kokopelle: Frank n Furter (Frank-n-Furter)
The other day I spoke to a friend about people seeing past the words of my poems, down into the heart of what I'm saying versus what is being said. “Some to See” is about this phenomenon.

Some to See

Could I be defined by words
utterance put upon the page
with the inner truth much more deep
than the surface I've conveyed?

camouflaged by waving hands
misdirection of intent
while I wink to those who see
the rawness laying underneath

wounded flesh, gaping cuts
ribald taunts, erotic thrusts
these are hidden from the rubes
lacking skill to see my ruse

though this is incorrect
instead a reference is required
a frame upon which to place
equal knowledge of what's been said

here my words wear two masks
the one you see, the one submerged
begging if there is much more
the subconscious of the muse

with poet counted as the tricked
revealing more than what I meant
defining the fallen reprobate
splayed wide for some to see.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170830.
kokopelle: Black Cat (cat black)
The poem “My Manic Gaze” is about the controversial nature of the poet, be they honest and forthcoming through their work.

My Manic Gaze

Forgive me for my manic gaze
an obsession others may dismiss
when my words spill to page
sacrilege to the common man

when they look to their dismay
to my focus, what I write
of injustice to the few
or feeling pride in who am

one phrase may have a dozen sides
theirs and mine, why must we fight?
I’ll seen mine from past’s insight
others from dogma’s guiding light

while others will wonder why
I resist bless overtures
because to pilgrims I am lost
a sinner to their sanity

the manic gaze lingers still
in this last stanza I’m still lost
I’ll bid my time to share the world
with those who wish to save my soul.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170608.
kokopelle: Horse Totem (Default)
“None Shall Read” was inspired by the quote, “She lives in poetry she cannot write”, credited to Oscar Wilde. The active poet shares more than most, but even then there are some parts of their life that remain out of reach, by intent or inability to adequately share more.

None Shall Read

I live in poetry I cannot write
ink fails my hand to spill my life
though the page is no longer blank
they are not enough to reveal my life
the void filled with smoke's fury
something there, the question begs
how may existence be confirmed
when words fail their greatest charge?

Rhyme would save if form was king
prose by tradition, muse invoked
the trip of ear connecting lines
allowing flow to carry notes
greatest is the symbolic match
repetition at the end of verse
stanzas blessed with magic's touch
matters not when the middle fails.

The tome is imagined and then put aside
pages pulled against the spine
two covers promise with titled text
coming soon, the breadth I am
the volume heavy with spirit's void
estranged from the soul’s scribbles
what's come before to fill this space
what's meant to follow, what I embrace.

My breath attempts to fill the void
a voice to strive where script failed
conversation meant to cross the gap
between ledge of self and world at large
when my speech is forced out
all that's heard is a sad rasp
to substantiate the there to here
the silence drowns the waiting ears.

Ask privacy to work its guile
reluctance gone when none may watch
only self will hear the tale
poetic journey put to page
release the tongue, tell no lies
this would be apt is conscious knew
what to bring to diary’s womb
the void is found, not the birth.

In the end I live in the void
understated by writ of word
the reasons why are numerous
though in the end I always fail
I'll blame the words for their guilt
though they serve this master's call
no matter how I strive to express
my life in poetry none shall read.

© 2017, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170316.
kokopelle: Black Cat (cat black)
"Once Dreamt" examines the power and scope of poetry in the poet's life.

Once Dreamt

I once dreamt I was a poem
put to page for all to see
posted to the social blogs
all revealed in black and white
naked for the curious
if only they would deign to read
ramblings of a man once lost
still wandering amongst the words

ponderings profane on the whole
avoided by the pious folks
yet to bland to make a mark
amongst the vaunted avant-garde
the happy mean is meant to be
therapy for the dreaming one
what's been shared is trivial
when compared to the eternal soul

predilections all in a list
insecurities too soon set free
wounds examined in broad day light
the stanzas spoke for those who heard
romance noted where none should be
preoccupation with liberties
humanity bent to suffer low
by the grace of divinity

the dream ended as it begun
with me alone amongst the words
making sense of what came before
by cryptic letters on the wall
seeing patterns in stanzas formed
by consequence of actions done
I am the poem in slumber's grasp
please guide my way when I awake.

