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Total poems		30
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Total poems - 30 days		0
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Total poems - 365 days		0

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Beatrice

Beatrice and I had plans this evening,

After she punched out from a long day of weaving.

Bibi was a seamstress, the sole British rose

Among a hedgery of immigrant women from Italy,

The ravishing daisy in a bouquet of Jewish ladies,

Aged eighteen to twenty-three.

She was twenty two, but she was very astute.

Beatrice was quite pleasant, she dismantles any classification of peasant.

For she and I combined, may not have luxuries and riches,

But we had each other, more intricately woven than any assortment of stitches.

She was fascinated by French philosophy,

And Marx's stance on industrial poverty.

She looked all around her and noted his prefaces,

The array of exploitation and nefarious exercises taking place

around the premises.

While she was sewing a chemise, a co-worker snuck a ciggy.

She was stressed from the long hours and the six day-work week.

She introduced herself as Phoebe,...

The Bull In A China Shop

Let's imagine, me with a blood sugar reading of 560

Large ketones and failure of the kidneys

It's my last leg of the journey at age 26

Ready to die, but I've never lived.

Yea, I can buckle my shoe and pick up sticks

As substitute, let us mull over feasibility.

Tonight in the wee hours, I can perish in a fire

Overcome by smoke or strains which tire,

In only a few hours it can be alive versus died.

I stare at the chamber like Bonnie and Clyde

Did you know that actress Holly Grainger, that played her, was from Greater Manchester

U.K, I say..what of the charming mademoiselle with red hair and freckles,

With ice blue eyes and a scentual timber,

A poetess who has a flare for glamour.

A classic old fashioned antique with character and pizzazz.

If I died tonight, I would never know what it's like to have her by my side.

So every word I write, every day I fight

...

The Kitchen Sink

By: Keith Fuchs

Featured in my e-book: Product of New York - Available for FREE Download here:

http://poetrysuperhighway.com/psh/great-poetry-e-book-free/

You can't throw the baby out with the bathwater

A ton of bricks versus a ton of feathers,

Weighed upon a scale and measure.

A mix of good and bad together.

The mirage that one can tip the gavel

Confirmed by the compulsion of either.

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I Copped A Twenty-Two In A Brown Paper Bag

I copped a twenty-two in a brown paper bag,

I'll stun you with a flash bang and hit you with a frag.

Does it sound like a gag? Sad, but I'm the characterization

Of the terrorists and anarchists whom you fail to analyze their personifications

In their deluded perception, this was an act of heroism

Yet to many, it's the paragon of treachery

Agreed, no naive being should bleed.

It's holiday season, kids wet behind the ears

Febrile for Dasher, Prancer and Blitzen

Instead, ammunition is blitzing and spritzing.

Entertaining our fears.

Semi-automatic pistols and assault rifles

Trifle and frighten patrons in queue.

In lieu of Teriyaki for an entree at the zeppelin.

Biting bullets for breakfast, Catch a hot one during brunch!

Fed lead instead of sipping lipids at liquid lunch.

They suffer at supper taking cover from the howitzers' thunder

Whilst they be dipping bread in raspberry Smucker'...

Appease Not

Appease Not
By: Keith Fuchs

An eighty dollar surcharge
I could literally die for free.
Don't tell me, it's to serve my community.
There is a fee to enter a guilty plea
On a summons for no permit in the P-lot.
Charging for parking does not
Promote unity.
Personally, I hope you thieves indulge in a tall glass of arsenic with your bowl of Wheaties.
Quite the audacity to pump your chest out at me,
Cause you and I both know, without your regime
You're no rogue and couldn't last with the best of me.
I'd turn you cool kids in to puddles of whipped cream.
No committee or congress, can stop it
When it's just you and me,
You a wussy, a yellow belly who hides from the bursaries of your perjuries.

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Love's Epitaph

Love's Epitaph
By: Keith Fuchs

A humid afternoon in August
The temperature cool with brief gusts.
The skies are overcast
I step on to the porch, touched with brush.
I remember a girl from the past
Last moment I saw her, at the airport.
Three months, her exit was torture.

I collected my thoughts and wrote Love's Epitaph.
Alas, it was to be displayed in a showcase
In a poetry contest.
That wasn't my motive, it was a guise for me
to craft,
A story, a tale about triumph over defeat
Freeing myself from the chains which impede.

My ambition was simple, when I was young
I dreamt of love and affection.
Pouring from fountains, under the sun's confection.
There is no victory greater
But there can be no greater loss,
Then to lose the one who gave purpose to your course,

Yes, capital and possession are luxurious.
Exc...

A Mile In Worn Out Shoes

By: Keith Fuchs

Strife is strife,
It's pompous to define;
To minimize or maximize,
Is arrogance in it's prime.

The platitudinous adage carries weight;
"Never judge the book by it's cover"
You can't grasp the heartache of another.
So when you scream, "You don't know what it's like to be me!"
I will simply nod and respond, "I totally agree."

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