Literary Yard

Search for meaning

By: Domonique

P & P

A painter the poet acquainted, a lovely woman, her name Leroux.
Her paintings were splendid, especially her works by the Sea.
The songwriter was a hungry poet; Leroux offered him some food;
The scent of the Blue World came to meet them with the breeze.

The poet told the painter of her talents;
The painter wished to tell the poet of her passions,
But never did.
The poet saw this, deciding to bid the painter farewell.
And boy, o boy, did the poet leave with class!

To this day,
The painter leaves her passions upon the canvas.
Her paintings are exquisite,
Though her heart lives in ruins.



Scratch, scratch.
Itch, itch!
“You got any more of that good good, sir?”
I need it! I need it! I need more!
“Well, of course, come on through that door.”
Scratch, scratch.
Itch, itch!
“Would you like the usual dose, or shall I double down?”
“Just give it to me, man. I need it now!”
The good doctor filled the syringe with the juice.
Love was injected, the dose a deuce.
The junky’s inner smile nibbled on some sugar cane,
Life’s narcotic rained in the vein.


Piano Man

I strolled into a room following a tune,
Stumbling upon a man playing his piano.
Lenny, I learned his name to be.
In the room alone,
Reposed ol’ Lenny and me.
His hair grey, His spirit gold
His fingers darting athwart the ivory fold.
I lit a cigarette to listen and enjoy,
His lined countenance sang to me his Joy.
Ol’ Lenny was blood of mine,
But I did not know the man.
As I left him, Ol’ Lenny,
I thanked him for his time.
I did not know the man,
But he was blood of mine.



With a wan oar and bung knee did I finally come to see the light.
Then a splash!
A long-haired woman with a raving tail…
I turned my sinking boat toward romance, paddling with all my might to no avail.



Walking nowhere fast,
in between the future and the past,
the bowman’s arrow climbs and falls.

He walks a surreal road,
forever changing are the faces;
grown weary from his restless stride,
his eyes close to quondam places.

A collar curled upon jade,
the notes of summer fade,
a trumpet in a park,
music making life,
a train rattling bye.

Myriad beaks tucked in trees,
tobacco smoke in the breeze,
sculpted memories return,
twirl , depart , twirl again.

A strip of dancing boughs,
soft rain meets the leaves,
at the bridge he pays the toll,
and the jazz man plays his tune.


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