These are a few poems I redeemed from a long forgotten file. I wrote most of these within a few months of when I started writing. They're all short because I cut down the parts that weren't good. I'm sure some religious analogies could be made.
If I were a flower,
I would be the mighty dandelion:
unstoppable and always modest.
Not fragile and flamboyant
like those other flowers.
The bane of every lawn obsessed suburbanite.
Precious to almost no one,
not found in wedding bouquets
or given to women to apologize for wandering eyes.
Every spring they come out in force,
conquering all the deep green lawns of the Northwest.
Their pale yellow hats stand proud on top of green
transforming front yards into advertisements for the Sonics.
Some days are more difficult than others,
be it traffic or undercooked chicken,
days can get bad in a hurry.
There are millions of ways for them to become terrible.
When I ponder the infinite bad variables
I'm amazed that there are good days at all.
Poetry Poetry Poetry
He hung his hat on the mic
then puked out
a small version of himself.
Naked and dripping,
the baby danced,
told us stories
cowboys who had quarrels
with story telling hobos.
The man breathed in,
the the midget story teller
went up his right nostril.
He picked up his hat,
and wiped his nose
with a poem.