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‘A Living Poem’ and other poems

By: Richard LeDue

A Living Poem

    I’m still alive
    as long as you read this,
    even after silence tells me
    the truth about gods
    and worms wonder why
    my eyes taste nothing
    like apples.


    A coffee stained collected love poems

      of Pablo Neruda
      whispers midnight regrets
      as it lies with dust under stars
      that burn bright as new lovers,
      only for their deaths to go
      mostly unnoticed
      because we prefer light
      over the darkness that surrounds us.

      Our hair in the shower drain
      my newest love poem,
      written without a single word
      but with dirt under my fingernails
      and a sore back that complains
      to the ceiling,
      while the sky hears nothing
      as it poses poetically.


      True Rhythm

        Bukowski drunk again,
        typing up another poem
        and a little pissed at being
        in this one, even though he died
        when I was in junior high,
        being taught how to rhyme,
        when true rhythm is spilling your drink
        and getting to it
        before all that’s left
        is an empty glass and a half dead ice cube,
        but most today want broken glass,
        as if blood more poetic
        than 1 AM words on a page
        next to empty bottles,
        staring like ghosts
        we ‘re too smart to believe in.

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