all of a sudden passion suddenly

[Willows_Tears]

actually real women
prefer hand picked dandelions
over digital bouquets
pirated from google images
someone who says
good morning
I made coffee
and the kids had their breakfast

a real woman
makes her man the trophy
by reflecting back to him
all his greatness
and tucking the errors
in her back pocket
to be shredded into mulch
for next years garden

 

[Willows_Tears]

hmmmm
add to list of fantasies:
me and Calli
on the front porch
colorful drinks with lost of ice
dark sunglasses and light giggles
watching Guy and Man mow the tundra
just because she asked...
maybe as an excuse to bathe them with sympathic
hot tub with lots of bubbles
for hiding hands
whose hands?
who cares
they are all good

 

[MissBri]

 

[cherries_on_snow]

Freedom

Singing in my kitchen full throated
the windows open and not regretting
the people in their mundane parkinglot
just outside there

and it reminds me of another time I don't mind:
I don't mind when it is your name I call
too driven to be shy now, finally inarticulate and
growling in my sigh of release.

Singing now, reminded of moaning, I don't even
close the drapes when I slide
out of my tight jeans and into
the skin pinkening bath. Don't even care
if they see me now; I leave my draperies
parted, two long arms helplessly hung at the sides.
I do not care if they hear me now, and leave my windows open
no matter what my circumstance.
(now that i'm moving away, now that I'm
going back to the city, the mythic mighty
city of all possible sins and all possible graces).

My freedom gained, I am shameless in my hussydom.
Now I will even buy trashy magazines and condoms
at the grocery store. Now that I'm almost gone I'm
brazen as a skateboarder in a library parking lot.
Incautious as noon-day sun. Still humming, hours later,
humming almost as loud as my toy did against bath softened skin,
but now dressed, at the nursery, rifling through the budding plants.

In the rose perfumed nursery, A woman I know
(and I know many as this is a small town) stops her cart by mine
and petitions me to volunteer for an upcoming fundraiser, and I agree
and we chat in the dappled sunlight, the mist of the impending
rain already making our skins more electric and I notice
her eye caress my hip. This eye of this woman next to whom I have
sat dryly in committee meeting chairs year after year and never
has she looked at me that way, but maybe
because I am moving soon, she has found her freedom, too.

 

[sugarmountain]

I am walking in circles
guided in the night by the lights
of flames burning behind names
of loved ones consumed by bodies
self consumed by cells turned traitor

and others more fortunate,
who fought no harder, yet somehow
survived, remain alive, a blessing
to some, to others distessing
in the lack of finality,
keeping them guessing
what their fate will be

should they be touched
by a sickness fickle in its dealing
of death to some, reprieve to others.
The circle is endless, bites you
in the end, be mindful of those dear
while their light still shines

 

[vampiredust]

The Landscape Of My Mother

I would climb my mother's hills
that dipped beneath her neck,
curving like the mountains
she had missed for so long. Valleys
would dip in folds of skin, before
coming to the plains of her stomach.

There would be no rain there,
and would always be parched under
the sun, crinkling as it browned. A solitary
raindrop would occasionally fall, creating
a river that weaved its way through mounds
of dead soil, creased by the drought.

In Winter, her land would be cold; lands
would stand there lifeless, I would try
and wake it, but nothing would make it stir.

 

[RhymeFairy]

she plants flowers everywhere
toiling the day
night away, fingers caked
dirt always under nails. smiling
her green thumb has never
did her wrong. dig deep,
humming, weeding out the bad.
colors bursting like the sun
after the rain, she is happy.
my mom
is happiest when planting
nurturing, watching her babies grow
bloom
healthy and stable

 

[ghost_girl]

better than Fuck

it is a poem about fucking
and mowing someone elses yard
plucking, sucking, shucking
corn in mid summer after
watermelon seed fights and
blue jeans cut into shorts
just too short to make mama mad

better than fuck is a woman
who can turn a vowel
into water with a swipe of her hand
and a dogwood tree in full bloom
on someone elses land

and better than fuck is a toilet
you never have to clean, or a
smile from a stranger on a day
when you really need to believe

 

[flyguy69]

::
Splinters

It was smaller than I remembered, the towering cliff
beside the driveway just a 4-block wall
from which we leapt to the swirling waters
of Acapulco; the interminable stair
to the front door just eleven steps to the crow’s nest
of a ship. It still bore the scars
of my childhood: the carved oath
on a basement post, the broken gate on a woodbox
turned jail. Throughout we wagged our heads
at the fewer strides required. Granddad’s departure

had shrunken it. He took with him
the big hands, the expansive
laugh. No coffee scent ballooning
from the kitchen. The story of him thinned
from room to room until he left that place

for greater care: an alarm
on his door for night walks, a helmet
for what remained in his head. No story
intrigued him for how we laughed
at the smallness. Not even
when I told him of the curved railing
I retraced with my hand, how it hurt
to touch things so familiar,
how my voice echoed.

