A comfort it lingered on in the
mind, the transparent thought
unfolding on popular means of
leisure - the baseball game, the
golf - the potato, giving rise to
a lethargy that brings drugged
insolence to the rational, the
brevity of life itself.
Yet, relaxing a deforming the
back all or both are wonderful
past times for the iron, the body
stressing beyond the thrill of
victory - but in others.
A stood, or rather sat in silence
as controls with all about choosing
lights and camera over poetry,
Outside it’s nice, but ignorant
to pleasantries, we can persist
in frozen superheroes, or more
likely villains as our time spent may
climb past misdeeds of Batman
foes, the known quantities beckon
us to think better or the flatness -
the earth and sky? No.
It’s grand, simply, to be used by
humans in this pathetic sphere
of influence - superceded by parties -
spilling on vinyl leather. Wait, that’s me.
I served my purpose and request
time with family. Not you, but
good behavior - or bad - it’s
really both, to be treated to such
It grieves me to no end - checking
the spelling of davenport, ottoman -
an empire on the wall - control, but
really none but the color, fabric,
station in life. Another year -
decades, or briefly napping, hiding
in leather, the superior spelling.
Yet, by yourself, it’s still quiet, still
a melding of minds, cushioning the spirt
for 30 second spells of life.
© 2014 Larry Ingram
I really did ravage on about pressure
and air while they really wanted to
close this huge box, this purchasing
category of men, taking building to
extremes with hammers and stills
waiting to be mastered.
The grass grows but for the new brand
of red, green, satiated on Italian herbs.
Yet it is tasteless, this yearning for
perfect green, as paint, it asks for
feeding and other nonsense of aerobics
and blood pressure.
Heat really dares you to walk out of
there into the sunlight, baking, walking
in wilted fashion, as though cook, yet
liking the box, the normal life of
blooming flowers, though they are
likely to be extinct for a time, without
the stare of the entrepreneur, the better
blame, the superior, it runs red, its
petals of other worldly breeding of
stars our earth could be, with at least
It’s crystal water from the planet -
and at one time it could have made it
as an English garden.
Or a haven for the super cactus, passing
by guardians of Mars, those rovers
that hover over the likes of planting
fools, perennial in their attraction for
the universe, the unnoticed box, but
bright and happy and green and -
it’s right to welcome green and lots of
color, they bloom to disgrace or displace
others with an inpatient look,
yards with tools that don’t bloom
but for pressure washing the garden.
© 2014 Larry Ingram
It took its toll on my eyes,
heated red it persists to add
to rights unheard of, not added
to recipes of disaster.
It wants for me to relax, to
break with a mind to sabotage
elements of beans, sheets,
Yet, the winning was taken,
was eaten, was known for heat -
not from fresh means, but powder
it disturbed me - a lazy means
of entering the fray, the mess,
the blind albatross of soup.
The darkness, the grief, shadows
of happiness, joy, but missing
clues to the unconscious, the
night pulls on what? To where?
You were there in bed, but were
not at the latest dinner fiasco,
an emotion simmering beyond
twilight it persists, it meanders
past all reason.
It needs to be told, it needs to
be added to ingredients, this
stay of tomato, of mere hardship
whether perceived or wasted in
the moment, stirring, waiting
for dinner guests to be seated,
yearning for heavy eyes,
It was not long ago that a time of
simple chili held, posting itself
as content with life, with bean and
soup, a target of planned families
disturbing no one, with recipes
of disaster, with mystical powders
not giving in to imagined tastes,
powerless to change peppers or
reality, holding to the elegance
of steak, beef, tromping on
hamburger as a garnish.
It will shock the senses this -
an English garden run amuck,
linguini with sauce, fleeing for
safety in the more tangible,
the dish set in stone.
Not this as heat goes, it mocks
the bed, the disaster of the heart,
darkness of unspoken grief.
It’s not the burn, but the loss of
odds, the bookmakers are against
us as she persists in her weights
Whether trivial or catastrophic,
unyielding, the squalid recipe,
the hands of crepes and biscuits and
other prizes bore when sided to
sleep or the chili pepper.
C 2014 Larry Ingram
Welcome to the poetry web site of Larry Ingram. Larry is a poet, writer and observer of our culture.