Of Thorns And Thistles, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @Brianrrs37 on Twitter)

The thickets, maggots, dead crickets
Expired fox bat dangles from the powerline
Ankle in the bear trap, not seen in time

Morbid thoughts of bells that toll
Relief from pain I peek at this goal
Shall I bounce off a hood and roll

In my brain, there is this mole
It hassles me, and want’s control
Daisies, sunflowers, die in flood

I want to shake this nefarious mood
It wants a blade, it wants some pills
It wants a balcony to over spill

I see the photon maker, in the sky
And pose the question as to why
These atoms in me, want me to die

But I would let them, sell me their lie.
(end)

Whoopie Is Right, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet FB/META and @Brianrrs37 on Twitter)

Lipton had chamomile tea
The students filled studio seats
Every week a different guest
Goldberg said it best

“Great” everyone can achieve
Yet she didn’t want them deceived
The ring of brass top of the class
To sit on the stage where she was at

For every Bill Gates, there are untold more
Software coders forever to be obscure
For every Tom Brady to throw a touchdown pass
There are millions more, who won’t be football lore

For every Beyonce, making worldwide tours
Most if they are lucky, sing at local bars
For every Jim Carry, famous for being funny
Countless will be remembered telling jokes to their family

For every Warren Buffet, making billions en masse
Most if they are lucky, move to middle class
For every JFK, or Mandela who has a say
They stand on the shoulders of all of us

Not trying to kill your mood, not trying to say give up
If the skies you go beyond we’ll find a star to boot
For every Plath and Poe, you should always know
You words are always priceless, while fame will come and go.
(end)

I want everyone who reads this to NEVER give up writing poetry. I mean that. Even if only ends up being a hobby or your therapy. You do and will touch people, and if you have only touched one, you have done your job. You will however touch countless people if you post here, and mostly without knowing you have.

Whoopie Goldberg said it best when she was a guest on “Inside The Actor’s Studio” hosted by James Lipton, when asked if they(the studio students) will ever sit where she was sitting, “You are all capable of being great actors, but most if not all of you will not sit where I am sitting.”

It sounds harsh, but it is true. I say this in all sincerity because I don’t want anyone here getting to a point in their lives where they think they have failed and gotten so depressed as to harm themselves.

Too much of society sells us the idea that unless you end up rich and wealthy you are worth less. That is bullshit to me.

EVERY ONE WHO POSTS THEIR POETRY HERE IS WORTH EVERYTHING. You bring empathy, compassion, beauty, thoughtfulness, thought provoking, and most importantly therapy for yourself and others. That has to be your top priority above all else. If you get lucky and get a book deal, we will all cheer for you. But know you are valued regardless.

The Rise, By Brianrrs37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet On FB/META and @Brianrrs37 on Twitter)

That has been said of history
To forget is to repeat misery
Beer Hall Putsch treachery

Scapegoat and vilify
Conspiracy theories
Are all lies

Night of long knives
Purging, democracy dies
Hear the innocent cries

Riefenstahl made a messiah
Goebbels accuse the other
Never to give them trials

Niemoller warned of firsts
The domino dam will burst
Despot everyone’s cursed

Night of broken glass
Lives today not in the past
The victims will be vast

Hispanics fleeing the sunshine state
LGBTQ face an unknown fate
Book bans a marquee trait

Lost their body autonomy
Forced birth is tyranny
Repeat not this history

Vodka, steaks, airlines
University, hotels, casinos
The failed bully knows

The indictment list grows
He claims they’re after you
He knows that isn’t true

The talk is all the same
When the fearful buy his game
Fascism on the rise,

Is where democracy always dies.
(end)

Eating My Pillow, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @Brianrrs37 on Twitter)

Mumblings about exits, and floatation devices
I’m a sardine, flat as printer paper
13 hours of this till it’s over?

Rumble jostle, steep upward slope
Almost an Apollo rocket launch
Yet to have lost my lunch

Back seat entertainment, there isn’t enough
To distract me from my biggest fear
Not James Bond, Or Big Bang Theory

Bling ding, the light goes on
Already there, not going anywhere
But sudden weightlessness

So brief, then TUMP BUMP,
BUMP, bump, bump, ditto
Feels like a fishtail slide too

Is there a barrel roll coming?
Slow shivers rattle
Like a wooden coaster

Never mind flight crew
I will skip the beef stew
On my pillow I will chew.
(end)

My health issues won’t allow me to fly anymore. But my biggest fear was turbulence. It says a lot about jet design to handle it, but also pilot skill. Even flying being the safest form of travel, the violent bumping of turbulence gets to me every time.

