place, show.
Warning of flood/
Garden of mud.
Wet ball field now/
No ‘Holy Cow’.
Flamboyant light/
Clouds rumble slight.
No beach for me/
With rain day three.
Since we rose from dust/
Nature plays with us.
3 inches top soil/
And hard labor toil.
3 inches rain/
Turns soil to grain.
Bread to eat/
From that wheat.
I love the rain.
Puma/MMIX
Wet and weary.
Rain comes down/
Soaks my crown.
Wipers thump/
In mood funk.
Noah days/
Sans sun's rays.
Drops race down window/
Bet on win, place, show.
Warning of flood/
Garden of mud.
Wet ball field now/
No ‘Holy Cow’.
Flamboyant light/
Clouds rumble slight.
No beach for me/
With rain day three.
Since we rose from dust/
Nature plays with us.
3 inches top soil/
And hard labor toil.
3 inches rain/
Turns soil to grain.
Bread to eat/
From that wheat.
I love the rain.
Puma/MMIX
Happy Ending
Two Sprites on stools in Happy place
They face each other, knees touching.
Drinks on bar, neglected for now,
Peaceful amidst chaos surround.
They are both animated and
Looking into each others’ eyes.
Smiling, and seemingly glad that
They are with each other tonight.
They both have that pretty-boy look,
Too pretty not to be Happy,
Boyish, almost Angelic scene;
Oh, to be that young and pretty.
Fortunate or fortuitous
That they found each other now.
In a life-style where loneliness
Dulls the Soul and questions Nature.
Their voices have a feminine lilt
Their gestures an Opra-esque tilt.
Yet voices and gestures seem
Natural to them and their setting.
Why do I find them so appealing?
Puma/MMIX
They face each other, knees touching.
Drinks on bar, neglected for now,
Peaceful amidst chaos surround.
They are both animated and
Looking into each others’ eyes.
Smiling, and seemingly glad that
They are with each other tonight.
They both have that pretty-boy look,
Too pretty not to be Happy,
Boyish, almost Angelic scene;
Oh, to be that young and pretty.
Fortunate or fortuitous
That they found each other now.
In a life-style where loneliness
Dulls the Soul and questions Nature.
Their voices have a feminine lilt
Their gestures an Opra-esque tilt.
Yet voices and gestures seem
Natural to them and their setting.
Why do I find them so appealing?
Puma/MMIX
Wet Woods
Campground gay/
Rainy day.
Watery spouts/
Water sprites out.
Smokey mist/
In pine forest.
Dark clouds/
Thunder loud.
A lightning strike;
Volleyball spike?
Drum beat/
On tin sheets.
Bogged mire/
Brown tires.
Eclipsed sun/
Pool no fun.
Walk ‘round pond/
Through wet fronds.
Pied noir like ink/
Pinot noir to drink.
T-shirts cling/
One last fling.
Tattoo on tent/
Mate, Heaven-sent.
Gay colors right/
Nature’s refracted light.
Portable Rainbow,
To go.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
Rainy day.
Watery spouts/
Water sprites out.
Smokey mist/
In pine forest.
Dark clouds/
Thunder loud.
A lightning strike;
Volleyball spike?
Drum beat/
On tin sheets.
Bogged mire/
Brown tires.
Eclipsed sun/
Pool no fun.
Walk ‘round pond/
Through wet fronds.
Pied noir like ink/
Pinot noir to drink.
T-shirts cling/
One last fling.
Tattoo on tent/
Mate, Heaven-sent.
Gay colors right/
Nature’s refracted light.
Portable Rainbow,
To go.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
Campground Stream
The stream pours
into the pond
the only sound
in a forest silent
as water runs
over rocks.
Along the path
I stop and ponder.
Hearing things
that evoke
solitary thoughts.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
into the pond
the only sound
in a forest silent
as water runs
over rocks.
Along the path
I stop and ponder.
Hearing things
that evoke
solitary thoughts.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
Toga, Toga, Toga
The poster read:
Greek gaymes
followed by Toga
party @ 7pm.
Gay campground
Summer night.
