the robin inside me says nice, great imagery.
the illegal Mexican immigrant inside me learning to read and write English says,

buried jeans?
I don't have a pillow, sleeping in a bag on the ground.
washing windows for a dollar.

This has turned into more of a journal than a discussion, so I'm moving it to the journal board.

yes, agreed.



                                                                      Discussion,
                                                                      one sided yet there is more to see.
                                                                     
                                                                                        ***

a poem written as if a monk holding to the vow of silence.

                                                              Hearing the power of God,
                                                              what need of man to speak.
                                                             
                                                                 

a poem as if written by a chainsaw carver from Texas who is addicted to drink and dice.

                                                          my morning starts with shakes...god, where did I put that bottle.
                                                          robin gave me some cash but I don't have a problem,
                                                          he's such an ass, as if he really cares.
                                                          today I'll carve three bears and tonight I'll get it back.
                                                          there is nothing to worry about,
                                                          nobody knows I don't care.

Poem written as if a retired Anchorage gym teacher and active commercial fisherman wrote it (Mike, thought you'd escape.)

Poem?
What do you mean you want me to write a poem, that's not for me.
That's what other people do when they don't have a job.
Bunch of 'light in the loafers' people if you ask me.
Are you going to quote me?

(thanks Mike)

ha ha...well said mike!

When you're interested in, but not emotionally attached to, what others think of your work, then you're a poet.  You'll never change a word in anger or shame.  Your primary relationship will be with your poem -- a dance with spectators.   

Yes, I can see that Rick. Unless one is emotionally attached to everything. And sometimes the dance is a knock-down, bar fight brawl with smiley face bandages covering the wounds.

My poems don't beat me up.  They smile on the other side of a chasm and dare me to jump.

Inspiration provided by Rick.

Poem written as if a mountain climber reciting their last poem, both in their mind and vocally.

                                              Chalk on my fingers to maintain my grip,
                                              getting ever so closer to the top.
                                         
                                               I wonder if my girl friend took any pictures?
                                               It is great that I...Oh shit!
 
                                               Aaaaahhh!

Poem written as if a fourteen-year old girl in Anchorage who wants to inject heroin but wants someone else to do it for her.

                                  " High "

gettin what I want is my business,
you chicken, you chicken shit?
come on, this arm,
ha, ha, ha,
aw man, that's great...

I'm not feeling, feelin, feel...
I can't...
uhh
uh

(call 911 man,
she ain't breathing right,
oh shit man, we're in trouble)

written as if the man who did the deed realized the impact of his deeds

Young girl over the past festive days was injected with heroin while her body contained crystal meth, weed, and coke.
Her 'friend' is now in jail writing his own forms of poetry.