Be That Poet, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @Brianrrs37 on Twitter)

All poets fail, even Poe
All poets fail, even Plath
All Poets fail, even Thomas

We could memorize
Every word in every language
In all of human history
And put everyone of them
In all our poems

And never come close
To what nature does without words

All poets succeed, certainly Poe
All poets succeed, certainly Plath
All poets succeed, certainly Thomas

We will speak for nature humbly
Be that poet, the poet who refuses
To relinquish their images to obscurity

That way all poets live forever
The dead ones of the past
The future ones yet to be born
(end)

Nature is awe inspiring in both it’s constructive and destructive modes. Nothing compares to the grandeur of the universe. While the poet can do a fantastic job putting it into words, ultimately it pales to what nature does without words.

Hold On Ellie, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @Brianrrs37 on Twitter)

Ropes that bind the mind are the ugliest kind
Self doubt surely to blind, energy spent in time
Shouting with no voice, muffled screams of insecurity
Echoing into the empty, isolation in every location

Can they hear me, can they hear me?
They do, they are you, they feel the words you choose

Silver that once had shined, tarnished over time
The gold is in your ink, let not your dark thought’s sink
Into the despair of a tapped out well, you have passionate stories to tell

Can they read you, can they read you?
They are, right now, with welled eyes reading you.

You are that polished silver, with the dents and dings of life
You are the comfort to others, expressing your daily strife
You are the struggles written in the pen of pain and light.
(end)

This is an ode poem to a fellow poet Ellie Thomson. She is extremely expressive in a diary type style expressing her anxiety and struggles with her health issues.

Every time you write a poem, you remind me of my anxiety and my self doubt and my insecurities and pain. And my body’s failures. You are therapy to so many. Don’t ever forget that.

Fatal Wound, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @Brianrrs37 on Twitter)

This implement, my limb, that holds this pen
This companion, attached to me, my dearest friend
This composer, commissioned painter, if to meet an end

If not a word another to type, If not a sunset to come to mind
If not a forest in summer’s pine, if not a brook, the babbling kind
If not a snowcapped mountain peak, if not a couple for lodging to seek

If not for hearts, that pulsate faster, if not for passion, both are after
If not for ducklings that follow suit, if not for kittens that purr so cute
If not for stiletto blades that stab, if not for poison made in the lab

This implement, my limb, that holds this pen
This companion, attached to me, my dearest friend
This orator, spectator, observer, a sponge I must be

It is a part of me, I take the pigments of occurrence
I paint the hues in defiance, I hope to gain your compliance
The plotters execute, must be resolute, medicine arrowroot

If not for the Vesuvius’s dead, ghastly plaster, cavities fed
If not for cubists on the wall, if not for melting clocks that call
If not for dots that painted parks, if not for thinkers with fist to chin

If not for Oedipus, oracles begin, to tell him his father, he did in
If not for the drive within, if one were to cut of my limb
If one were to deny me my pen, surely it would be a fatal wound.

Bad Habit, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @Brianrrs37 on Twitter)

Oh ashes
What an addict
You made of me

I keep telling myself
That an end is of my will
At the time of my choosing

But the nicotine is in me
The cowboy call, the desert
Of the camel, binds me

I inhale you, deeply
Like the opening line
In Blondie’s 11:59

I am not scientist
On a sidewalk being social
But I did get satisfaction

I grab you after every meal
I grab you during every poker game
I grab you, between my fingers

Sometimes on my ear you linger
I turn you over in my pack
In hopes I get some luck back

Patches and pills, won’t cure my ills
In my bedroom, your sweet smoke fills
When I can’t have you, I get the jones
(end)

Stellar, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @Brianrrs37 on Twitter)

You are not just a star
You are a super nova
Those far away, are blinded
By your beauty

You are not just a star
You are a neutron star
Those next to you are crushed
By their desire to be near you

You are not just a star
You are Sirius
You give off pheromones
That make them delirious

You are not just a star
You are Sagittarius A Star
The event horizon bar
Do you like spaghettification?
(end)

Sagittarius A Star is a super massive black hole in which, as you know not even light can escape. “Spaghettification”, is like not only being compressed but pulled apart like stretching taffy making it hair thin and thinner and thinner and longer. That is the theory of what goes on inside a black hole.

Impossible, By Brian37 ( By Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @Brianrrs37 on Twitter)

The muse changes colors
With chameleon skill
Camouflage blots
Green, beige, brown, black

Impossible patterns emerge
The quill sparks my urge
Crimson spy, letters surge
Roses die, in winter’s gloom

It’s jiggles slowly forward
Blending in, on a branch
Methodically, in a trance
Words begin to dance

Slowly like a waltz in the woods
Stalked by the raptors , they read your words
But hiding is futile, discovery inevitable
Enigma machine creates this world

Oh chameleon, I implore you
Shoot out your tongue
I will be that dragon fly
You devour for fun

Camouflage I know
You were not supposed to do
Green, beige and black and blue
Try paisley, or plaid

I dare you, make me glad
Argyle maybe, won’t make me sad
Checkered amoeba came out to play
They shouldn’t exist you say?

The poet will always make a way.