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     This wall is enormous.
    This sidewalk.
    This canvas.

    It stretches on without end....

    But one rusty crooked nail is hammered into it.   And then pulled out and hammered in two inches to the left.  Used to hang a dreary portrait.

    One piece of black chalk is used to scribble obscenities over one another.

    An old paint brush is dipped into a used can of red paint and then sloppily wielded.

    This wall is nearly bare.
    This sidewalk could use some imagination.
    This canvas has but one color.

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    Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

    Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

    RiderPunch’s Poems (18)

    Title Comments Submitted
    Title Comments Submitted
    Untitled new poem 0 03/08/2012
    most likely a bad idea 0 01/18/2011
    Orange rhymes with Door-hinge 1 01/13/2011
    Life On Fire 2 01/04/2011
    Destinations 1 01/02/2011
    nimbus 1 12/14/2010
    The Moonlight, The Fool 1 12/13/2010
    Beaches in Black 1 11/17/2010
    Sir Ronald of Surfwood 0 10/13/2010
    Growing Season 0 10/06/2010
    Good Morning 0 10/05/2010
    Each and Every 3 09/19/2010
    Youth and Passion: Light up the sky 0 09/12/2010
    Youth and Passion: Arrival at the Sun. 2 09/01/2010
    Custom 0 08/30/2010
    Disappearance 3 08/29/2010
    Root 4 08/28/2010
    From a Far 2 08/28/2010
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