Poetry 'n' Such with Paul Piatt

Gentle and heartfelt greetings to all of you discerning drinkers of the warm and aromatic coffee of life that is the IWS website.

Renown poet and IWS Literary Editor, Paul Piatt here once again, in order to share with you some of today’s finest in the world of poetry, prose, and people.

Today during our continuing journey along the sullied yet hopeful boulevard of words made magical, and life’s pentameters made iambic, I artfully and empathetically attempt to put finger to keyboard, and apply a balm of solace to the rage that has angrily graced the pages of the IWS website this week.

Jay and Matt, as if twins of Joshua, have spent this week openly trumpeting their anger and disdain for others who practice, preach, and or exhibit less than what one might consider ideal human behavior.

I understand their frustration with the world that encompasses them.  I too, as a young man sojourning through middle America in the 60’s, experienced a similar frustration which I wrote about in a poem from 1963...

A Negro’s in Brooklyn

I slithered through the streets of Brooklyn
like the snake through the Garden of Eden.
I nostralized the greens a-cookin’
and heard a colored family screamin’…

“Greens again mama? I can no longer do.”
“You’ll get what I fix, and you’ll like it too.”
“I want a steak like the white folk eat.”
“Steak don’t grow on trees, eat your pigs’ feet.”

An overheard conversation righted my ship.
For it was then I knew…
Pigs’ feet keep one grounded.

See, gentle readers? I too knew angst and anger yet kept it in check by the writing of words, and I hope too, that Jay and Matt, can use this as a lesson in therapy and self-actualization.

I have another cathartic poem to offer unto Jay and Matt, and you as well today.

My longtime friend and fellow wordsmith, Blanche Carte has this piece of excellelexiconitry from her new book, “Riding Shotgun with Billy Joel.”  I give you…

The Angry Cucumber

Here I sit.

Atop a mound of dirt,
sweating in the oppressive heat of the seventh month sun.

A bit of water here, a tint of water there.
I am abused and manhandled as a mighty, yet gentle flavor grows within me.

Here I weep.

Beneath the August rain,
fighting the aphids, the rabbits, the kids next door.

A bit of tending here, a tint of tending there.
I am plucked from the vine like an orphan stolen from his parents.

Dipped in vinegar…Seasoned with salt…Bathed in Rosemary.

I am stuck inside a jar and when ready for the tongue, eaten by a toothless man.

My earlier anger seems trite.

I hope that my words and those of Blanche have comforted Jay, Matt, and all of you.

For now, as I travel the road less traveled,

Paul Piatt

mattmaniws@ymail.com
MattMan_IWS

Annnnnd…Jay and I bitched a lot yesterday on the IWS Radio Show…It was a good time, and if you missed it live, you can catch it all right c’here:

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