by Richard Bargdill © 2008

                        My dreams are held

                        Inside my head

                        Like pictures drawn

                        On top of sand

                        And when I wake

                        From my bed

                        I must take care

                        Not to shake

                        The sleep too quickly

                        From my head 
 

I knew

he was                                    e

a good guy

by the way                                               z

he                       n

                 s

                                             e

                                                           e

                                                                                      d

                                                                                          .

  by Richard Bargdill © 2008                                                     

Because

I can’t be

what I want 

I have to

destroy

what I am. 

The poet’s job

is to make the public feel

what they miss

when they watch

those tragedies

at six. 

 You’ve got to watch

what you swallow

when you eat

in front of

the TV

                                                          .

Nice day out here

Perfect

Sounds like a fire somewhere

Must be

Is that the Johnson’s boy

Looks so

That’s some good lemonade

Hits the spot. 

I like to look at clouds. 

Their shapes,

their forms,

their meanings

might even

be more temporary

than ours. 

I used a screw driver

I used a wrench 

trying to make changes

in that wench. 

Looks like

there’s some

pond scum

in your gene pool. 

Science wants

to measure and measure

and measure the measurements

and measure the measuring

and for good measure

measure the measurer

who never lives up

to the measure

of the other measurers. 

When you give ground

to gain ground

you rarely get back

to where you were before 

I could have fallen in love with you in an hour

but I only had a minute with you each of sixty days. 
 

You don't need to suffer

to be an artist. 

You're going to suffer anyway. 

What you have to do

is channel that suffering

to open its depth,

to peer into it

instead of turning away

Needless suffering

is what war is for.  

The thing to remember

that is most often forgot

is that what most people see

as your limitations

are most likely your virtues.

The meek

will inherit the earth,

but the assholes

will sue them for it. 

You are the color of bruises:

Black and blue,

Green and red,

yellow and brown,

As if you are trying to be all the races

of a war torn world. 

I’ve thought deeply

but my mind shovel

couldn’t get past

that layer

of middle class clay. 

I know

he was a dyslexic atheist

because he always said

“dog saw a lived.” 

So gingerly I fling

my life

towards death I think

Self-discovery could be

a symphony

of my own circularity

The plague I encountered

on the way

to the market.

                I fought

                myself

                to death