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Post by preston » Wed Apr 23, 2003 7:02 am

Archived Poems


endearing mediocrity

accolades and honor
given too freely
become as meaningless as
last year’s election promises

a painter who proclaims his greatness too loudly
is likely to put too high of a price on his work
if your image does nothing more than fill the bare white wall
perhaps you should choose another subject

the writer who says “i think, therefore you should too”
is no true scholar
if your words are nothing more than the sum of their components
perhaps you should turn your gaze elsewhere

excellence is achieved and not bestowed
by a quickly penned “hurrah”
the artist who seeks the quick fix of patterned praise
and can’t abide the words of the critic
does himself an injustice
and may never discover his true and hidden talent

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sweet dreams

the child sleeps
as if there were no tomorrow
i envy her, her peaceful dreams
grounded as they are
in the unrealities of youth's sweet innocence

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midlife retreat

the waist thickens
the hair thins
a strategic withdrawal
from the front lines of life
to the safety of the recliner
and the well worn remote control

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demon dream

move soft
matching the menace
whose steps fall faintly from above
ever in pursuit
descending slowly
keeping to the shadows
the brush of his anger
against roughworn railing
halfway down the stairs now

do i strike a stance
taking the offense
give way to fear
and flee

Hah !
once more the chase is on

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the boys of turtle creek

“welcome to the age of aquarius”
she tells me
unlocking the door to her apartment
13 floors above the street
a bedroom view of turtle creek
where all the boys drive beemers
with rainbows in the windows

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bless me father for i have sinned

what is this desire you have
to know the intimate details of my crime
mere curiosity ?
or something more

knowing as you do
the who, the where, the what
doesn’t seem to be enough

i would not try to explain to you my actions
or ask your understanding
lest everyman think he can confess his sins
in the name of the father and of the son and of the holy spirit
and be forgiven

and my enjoyment in the telling
you must have seen it written on my face

if you should ask me then
“would you do it again ?”
i would have to say yes
if the opportunity arose

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Last edited by preston on Sun Dec 17, 2006 3:48 pm, edited 3 times in total.

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Forever Silent Friend
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Post by preston » Sun Apr 27, 2003 5:25 pm

Dave Brubeck, on a rainy sunday afternoon

She stands fluid in a shaft of pale moonlight
Stylishly attired
Yet with a plain and simple bearing.
A welcome escape
In this landscape of wanton excess.

Not quite a damsel in distress.
More, a lady in need of assistance
Unacquainted with the realities of solitary passage
And I, not quite a knight in shining armor
More, a passing gentleman who stops to lend a hand

I take her arm
And lead her to the safety of a well lit doorway
Where we stand in silence
And take of measure each other
And this evolving scene

A reenactment of so many chance encounters
Which could yet go either way
So i add laughter in the distance
And strains of sparse piano jazz
From a little cafe just down the way

Where we make our way hurriedly
Pausing for a moment at the corner.
Where not content to wait
We take each other's hand and cross against the light
Anxious now to see what lies ahead.

A table in the corner
With an unobstructed view
Where just beyond her profile
A trio of nameless musicians
Takes the stage

And here it all begins to fall apart
This rainy daydream fading
Into convoluted melodies
And non-chromatic phrasings
Once again

Last edited by preston on Tue Oct 23, 2007 8:53 pm, edited 4 times in total.

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Forever Silent Friend
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**john doe**

Post by preston » Fri Jan 16, 2004 1:04 pm

after the rain

a faint chalk outline
disappears into the pavement
torn and tattered crime scene tape
now trampled underfoot

Admin note:
Nominated for Poem of the Week on 1/16/2004

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Post by preston » Tue Jul 10, 2007 11:46 am


mercado juarez
where all the young boys gather
to watch the young girls

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Lost Love Blues

She don’t love me
I can see
She don’t know
Just how much she's hurt me
She stuck me out in Hooterville
There’s nothing I can do
So I sit here on this front porch
And sing these lost love blues

She took away my cadillac
She’s so cruel
Put me in a minivan
You know that’s so uncool
She left me here in Hooterville
What am I supposed to do
Guess I'll sit here on my front porch
And sing these lost love blues

