Offshore Breeze by Andy Powell

Just discovered Offshore Breeze by Andy Powell on Queen Mob’s Tea House.
It really spoke to me — evocative imagery, strong voice, and a good sense of humor.

Click the image to link to the poem.

Attention Poetry People!

In an effort to discover more and better poetry and connect with like-minded writers, I am broadening the scope of this blog to include content by other authors. My goal is to build an internet poetry community around some common values — as outlined in my Mission. Please reach out using the Contact form if you’re interested, or recommend the site to a friend.

Interested in Diving?  Send me one of your poems to share on The Diving Board.

What do I like to see in a poem?

  • a sense of humor – regardless of the subject matter
  • economical use of language
  • some attention paid to sound and rhythm

What do I generally not like to see in a poem?

  • impenetrable verbal gymnastics
  • meaningless bizarro formatting
  • love letters or diary entries about your sexual exploits

What else am I interested in receiving?

  • links to your favorite poems (especially those by emerging writers)
  • poetry websites/blogs you enjoy
  • anything you think aligns with the Diving aesthetic (see my Mission for more on that)

Cynicism is Easy

start small
in manageable ways
maintain eye contact
listen without interruption

sit still
look at the trees
watch the wind firework
the sun-sparked leaves

remember to breathe
remember to breathe
remember to breathe

and when someone says
all of the great books
have already been written
there are no songs left
that haven’t been sung
there is really no point
all that you’ve created is
a variation on a common theme
a pale ghost of a familiar melody

remind him that at any given moment
there is always someone in a room alone
with a head full of shadows
untouched by the fingers of light between the blinds
who could use one more good song about the sun

 

short poems of whimsy

Try this playlist of short silliness on the Giants of Diving YouTube Channel.

My music is also there.

New App – by Craig Patrick

Many thanks to Algebra of Owls magazine for publishing my poem. Link to it here:  New App – by Craig Patrick

A Preference for the Madness

when I see a man alone
in a shopping center parking lot
flailing his arms like a dry land drowning victim
I expect him to be insane – or engrossed in a manic episode
but all too often, he’s simply wearing a tiny telephone earpiece
quoting disappointing sales figures or bickering with his girlfriend
and the closer I walk – and as the truth sinks in more deeply
the more certain I become that I’ve somehow been cheated

Movie Theater

I took a sick day and went to the movies. I like to go alone on weekday afternoons. People are at work, and the theaters are nearly empty.  It was Clint Eastwood in Gran Torino, and he badly wanted some poor sonofabitch to get off his lawn.
I chose a central seat a few rows from the front and glanced around to see just one other person sitting, oddly I thought, far away in a back corner. But to each his own, I decided, and turned my attention back to memories of other Eastwood films I’d seen. Several minutes later, as the previews were winding down, a man strolled down the aisle and sat directly in front of me — as if reporting dutifully to his assigned seat on the second day of tenth grade geometry.  After glancing around the desolate theater a few times to be sure I was not the target of a practical joke or the subject of a social experiment, I began to analyze the possible motives behind this man’s most bizarre seating selection.  I thought mental illness was plausible — but I finally decided that he was somehow oblivious to the imposition, and I’ll have to admit, this triggered a rage response in me, complete with fleeting thoughts of sudden violence.
But then Clint flashed onto the screen with his trademark technicolor scowl, and returning suddenly to myself, I switched to a more suitable seat a few rows back and let the projector’s pale blue opiate glow sing me down to the bliss of no longer knowing.