By definition

Laughter in splinters
The dead died down
Uprooting happiness
All the lost winters
The door mats remove
And the staples are stolen
Under the knees
And the walkings stick
Laughter in splinters
All out of underline
The undefined shuffle
You
And me
By definition
Googled is gone
They discover we're not there
Uprooted
New old
Lost found
Perhaps a glitch
The floor mats remove
You're not hiding
By definition
You are there
Googled is gone
Sifting through lines
Through cracks
Of your lives.

Denis Streeter 12/26/11

might be

loosely inspired by a children's book by william mayne called a glass ball...

might be

i was walking down the street when i
picked up a quarter
it was a shiny quarter
so i spent it
on a blue marble
but it ran away from me
so i chased it
down alley ways over roof tops down gutters
until it rolled into the ocean
a fain of magic
a whole world contained
if i had searched its universe
gods would be present
making sure i would not know
too much
searching the soul
of a marble
that might be ticking
growing
might not be blue
might be my heart

denis streeter 12/18/11

Trite and true

The original title was "Blank slate", but after talking to my drunken best friend last night and reading this piece..."Hold on a minute...if you're going to read it to me, I'm going to need a beer"...he thought it was trite...not bad...but trite. So I said "how about 'trite and true'?" He liked that title a lot...actually so did I...it's so


Trite and true

This is the blank slate
The empty towel
Words, food place mats,
Perhaps even a blown nose
Yeeuck...better be thrown out
Words are sometimes like that
Better thrown out
Others come in, write themselves on this towel
Words changing as experience changes us
This is the blank slate
The empty towel
Waiting to be filled
Refilling our perceptions.

Denis Streeter 12/16/11

You want my money

An angry poem...

You want my money

You
You want my money
What will you do with it
Use it to pay your electric bill?
Once you have my money
You'll use it on whatever you please
You
Quit asking for my money
Just do it the old fashioned way.
Rob me at gunpoint or a knife to my throat
Then you can have my money
That way I'll know
It's not for rent, the baby, the bills
That way I'll know
You'll use it any way you please
I won't ask you to spare my life
You will have to answer to that
You
You want my money
Do what you need
But remember
The repercussions.

Denis Streeter 12/9/11

There is no more

I had a really tiring day at work...so to help me unwind this is complete nonsense...

There is no more

Toothpicks of saunter earning their keep
By brooming sticks dry of leaves
Shadowing ways to sheltering havens
Where the rugs pop and the tiles glow
The aftershock of mittins and towels
When bowels exploded on the scene
First in sonnets, add bandersnatch of wine
And the songs ended selling one pellet at a time
Just as the ice cream had noticed and stopped believing
The tonics dressed up and went out for dinner
With a little floss and gingivitis
Exploring chlorine wells before rinse and spit
But the trowels dug up the rest
Just between the covers where the toothpicks drop
And the sidewinders wind branches for words to explode
But the aftershocks dropped the towels for dinner
When the slumbers came a meal worm away
Hoping for dust while the shelves reverberated
The rings turned their laps into flower beds
Announcing eclipse while rugs tiled doors
In rafters of smoke goading tarnations
Of labrador drawers and finger foot puppets
The decent thing to do was hide the fritters
Under rotting cabinets and wing tumbled doors
While picnic baskets cried "There is no more."
Morse out cat door
In sing songy dashes right under the floor.

Denis Streeter 12/3/11

Beard growth

The stubble is now one week old...

I look in the mirror
I looks like someone spackled
Some snow stubbled gravel on my face
And I didn't know gravel grew
To fill in roadways, ditches
That hole in my chin
I want to fill in
A face filled with sparse
And more dense growth
It could be all be the same
Or trimmed or clearcut
Or let the snow stubbled gravel
Grow its own truth.

Denis Streeter 12/2/11