If you see her
Tell her I’m fine
I still hoping
That one day she’ll be mine
Stuck out here in Hooterville
Nothin' much here to do
So I sit here on this front porch
And sing these lost love blues


dedicated to LadyS ... my one true love
and sung to the tune of "Poor Boy Blues"
by Mark Knopfler and Chet Atkins

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the bagman

there was a bold fellow named Gerry
who tended to be quite contrary
the man like to sit
dispensing his wit
now the poets are all somewhat wary

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antics on the wind

the paper dragon
rises with the wind
removed from earthly bonds
or so it seems

in august condescending

cavorting with a curiously gray hawk
(if a dragon can be said to cavort)
who tips his wings in casual greeting
each, rising and falling on a whim
in seemless synchronicity

the energizing tug
a twinge of envy on my part
feet planted firmly
on solid ground

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Personal Preference

sometimes i dream in color
sometimes in black and white
sometimes it's only shades of gray

i prefer the colors

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Realities (a sixties flashback)

the early morning silence is broken by the shockwave
the windows rattle in their frames
reality retreats
hiding like a frightened child
replaced by images
from a long forgotten past
images not of my own choosing
a new reality, thrust upon me

the little girl from across the street
circling at the edge of the driveway
she sees me standing at the screen door
"come on ... they're gonna start without us !!"
i can't come out today
"are you sick ??"
"are you being punished ??"
"then why can't you come out and PLAYYY ??"
my mother says i have to stay inside today

i watch her ride off
her long blond hair streaming out behind
the distance between us growing ever wider


the celebration is in full swing when we arrive
a young man dances around us
dressed in the traditional black pajamas and wide straw hat
of the vietnamese peasant farmer
the little girl moves closer and takes my hand

swept wing bombers appear on the horizon
break formation in a slow and graceful aerial ballet
climbing , they disappear into a clear blue sky

sparkling vapor trails
summer sun
rain silently down around
the shadow of a little boy
standing all alone

from somewhere in the distance
the sound of children playing
all those games that children like to play
realities of their own choosing
their laughter carried on the wind
across the years

they make it look so easy


"And I dreamed I saw the bombers
Riding shotgun in the sky
And they were turning into butterflies
Above our nation" - Joni Mitchell

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exhausted lovers
entwined in the day’s last light
she likes to cuddle

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The Dallas Public Library

“poetry is for sissies”
or so says the chubby little boy with the red face
his sister sticks her tongue out at him
and looks at me inquiringly
inquiring children make me nervous
“your brother is a jerk” i whisper
as i place my copy of “a collection of american erotic verse”
on the very top shelf
sliding it back out of sight
she asks me if i like emily dickinson
i tell her i prefer robert frost

the not quite homeless man
stares intently at his magazine
the smell of stale cigarette smoke permeates the air around him
he sees me looking at him, and nervously drops his gaze
i’m curious about his taste in periodicals
amatuer sleuth that i am
casually making my way down the aisle of newspapers on sticks
and coming up silenty behind him
he’s staring at a lingerie ad in a cosmopolitan
a young girl in a high cut purple thong
barechested, with her arm across her breasts
when i was a boy, i had to sneak a look at my father's playboys
to see pictues like that

the little girl in the rangers cap
wants to know why they’re lying about hitler
her mother is ignoring her
i wonder what her interest is in world war two history
for some reason, it makes me uncomfortable
she seems out of place here
she’d look much better in the romance novels section

two college girls have made themselves at home
sitting on the floor in the middle of the natural history section
one of them has a book on whales open on her lap
they’re discussing the japanese’s bad habit of killing minke whales
in the name of scientific research
i think about flashing them my greenpeace member card
but i don’t want to intrude

the elderly man in the brown fedora and blue windbreaker
is trying to decide if he’s really interested in quantum physics
he looks like someone i’d enjoy talking with
we could sit and ponder the mysteries of the universe over coffee

the lady in front of me at the checkout is being a real pain in the ass
she’s arguing with the oriental girl behind the desk over her late charges
“you have a balance of $1.25 on your account”
they don’t call them fines anymore
i’m tempted to offer to pay her charges myself just to shut her up
she wants to recheck 5 books
what the hell, if you can’t finish them in 3 weeks ...

