Static

It's the sound of your voice
cutting into my thoughts,
a sound that disrupts me,
designed to keep me distraught.

A noise I can't define,
though always annoying,
marks painful days and nights
with its coming and going.

Never any warning,
irreverently brought,
unintelligible,
with never a concise thought.

Gathering 'round the edge
of my subconscious dreams,
drowning my goals and plans
within your motionless streams.

Unable to move on,
you choose to torment me,
reverberating still,
to die ecstatically.

Lora Frikken ~ 7-23-06

Debris

Debris:
a dried, long-dead flower,
its stalk trapped on the windowsill,
caught forever,
leaning just over the ledge,
head bowed,
forced to remember the days
it bloomed in the golden sun.
Now, no one will touch its petals;
no one will speak its name aloud,
this most beautiful of blossoms,
driven from lust to dust:
Debris

Lora Frikken ~ 7-3-06

I Don't Get It...You Won't Either!

Do you always speak that way,
without a rhyme to your name?
Do you always sound so obscure,
without ever trying to explain?
Does everyone else understand
the ideas you so proudly proclaim?
Does everything you say make sense,
except to my own little brain?
Could there be some other language
that I just cannot ascertain?
Do some poets go to a special school
to practice sounding so lame?
Is it your hi-brow, super grammar,
which will surely drive me insane?
Or is it your "pick-a-word" mentality,
that makes me feel such disdain?
Do you know what I am saying,
and would you like me to abstain?
Do you get it, like I don't get it,
and is my poem becoming profane?
Will you disregard this entry,
comparing it to a migraine?
Well, now you know how I feel,
hurry, please, my shot of Novocaine!

Lora Frikken ~ 7-3-06

Poetic Justice

There is no such thing as justice
where poetry is involved;
No two people ever write the same
once an idea has evolved.

The same topic may be the issue,
but once each poet begins,
everything else is up for grabs:
Gone is poetic self-discipline.

Rhyme may fall by the wayside;
Reason may cease to exist;
Sense may lose its sensibility:
But onward the poet persists.

Following a thought or a dream,
or measuring each beat,
whatever ends up on the page
becomes each poet’s suite.

So, create to your heart’s content,
continue to fill your cup:
Whatever blows your hair back,
Or your skirt up!

Lora Frikken ~ 7-3-06