A Positive Man Muses

A Positive Man Muses long poem

Photo by mripp

I am a man with an
Unreservedly positive frame of mind.
Knowing that frames are fatefully important
As matter and metaphor.

I wear shirts chiefly made of roomy pockets
Trope for optimism
And space for the melange of likelihoods,
On my person;
I exist in the many prongs of forked time —
In exotic banalities
Sourced from my grandpa’s carousals.

I make love to you cartwheeling –
Plumbing the temporal depth of
The grieving nymphs who yanked off kidskin
And returned menswear; till they busted the sanctuary beneath
The cyanic algae.
I mull over alternative energy sources,
Distracted all the while to the
Sagacity of positive assortative mating.

I am terribly open
To new ideas;
To all possibilities vivid and anaemic
To the range of ridiculous rumbles
Welling from my gut
As I meet with
All shades of terror with
Uniform deference.

I am so positive —
“Too pathetically, prick”,
Blackguarded a voice I slept with last night
Before it whirled out the window like a fuming serpent —
That I only cursed myself
When the rouge of dawn
Morphed me into what
Mr Franz Kafka couldn’t help but turn
Poor Gregor into.

I still fancy it was
The first dawn of spring.

Rate the poem
1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (1 votes, average: 3.00 out of 5)
We are posting your rating...

Have something to say about the poem?

Poems you will love

Give your feedback / review for the poem

Be the First to Comment & Review poem!

Notify of

Radio Man

Radio Man short poem

Back in the Summer of eighty five thank God I was still alive music was filling the streets as I chilled by the strip here’s the trip many girls were dressed with flames both were not ashamed the innocence of

Tears Of Man

Tears Of Man short poem

Tears of Man You have the right to remain silent. Do you make the choice or remain violent? Do you evolve and become more civilized? Or do you choose to stay belligerent? You choose to be healthy, like you are

Old Man Sitting

Old Man Sitting short poem

The bones are brittle as are the thoughts they crumble events of yesterdays that never happened things that happened not remembered today becomes another time faces and events mingle become a crazy quilt He sits and stares unaware of a

He Is The Man That

He Is The Man That long poem

Who said that dawn doesn’t know him? Yes … Who has said that? He is secreting night when the sunset flows to poem end ; the flute, which surrendered stealthily to the day song, it runs away from the maze

The Man

The Man long poem

The pressure in his head at times was unbearable like a vice clamped around his forehead having it twisted a 1/4 –turn at a time and when he finally thinks it can’t get anymore painful then bad timing comes around