A Carrie Retrospective

[champagne1982]

E as a variable constant

It throws my theory
of travelling to a simple
moment when the light
sparked that instant
I knew your soul
was mine, my constant love,

into outer space, where speed
is measured in astronomical
doppler shifts of light
and noise as our first mating
slips further ago, accelerating
beyond the realization

that maybe even God
changes his batting hand
now and then; constantly
varied in the tastes
He gives us as life.

 

[champagne1982]

Morning Comes Early

The grizzled man said so first
as his head snapped up
from where it had nodded
into his chest, heavy
from a life of labour and dope,
then took himself to bed.

It's amazing how tough
the 'sixties were on a guy
without education, running
from a nation that measured
courage in how fast
you took your draft card

to the post office and registered
as willing to give your youth
away to a government
who couldn't fully appreciate
that freedom to him
was a chance to sit and smoke
and chat and fuck all day
and night and realize

that the truth
lay in how soon dawn
woke the sun up from
the night it had nodded to,
heavy from carrying
the world on its broad,
working class shoulders.

 

[champagne1982]

Trust Me

Love is a condition of faith
after all, you only have my word
that this makes my pituitary
deep inside my lizard brain
release endorphines and a bit
of nervous adrenaline
pumps up my heart and shakes
my hands. Look.

Watch my trapped rabbit beat
frantically behind the cage
in tune with the swallow
below the skin at my throat
fluttering, bobbing,

until exhausted, they fall
back onto the floor and all
that remains of frenzy
are the rapid expansion
and deflation of breaths
gasped for more ...

 

[champagne1982]

To The Man In The Distance

There was a time before this now, my flesh knew more
I dreamt I was wrapped in warmth, shielded from the wind.
It was merely a wash of waves, carrying me closer to shore.
You called a different bride to your side, married young
You didn't pause to see the seabird struggling in the surf.
Our lives were gone in different directions on this island,
Two illusory souls, unaware of other lives.

Born anew, I chased a hope that happiness lie in work.
I found pleasure in mending broken wings,
Power in engines of industry that moved my place
Around the world in the company of family.

On my return to home I needed death to show
My forgotten memory the hearth that warms me;
Sheilds me from the wind and though I am loathe
To leave this comfort I should someday remove
To those waves and wash against the shore.

If you call me then I'll know
Though ages and lives have passed
Forgotten, my wings shall fold, I'll fall
against your warmth. Call my name
and lift my face to yours to share a smile.
Kiss me for in this I'll know
The pleasure of cooking your meal,
Eating with you and see the joy
In merely being home where I belong.

 

[champagne1982]

Nine Pianos
March 2008

I
A red-tinted woodfleshed piano
Narrow and richly carved;
Shaped with plane
And turned on lathe.

II
Steps on a ladder
Of seven four cadence. White
Black white white black --
The unsteady footsteps
Of jazz musicians on
Uneven thresholds.

III
Piano melodies
Heard in birdsong
Or fountain rill;
Casual cascades of noise,
Muted tonality blue
On chartreuse or even
Pomegranate; music.

IV
Baby grand with sensual
Curves seducing
Johann, Ludwig, Amadeus
And virgins playing
In the parlor washing scales
From infant eyes.

V
Refrain of tears, draped in flags
A new requiem composed too often
For funerals of the young. Black
Black unremitting black --
The dirge of mourners' piano
soft footsteps march behind.

VI
Piano notations, such
Softness stammered
Through velvet hammer
On metal strings
Flesh on tooth or ebon-
Grained; fingers stroked
In C Major riffles.

VII
Borne on the backs
Of Hindi castes, native
Birchbark canoe to Fort Gary;
Civilization played on piano.

VIII
Sonatas serenade Claire de Lune
Prayers to heaven for man
Piano whispers to God.

IX
A repetoire of religion
Depressed and held, legato
Pinched and plucked, staccato
Arpeggio on eighty-eight keys.

 

[champagne1982]

I'm pretty well done finding any lingering record of my poems that aren't on my page or any of my media here at home, so feel free to laugh, ask or comment on anything here. Suggestions for improvement are especially welcome. Thanks.

 

[HarryHill]

I'm pretty well done finding any lingering record of my poems that aren't on my page or any of my media here at home, so feel free to laugh, ask or comment on anything here. Suggestions for improvement are especially welcome. Thanks.

..
There's hours to be spent here just on the last page: reading, enjoying, trying to pull the last fragment of *long pause* nuance, sounds weak, essence maybe

 

[champagne1982]

Postcard From Perfect

There's this place I want you to visit
a city or a town, no matter, you decide
but the only thing is,
it's a place where madness
means you're well

on the road to lunacy and riding
on the moon can't be a bad thing.

