Explodes in Music

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Hey all, it's been awhile since I posted a poem. I decided to make an emoji poem.  I really should  write more poems; I say that all the time.

Delete

Lauren deleted everything- pictures, social media accounts, text messages, her contact list. She was done with technology ruling her life. Already she felt lighter, more in tune with the world around her. She hoped she could convince  her friends to join her.

She went to school;  no one spoke to her. No one looked her way. 

Kylie and their friends stood at  the lockers. Lauren approached them.

“Hey,” Lauren said.

Nothing. She tugged on Kylie’s arm. Kylie shivered. She rubbed her arms.

What the hell? Lauren thought.

Kylie’s phone chirped , and she read the text. She started crying, “Lauren’s gone.”

Tryptophantasia and Other Poems by JM Scott Free on Kindle Through March 12, 2018

 Hey all, Trytophantasia and Other Poems is FREE in all markets through March 12, 2018.

This chapbook contains 30 unique poems. Some are avant garde, some are surreal, some are LANGUAGE type poems, and some are found poems.

Why not grab a free copy today?

Enjoy this sample from the book.

Sweet Dreamland Wheels by JM Scott FREE in Kindle Markets Through March 7, 2018

Hey all, I wrote three posts on my blog this week. That almost has to be a new record for me. Anyway, this will be a short post because I was just telling you that Sweet Dreamland Wheels is FREE in all Kindle markets through March 7, 2018.

These were  poems I wrote a few years ago part of the April Poetry Writing challenge sponsored by the former Found Poetry Review. I miss their April poetry prompts.  Many of these poems are experimental, all use some kind of source text to create the poem.

So why not enjoy this sample, and grab a free copy today.

Haystack Odyssey

It's a haystack odyssey wrapped in white plastic lingering in thrashed fields, but there are no animals in sight. One day it a false spring and now crinkly ice patches sleep on the grass that looked like it was starting to turn green again.

It is 9 p.m. and the wind still knocks on the window. I like to pretend I'm in  pioneer times in a little cabin in the woods throwing logs in the fire. I secretly wish the power to go out just for fun since it hasn't went out in awhile. I think to myself that I can survive in a new world. I can shoot a gun, and I don't live near a lot of people. I have a big enough yard to grow stuff even though my green thumb is non existent. I can grow tomatoes. They don't win the blue ribbon, but they are always sweet and juicy. 

As much as I like the wind, I wait for spring and the onslaught of thunderstorms. Thunder so loud, it shakes the old walls and lightening so close, the hair stands up on my arms. I like the storms that can spawn a tornado but never do. And I am lucky for that because even though I have a tornado action plan-  my feet and brain stop working when the touchdown siren goes off. 

It's coffee at night while the wind blows. It's dreaming of living in the middle of the woods. It's dreaming of being a writer that people know. I sit here just thinking when I should be writing because that story is there. I tell it to myself when there is nothing but silence between gusts.

I close my eyes and open them in a haystack odyssey looking for moo cows that hide in overgrown shrubs, and I feel like I should write a poem about this moment but words flee and die in the wind.

Morphine and Shot Guns

When the lateral combat of debris
heaves from their bustling ecstasies
It becomes the rupture-
colloquial and lopsided,

crossbones  shudder
from storm to storm, and scoop
over its deceptive grindstone,

banks of fallacies
chew like greyhounds, their
fermentation dawns threadbare
decay

while the grizzled gospel
of  milky morphine
tiptoe through toothy
acronyms with shot guns.

Can You Trust the Vision?

I learned not to interfere with the visions- not to change the outcomes. Because it never worked out as Granmama would always tell me. But this one was different.

My adult,  bloodied,  daughter, Jay-Lynee, lay on the road. The knife-wielder  had brown-almost-black eyes and elfish ears. Connor.

Maybe it won’t come true-  my visions are never wrong. 

As I drove home, Conner chased his ball out into the road. He stopped.

I could have stopped; I had plenty of time to stop.

But...
the sun was in my eyes; I didn’t see him.

His five-year-old body broke under my tires.