Moon round
Male sprites.
Costumes varied
Wine white.
Some married
Stringed lights.
Music disco
Emotions wrought.
Some show
Repressed thoughts.
Finger food
Cold beer.
Good mood
Lesbians here.
Strangers meet
Disco dance.
Toga sheets
No pants.
Forest dark
Free egos.
Nature harks
Loose libidos.
Dionysus will
Eros too.
Known drill
With crew.
Urges satisfied
In a trance.
Glowing Fire-flies
Brief romance.
Pink ribbon
For Adonis.
Best hands-on
Body hottest.
Party ends
Ghosts alight.
All friends
In forest night.
Togas away
Till’ next August.
Same day
Or bust!
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’
Greek gaymes
followed by Toga
party @ 7pm.
Gay campground
Summer night.
Moon round
Male sprites.
Costumes varied
Wine white.
Some married
Stringed lights.
Music disco
Emotions wrought.
Some show
Repressed thoughts.
Finger food
Cold beer.
Good mood
Lesbians here.
Strangers meet
Disco dance.
Toga sheets
No pants.
Forest dark
Free egos.
Nature harks
Loose libidos.
Dionysus will
Eros too.
Known drill
With crew.
Urges satisfied
In a trance.
Glowing Fire-flies
Brief romance.
Pink ribbon
For Adonis.
Best hands-on
Body hottest.
Party ends
Ghosts alight.
All friends
In forest night.
Togas away
Till’ next August.
Same day
Or bust!
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’
Essay on Jack (Mad Life)
I read Kerouac
he loved mad people
those who were mad
about life and
lived life to the fullest.
No not Ginsberg, Burroughs
Ferlenghetti, or Corso
they did not speak to me
only your verse
influenced my
outlook on life.
So when I am
called Mad
too passionate
too emotional
I feel comforted.
Madly lived life
my verse reflecting style
alone and lonely and solitary
live life madly
my absurd views
inverted pyramids
life lived madly
persona not person
caricature of myself.
Writing now
not emulating
or imitating
but examining my
thoughts and emotions
through life experiences
via your inspiration.
Jack/Jupiter
progenitor of those
yellow Roman Candles
we Mad Bastards
in verse
know our Patron.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
Voices in my head, verses to be read.
he loved mad people
those who were mad
about life and
lived life to the fullest.
No not Ginsberg, Burroughs
Ferlenghetti, or Corso
they did not speak to me
only your verse
influenced my
outlook on life.
So when I am
called Mad
too passionate
too emotional
I feel comforted.
Madly lived life
my verse reflecting style
alone and lonely and solitary
live life madly
my absurd views
inverted pyramids
life lived madly
persona not person
caricature of myself.
Writing now
not emulating
or imitating
but examining my
thoughts and emotions
through life experiences
via your inspiration.
Jack/Jupiter
progenitor of those
yellow Roman Candles
we Mad Bastards
in verse
know our Patron.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
Voices in my head, verses to be read.
I Want to be a poet
I want to be a poet.
There you see, I started my first line with my title, how unimaginative is that?, how boring, I already filled one line of a poem that will probably be as unimaginative and boring as the first line, filled with fragmented sentences, and wrong punctuations, too wordy, not enough verbs or nouns, written by my conscious being, not by my unconscious,
which gives me my best ideas,
I am constantly conflicted by my radical unconscious, and my too-too-Tory conscious being, this GD (see I use GD instead of spelling-out God-Damn), terminology and psychology, to try and clear-up and describe
how I feel and what I perceive that is holding me back in my poetry.
I have the vocabulary; I have the formal education, never-the-less,
(oh yea, never-the-less, another unimaginative phrase that gets me out of a pathetic paragraph),
my conscious being says to beware, my critics say I am too guarded, only my unconscious awakens me in the, ‘wee small hours of the morning’, (thanks Frank), and, ‘yells how it yells in my ear’, (thanks again Frank),
Write, Write, Write, about that Dream,
Nightmare, Visitation, Apparition,
that is dredged-up from my dark recesses,
tell all about who am I, what I am hiding,
what I am striving-for, my desires, my wants,
I will name my first book of poetry,
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’,
nice figurative title, and literally correct,
for example, my gender-neutral personal poems, written in a way to mask a life-style,
I bet you didn’t know that, (or even care),
what-a-life, how the hell did that happen?