Remember that park with the swing
that always had a puddle where your feet
wanted to land and the big boys
would come around and tease you
because you didn't want to fly so high?

Well, here, there's a playground
where the only puddle is the one
where even the big boys have fun
and you can make them eat mud pies.

That theatre with the sticky floor
and the seats that always ate
your mittens has been renovated.

Oh, clean water is free.

Librarians, in this perfect place
don't suppress your need to laugh
out loud or even cry in sobbing
blubber snorts, when reading.

All the authors and poets here are perfect,
you can't keep yourself off the emote train.
So, all aboard and don't forget to write.

Here in Perfect, it rains when you want it to.
A perfect rain for splashing in
makes rainbows out of black
clouds and doesn't wreck your painting,

artwork you proudly carry home
to show your mom who'll hang
it on the fridge with magnets
shaped like all the places
you've ever been,
when you ride on the moon

 

[champagne1982]

Self-Portrait (as he sees me)

I always look ready for bed.
Eyes, dilated reflectors
of candlelight, are halfway
shrouded by lids, heavy
with sable lashes.

Hair, set free from pins
and ties, floats in deep,
tannin pools around high
cheeks and scalloped ears.

Sharp teeth capture a corner
of a mulberry lip, sliding
its silk between them to fall
in pouted temptation, exactly
where my mouth should be.

Bound to his eyes, I watch
the shadowed pantomime
there. His finger, beneath
my chin, lifts my face,
to better see the flare
of scenting breath inhale
his potent fragrance.

His kiss whispers perfection
as mirrored light gleams
through his, that my eyes
must close in reply.

 

[champagne1982]

Manscape

Awash in celestial moonshine-

……………….silvered curls glint
in shadows
f
.a
…l
…..l
……e
……..n
………..into canyons

sheets fold; pillows subside

…….......….below smooth
.....foothills and angled
……..….....…escarpments

…….spine of strength;
….sculpted,
beneath your skin.

Forest musk drifts
...............across a breast
rippling, sweeping plain;

simple touch

hands; lips pressed
…….…hidden beneath the sky
satin sheets drawn……over

……..the landscape of you.​

 

[champagne1982]

Self Portrait #1

I can't see my back but imagine-
swoop of spine beneath a curl,
ridge of shoulder. A mole dances
with a muscle when I flex
to embrace the pillow. Turn
the lights off. Wash my thighs
in midnight and glamour the rest
with stardust captured in leafless
twigs swollen black against the moon.

 

[champagne1982]

Could it be? My first post in the forum - on KillerMuffin's thread

 

[champagne1982]

DEPARTURES

The moon bleeds drops of luminescence,
Like pearls, glowing beads of ichor fall,
Drizzling cool opalescence,
Upon the deceitful pond.

Beneath the tranquil, moonlit face,
A sweeping current flows,
As lithe as a dancer's grace,
Or a willow's whispering fronds.

The breeze slips through the leaves,
With artful, turning arabesques.
Craving reality, perversly, man grieves
Ghosts held by Purgatory's bond.

But still the moon glows with Life's essence,
As souls pass without leaving a trace
Of that fabric warped in time's skillful weaves,
History's roving vagabonds.

 

[Neonurotic]

I found another painting neo!

Mule Deer (in sepia)

In the sandy bottom land
she stood, one leg poised
as if the world would crack
should she place it wrong.

Earth tones and muted grays
blend with the scrub
jack pines and clumps
of sprouted wild oat fodder
almost ready for fawn weaning
days of early summer.

As if a kiss descends, tension
trembles to the ground; released
in exhale as once more flies
buzz, birds sing and the deer
fades into the sighing trees.

Don't edit this one. It's perfect the way it is. Love the colors in this. I have muleys bedding down in my backyard and they occasionally nibble on the grasses in the front. They are common and seen around rural towns a lot here but I still love watching them.

 

[champagne1982]

Don't edit this one. It's perfect the way it is. Love the colors in this. I have muleys bedding down in my backyard and they occasionally nibble on the grasses in the front. They are common and seen around rural towns a lot here but I still love watching them.

Thank you. I'm all about the beiges and sages, too. I found that as I look through my poems I'm gaining a bit of inspiration. It's nice

 

[Angeline]

A Walk Together
April 25, 2005 (A challenge response for BooMerengue's Here's A Challenge)
V2 2008

Walk with me.
We'll seek a better world
where, although
death is still a part of living,
tears shall be no more.

Walk with me.
The child I am wants to rest
my hand tight in yours,
reassured that although
the path is new,
the way is not forgotten.

Walk with me.
Once we've come full circle,
there, rest a while and look
back to all we've seen.
All we've been is hidden
just around the bend.

