Not The Poem I Wanted To Write

Some words defy ink
refusing to flow through
created quills onto sacrificed trees.

Making camp in your psyche
taunting you to pursue
feeding on your failure.

You set complicated traps
and they spring them with a stick
while talking about you behind your back.

So you find beauty and peace
in the revelation that
some are meant to live wild and untamed.

Then they seduce you with
whispers and flashes of leg
to lure you back into the hunt.

Not content to be wild and free
they strive to a common goal:
Superiority.

Some words defy ink
refusing to flow through
created quills onto sacrificed trees.

Window

Creation gazed at through

man manipulated sand,

loses something in translation.

The palette of sky

painted on a canvas of pane

leaves questions.

Fulfillment of breeze

filtered by mesh

removes contentment.

Places easiest to see God

via worldly windows

is altered.

Conversations with God

I know how it is.
Why question you
knowing you like to withhold answers?

I know you’re in control.
Why do I insist on being a radical
in a religion that rewards conformity?

I know you have heard it all before.
Why do I keep on asking questions with
no answers apparent?

I desire a peace that passes understanding.
Why am I preordained to lay down unsatisfied
in a world that revolves around satisfaction?

I read Habakkuk.
Why do I not learn
from mistakes of previous prophets?

I know that I must cause you to sigh.
Why did you tell me to stand in the gap
if you did not want to hear what I think?

I know how it is.
Why question you
knowing you like to withhold answers?

An American Haiku

Walking by the wall
by the land that use to cry
for huddled masses

-Scott Brewer

She wonders as if she was lost

By Scott

She wonders as if she was lost.
Living a life painted with lost dreams.
So deep into what could have been,
she ignores what is now.

She wanders as if she was lost.
Mistaking motion for motivation
Thinking that hopeless is a cause,
she lives weary and void of victory.

("He loved her, and he would love her until the day he was too old for loving -- but he could not have her. So he tasted the deep pain that is reserved only for the strong, just as he had tasted for a little while the deep happiness." - FSF)

-Scott

Snake Rock

by scott

A conversation that is stereotypically
West Virginia.
A brother your childhood
sworn enemy.
Sitting beside you in your
four-wheel drive.
That you finally own thanks to Matthew
and a Volvo.
Driving through ruts and puddles on a
rumor of a road.
Till you find what they call snake rock
standing on the cliff.
You carry on a conversation of
awe and silence

A Day at the Gallary

To stare
in an artistic haze
turn a corner
an unexpected Van Gough.
timeless brush strokes,
a random realization
Vincent purchased this Canvas.

A Boy and A Girl

C dry wink
Teddy Grahams
Jello lime
Jello grape

From Whence it Came

From Whence It Came
(a wv country boy attempts a slam poem)

If I read another poem about poetry, I will puke.
And not a polite “that did not agree with me” puke,
but an on my knees, sweating, gut-wrenching,
stomach-empting, crying for death, too may shots of Cuervo puking.

How did poetry get jacked by academia?
The voice of resistance, the word of truth,
the lovers lie, the story-tellers craft
being held captive in an Ivory tower.

We are on the attack, led by Nuyorican poets
and other honest voices of streets and mountains
Following a path blazed by Bukowski,
returning art to its birth.

We will not be ignored
as you slam on slam
But we are returning poetry
to ourselves.

Common folk, common poets
with our story to share, searching,
struggling, failing, hurting, dying,
and dreaming of expressing it all.

Practical Poetry

I sat down in my big chair
To read a little Billy Collins today
I did not get very far
Because of the voices of ghosts.

I could hear my fathers sigh,
As he mumbles under his breath,
“That will not get you far,
why waste the day.”

I could hear my mother scold
(She has never said anything under her breath.)
“Read something real
a practical book is what you need.”

As I shook those old voices from my head
Something moved in the corner.
I jerked my head,
Only to see a Roach.

I jumped from chair barefoot
(because shoes hurt my ankles)
and rushed to the scene.
I took a swing and missed.

Then he moved again.
I brought my copy of “Picnic Lighting”
Down fast and sharp
And smashed it on the floor

Parents are not always right,
Old voices are a joke
My practical poetry took me far
And the roach is dead on the floor.