© 2017, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170201.
kokopelle: Black Cat (cat black)
The poem “For The Ones” was inspired by a calligraphy rich Tumblr quote that stated: "For the ones with soul. For the ones with tempers. For the mistresses, mad women and poets." I am one of those, with the resulting poem dedicated to all those with souls and tempers.

For The Ones

So many paths I could take
with disposition of rare ranks
one is mine with small fanfare
the others beckon if I dare
each seems different in itself
yet at their hearts is motives same
they spring from the same deep pools
one set high, the other low.

One is the source for all things
these roads evoke it more than most
gulfs beyond the well’s round mouth
these still waters hide the depths
many colors surround the source
vessels found beneath the eye’s shades
portals to the fount of gods
pupils’ doors, what angels fear.

Second sprung from passion’s hand
honed to cut when life demands
echo of the heart’s regrets
played out loud or burned within
dedicates to truth’s hardships
willing to voice what must be said
longing for another way
one hopes with grace, strength displayed.

Lastly I’ll reveal my course
other than mistress or woman mad
masters of soul and temper’s range
good company that I embrace
I am a poet of lowest rank
student to companions on life’s walk
in time I may be all these things
if grace extends, I’ll attain.

2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20161208.
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (frank_n_furter)
The poem “Storefront Smile” is about a poet’s desire to share themselves if they dared.

Storefront Smile

If I could put pen to page
put aside this storefront smile
turn my heart inside out
perhaps you’d know this broken one.
The spilled ink would reveal
a different soul from who you know
arranged just so to please the eye
to give you comfort when I lie.

Confidence is the painted shield
thin as the ice in late fall
hoping that nobody walks
across the sheen to break within.
The cracks will clearly show the way
to frightened fathoms far below
where bravery is a distant wish
put forward for you to see.

Look beyond the rosy glow
there you’ll find the ribs that show
starvation for the touch that feeds
a hunger my skin cannot release.
I’d scream if the ache was pain
longing for a glancing rub
why must the space be so wide
between the hands of you and I?

You can drop kind words into my well
conversation made to fill a void
most appreciated though the depths
pass through the earth far below.
There is so much I would share
encyclopedias could not contain
the memories of a world combined
held by lips that cannot talk.

These things I could let you know
if walls did not hold me back
from the world I try to fool
with platitudes meant to sooth.
If I spoke these words out loud
you’d see that I am so much less
than perfection we’re meant to have
instilled in the storefront smile.

© 2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20160827.
kokopelle: Black Cat (Cat - Black)
I asked a friend why they acknowledged one of my darker poems, one that spoke to a disquiet emotional expression. They were not alone with an acknowledgment. The same poem seemed to strike a chord with several people. This does not always happen. It is not uncommon that the contemplative poems are met with social silence. My friend responded with an answer that gave me hope that I’m not wasting my time sharing parts of a fragile human being . The poem “Albatross” is very loosely based on my friend’s answer.


Poet tell me, how did you know
the heaviness that lurks below?
The reservoir of deep feeling
below the place that most can see
common ground has been found
shown in words spilled on page
with echoes of humanity
confirming a shared albatross.

Perhaps you speak for the muse
with conditions not your own
I don’t know if this is the case
as the words have the same weight
I feel as if the curtain’s pulled
from the window to my soul
this I guarded with too much strength
behind thick boards bound with steel.

A kindred soul is recognized
across the span of written words
around another neck I see
the fated bird of life’s curse
now I compare like for like
though you could not know
my inner heart and head combined
the secret shames of all my years.

Sadness is found in the script
I wish that you could not say
mirrored thoughts on the page
revealing you have these aches
this does not ease my regret
at what I’ve done and what I’ve felt
even so the pain relents
a burden shared is one that’s less.

