Baked Alaska

Baked Alaska is my heart
Unseen pain that won't depart
Iceberg tip that is my tear
Deepest ocean full of fear
To touch a star that hangs close by
But reach forever when I try
A reader's mind I try to read
But writer's block here has no feed
Children starve since unseen birth
Without their being there is no Earth
Tidal destruction making waves
On other side makes space for graves
Antithesis of all matter
Touching hands then instant scatter
Precious time to spend in thought
Realism, meaning, future, nought

©2004 Hey Hey

Wow...

You just get better every time, my friend.

Really beautiful, really wise, and, best of all...

There is some indefinable something about your work... I wish I could define it, but it's by definition indefinable!

It's like... the feeling I get when I read T. S. Eliot's "Four Quartets." A meditative, contemplative quality of remove and quietude, of being at the still point, of reflection.

Your poetry is profoundly thoughtful.

I love it, and it only gets better. You really do have something.

Maybe this is why the fools sh*t on you, like they used to always do on me, and still do on occasion; when they see someone who really is a serious poet, they can't stand it, and develop a special sort of abusive/destructive behavior, trying to stamp out the threat in their midst, screaming about "free speech" all the while. And the irony--the bitterly delicious irony--of it all is that the only one speaking freely, and not from puerile scripts, is the reviled one, the hunted: the poet. The true poet, whom they feel they must tear down and beat into submission at all costs.

Well, by God, they sure as F**KING hell haven't beaten me down yet, and they're never going to. If you are called to glory, you have to fight like a son-of-a-b*tch all the way up, because they are trying to pull you down all the way.

I did it anyway. So there. And you're doing it too.

This is the poetry board. Some of these people need to stay up there where the drugs are discussed, and let the poetry happen here. I don't know one mushroom from another, but I am the poetry specialist around here; my time is valuable. I don't have time to f**k around with losers. Nor do you.

What I mean to say is: keep up the good work. I'm behind you all the way.

wow, you really are an inspiration. Thanks, good friend.

To speak plainly--as if I haven't already!--I believe, by God, that I am called to be a great poet, and I mean to do my very best. And I think I'm doing pretty damned well at it too. And I believe the same of you.

I know I'm pissed-off today, but that's OK; it makes me honest: I've had it with losers. f**k 'em. I would leave this place in a New York minute, but why let the losers and the weirdos have it? I want it! It's mine, damn it! It's mine, it's yours, it's Silke's... I'm not letting go.

So f**k 'em all.

I'm out. I'm going to go finish a sonnet, and then I'll come back and put it up. If any losers sh*t on the floor, take your pooper-scooper and carefully move it to the "Mods Only" board, where Shawn will analyze it for the IP number and other pertinent information germane to banning. I think people might be wising up around here... finally.

Let's hope so.

See ya later.

Oh, and if anybody calls you "Hitler," remember that I'm part Jewish, and I don't think that's clever. These kids have no idea what they're talking about when they call serious, hard-working intellectuals by the name of that filthy little swine; it is they who resemble him, not us.

Aww! lovely Hey Hey!

misty..

Many thanks.