007 Challenge

[PandoraGlitters]

(better late perhaps)

Seen me from many angles
he says, all good
as if I were architecture
and he could discern, simply from scrutiny
from street level
surveying the size, depth, nature
of what he was dealing with.

Who. In this case who. I am not a metaphor.
I have no cornice nor transom. Nothing about me
is concrete. Nothing about me is really
crumbling (perhaps a few fine
cracks). A single building could not compare
because it does not live. Now a city!
A city maybe. It crumbles, erects, rumbles
with parades and violence, sings high
sirens of alarm and joy
and in that, perhaps a surveyor could find
a ledge to grasp. Perhaps an orange line
to chalk before storms wash
everything away, but if I were a city

I would wish for a suburb
like him to wrap around me
with all of its bedrooms ready
for more than sleep.

 

[PoetGuy]

006

.....

 

[ParrotDee]

Iambic happiness
reach down
to binary
and grab a set


of balls


than juggle them
in the marketplace

on your high wire act
and when you fall
face down
ass up
in the town

counting change

 

[PoetGuy]

007

.....

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Damn. Wish I had read poetguy's poems before he removed them. Gotta be faster on the draw, I suppose. Hate my last one but sort of like some of the idea I am wrestling with about human/architecture. Might have to try to rework it. And welcome to 007 ParrotDee!

 

[twelveoone]

And welcome to 007 ParrotDee!

I don't think you want him writing 7 poems ever.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

What about you, Mr. one? I would seriously love a week of your poems. Up for it?

 

[ParrotDee]

What about you, Mr. one? I would seriously love a week of your poems. Up for it?

The last thing you would want is a week of his poems.
Trust me.

 

[champagne1982]

Number One, Again ...

At The Head Waters Of The Seguin River

That shade of lichen green remains
undefined until the scene fills
with filigreed frost spread over quartzite
granite blossoms just around the point

before sheild rock anchors old Mill Lake
Dam. Its bulk endures time with iron
stains lined on faces worn with age
and flood years. Big pines take root

in humus-filled hollows further back.
Down by the water sits a ghost of the boy
who fished from a canoe above the shoots,
who couldn't swim, who got dragged down.

His young brother shouldered the blame
for the dead being deaf to a frightened kid.

 

[champagne1982]

Number Two, Once More

Broad River Bridge

An oxymoron of great square
timbers across a narrow
crevice filled with silt
and sand washed free

of hardwood forest. Sweet
water flows from crystal springs
into rock bottom lakes joined
in name and your river flow

between Big and Little White Fish.
Where nascent anglers dangled
worm-baited hooks from willow
twig rods and silk thread lines

and caught sunfish and perch
from perches on your broad beams.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

/me sighs with happiness

Thank you Ms. Bubbly.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

To Twelve and Parrot: Why not?

And does asking that make me a troll in my own thread?

 

[PandoraGlitters]

one martini poem

The bridge is what we all
secretly wait for: an alleviation
of pattern, levitation over water,
courier of mundane footfall
into grace
as we climb up to cloud
for a ladder
is just a bridge
that didn't follow through.

I worry sometimes whether this
love is a bridge or a ladder. Never
had a broken bone; don't want one
either. But if I did, I can't think
of a better way to get it than
reaching for you
because even if it is a ladder
maybe we could bridge it.
Pretend I'm Brooklyn.
A tunnel metaphor, on a woman
is unflattering.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Two of Hearts

Almost always I can tell when I can't make it work.
There is no trace of a face card, the nobles having hidden
under the staircase of fives or sixes or maybe
under a wash of red. Or maybe all of the little ones
are tucked under like shy toes of a sandaled boy
caught downhill of a sundress. Can't get them to
stack abed their Aces without digging out
the whole mountain of middle.