::

 

[ghost_girl]

creek crawlers

maybe its depth was more than I remember
as a child it rose to my knees
barely and my sister always threatened
to drown herself as punishment
she believed my brother and I would be held
responsible for her demise

we diverted the path of the water
through the sand bars born from blasting
further up the mountainside, we needed that link
to Interstate twenty six, we needed the path
across the montains, to get to the other side

the other side of where I never knew, but
the creek was our sitter, our sister
and she spawned minnows and cold springs
slick blue clay for homemade dishes that Mama
siad she would treasure and never tried to hide

I remember the first time the creek ran dry
well, almost dry, it was shallow enough
that her secrets were revealed and we
stomped through the sand and smooth stones
like little Indians on some hysterical warpath

and there appeared like magic, clumps
of natures play doh, and we mastered the art
of potting as if we were the first to ever try-
cakes that were grey after drying, turtles
that never resembled anything alive


the snakes, that year of little water
managed to find their way to our haven
the winding creek, nesteled in the bottom
at the foot of Hogback mountain. The wild cane
has taken over, the water visible in memories
still I have pebbles and quartz crystals retrieved

from my childhood. The water isnt deep
as it once was, but in my heart, it runs
deep enough.

 

[ghost_girl]

what is a friend, is there such
a thing as a person with no
agenda, no desire to chop
your feelings in a blender
of his ego and watch
your feelings swirl 'round
how old friends
who arent friends can turn
what you felt about them
around, and around

I dont know you either
your cancer wont be mine
dance litle puppet, for
your maker, all twisted
in your tangled twine

 

[vampiredust]

Try Not To Stare

at the slabs
of rotten mattress airing
on the doorstep, still covered
with bruises and last nights
sweat. Ignore the rubber sheets

hanging on the back porch, slowly
trying to unfold themselves. No.
Don't listen to their words. Step
away from the piles of newspapers
covering the hallway, old dogprints

obscuring the news that has never
unfolded in their eyes. Don't go in there:
the-man-on-the-radio is having tea
with them. Don't disrupt, say a word.
Just show your badge, curtesy and leave.

 

[annaswirls]

our future is not in the stars
it is on the ground
through the air
that place where our aching meets
under ribs
under our breath
behind eyelids closed
I see you

I do love you, know this
I feel a low tight hum in my chest
the shape of your heart

 

[TheRainMan]

Divinations from a Mexican Whorehouse

I

Here, there is nothing to deny, nothing to prove,
no requests to mark myself in time
with details and a signature. They require
no evidence that I’m anyone at all,
that tomorrow there might be someplace
to go. Greeting by the kiss of anonymity
lets me imagine myself better than I am.
And isn’t that what we all want?


II

Who is this brown, swirling girl
who dances in my shirt
(it never looked that good on me),
who gains entry into me without a word,
who shares the muddy deepness
of her river bottom. She does not hold out
a thorned branch when I go under.
The flesh of my palms is whole. But hers—

you can read like chapter and verse.
There are the cod she cleaned
crouching by a shore, the laundry
she dipped in stagnant creeks
and wrung, the birds she angered
with hard claps to prepare them
for cockfights in her grandfather’s barn—

small, but big enough to contain
all of my leaking
in their little cups, to heal
the great sore that is this world.


III

I keep my hat off, she, her shoes on.
They are not for dancing,
unless it is across my spine.
And the taste of her bootleather is tender.



IV

This is the place I might meet Jesus,
or an acceptable replica. I forget
which of the sins it was
that brought me here. God, be kind.

 

[Guest]

It’s been like this for day and days. I don’t ever
remember there being rain that lasted this long.

But it’s only been three days off and on. How
can you say that it’s always like this?

It’s not the drops hitting puddles
bubbling up cages.
Not the wet that sticks shirts to backs,
slicks hair down, dripping.
Or ozone through evergreens,
soaking asphalt.

It’s what fills past what can be held.
There is no shift through skin,
back again, no reverse osmosis.

The pump is stuck and the waters
are quick to become stagnant.

 

[Many Feathers]

It never really mattered

It doesn't matter who I am
or who I tried to be

It didn't matter what I did
or what you meant to me

It never mattered that I loved
with all my heart and mind

You chose to go and throw away
and leave all that behind

So much was there you knew it
and yet you walked away

Knowing when you did that
there was nothing more to say

In time perhaps you'll look back
and remember what we had

The magic of that special place
now empty, lonely, sad

Its taken time to heal from you
it will take time longer still

I use the anger, hurt and pain
to hold on to my will

It matters not what happens now
no matter what you do.

You walked away from this mans love
and now I walk away from you.

 

[Inni Em]

I know you want to try
to be the person you once were
but your legs don't move anymore
bones cracking from old age
causes so much pain
arthirtis has crippled you

So understand I refuse to buy
the self-rising Gold Medal flour
at the store anymore
after seeing boll weevils crawl
in the canister
from the last time it was bought.

