ZEN AND THE ART OF POETRY

(“What I write today has no past or
future for my Self. I can only write
what is visceral at the moment and
when that moment is gone,
so is that Self that wrote the verse,
and is now a stranger to my new Self.”)


I cultivate the art of poetry by letting-go
of real senses to create a second-natured
consciousness of thoughts unto/into words—
a limbo of Self and no Self
that voices
first-natured emotions—
to write a poem
that is a poem
because
I call it a poem.

ODE to the NRA

I shot a rifle in the air
the bullet landed in my hair.

Well, you know the ending:
I'm in a box descending.

PINE

As I pour into bed
and you paw over me
in a pop rendition of passion,
I am left pondering our plight
as a pair – that pundits and
poets write of – characters
who pine and yearn and
search for that which is
present.

©TPuma/MMXIII

READ A POEM

Moon, June, soon, new broom, zoom
abstract, obtuse, obscure
streaming, conscious
(un, pre and sub)
classic, neo-something
modern, post-something
friends, lovers, death and
the whole human condition
love me, hate me, read me
make me your slave,
make me your master.
Find yourself.

(c)TPuma/Poeetry month '13

RAWHIDE/RAMROD-REMEMBER'D

Oh, leather straps and belts
I did procure,
and, with prodigious welts,
through Pleasures' Door

I was emboldened
in black cowhide,
to either bow or bend
as masters' bride

this pleasured pain,
this give-and-take
from those who reign
until I'd slaked.

APRIL'S FOOL

To be or not to be, fooled today
that is the fear.
My foolish friends, str8 or gay
today, question what you hear.

(yours in poetic buffonery, Tony.)

A SPRING-TIME MEET

As if the season that brings on
renewal of dormant nature
awakened the feelings of warmth
that 2 people
seeking out each other
had forgotten and
may have thought
these feelings
were out of reach.
The joy of such a meeeting.
The meeting was a joy.

(c)TPuma/MMXIII