Stone Soup Croutons is a weekly poem I write using lines and impressions selected from Stone Soup Poetry's open mic readers and features. I figure out a title (and sometimes the rest of the poem) later. You can read the other ones I've done since 2015 here.
I also have a book collecting the best of my first year of poems. Click here to purchase it.
This past Wednesday C.C. Arsharga gave us the feature everyone hoped it would be. Full of poetry, music and history. Perfect for the anniversary month. Catch the performance and the open mic now if you haven't.
Tried to stay on C.C.'s messages and themes for today's poem. Still, I guess I gotta be me.
Title based on Boston's rule for protesting on sidewalks.
Everything else is a f***ing mess.
Thanks for reading.
Final Note: This is the second and final repost I'll be doing After Facebook kept locking me for spamming, I (think I) finally figured out a way to share on all the group pages. I was so scared that Facebook was changing in a way that was going to hurt what I do (mostly because most change does). Turns out this is helping me, so now I'm creating a new post Third time's the charm. *sigh*
Keep Walking, or They'll Take You Away
Activist's sidewalk,
bronze statues mock
Nostalgic for days
when kind acts
were mandatory.
What would Pépé
say if he broke out
of his urn, chance
to say final words
somebody would
actually remember,
could reimmortalize
himself to people
and what they fought.
It takes a levelheaded
Norman Bates to know
what to wear each day
and when to wear what
they want, be incognito
like artichoke in pizza.
Unsexy zombies take
hundredth day striking
on life, debate where
to hide souls if cops
ever come. Question:
If corporations are
people, then are they
actually homeless,
squatting in bedrooms?
Are working class
frogs or toads? Throw
in mouse, see results.
Meanwhile, slideshow
declares we must teach
liberals to shoot first.
Brother-in-law calls
to say you've marched
enough, buy a Mercedes.
Mom's disappointed.
Son has not yet settled.
She prays you convert,
expects you giving in
will be your dying words
she can set in stone.
She wants another man
who wins. She's tired
of your rise to fail
these past five decades,
done her wrong with
these repeated attempts
to baptize yourself for
a second time. She
knows you'd stick head
in monsoon to be clean,
still won't die until you
know there's another prize.
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