 

[vampiredust]

The Sun

The sun looks smaller today. Watching
it reflect off a cows back, it's as if someone

has reached into the sky and swapped
it with an amber bead. Maybe one of the boys

in the local village got bored with marbles
and decided to play with the sun. I could see

him now, using it as a football in the fields; turning
the cornfields yellow every time he kicked it

around. He would ignore its crinkled edges and
beat it until it lost its colour and would be nothing

more than a pale moon flying in an empty sky.

 

[vampiredust]

I thought I saw a muse
hitchhiking along the road
this morning. I could tell
she was one because
she had a dirty halo sticking
out of her backpack, right
next to the pack of cigarettes
that were glaring at me. I offered
to fuck her but she politely
smacked me in the mouth, stating
contractual differences.

 

[RhymeFairy]

all clocks set ahead
awaiting time. watching
pacing has become a habit
hard to break, when one is standing
still
in time. weakness from old sufferings
wrap up
clinging like vines, wrapping again and again
legs, thighs
working its way up as crying dreams
work themselves inside a voided mind, preset
to a time when this was all
a dream ...

 

[vampiredust]

The Sign Of A True Patriot Is...

He would plant poppies
in winter, thinking it was
patriotic. They never grew
and withered away; he
blamed the neighbours
instead, arguing that they
never represented the best
of our nation and they should

follow his example and plant
poppies in winter and watch
them grow and tumble back
down. He never understood
their ways. They were from
one of the opened up borders
and used to dance to old Soviet
music whilst dressed in costume.

He never ate anything they offered
to him, arguing it had their germs
and he didn't want it polluting him
because he was important. But
nobody understood what he did,
and neither did he. When the snow
fell, the poppies shrivelled in their
makeshift graves. Nobody wept,
not even him. He had given up long ago.

 

[vampiredust]

Pavlov Died Yesterday

Children are conditioned
at an early age to ignore
their parents, preferring
to wander in the adventure
playground instead. They

would rather be monkeys
and swing on old tyres, then
come home to crack open
the skin on rice pudding;
would be buried in leaves

then sit on the sofa, talking
about the school report; each
word dropping from their parents
echoing a bell being struck in a lab
somewhere in Russia.

 

[flyguy69]

Along her paths I played at
Indian, counting coup with a feather
touch on her sleek, black head.
She fit the part: maiden,
damsel distressed for lost
years spent searching
love’s borders, wanting
in. Or out, I was too
silent to ask. I slipper-stepped close
and called, bird-like, into her ear.
Sneaky! she said, you never told me
you wanted my heart! My cover was blown:
I’m no trophied brave, and all I wanted
was to touch her hair.

 

[sugarmountain]

I listened but never heard
those words we used to say
day in day out, shout with glee
now its only me to say it

why it means so much
to hear I'm not sure,
3 syllables alone can't be
the cure to my uncertainty

to many they are just a means
carry no weight, are dropped
like empty nutshells, the meat
enjoyed and eaten

have I spoke them so often
you question my sincerity
the verity of my heart
the clarity of my vision

the words don't stand alone
were born in moments intimate
were fed by acts unselfish
will die without an echo

 

[ghost_girl]

prying loose the old planks

a long time ago my mama gave me a book
soimething about borrowers in a field
i remember think they lived under a loose board
in my granny's kitchen but in reality
she had linoleaum

i remember naugahyde chairs and a new coat
of paint beore christmas and dolls
a majorette with a baton that daddy used
for a toothpick
and somehow that took the fun out of playing
with her, i imagined that invisible marching band
hidden under a loose plank, nesteld with the borrowers
and the decided the toothpick baton\
was just right size for a skewer
and they barbequed old macdonals entire herd
of cows, under that floor, and that was before

we moved from great grandmas house
the sourse of the greatest tales like the time
and this was real, a snake wrapped itself
around mamas ankles
as we walked through the grass to the hog pen
she screamed, i gigled and my bother got a spanking
for laughing when she told daddy how it scared her

its been forty years and now my brother
looks liek my daddy but I dont look like mama
and Im glad, she had a hurt in her eyes
that should never be duplicated, and I dont know
where the borrowers are, I left them under
grannys floor, with oold macdonalds cows
and the snake that hugged my mama
is probably dead by now, like mama
and daddy, and papa, and granny
\and the old house still hasnt fallen
and i doubt it ever will, at least while Im alive

Im not in any hurry to see it again
I dream about dropping my brothers belt
through the pine knot in the old floor boards
into the basement where black widows flourished
I once had the courage to catch one in a spoon
but those days ar gone, andi grew up..
learned to be afraid of everything

but sometimes it doesnt matter, I still want to go home
just havent set a date. I guess the borrowers, and daddy
will just have to wait. I have apoem to write
a story to tell. It has somethong to do
with magic, and elves, and my little brothers belt