I would make you smile
but I can’t
You want me to smile
but I can’t
Moods change in increments
One step forward
two back
There’s another can’t-
It’s the one about getting rid of crutches,
just now.
Author Archives: Lee Dunn
Lee Dunn has been writing since the age of 18, but found that work got in the way for the ensuing 48 years. In his home town of Toronto, Ontario, Canada, he reveled in his independence at an early age, and spent as much time as he could exploring the city’s Arts scene. He was introduced to poetry and prose by the works of two literary giants, namely J.R.R. Tolkien and J.W. Lennon and thence fell in love with the written word. His work includes poetry, short fiction, and personal essays, and ranges in theme from the surreal to the horrific, nostalgic, and themes on the human condition. He has been published on Spillwords.com, The Dark Poets Club, Journal of Undiscovered Poets, Crepe & Penn Literary magazine, and the Shelburne Free Press.
Shirt tales
Don’t comment
on my dirty shirt,
if you please.
I am not inclined
to change it,
lest I have bad luck again.
This morning, the sky
favoured me with gull droppings.
At lunch, it was blueberries
without a bib.
Then, coffee,
spilled by the infernal cat,
who likes blueberries too.
In 3 pieces
Disks of tarnished silver made their advent over the bay, trailing their tatters of cloud remnants. And I believed. Oh, I believed. What has come?
I believe that I will rise the next morning. A fifth part of me will study the textbook of motion, be credulous of the day’s tumbling numerals. The dots on the dice of chance.
No ripping fireworks spitting light.
No carnal carrion to evidence a fight.
Poets starving, children bleed.
All for what?
An assassin’s creed?
Giddy up GTO
‘69 tires on a soft top bug
A streetlight sheen on their bulging sidewalls
That dumdum donut drive
Idiots near turned it over
And their donkey ho tee laughs
GTFO with your poor man’s GTO
Unrequited
I fear I would be shy
if you were to speak to me.
I know.
It’s not a good look.
But I’m imprinted with your face.
I know.
Creepy, I imagine you think.
Each mannerism, each quirky movement,
tells a tantalizing story
that I am meant to understand.
I am sure of it.
Yes, I am.
Out of our heads!
Nights at the round table!
Spouts of hot tea
sloshed into cups of tiny china.
Cards and clinking glasses,
glinting toothy smiles!
One nods off
after too many Jameson’s.
Piggyback up the stairs,
unfold him into bed, hah!
Open a window, will you?
What, tired already?
It’s only two!
Spirits
I’m seeing more somethings
in the sighing air
Distances to dramas,
beatific in their flash,
are shortened.
Though I once feared the fear,
lungs of sponge breathe it in,
baptizing its fire,
and I am well.
I am well.
Breakdown
I speak in tongues
sometimes.
Surely at night,
in deep sleep,
but now, of late,
in broad day.
It started with watery voices,
the makers of dream.
We argued, for sport.
But they’re no longer day blind,
and I mimic their lies.
A blank slate
I do not need a bowl of salvation for i see people dying each day the walls of fragile mind separating recklessly. Florals of weak mind abstain from …
A blank slate
Blackface
When I woke up
this morning
I laid there for a bit
Idly went to scratch my nose
then nearly had a fit
Someone else’s hand was there,
with skin of ebon brown
I ran my fingers through my hair
It felt like eiderdown
I went to find the looking glass
to see what face was there
Expecting not the veritas
that I was meant to bear.
This darkened face
this different nose
this cauliflower ear
that now replaced
my beigey rose
and filled me up with fear
How could I go out like this
and look over my shoulder
Walk in fear and maybe miss
the chance of growing older?
Aremyfeetofftheground 