I’m not Percy Dovetonsils, (thanks Ernie),
O K, screw-it, just enjoy the poems.
So, unconscious, I am afraid, you come to me and Taunt and Haunt and Torment me,
to reveal things that I do not want to share,
can’t I have secrets? why must I be so open?,
oh, to be a Poet, I must reveal and not hold-back, is this the price I must pay?
am I ready for that?
I am confronting this reality, as my poetry becomes more complex, and to be true to the form and myself, I must be able to look at others and not just write and reveal at 3 AM
in a lonely room where unconscious thoughts
rule those dark hours, with painful memories.
How the hell can you enjoy my poems?
When I am having a difficult time getting
past my ‘hang-ups’, (hang-ups, is that a 60’s bull-shit phrase?), my life has had its share of happiness and disappointments,
if I want to be a poet, I should use all of my life’s experiences (not to mention to clean-up my grammar),
to See, Hear, Taste, Feel, Be,
an observer of nature and people,
to put down those thoughts on paper
and express them, ’as-a-poet’,
those unique feelings, in a unique way,
oh, reader I will get there,
despite or because of these ramblings.
I want to be a poet.
Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
There you see, I started my first line with my title, how unimaginative is that?, how boring, I already filled one line of a poem that will probably be as unimaginative and boring as the first line, filled with fragmented sentences, and wrong punctuations, too wordy, not enough verbs or nouns, written by my conscious being, not by my unconscious,
which gives me my best ideas,
I am constantly conflicted by my radical unconscious, and my too-too-Tory conscious being, this GD (see I use GD instead of spelling-out God-Damn), terminology and psychology, to try and clear-up and describe
how I feel and what I perceive that is holding me back in my poetry.
I have the vocabulary; I have the formal education, never-the-less,
(oh yea, never-the-less, another unimaginative phrase that gets me out of a pathetic paragraph),
my conscious being says to beware, my critics say I am too guarded, only my unconscious awakens me in the, ‘wee small hours of the morning’, (thanks Frank), and, ‘yells how it yells in my ear’, (thanks again Frank),
Write, Write, Write, about that Dream,
Nightmare, Visitation, Apparition,
that is dredged-up from my dark recesses,
tell all about who am I, what I am hiding,
what I am striving-for, my desires, my wants,
I will name my first book of poetry,
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’,
nice figurative title, and literally correct,
for example, my gender-neutral personal poems, written in a way to mask a life-style,
I bet you didn’t know that, (or even care),
what-a-life, how the hell did that happen?
I’m not Percy Dovetonsils, (thanks Ernie),
O K, screw-it, just enjoy the poems.
So, unconscious, I am afraid, you come to me and Taunt and Haunt and Torment me,
to reveal things that I do not want to share,
can’t I have secrets? why must I be so open?,
oh, to be a Poet, I must reveal and not hold-back, is this the price I must pay?
am I ready for that?
I am confronting this reality, as my poetry becomes more complex, and to be true to the form and myself, I must be able to look at others and not just write and reveal at 3 AM
in a lonely room where unconscious thoughts
rule those dark hours, with painful memories.
How the hell can you enjoy my poems?
When I am having a difficult time getting
past my ‘hang-ups’, (hang-ups, is that a 60’s bull-shit phrase?), my life has had its share of happiness and disappointments,
if I want to be a poet, I should use all of my life’s experiences (not to mention to clean-up my grammar),
to See, Hear, Taste, Feel, Be,
an observer of nature and people,
to put down those thoughts on paper
and express them, ’as-a-poet’,
those unique feelings, in a unique way,
oh, reader I will get there,
despite or because of these ramblings.
I want to be a poet.
Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.
Ode to George Carlin
He passed, you know.
Are you joking?
You mean he's,
dead, died, death,
Grim Reaper, dust-to-dust,
next of kin, below ground.
