Tuesday, August 16, 2016

A New Poem

A Poem Defined and Redefined
(sort of)


poem |ˈpōəmpōm| noun                              what I write
a piece of writing that partakes of the nature of                                           a piece of writing that is speech but does not conform
both speech and song that is nearly always                                                to any predetermined structure. Using literary devices
rhythmical, usually metaphorical, and often                                             and free association to convey feelings, emotion and to
exhibits such formal elements as meter,                                                      better tell a story as experienced by a nut job.
rhyme, and stanzaic structure.


So, do I write poetry? Not if you are a college professor, but if you are a 16-year-old girl who shops at Hot Topic, then yes, I write poetry. I have been a poet for over 30 years and I have hundreds of notebooks full of poems in a range of styles. This, though, is an introduction to my new style of poetry. 

The Danny Mollohan Modern Poem

an example:


The Story of Apple's and Bee's

 I'm never happy. You can check my notes from '92 to now. And on, I am sure. 

Those days were dark ones, but now my eyes have adjusted; dimness feels like home. A candle for my sunshine and anything less than death can almost cheer me up. I laugh when all is just "fucked". That seems simple and quaint as a concept. 

You'll have to try harder for a punch in the face won't cut it. You could stab me in the neck, toss me a grenade, or hit me with a semi truck (18 wheels). So, I'm so sorry, sorry you can not really hurt me, I guess? Not that I am tough, it's just that my skin is rough. Over time I have taken too much. Google "callous". My eyes have been blackened, nose flattened, arms snapped in half, twenty-eight daggers in my back, briars in my face, thorns in this side and that, bricks have made pancakes out of toes (this little piggy went splat), shins bashed by batons, and still not a sting. Bring, bring, bring, bring on more pain, pain, pain or pain. I am curious. You are furious that those powerful hands can't break the smile on my face.


But the smiles are not real, and they never were. Emotions are background noise; wind chimes on the front porch. 

I wait for a letter. 

One that reads, "It is time to say 'goodbye'," and who would I say those words to? No one comes to mind.

Maybe if my toys were of mankind?

I spend most of my days 
stuck in dreams 
and playing this charade 
is meaningless. 

Call it life or call it dice --live, don't, or snake-eyes. 

Worry ages my face. I have yet to age a day since 1995 while I waited to say 'good-bye' to a familiar name/face. The last time those words really hurt like a bee sting. My heartache was premature but she started the rock rolling. She offered me an apple and I took the first bite. For twenty years I have been pushing. I still have not moved on and have barely moved the boulder. It is twenty-four hours here,  in my only valley. Where this myth earned his name. One I can't say without giving away the whole story. I have, to anyone with a high school diploma, hopefully. I remember the apple, bee too.

Blaming you is all I do.

Dreaming of that pain
which never went away, 
 just aged, matured
and grew stronger 
more  potent.

Made my entire life go wrong. The track was set but broken like all my bones and grew back jagged, rundown, raw and ragged. With this smile on my face, every time misplaced, disgraced, and forever cursed for being a silly boy with feelings open to the world for the prettiest girl I thought I never met. I thought I imagined her. That she was a thought in a cloud (a cloud not "The Cloud"), and turning to my candle for warmth and a handle on thirty-seven years wasted for two lips I barely tasted. 

thirty-seven years wasted 

for two lips I barely tasted

She lived and died in a dream, faded away before I could touch her face, smell her hair, follow her around while we touched our fingertips together. Those are made up memories as my life would be 37 years later. A nightmare, the story has to see an end in tragedy while I hope for comedy as no one laughs.

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