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word streams
Rhythm I saw it in a crossword What else was I thinking of? About some words not coming into shape. And staring out at the abyss of some indecision. Of space in my mind. Waiting for something to make sense. There are some steps to this. I'll figure out sometime.
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Summer Nights Bourbon Barbecue Summer nights, bourbon barbecue, smoke ranches in the sky, clashing glasses, Ian Van Dahl and drunken voices over the fence. Talking football, talking shop, in a flap and talking crap. pert and flirting and unskirting comes the fight. Jilted lovers undercovers, would be lovers undiscovered. the thin and fatio under parasol and on the patio. The cuckold husband, no solution, lost in the din and noise pollution. The sociable and anti social, the boastful and the meek, scranning wine and scraggy meat. The neighbours all have complaints but they themselves are never saints. Summer nights and some are pregnant. Full moon rising with its advertising the swaying stars in racing cars. No one’s sober, no one’s sane the fireworks stuck in next door’s drain. Early morning, the sun’s not dressed, stumbles through the debris in his pants and vest. The king of puke with his golden hangover graffities on next door’s Rover. Boobtube, youtube Ian Van Dahl it’s all ‘castles in the Sky’!
Wordstream by Trev Teasdel from Holograms from the Lilac Canopy (Trev’s most recent poetry ebook available to read / download on Issuu http://issuu.com/trevteasdel/docs/hologramsfromthelilaccanopy__1_
National Poetry Daze
National Poetry Daze - Trev Teasdel Poetry is not what it seems. It refuses to wear a tie. It doesn't have a day, even when personified. It doesn't care for rhyme, prefers to remain stress-free and it's syllables are private. Poetry is not the military, it doesn't have to stand in line, salute pre-conceived ideas, march on the orders of General Opinion, be confined to the barracks of books. Poetry has a problem with meaning - it can send out multiple messages with one cute metaphor, embrace paradox, be exploratory, and hesitate before fixed ideas. Poetry is your wild card, it thrives on its poverty to create a world out of nothing, it can challenge 'reality' with a flagon of Salvador Dali, it can laugh in the face of 'rules' and forge paths unknown to pens. Poetry is the primordial soup, formless, opaque, hydrogenous with the promise of light; of stars and the uniqueness of it's own universe. Poetry is 'Dark Matter', continuing to confound the scientific mind, measurable by intuition and insight thinking. Poetry can be all things, and nothing and everything in between. There is nothing it can't do, nothing it can't be. You can mould your own version and train it as a pet, feed it and water it with your very own concepts, discipline it, walk it on a lead but poetry is a vapour refusing to be kettled, forming huge travelling clouds, giving life through it's rain. Don't mess with poetry - it's not what it seems!