© 2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20160807
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (Frank-n-Furter)
The poem “To Be a Poet” is about the statements that a poet can make. I’ve done most of these, and for this, I am a healthier person.

To Be a Poet

To be a poet
there is no test
to write poem
about the world
to document
it is not vain
to share your thoughts
words put to page
to scream your rage
at the machine
to shout with joy
at the beauty
to cry the tears
held in your heart
to cheer the victors
when your team wins
to imply the intimate
when libido yearns
to exclaim your place
for all to see
to stake a claim
in black and white.

© 2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20160714.
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (Frank-n-Furter)
On Tumblr the quote “The right people will read all your chapters. The perfect person will help you write them” caught my eye. Through social media I am blessed with people reading my poetry chapters. The astute do learn something about me. This the nature of an artist’s sharing. Through my poetry I’ve celebrated those who have helped me write the chapters. That will be a topic for another poem.

Poet’s Mark

Read my book if you will
chapter and verse through the years
made plain on paper here
ready for those with heart to peer.

The pages turn as seasons passed
some are lost to winds of fate
others published for all to see
may the wheel be kind to those who read.

The joy flows from other pages
too bright to look upon unheeded
a mortal one should know this
that the rest of life must exist.

It was a journey with harsh remorse
of occasions cast to soul’s regret
even as the dice was thrown
without the chance of rewriting it.

The author does not know the end
when it comes or when life bends
to Father Time’s sharp sickle
harvesting all the physical.

Read the book after this has passed
of joy and pain scribed to last
ink spilled to write the place
of poet’s mark upon the world.

© 2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20160704.
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (Frank-n-Furter)
A review of Tumblr postings revealed the saying “Very private people have mastered the art of telling you little about themselves but doing it in such a way you think you know a lot”. I took this thought and wrote the poem “Curtain”.


Allow me to spin a tale
complete in its vagaries
misdirection points straight toward
the truth hidden at the core.

Laugh it off as the jester pranks
dancing as you pull the strings
yet look above in the heights
and you'll see the joker in command.

I'll cast the mirror towards the crowd
showing what the world beholds
all the while few suspect
that what they see is my secret self.

Here that way and back again
the twisting serpent is amused
when attention is turned its way
by written words on the page.

Words are bent in metaphor
made to seem like so much more
than what this writer shares with you
behind the curtain of prose revealed.

© 2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20160621.
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (Frank-n-Furter)
The pursuit of poetry can be both fulfilling and dangerous. The poet is given license that few others embrace. The poem “Poet’s Crime” is about this dichotomy.

Poet’s Crimes

Beware the reader of poetry,
the doors are opened to many views.
The honest poet speaks from the heart,
of both of God's seraph and Satan's brood.

Words are lifted on angel's wings
or cast to depths with heart's chagrin.
The heights or depths matter not
when passion drives the heart to bleed.

Lyrics charm the feet to tap
or chill the heart to almost stop.
Pleasure or wrath are the same
with reaction wired to those who read.

Stanzas confirm a loving view
or cast aspirations on circumstance.
To speak the mind walks the line
between contrasting sentiments.

I've only hinted at the scope
of the poet's greatest crimes.
Seek what you will from the breadth
of tainted text and loving words.

© 2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20160504.
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (Frank-n-Furter)
The poem “Poet's Triage” is about the place of poetry in one person's life. It was triggered when I commented the following to an online friend:

“File these (bad events) away as future poem ideas. I don't know if I could do what I do if it were not for all the sh*t I've been through. The joy too, yeah, there's that, but I am beginning to believe that people who know only joy don't write poetry. They don't have to. ”

Poet's Triage

I once thought I was quite mad
this thought is still resonates
my point to make is about writing
those things I suffer through.
To come out and speak my mind
would be the bludgeon misapplied
on kind readers with same struggles
not wanting reminder of a cruel world.