Harder is when it seems like it will. When slashes
of red and black line up like blinds and the whole deck
quite nearly is revealed, ready to stack into neat fours
of alternating currents until something twists upstairs
into a karmic knot: the Oedipal Jack won't get out from under
his Queen, perhaps. Something gets caught
in the throat of destiny and despite
all promising whispers as card by card
lays obediently on another, it's a do-over.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Three Sheets

Bring the candles
he said but packing

is harder than buying
especially when my mouth
can only howl impatience

at the uncooperative clock
and the empty train platform

coming to you to you to you
get me there

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Four Score

fuck off the car kiss
of wouldbe lover 2
not even the BMW
and geek glasses persuade
me to stay in the seat

for I must go inside
to my real love the man
I came home early to
resolved to

surprise

scattered rubble where once
were shelves

and the man
gone

the books tv couch table
trash bin rocking chair

and the man
gone

I sleep on top of the blanket
my coverlet only tears
blown cool by the patient fan

until I wake
soberly scoop the remains
quarters photoframes adapters
as the blinking cats witness

and the man
gone

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Five Wine Bottles

Gewürztraminer
brightly announces
welcome, Canadian
sisters to this bare
apartment. Pretend
there are tables for the
tealights. Politely
pretend these cushions
are chosen minimalism.

Montepulciano
whispers slide
down penne slicked
with midnight oils,
soured with shadows
of doors slowly
closing behind
the leaving, left,
and finally
mellowed into the soft
palate. It is enough.

Muscat
breaks over the scramble
for coffee. It was too sweet
for this kitchen, this week
anyway.

Shiraz
powers the bold
hand, the loud laughs
which all three mouths
widen to birth
into bright, hot night
and streets lit with
fair chances.

Pinot Noir
invites night
into the shining glass
of day. Yes there are
dishes in the sink but also
as we drop the wet
morning towels we step
into our futures
disparate but grown
on vines twined
and overlapping on a morning
lattice, soft and bending
over hard wood shims.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

6am

vine grows
in the silver seep
of morning

toes curl around toes
ankle leads the calf's
weave

back arches low
and early against
this lover's arbor

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Seven Day Forecast

Cast into the sea
the red sea, seven
days of it anyway

washing ashore
a week more woman
than usual with all

of the accompanying
blotters and fears.
The third eye appears

right between my eyebrows:
some intrusive
zit of psychic activity.

He couldn't get enough of
me. One week ago, precisely,
hands all over and hard

and now I am his mother,
his diapered albatross
washing, bloodily, ashore.

 

[Tzara]

1

Death

is that final, high curb
the wheels of your life can’t
quite climb over

however low a gear you use,
however much throttle
you stomp through the floorboard.

When at last you get out to walk,
you’re instantly lost
in a dense grove of incurious trees.


.

 

[Tzara]

2

Judgment

will not be God
gesturing like a tour guide
to your appointed destination,

all smiles or frowns, hand
held out for a tip.
Judgment will be you reading

a torn and faded treasure map,
trying to find the golden, glorious “X”
without a compass.


.

 

[KatieJones]

1-Unwritten

.....

 

[_Land]

Some faceless person smiled
the day he took a nail and scratched
modifiers on the slate of whom I was
to be, knowing
his words would wrap me
with the warmth and comfort
of a constrictor, waiting
for the death of his dinner.

Both creatures assume that blood
and scars inspire quiet
acceptance of being played
with like a paper doll dressed
in white lace to make it easier
for society to file me under safe.

But the pretence of life in two
dimension inked with a poison pen
directed by the hand of someone else`s
God does not foster docility. When you live
inside your mind
for long enough, knocking
against your skull you realize
that only you can say if you are home
and the fear of bleeding from the bite
of misplaced preconceptions flattens
and is filed away
like a stale Dewey decimal card
for a book that has long ago had its pages
rewritten. It is not a question

of when you notice I am not
the person you thought I was
but when you notice that I never was.

No one can say who I am
in this constant state of evolution.
I still hide
the skin beneath the white lace
and pretend that my pulse is faint
but not because I am afraid
of you but because I know
you will be afraid of me.

WOW.............................this is amazing imagery and very well thought out.........


I will recomend this to a few of my friends as well



Welcome to the poetry board Katie Jones

 

[KatieJones]

2: On the Rocks

.....

 

[Tzara]

3

Heaven

will not be beautiful.
How can it be,
where one basks in the perfection

of überhumanity?
We people are only image—
a photograph, a watercolor,

the barest simulacrum
of Godhead. Heaven is just reading magazines,
forever, in firm but uncomfortable chairs.


.