Joe Thompson

@joethomp.bsky.social

170 Followers 261 Following

I #create. We all do of course, but it is who I am. #Poetry, #art, #songwriting, #theater,#humor,whatever it takes. And I work at mentoring and encouraging others to create as well. From #annapolis, MD Www.Imaginesongs.com

Colorful dead fish. Bones on beach
The moon called To me last night. "Let's walk together, Like we used to- Before you fell in love, Got married Raised a family, grew old and sedentary. When you were lonely I comforted you- When you were lost I guided you- Come." So we walked As if we'd never been apart
Someone left a barrel of laughs At my front door. I was suspicious, of course, Not knowing who sent them Or where they were from. So instead of opening it I crouched down and put my ear next to it, Listening - to guage what sort of hilarity might be contained within. Guffaws might indicate cruelty. A self satisfied chuckle might be ironic. A mwah haha would surely indicate - well, I think that's pretty obvious. Were they the laughs of a person With nothing left to loose? Or the laughs of a person Who knows knows he can only win? Were they the happy byproduct of joyous celebration? Or the giggles of a child who feels anxious and embarrassed? A few of each, perhaps, All jumbled up together. I looked up to see my neighbor Standing next to me. Seems it had been delivered to the wrong address. He rolled the barrel over to his house where his family didn't waste a second before letting them all out. It was total laugh-fest over there. too bad. I could have used a good laugh.
Everything I know about writing I learned from Dr. Frankenstein Split the words open. Cut them in pieces. Let the guts spill and the blood spurt out. Get it on your hands And face; Get that wild glint in your eyes – The one that makes people nervous; Bellow to the heavens as you stitch old ideas back together, Laughing hysterically “It’s alive!”
A poem about words
Death came to me this morning With coffee and donuts And called me to come out Of whichever dark hidey-hole I was currently in. I was hesitant in my apprehension, But Death is patient, And knowing he could wait forever, And enticed by the smell of coffee, I acquiesced. There wasn't any cream or sugar, Just plain black coffee—but it was hot. Neither of us spoke for a while, Just sipped the coffee. "Would you rather have had whiskey?" he asked. I shook my head. "Not feeling much like small talk today, huh?" he observed. "I make you nervous, don't I? I just thought you might—ahh, never mind." After a while, he looked at his watch. "Oops, gotta go," he said. "Next time, you're buying." He took the last donut and headed out. Death always gets the last donut. I sat, looking at the empty paper cups, And I thought of all the things I should have asked.
He had a voice like death on a bender. We listened, Our vision growing unexpectedly blurred, As he scribbled landscapes On the window And sang poetry he created— Twisting prayer around blasphemy, Around lust, around yearning, With notes whose colors bled One into the other, Into the other— Beseeching, begging, demanding: The scars of our doubts, The armor of our pain. And when, one day, he shattered the sun, Raining shards of golden flames like shrapnel On the innocent and guilty alike, We sat in our shiny new darkness, Singing hallelujah, hallelujah, Over and over again. We rocked back and forth, Clutching an old album cover, Like it was the relic of a saint.
Bizarre creatures