I blogged once a day in an effort
to force the inner to find ease
with a world both loved for beauty
and hated for the self-existence.
The angst was skirted in attempts
to share the lunacy within
with vanilla revelations so shallow
as to make wonder bread delicious.

A day years later I was rescued
by the hand of an old friend
poetry had come and gone
from my pen to spilled ink.
Now avenue for revelation was given
to the voices raw with rage
turned against the owner's self
in desire to end existence.

Distance given to bloody tales
denial is the artist's prerogative
even as the guts are spilled
of a tableau of a life exposed.
Uncertainty is the masque
of poet's sharing to the masses
when the wordsmith does proclaim
for themselves or other men.

Larger forces are at here at hand
with tidal forces of humanity
their capacity for joy sometimes outdone
by the longing for something more.
My story was more dire than most
with the tinge of endings wished
though the source is too common
to the expanse of my fellow men.

In the end the dungeons expel
the worst of corpses kept within
through the rhyme of lyrical
wrapped in muse's license to reveal.
Don't imagine confessions tell
that the vampires were mine this day
brought to life to be expunged
witnessed by you fair reader most kind.

© 2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20160417.
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (Frank-n-Furter)
“Spill the Words” is about the challenge of writing poetry. There is a technical form to be mastered. The method depends on the future poet's preferences and abilities. This is easily surmounted. So much of life is raw. The active poet will eventually tap into this rawness. The greatest challenge, the topic of this poem, is the writing and sharing of poetry that comes from deep down.

Spill the Words

Words wait to be spilled,
to be written when barriers drop.
Too much of a good thing they say,
too little finding its way to pen.

The entire world is the source,
too little in the breadth of so much.
Water water everywhere,
this is the same for the Muse's charge.

Too much beauty fills my world,
competing with equal ugliness.
Somewhere in-between I seek expression
of sum picture at the zero point.

The hills echo back the muted tones,
ahead the mountains are to be climbed.
Rock is the stone underfoot,
diamonds in which naught may grow.

I am not aberrant in my lack,
others have struggled against a foe
wholly part of probable creator
yet still defying dedication to phrase.

Perhaps if I could docilely frame
the creatures too much for words,
these beings of emotion's source,
that squirm away from my pen.

If only the raw could be said,
the human condition put on display.
I'd be the same after that,
but your vision of me would then change.

So I'll spill the words with no regard
to what may follow to my soul
when you realize humanity's taint
was what waited when words arrived.

© 2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20160320.
kokopelle: Black Cat (cat black)
I posted a poem about the an artist starting late in life. A dialogue with a friend online got me thinking about the aftermath of an artist who no longer produces work that the world witnesses. The song “Late Poet's Questions” is an examination of a passed artist's impact on the larger world.

Late Poet's Questions
Bonus Poem for Day 241 – 20150830

Hear me now and turn your head,
an intrusion on another's world.
Do I cease to be if you ignore
a fellow man with words to tell?
Heartbeat on the computer screen,
reminder that I still exist.
Is this enough to acknowledge
the place I have in your life?

I'm writing the words,
painting the portraits,
molding the clayware,
but what of your heart?

The seasons pass as the world turns,
everything found in its own time.
Are narratives of a life lost
balanced by the what you've gained?
So much to see on the life's canvas,
my work flashes on this moment's screen.
Was your gasp or smile in passing
enough to hold me in your memory?

I'm writing the words,
painting the portraits,
molding the clayware,
but what of your heart?

I could stop spilling ink if I dare,
only at the risk of a life maddened.
Would you hear the silence,
would you know my loss?
A friend of words or hyperbole,
my value depends on your insight.
What if I lost my voice,
became the mute after this?

Where are the words now,
the portraits not done,
clayware unfinished,
have I touched your heart?

© 2015, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved.
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (frank_n_furter)
Spontaneous creativity, no matter the form, just happens. In its wake is a fog of memory, the artist wondering where the creation sprung from. I experienced this when I was blogging. I am even more experiencing this as I put forth poems each day.