the girls name is asuka
she has an east coast accent
i’m careful not to comment on the japanese whaling industry’s bad habits
she scans my card and smiles at me
“no fines ?” i ask
we both crack up
“reading material for the holiday ?” she asks
we exchage pleasantries
discussing the change in the weather and our respective holiday plans
she puts the books in a nice neat little pile and slides them across the counter
i wish her a happy thanksgiving
and she tells me i should have a nice day

on the way out to the car i pass by the newspaper stands
a headline catches my eye
“is hip hop dead ?”
who cares
i’ve got plenty of reading material
and a whole lot of free time

Back to Index :arrow:


In the blink of an eye
time changes places

an old woman stands
upon a crowded city street

a young girl dancing
in casual disregard
for what tomorrow brings

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Remembrances of Guanajuato

each morning upon awakening
i make my way out into the courtyard
the flagstones damp with morning dew
the poets long since gone
disappeared once more into the night
in drunken stupor

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first and last date
(the importance of having a designated driver)

the jumbled sentences
bring puzzled stares
stumbling through the undergrowth
strange faces everywhere

each new confusion
takes you that much deeper in
searching for a way out
hide behind that stupid grin

your chance for salvation
has come and gone
your card's rejected
that account's been overdrawn

Back to Index :arrow:

A deaf girl asks, what is poetry ?

hmmmmm ...

~|~ words combined in new and never before imagined ways ~ | ~


~|~ textured ... intricately layered ~|~

feel lace pizza
bread sauce cheese pepperoni

~|~ immerse yourself in imagery ~|~

water head pictures
grow beauty

~|~ love, hate, joy ~|~

( love )
Prince Charming
i love love

( hate )
i hate hate

( joy )
Charlie Chaplin

~|~ loneliness, sorrow, happiness ~|~

( loneliness )
i want swan

( sorrow )
daughter no talk
mother cry

( happiness )
blind man alone
girl skip
take hand

~|~ a little off the top ~|~

i hear smile

~|~ waving at the wind ~|~

wave hello
wave ocean
wave hair
wave flag
navy woman Wave

~|~ poetry, at the speed of sound ~|~

electricity motion fast er
sound slow er
electricity motion poetry
sound not

* Preston and Kimmie 1995 *

I wrote this with a young girl I met on a Sierra Club outing in 1995. Although some of it may seem nonsensical, I went ahead and included the entire "poem" because I thought it gave a unique perspective on how a 13 year old deaf girls sees and "hears" the world around her.

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General Poetry

She Speaks in Sign

fingers move
the words flow out like water
painting pictures
in undulating waves

people stare
worlds collide
they never take the time to listen
they never try to understand

fingers move
an aerial ballet
intricately choreographed
leaves me hypnotized

fingers touch
a faint electric spark
tell me everything
i want to know it all

two worlds merge
she puts her hand to my lips
so sensual
and so surreal

fingers move
over smooth white skin
with soft and gentle strokes

fingers move
in silent rhapsody
a delicately scored
song of sign

Originally posted at: She Speaks in Sign

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Humor and Nonsense Poetry

Rockin' the Tool Shed

i finally got rid of ol’ bubba
and got me a cute hubba hubba
when the work day is done
she says “let’s have some fun”
then she gives me a sweet rubba dubba

Originally posted at: Rockin' the Tool Shed

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Prose and Stories

Breakfast at Denny's
Originally posted at: Breakfast at Denny's

Breakfast at Denny's (part 2)
Originally posted at: Breakfast at Denny's (part 2)

My Best Friend's Wife
Originally posted at: My Best Friend's Wife

Last edited by preston on Tue Oct 23, 2007 8:57 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Re: Preston

Post by heinzs » Sun Oct 21, 2007 12:50 am

archive updated to BBCode version
An' it harm none, do what ye will. Blessed Be.
My Poet's Page Archive | Topics I've started

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