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I trend—to like Goth poems,
black and white with all the piercings;
but the runway Paris poems’
hats and scarves can be endearing;
and heroic flowing poems,
the Athenian dresses I see,
are better than the Chiton poems
which all seem Greek to me;
however, there remains a place
for the raw street-poem thing
with clash of sport and formal wear
and all topped off with bling;
the sexy poems of legs and boots
I just normally wouldn’t book,
but they compel me still to drop
my shades and take a look;
high heel stiletto poems
seem to always impress me,
whenever I’m out trendspotting
the feet of poetry;
and I would be remiss to skip
formal poems of renown,
such classic form and intrigue
as the flowing evening gown;
which leads me to imagine
modern minimalist wear,
Victoria’s Secret poetry
with almost nothing there;
but I digress and must admit
the preferred style for me,
is the casual relaxing stuff
of loungewear poetry.
©2017 DE Navarro
Warning: Semi-Automatic Re-Deconstruction Ahead
How crazy is it
bubbles up in the middle
of downtown L.A.
natural raw asphalt
from the depths of the earth
full of piles
of dinosaur bones
the stench of a street crew
someday to consume
the bones of buildings
skyscrapers sinking into the pits
of liquid roads.
©2017 DE Navarro
Published in Dropping Ants into Poems, 2017.
The Least of It
He thought he shared the universe with all;
Heard many voices in response remand
An inundation—words unlike his call,
From the desert-bare cliff across the sand.
Some morning from the parched and thirsty ground
He would yell in rage regarding this thing
To not have his voice smothered by the sound
But attentive silence there listening
And something small came out of what he yelled
A slithering embodiment converged
In the cliff’s toppled talus it dwelled
But then from the far distant heat emerged
And after time allowed for it to skim,
It almost acted human when it neared
Unlike the crowds additional to him,
The solitary lizard thus appeared,
Leaving a soft but clear track in the sand
It stopped sedate in silence then it bore
Itself beneath the sun-baked grainy land,
It waited for the night—and nothing more.
©2013 DE Navarro
Published in Dare to Soar, 2013
A tribute to Robert Frost written in his style in juxtaposition to his poem, The Most of It.
When Mother sent me out to play
Just in the garden there,
I saw a flower in the bed
A crimson rose of deepest red
I drew my sword, beware.
Imagine now Red Dragon’s glare
His eyes sun fire hot,
With thorny spikes on tail and back
Or poison breath he could attack
But would he get first shot?
He sprayed his poison cloud of rot
The vapor took my sight.
I staggered now in darkness thrust
My magic blade I had to trust
I swung with all my might.
Red Dragon rasped, “You silly knight,
I’ll do you in this day.”
I dropped and rolled but felt the sting
His tail thorns caught me lingering
I bled right where I lay.
I had to make Red Dragon pay,
For terror he had wrought.
A menace to my neighborhood
This nemesis of childhood
I’d make him come to naught.
I feigned my fading as we fought
His pride and ego swelled.
When he drew nigh to watch me die
Then through his neck my sword did fly
Red Dragon I had felled.
The Queen rushed out and screamed and yelled,
“You lopped my precious rose.”
She took the stick out of my hand
And banished me from Garden-land
That’s how the story goes.
So if you’re ever sent to play
In Garden-land my friend,
Beware red dragons lurking there,
But even more you must beware,
Queen Mother in the end.
© 2006, 2009 DE Navarro
Published in Between Life and Language, 2009
I do not stand still
I do not wait in a pool
I do not fall from the sky in pieces
I do not float vaporous as a revenant
I am not a current that flows along
in the vast ocean of humanity,
I am a river,
and if I should mystify you by the way I
bend and twist through the valley
grabbing and pulling at
that which interests me as I pass;
or by how I overflow my banks
to pick up strays abandoned
and slip back into the drive forward,
you would know I never linger;
I am a river.
I absorb others, followers
and those who fall in pieces,
the drifters of drainage
and all that runs off into me.
It might joggle your mind to know
I am enthralled with
making my bed in stones
and compelled to sing as I pass,
ruing the day I empty myself into passivity
to become the memory of a placid lake
and to rest in the depths of a basin.
©2016 DE Navarro
Author DE Navarro
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