Fae Lines
Poem for Day 146 – 20150526

On this morn I awake to read
my past acts of written poetry.
I do not recognize what I wrote,
as if it were by another hand.
Sleep writing while fully conscious,
the words spill to page unconstrained.
The outcome is a stream of thoughts
stretching to time’s horizon.

Sample the spilled ink of past poems,
residue of joy, tears of pain,
bloodshed from wounds self inflicted,
damp the quill to scribe words shared.
I follow the trail to find therein
remnants of my life left behind.
Follow the spoor around the bend,
words reveals the self held within.

Too much truth roughly shared with you,
the pen held nothing back those days.
Fair confidants of poems then read,
judge me not for where I have been.
And again I spout these fae lines,
weaving magic of memory lost.
Another day I will read these rhymes,
wondering which hand spilled ink again.

© 2015. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved
kokopelle: (Frylock Side)
I was in the bookstore and I thought that I'd check out the books on writing poetry. Well, I was in for a surprise. There were no books on writing poetry, not unless you count the sole copy of “Poetry for Dummies”. There were many many books of poetry by poets. This gives me insight into the special nature of poets. They are self created and not trained.

Instructions for Liberttists
Poem for Day 104 – 20150414

Look to the shelves for wry instruction
to see how the words are connected,
browse the books of poet's training.

Nothing seen, no tomes of wisdom,
on self creation of the bard's words,
shelves are empty for the searchers there.

Only rows of liberttist offerings,
the output of a hundred souls,
with no hint of how they came to be.

So how to learn the poetic method?
What is the journeyman meant to do,
in pursuit of keys to the rhyme's verse?

Look to the wide breadth of writings,
from the poets, both old and new,
posed to share their words with you.

You will see what has been done,
to be inspired to pen your own cantos,
and in this way a poet is trained.

© 2015. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved
kokopelle: Frank n Furter (frank_n_furter)
A person too incredible for words shared the poem “To My Unattainable”. This is a too common sentiment in human relations. I took the title and spun my own poem around this distressing theme.

To My Unattainable
Poem for Day 065 – 20150306

I met you and I knew,
no doubt in my mind.
You were to be the one
to which I would belong.
Yet this is not to be,
this message I send to thee.

Consider this a letter
that you will never see.
A missive of my passion
thrust boldly into the void.
Returned by the postman
'message undeliverable".

The reason for this reality
matters little to my soul.
Be it impractical or impossible,
the end is the same to me.
Dark mood consumes me whole,
remedy removed from my hands.

You would complete me,
fill internal place.
Puzzle pieces come together
in life's grand scheme.
Yet this space will remain,
this vacancy of the soul.

Thrashing of a heart,
grounded wings of love.
Shake my fist at the divine,
and gaze at you from afar.
Fun house maze of mirrors,
so close but yet so far.

To my unattainable,
I can write no more.
Tears blind my eyes
as pen tears at my heart.
Close the letter unredeemed,
sincerely the one not meant to be.

© 2015. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved
kokopelle: Black Cat (cat black)
The artist, freed of the struggle of creation, moves into a place of wanting to produce more and more visions. There are conventional artists, and then there are the rest of us. We want to reveal a world that many see, but few will admit. The result is the art reminds the viewer of what they already know, even if the knowing is dark indeed.

The Poet's Urge
Poem for Day 050 – 20141112

I have this urge, one I barely control, that comes from below,
a place most abstract: somewhere between the mind and heart.
I want to share, reveal to you, and me,
life as it, as it was and what it could be.

Beware the path revealed, the moods are erratic.
I will guide you to pleasure and pain.
I will show vistas of beauty and stain.
The mark of evil lays near to the glory of goodness.
In between perhaps snare your attention as I share.

I stand before you as poet, visionary and damned.
I will be kind, as kind as I am to myself.
I will be gentle, if I knew what this was.
I only know that I must, compelled by demon and saint,
share with you revelations within,
from purloined voices, yours and mine, wherein.

© 2014. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved.


kokopelle: Horse Totem (Default)

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