UNDETERRED

I could whine

about Ginsberg

or Rupi Kaur

or the general state

of the universe

and it would be

hollow complaint

falling on deaf ears

waiting to dismiss me

waiting to tell me

I’m nothing compared

to Corso or Dunbar

or Dickenson

or any other poet

my run on sentences

paraded publicly

as profound verse

fooling next to no one

but I continue

undeterred

with minimal complaint

I live and let live

They do their thing

and I do mine

I’ll likely be content

when I meet my maker

imperfect, ever brutish

I followed my own muse

Undeterred by critics

I dug into the vortex

entirely at my own pace

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/georgeschaefer/poem/1121280

I COME FROM PHILADELPHIA

I didn’t come from church

I come from Philadelphia

I come for a show

I come to get high

to wreak havoc on the streets

a poet of delusion

a poet of confusion

a reading of Beats

never dying reading

NYC, NY, USA

dying of poetry; drunk

smoke herb hashish stoned

mind pure hope

thought run Whitman-esque

type of truth dream

Beat guys running rampant

going going on and on

I cam from Philly

Nazareth Hospital 1966

July 5 sometime in the morning

now I’m here

not from church

not in school failed

in life in work lover

all other endeavors

other than gaining sympathy

from old ladies

and copping acid at Dead shows

all else is no go

so I come from Philadelphia

streets Whitman walked

home where Poe lived

and drank the bile of death

under Franklin’s sacred vision

tombstone of ether visage

I come from Philadelphia’

once again never bragging

simply stating a fact

for the record

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/georgeschaefer/poem/1117272

INNER PEACE

In my dream

I hear a sweet melody

and I begin to discern

the lyrics to “Come As You Are.”

I’m compelled

to follow the sounds

and move closer

I Keep thinking

after 25 years

I’m gonna see Kurt again

and I draw closer

and I notice the voice

it doesn’t sound like Kurt

and I continue the pilgrimage

to the sweet song

and I begin to recognize

the visage of the singer

It’s not the face of Kurt Cobain

but Jesus of Nazareth.

He’s gently strumming the strings

of that acoustic guitar

and smiling sweetly

as he sings the song

and I awaken

with a blissful feeling

and the tune still stuck in my head

I feel certain 

it’s gonna be a good day.

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/fuche_bu/poem/1072810

PHOTO BOMBING SON OF A FEMALE DOG

So I just wanted a good picture with my dog.  I figured it would be great for the non-existent Christmas cards.  Of course, I have a dog that likes to photo bomb.  We never get the good picture because he always jumps in front of me with his glorious snout.

Always jumping gun

mucking up the picture frame

duo to solo

Finding it rather amusing, I decide to post a photo of the dog photo bombing me.  I use the caption:  “ Photo bombing son of a bitch.”  I get a warning from Instagram that I \should change the caption since it is similar to others that have been reported.  I’m thinking, “Really!”

No damn humor

even in the face of truth

pantyweight whiners

So I start thinking about it and decide to go with the caption:  “Photo bombing S.O.B.”.  No such luck.  I still get the message to reconsider my humor.  I elect to not post the photo at all.  It’s rather insane that you can’t even describe something for what it is.  I have a male dog.  A male dog is a son of a female dog.  Hence son of a bitch is the proper nomenclature.  I understand not wanting to post X-rated material or not wanting to post false information but now the Metaverse has a problem with the actual truth.  If you want to make the world a better place maybe worry more about people with no sense of humor whatsoever.  Laughter is probably essential if we want to ever achieve our potential greatness.

So no S.O.B.

Son of a female dog

no truth allowed

metaverse protected

from a harmless joke

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/georgeschaefer/prose/1107446

SQUANDERED SERENDIPITY: A Second Helping of Cannibalized Haibun: Schaefer, George: 9798354488872: Amazon.com: Books

GATEKEEPERS

I owe nothing

to the gatekeepers of poetry

those self appointed

self important twits

who took it

upon their own slender shoulders

to dictate the world of poetry

for all the rest of us rubes

I owe nothing

to the gatekeepers of poetry

who infect the pure spirit

of the bountiful human well

who try to mandate

their own inane standards

I ignore the absurdity

uf their fabricated pecking orders

and their proclamations

of what is or isn’t poetry

the sterility of their convictions

and the mediocrity of their minds

The human spirit soars

Poets spew out their verse

in manic and off beat tempos

often awkward, often mundane

but true to their own realities

best to ignore the gatekeepers

their smug self-righteous

and banal opinions

have no bearing on

the ultimate truth of poetry

which more often than not

is the truth of a singular voice

crying out rhythmic raps

and barbaric yawps

and unmeasured thoughts and dreams

I owe nothing to the gatekeepers

though decorum mandates

I accept their existence

worthless as they are

they have the same rights

to exist as I

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/georgeschaefer/poem/1116830

