Word Circus Poetry

The Ghost of Mayakovsky
poet of politics and social change
pulls away from this century
in a smoke-screaming bi-plane
and drops bomb-bouquets all over
the frail maps of history.
trance ends
he returns us to
the essential energies of creation.
He reminds us
over and over
of how far we must go
in love
in light
in poetry
in revolution.

Copyright © 1997 by KC Pocius
A Circus of Words
Beat words, poetry from the mouth to your brain
the main recycling engine of your head man
man this is not cool music, no way it's
thoughts against the face, no race involved
broken discourse running head long to feed
the soul full of food for you to think
maybe there is something to this poetry
Jazz sounds against the ear lobes
strobes and eyelashes beating down against
the flashes of TV strains and corporate gains
Which pocket is your bottom line in
Which part of your soul holds the note
that we are speaking with our thought instruments
you can't lose
when you choose
to listen to
listen to
listen to the words

Copyright © 1997 by Brett Simpson
Stop The Madness
the gun that shot Yitzhak Rabin
is the same gun that killed John Kennedy
and it's the same
the same gun
the same that got Bobby, too

the bullet that pierced Dr. King
is the same bullet that was found in Lee Harvey Oswald
it's the same
the same bullet
that John Wayne used in the movies

that killed all the bad guys
and it's the same
the same guys that assassinated Archbishop Romero
and six nuns in Chile

yes, it's a rifle
the same rifle that was used in Rambo
that was used in Vietnam
and is now used in Palestine

It's the same
the same rifle that Patty Hearst used
that was melted down and blew up the Oklahoma Federal Building
and other buildings in Sarajevo

It's the guns and the bullets and the rifles
in the movies
in the video arcades
in the hands of small children
in the pockets of terrorist
in the caches of governments and armies

Copyright © 1997 by KC Pocius
1,000 Eyes (for Pablo Neruda)
I am a man of 1,000 eyes
Can't you see how I fall like a leaf
shivering into love
How the day spawns my quiet mourning
for the dreams of mankind to be fulfilled
Until all the people of this world are smiling

You spurn the truth inside my violet eyelids
Even at night while I sleep in the arbor, under the trees
You find me in the speckled minutes of dreams
a dove arching in a serenade of souls

I am a man of 1,000 eyes
With tears pouring like rain over the valleys of America
Tempted by beauty
I chase black dogs into the darkness of night
looking for recipes of happiness
Where can they be hidden, my love?

You are the shining star in the depths
bringing peace and mad desire to my heart
Your voice sings a song of passions
untouched by the sadness of memories

I am a man of 1,000 eyes
as the days ebb night into the intricacies of love,
there are millions of treasons against my soul
and petalled roses lashing out from some
page of poetry written on every man's heart
of hope and mysteries and mythical animals of the sky
I am a man
    a man, a man
      of 1,000 eyes

Copyright © 1997 by Brett Simpson

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