Is this a Poem?

a piece is a poem because a poet prepares it as such

for me a poem is a present, a plaything,
a passion piquing picture parceled out in pieces
and each presence a person presents in a poem is important
but each placed in mind or mouthed isn't meaningful mind you
and matters the less for it
though it mustn't need muster meaning
and might mean mostly nothing...
yet a good one
a good one
without a lot of alliteration,
rhythm, rhyme, reason or realization
might move you to mourning
or until morning... to mourning until morning?
well...this morning i was mourning the maddening loss
of a good pair of shoes, scratching my hair, sipping booze
sitting sadly starring,
very badly drawing
faces in the fog on the glass
wondering when my headache would pass
so i could think without pain
and i was racking my brain
though the pain would not tame
through the thought that then came
... i'd be forever the same
now that would be lame
but then the whiskey kicked in
and my sorrows were smoothed out
as i thought to myself
a person cant possibly live without change
i am a new person each morning i wake
yesterday i was a young man who could drink any amount of whisky
today i am an old man drinking too much whisky
and someday i will be a boy again
who never touched whisky in his life
wait wait wait....
why do all my poems wind towards whisky sorrows?
fuck it

My Scarf

My words can say just some, and not the whole,

for though you'll listen closely, I still fear

my words will speak my mind and not my soul

and how then could you ever see things clearly?

I'll try to tell you my dear, my heart.

I'll let loose words of life, and love, and loss.

So when it's time for two like us to part,

these words will keep my heart from getting lost.

Please, when you go, remember what I say

and wrap this 'round your hair, near your ears.

I hope my words will bring you back someday.

This cloth can help to wipe away the tears.

Though it seems you wear it all the while--

Those words are lost; the scarf just fits your style.

15 Years at Cafe *****

Yellow school ship

passes the window

distant conversations

over modern pop

music... a Taste--

Earth... from Indonesia

burnt to just past its peak

firm seat on a tan stage

a Headache--

three chairs pushed

away from a small round table

yarn--

a pretty girl doing homework

wearing a lip ring!

shades of brown swirls

on my cup

More headache--

old people on new comp-

"...my dad was high..."

the air smells clean

--I don't feel clean

the table doesn't either

"I [something something] probation!"

that's a lot of stuff

for one person to carry

new art up
green and yellow walls

back "the Star motel"

it doesn't look like a nice place--

Clean rooms, HBO, Low prices

--off axis views

15 Years at *****

doesn't seem like I've been here that long

--Still have a headache

Voyeuristic Reminiscence

I prefer to watch happiness through a glass window.

Physically seeing the barrier between us and placing my hands

on the smooth, cold surface--crystal hardness pressing back;

gentle light coolly shining through, illuminating my face.

On the other side of that window is dancing smiling celebration--

jubilation for a union, a birth, life and loving in the same snapping

dance steps and parachuting skirts of spinning young fairies,

their delicate wings appearing and disappearing in the glittering light.

The wine is poured freely on the other side of this window.

Red cheeked men are patting shoulders and poking ribs with pudgy
elbows and sweaty palms. Bellies jiggling every which way.

Wide creases pushing back thick, shaking jowls.

Pearly white lilies match perfectly the smiling teeth

of a pair of elegant women in golden embroidered dresses.

A red stain forgotten on a pluming dancers skirt--

wispy brown hairs decidedly no longer out of place.

Hidden under a table, a young boy in a handed down suit

is red faced and sweating after his first kiss was laid on his cheek

by a little girl in ruby red shoes who still dances on her fathers toes.

A peck I could still feel burning on my face after so many years.

There were purple flowers

There were purple flowers

growing all along the bank of the river

as I floated with the swift moving current

I dream't slow motion dreams

of putting purple flowers in your hair

adding them to The Dream--

a dream of dreams atop dreams

continuing, growing, changing

but there are always purple flowers

growing along the banks of this river

the kind we used to keep in the kitchen

in springtime, when everything was growing