Walk with me
until I can walk no more.
When journey's end
has brought us to the winter
shore then rest with me,
for without you,
I will walk no more.

There are some real gems in this thread and it's great to see them again. I agree, by the way, with Neo about Mule Deer. But this poem I find very moving partly because you wrote it for Boo's challenge, but mainly because it's beautiful.

 

[champagne1982]

There are some real gems in this thread and it's great to see them again. I agree, by the way, with Neo about Mule Deer. But this poem I find very moving partly because you wrote it for Boo's challenge, but mainly because it's beautiful.

I got a little teary as I re-read my poem, instead of just grabbing it into my paste buffer to post on this thread, and realized the serendipity of what I have written and for whom. RIP Beth.

 

[Angeline]

I got a little teary as I re-read my poem, instead of just grabbing it into my paste buffer to post on this thread, and realized the serendipity of what I have written and for whom. RIP Beth.

Yes. That's exactly how I felt. It takes on another meaning now.

 

[champagne1982]

The Thaw

It's almost time for you to leave
and I can't say as I'll be sad
to see you go. You've out-warmed
your welcome and left me chill.

You're going will expose the dirt
you've been covering up
all these months. I wish
you could take it all with you

instead of leaving this for me
to clean up. It's not fair,
that I should remember you
slipping away in the rain. I like

rain and you just make
me cold and muddy in its fall.
Leave now, before I wish
you'd stayed. Regrets

are for summer months
when I have time to reflect
on how much I need
your touch to comfort me

 

[champagne1982]

A Glosa for June Commencement

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.
Max Ehrmann in Desiderata - Words for Life

Be yourself and worry
not what others do to win
your love but wait
to find what you want.

Especially, do not feign affection -
favourites of a crowd need not be
your own. To pretend draws
tears and we soon grow weary
with the effort of delight.

Neither be cynical about love;
leave this to the old and tired,
exhausted with living unhappy years,
unwilling to work for better.
They fail to move on

for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
to change has become just too hard.
You are young and fresh so strive
to spring free of false fantasy and build
on this eager desire to grow.

It is as perennial as the grass
and as certain as the next generation,
that in spite of all we've failed in yesterday,
tomorrow will bring success.

 

[champagne1982]

Mote
Omar Khayyam's rubaï XXIII

And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom
Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
Descend--ourselves to make a Couch--for whom?

Glosa

The mournful keening voice of her unconsolèd child
Screeching, squealing ululations of grieving youth gone wild
And we, that now make merry in the Room
Did drink a cup at Gaia's wake and to sleep the girl, beguiled.

Upon a bier of blossomed wreaths did the Mother's body rest
Her work worn hands and loving arms folded o'er her breast
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom
Too soon forgot, that without her, their lives would ne'er been blest.

To put her to rest in that dark tomb
A lonely corpse down in the gloom
Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
Look down and see her fate and know our doom.

So reckon carefully each moment's worth
You've spent living to now, from birth
Descend--ourselves to make a Couch--for whom?
If not we, then celebrate our blessèd lives with mirth.

 

[champagne1982]

Glosa: from Dylan Thomas' Fern Hill

.......In the sun that is young once only,
...........Time let me play and be
......Golden in the mercy of his means

In the sun that is young once only
did the moments fall upon the shore
and sleep in torpor fall upon the stones

Time let me play and be
alone 'midst crested dunes
and mottled on the dappled waves

Golden in the mercy of his means
to celebrate the silvered plate
of babes upon the shore.

 

[champagne1982]

Glosa: from W.D. Snodgrass' Heart's Needle For Cynthia 9

.....I get numb and go in
though the dry ground will not hold
.......the few dry swirls of snow
and it must not be very cold.
A friend asks how you've been
.........and I don't know

I get numb and go in though the dry ground
means the freeze has come with winter's
first flakes and if the sun appears
to warm this spot I shall melt and the dirt

will not hold the few dry swirls of snow
and it must not be very cold. Not cold
enough to ease the path scalded on my cheeks
against the hollow wind scything briars
to chorus carols that he will come but you...

A friend asks how you've been and I
don't know the answer. It's too long
since you've been here as if the sun
forgot to wipe away the clouds and the wind
the words to the carol that you'll come again
.....but I don't hope.

 

[UnderYourSpell]

I got a little teary as I re-read my poem, instead of just grabbing it into my paste buffer to post on this thread, and realized the serendipity of what I have written and for whom. RIP Beth.

Yes. That's exactly how I felt. It takes on another meaning now.

Me too

 

[UnderYourSpell]

Your Glosas are lovely may I choose one for the thread although it's hard to chose?