Buried/Bloodless/Breathless/
Corps y/Cadaver/Deceased/
Defunct/Departed/Ex animate/
Extinct/Gone/Inanimate/
Inert/Late/Lifeless/
Pass e/Reposing/Spiritless.
Dead as a door nail
Went the way of all flesh.
Pushing up Daisies.
Gave-up the ghost.
Shuffled off his Mortal Coil.
Eternal sleep.
Extreme Unction.
Ave aqua Vale.
Rest in Peace.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
'Voices in my head, verses to be read'.
Are you joking?
You mean he's,
dead, died, death,
Grim Reaper, dust-to-dust,
next of kin, below ground.
Buried/Bloodless/Breathless/
Corps y/Cadaver/Deceased/
Defunct/Departed/Ex animate/
Extinct/Gone/Inanimate/
Inert/Late/Lifeless/
Pass e/Reposing/Spiritless.
Dead as a door nail
Went the way of all flesh.
Pushing up Daisies.
Gave-up the ghost.
Shuffled off his Mortal Coil.
Eternal sleep.
Extreme Unction.
Ave aqua Vale.
Rest in Peace.
Puma/MMIX
Copyright 2009/Tony Puma
'Voices in my head, verses to be read'.
Love in the Age of Coleridge
You are the star I wish upon,
I embrace your cold-blue light.
Out of dark-matter, you came,
into my melancholy night.
Dawn ascends and jealous sun
sends you far-away,
I wander through
this hapless life,
and rue the hours
in the day.
Till I can see you once again,
to wish and to exclaim.
For you to be,
and share my love,
and want you to remain.
But you will leave, and my love will be:
unrequited.
Those cold-blue rays will fade, and I will be:
disquiet.
In solitude I search the night
to find you once again.
You are not there
(I know this to be true)
and I will bear the pain.
A crowd of fire-flies flicker
above,
You are lost in that swarm,
and I have lost a love.
True to myself, I'll shun,
the narrow and the straight.
To seek My North Star
as guide to a happy fate.
Puma/MMIX
I embrace your cold-blue light.
Out of dark-matter, you came,
into my melancholy night.
Dawn ascends and jealous sun
sends you far-away,
I wander through
this hapless life,
and rue the hours
in the day.
Till I can see you once again,
to wish and to exclaim.
For you to be,
and share my love,
and want you to remain.
But you will leave, and my love will be:
unrequited.
Those cold-blue rays will fade, and I will be:
disquiet.
In solitude I search the night
to find you once again.
You are not there
(I know this to be true)
and I will bear the pain.
A crowd of fire-flies flicker
above,
You are lost in that swarm,
and I have lost a love.
True to myself, I'll shun,
the narrow and the straight.
To seek My North Star
as guide to a happy fate.
Puma/MMIX
Happy Birthday(to my Chinese lover)
TO: Pisces
FR: Taurus
May you possess wisdom
beyond your years
Your outer beauty in spite
of the years
Your inner sweetness throughout
the years
My love past, present and
future years.
Happy Birthday!
Puma/MMIX
FR: Taurus
May you possess wisdom
beyond your years
Your outer beauty in spite
of the years
Your inner sweetness throughout
the years
My love past, present and
future years.
Happy Birthday!
Puma/MMIX
Year of the Ox (4707/2009)
TO: Tiger
FR: Dragon
To bring you good fortune
Lucky money in box.
In all phases of Moon
In the year of the Ox.
Happy New Year!
Puma/MMIX
FR: Dragon
To bring you good fortune
Lucky money in box.
In all phases of Moon
In the year of the Ox.
Happy New Year!
Puma/MMIX
Year of the Tiger (4708/2010)
Chang'e blessings/
On Tiger's son.
Blue tides rise with/
Luna's white glow.
Have health and wealth/
And strength and peace.
When moons are new/
And tides are low.
Happy New Year!
Puma/MMX
On Tiger's son.
Blue tides rise with/
Luna's white glow.
Have health and wealth/
And strength and peace.
When moons are new/
And tides are low.
Happy New Year!
Puma/MMX
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