MS. PAC-MAN OR LAUNDRY

A Ms. Pac-man stands off

in a corner near the Men’s Room

there’s very little dust

no doubt a few mid timers

(not to be confused with old timers)

still enjoy the game

I could play a game or two

The machine still takes quarters

and I have a few quarters

sitting in my pocket

but I also need the quarters

to do my laundry

So do I avoid getting suckered in?

I suppose I could

It wouldn’t be the first time

if I showed up Monday morning

hungover, bleary eyed

shamefully clad in dirty clothes

It wouldn’t be the first time

and only a fool

would assume it would be the last

MS. PAC-MAN OR LAUNDRY | PostPoems

MEANDERTHAL MAN: Schaefer, George: 9798826122174: Amazon.com: Books

BILL’S GYROS

It was a staple in New York.  There were multiple locations in Manhattan situated like lighthouses acting as beacons of light to hungry pups with limited cash flow.

Locals and travelers alike in need of a cheap bite could seek out Bill’s Gyros.  This establishment was a heaven send for a young man exploring the big apple.  You could get gyros, falafel sandwiches or souvlakis at a reasonable price.  There was a Bill’s Gyro across the street from Penn Station and one in Times Square.  There were at least four of them decorating midtown Manhattan.  They were holes in the wall and usually open 24 hours—or at least they were always open when I needed them.

This could be a pre-concert meal before catching the Dead at Madison Square Garden or a late night pit stop after catching a late night set of jazz at the Village Vanguard.  It was great to order one and then head up to Central Park for an afternoon lunch.  Hell, they were great in the train station, on the train or even walking down the street.

I don’t think I would have survived Manhattan in the late 80’s without Bill’s Gyros. They were delicious.  The mutton was always succulent.  The Tzatziki sauce was amazing.  Fresh tomatoes and lettuce were on board.  A little hot sauce would really hit the spot.  I became one of their disciples.  I proselytized and sought out converts.  I even managed to turn several friends onto Bill’s Gyros.

One inebriated outing featured quite a bit of smoke, drink and other forms of indulgence.  We grabbed some gyros from Bill’s and took them into a movie theatre to watch a bad horror movie that no one seems to remember.  Shortly thereafter, that friend always wanted to stop at Bill’s Gyros during any New York adventure.

Once I tried eating one in Penn Station.  There was a deprived looking character sitting across the row staring at me while I began to take out my food.  His eyes kept getting bigger and bigger.  He was practically salivating.  I only got 3 bites in before I decided to just give it to the guy.  If he ever got his life together, I hope he indulged in more gyros.

Now, all the Bill’s Gyros in Manhattan are long gone but I have a select group of friends who all remember.  We still talk about these places.  A $5 gyro in Manhattan means a lot to a 20 or 22 year old without a lot of discretionary income.  It got me through some lean years.  I read there’s a Bill’s Gyro in Atlantic City.  I don’t know if it’s any relation to the old New York Bill’s Gyro.  Maybe one day I’ll go check it out sometime just to see.  They insist you can’t go home again but Thomas Wolfe never said anything about going back to Bill’s Gyros again. 

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/fuche_bu/prose/1074143

NADINE

She reminded me of Esmerelda Villalobos.  Even in dim light, she had haunting pretty eyes.  Her voice had such a sexy timbre.  It was a Lyft ride from one brewery to another.  And we mused on the state of the world and the fundamental decline of civics.  I’d catch glimpses of her deep brown Latina eyes in the rear view mirror.  It only takes about 8 seconds to fall in love or at least infatuation.  I was deeply smitten by her as she maneuvered the vehicle thru Ashville streets and got to Wicked Weed Brewing.  Destination now arrived.

Sadly say goodbye

I do a wei on exit

She smiles sweetly

a couple more beers pending

and haunting sweet dreams tonight

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/georgeschaefer/prose/1118732