This poem brought to you by technical difficulties, free of charge.

HD

Our break up, our crack up, our disaster,

Brought to the public live in High Definition.

Stark relief in a fielded ground

All about how we came unwound.

Technicolor ignominy from prologue to epilogue

Multi-simul-cast globally in High Definition.

Our end, our demise, our tragedy,

Rendered faithlessly in High Definition.

Flack included in surround sound

All about how we came unwound.

Sometimes definition does nothing for visibility,

like a mirror that can’t see right, High Definition

Miss-judgmental

and self-propagating

our bad dispositions,

our downfall

only.

Let’s let this sleeping log lie,

You and me,

Let’s go out of HD.

I'll buy you a drink,

and we'll not

see ourselves sink.

Here the technopoetry version for free on SoundCloud too:
https://soundcloud.com/lacey-schmidt/high-definitionmp3

Affinity publishes Rori's independent review of my book, A Walk Away

See the review and get 3 chapters free...just in time for an Autumn escape.
http://affinityebooks.com/index.php?main_page=page&id=627&chapter=2015

http://affinityebooks.com/index.php?main_page=page&id=627&chapter=2015

Things I love

I know 

I have every right 

to take all the time I need
to grieve.
The world is
a tragic place
where golden children
sometimes die
for no reason,
And every wretched,
unimaginable treason
has its own trump season.
Sure, I know,
its important to be sad
some,
but before I get too far down,
I have to count
the Things I love:

The sight of my One
great love,
golden and tawny
in the sun
by the shimmering water.

Too-long drives
on autumn afternoons
to a good soundtrack
with a truck full of friends
ready for the next
adventure
or a desperate taco snack.

3AM and dancing
like a force of nature,
oblivious to anything
but
music.

I have to count
the things I love:

Hiking the back Forty
so far beyond
the voices of others
that I can hear the voices
of the Aspens and the Oaks
whispering in valleys
that have never known
crowds.

A Fifth of bourbon's
salt and malt
on my tongue
and bonfire smoke
on a night so dark
the Milky Way shines
like clotted cream
as my family weaves
tales and laughter.

Six mile loops
of forsaken freeways
flowing velvet
round the city
like a river through
a carnival of lights.

I have to count
the things I love:

Sailing Seven seas,
open ocean,
flying over
myriad blue waters.

Waking up slowly,
after Eight,
to sit on the patio
and breathe
in the steam
of fresh coffee
or
bergamot tea.

The Cloud Nine feeling
of A scouring hot shower
with citrus soap
after earnest yard work
in the humid summer.

I have to count
the things I love:

A kitten
Tenanted
beneath my chin
curled up
purring
rumble-bumble
against my chest.

The Eleventh hour
of writing well,
my fingers pattering,
keyboard glowing
like a magician's ball,
spells creating worlds
within
my head.

The impossibly pink,
gangling improbability,
of a Dozen
Roseate Spoonbills
flying the thin graceful glow
between sunset
and twilight.

I have to count
the things I love,
the Innumerable
things I love,
so
the things I loathe
can't win.

As a sunflower faces the sun, I count, the things I love so that I can hold the light.

Bitter over election politics already?

Take a dive off the deep end and try a good dark dance fix: https://soundcloud.com/lacey-schmidt/election-yearmp3

Is Poetry Dead?

I think not!  What about you?

Here is the title poem from my poetry collection, "The Nightshade Lexicon" in honor of #WorldPoetryDay

Or Listen in to the technopoetry version if you prefer at: https://soundcloud.com/lacey-schmidt/nightshadelexicon-poetry-is-deadmp3 

"Poetry is dead,"

He said,

"And you scribblers of rhymes

Are the modern day equivalents of Dr. Frankenstein,

Cobbling together hackneyed parts of palsied phrases

Hoping to electrify some heart."

How could this be?

I thought.

Everyone knows GOD is dead,

Nietzsche told us so,

But poetry?

A listing land of zombie corpses?

Poetry has whispered mixers and elixers

To necromancers and angels alike for millennium…

Dressed ancient Ute chants to the nines

And peeled naked Tupac Shakur and Beastie Boy dimes.

"Poetry is dead and you’re wasting time with ghosts on-line,"

He insisted,

As I shaped more sharpie ghouls on a napkin

And the back of some grocery store receipt.

Maybe poetry chirps via smart-phone at 180 characters per minute

Like Herman Munster’s heartbeat,

“IT LIVES!”

I quipped.

And I’ll continue to deal in my dead lexicon,

A dark addicted wordslinger,

Happy towering with the nightshades.

Some poetic nightshades in a dead lexicon...