Vendor Writing
Yellow Graphic reading: Vendor Writing

Pieces of Poetry

By |

Flying a Sign?Written by Chris Scott Fieselman

This thing that I’m doing in The Contributor,I’m wondering why? And what it’s all for?Calling it “Pieces of Poetry”To get more people to know about me.I’m sorry I don’t sing or play an instrument,But there are people out there who really can!Who understand, what that means?In God’s Grander Plan. “Do no hurt and do no harm,Whoever strikes first is always wrong”That makes sense. Shouldn’t it be something?Someone says in a song?Isn’t that where Rare Poetry belongs?There… And in the hands of those so desperate,They’re barely hanging on? “I can almost hear the Music”Of the things worth being said.But without the music all they are,Are words worth being read!Newspapers are becoming a thing of the past.Every new issue is somewhat familiar,But… Somehow different from the last.Not every city has a street-paper,Uniquely like, The Contributor.New possibilities, published every two weeks,We need now more than ever before.Something to share from the people out there,Who used to be flying a sign!Something new, for them to do,To prove to you they’re trying…By selling something worth buying.

Vendor Writing
Yellow Graphic reading: Vendor Writing

Peace

By |

Warm summer evening beckonsthe children to the baseball diamondThe public swings creak, people calls across the parkTouching each other with their voicesThe last birds flit and swoopThe moon like a wontonPlump and nearMusic thumps,Melodies linger in the voices of women friendsA breeze reminds usOf what we share

Vendor Writing
Yellow Graphic reading: Vendor Writing

Undefeated

By |

It’s hot — so hot!Humidity?Through the roofI’m cute as all get-outIn my flowers and bowsYet after two hoursOf hawking my papersOn the heat-radiating roadwayBack and forth, back and forthI’ve not made a single dollarI pack it inThinking of dear ScarlettDefiant ­— UndefeatedI whisper to the SunTomorrow is another day!

Vendor Writing
Yellow Graphic reading: Vendor Writing

Stigmata

By |

You awaken in the darknessAnd set out to break your fast before workThe floppy toe of your worn-out shoeCatches on an uneven sidewalk seamYou stumble and tumble downUnable to catch yourselfThe knees of your pants rip open firstThen the skin on your knees and palmsGives wayTo the rough craggy slab of ancient concreteYou do your best to staunch the bloodWith the cuffs of your shirtThen limp on to the fast food placeYou grab some napkins at the beverage barAnd continue to dab at the bloodYou take a place in line and noticeThe girls at the counterAre looking in your directionLike there must be someoneWith two heads in your proximityYou look behind you with excited anticipationWhen a young man wearing a name tagThat just reads “manager”Approaches and asks you to leaveSaying they don’t serve your kind there