all of a sudden passion suddenly

[champagne1982]

Don't forget, darling, to dream of me.
Tomorrow's light is just the other side
of another dream, where we live
the memories of each vision of together;

shared in unspoken moments,
spent in wonder and desire,
that grip my heart with sorrow
that each dream is gone
with each and every dawn.

Don't forget me, darling. I dream
another memory where we live,
beyond tomorrow's vision, together,
on the nearer side of light.

 

[vampiredust]

O Mother

I unscrew the lightbulbs
in her mouth one by one,
feeling the zap of electricity
jolt the hairs on my arm

as I reach in and take away
the source of light that has
been distracting a visiting
atlas moth. I breathe in her

ozone perfume one last time
and pull out a string of orange
wire tendons. She will cough
up the fuse in the morning.

 

[sellthecookie]

why i like matte things


i am thirsty
& drawn
to things aglow,
although matte,
pulsating, like stubbed erasers,
and washing machine
knobs turned countlessly,
things quiet, taped shut,
willingly, and ambitious
like stalactites
in the fridge, while
the blender shrieks
centerstage, all vowels
and metallic milkshake
gone rusty

 

[Angeline]

May is duplicitous here
an unexpected second season
of Janus, one face calm, crocus-eyed
betrayed by his stormy brother.
Neither knows the other's promises
or tricks while we humans stutter
on the path between bare legs
and mittens. May is polarity
or possibility, a half-full month
that empties its days beyond the glass.
Trees bud, and I scratch a pattern
in morning frost on the pane, widen
its margins with a cold fingertip,
consider your zeal for a circle
that's constantly perfect
and my objectivity removed
from the arms of joy, my straight back
in the chair, unfocused eyes
and an ache for consistency,
for endings and beginnings.
The secret sits in the center
and knows.

You wake and stretch,
turn yourself to me, smiling
even before your eyes
are full open, your morning
voice creaks and we laugh
even before the first swallow
of coffee, bitter and sweet. We share
dreams, yours mixed media
of rosewood and pottery,
the half-black pine trees
you paint are alive and my tunic
of fine-mesh gold covered
with Hebrew symbols. I try
to gather the wisps of memory,
explain how the colors, the quality
of light were like a Chagall painting,
and this, I think, must be
the difference, the secret
that knows what we don't when
we tell each other our dreams.

 

[hmmnmm]

Pacing steps left imprints
round and round the pool
berry sherbet diamonds
pre-fourth sparklers,
determined this time, determined.
just go, go in, run and dive,
dive in, headlong, arms spread
why fear? they are just words.
little harmless words. little worlds.
little words with lips, little words
wet fingertips.
dripped pearls
that's all they are,
beaded threaded
worlds of words

Deep breath, step up
mindless paces crossed
mathematical steps,
one, two, tongue tip swore
swore it curled, sensitive aware
determined, recall this time,
strip, jut, stand tall, show it
back, inhale, one two, exhale
running steps, last sight, last dry
so many swimming floating
words, beautiful worlds,
wet fingertips, beads

the waters fine, yes indeed

 

[tungtied2u]

faulty heart
valves, leaking
water, seeping
from my eyes

piss poor
plumbing, numbing
coming
from my core

too sore
too aching
heart breaking
once again

pray for drought
in my thoughts
erase the blossom
of our love

 

[champagne1982]

faulty heart
valves, leaking
water, seeping
from my eyes

piss poor
plumbing, numbing
coming
from my core

too sore
too aching
heart breaking
once again

pray for drought
in my thoughts
erase the blossom
of our love

I always knew you had a bigger
heart than sometimes you let
on. It beats there, a secret
murmur that keeps you awake
and caught, breathless
in the act of life. Continue;
please don't forget to breathe.

 

[Angeline]

Adjectives? Purple prose
can ruin a poem. Adverbs
really suck, and I'm cutting
back on conjunctions, thinking
of losing my gerunds. I can't
decide if contractions help,
hinder. Maybe I'm too colloquial.
Shit! Infinitives? To use or not
to use, too vague, like pronouns:
Who are they, anyway and why
are they in my poem? I shall write
articles, nouns, verbs, I'd better stick
with haiku. Twilight gleams, the rain
slides down the deck, bored again,
birdcalls, night encroaches.

 

[Angeline]

It's patience
turning the cards over, not
for fate but relief from days
gray as newsprint, hours
set in a row, shuffle
and repeat, it's tomorrow,
next week, month, year.

The numbers
are flighty children
before the first schoolbell rings.
They're everywhere,
shepherd the four under the five,
keep an eye on that nine
who hides behind the king.
Soon enough they're neat
in place, lined up and waiting.

My grandmother
"washed" the cards, threw them
into an untidy pile, slid them
beneath her unironed hands,
and packed them back together.
Patience, she said. Patience.

I've been waiting years
for the kings to open
their tiny eyes and blink
at the queens, the jacks
to turn their heads, balance
their vision. Hearts
and diamonds won't couple,
much as you'd want them to.
It's all about the clubs, believe it.
Ultimately spades cover
us all.

 

[RhymeFairy]

someday this dream of you and me will end. I won’t care
that the world has no rewind button. I’ll wake
before dawn looking forward
to the charge of light. I’ll show that light the whites
of my eyes, let it have its way with me—
in it, I plan to discover a small place for myself,
one spot on this earth I can count as my own.
I won’t remember all the ridiculous places
I’ve traveled to in my head and life.
in the time it takes to brush my teeth, I’ll forget
my shortcomings ran me down years ago. I’ll forget
those other mornings when I waited
for all the love I was owed, assumed collectible,
to climb onto my bed and curl up on my chest
like a cat. I’ll acknowledge you, I will,
even though you’ll still be, you’ll always be, sure
that the universe and me with it
revolve around you like a moon—you’re the drunk
who strolls through crosstown traffic
draining his paper bag, thinking Broadway his
loud arena, unaware there’s nothing left
to suck from the shriveled wineskin of its heart.

Wow !!! This is beautiful Pat ....

Very touching, seems as if you dug deep and dreamed, only to have them blown away. Tis the way of dreams sometimes ~ My heart is with you, if this is the case, if not ... lovely, spiritual, emotional write ...

 

[vampiredust]

Morning never falls in these sleepless
streets. Another colour falls
on the paint chart and it just changes.

Neighbours plant hand grenades
in their white picket operas, each
lashing of their hose watering down

another new law to be bought
at the local mom and pop store.
Nobody understands here why men

are taken away in blacked out buses,
their bodies examined for defects,
remoulded in factories. All we see

in a grocery store decades later
is their name and number imprinted
on the back of their necks.

Mine is there, waiting for the scalpel.

 

[hmmnmm]

Adjectives? Purple prose
can ruin a poem. Adverbs
really suck, and I'm cutting
back on conjunctions, thinking
of losing my gerunds. I can't
decide if contractions help,
hinder. Maybe I'm too colloquial.
Shit! Infinitives? To use or not
to use, too vague, like pronouns:
Who are they, anyway and why
are they in my poem? I shall write
articles, nouns, verbs, I'd better stick
with haiku. Twilight gleams, the rain
slides down the deck, bored again,
birdcalls, night encroaches.

Purple prose may ruin a poem or at the least make it ill, a few too many overly-excited adverbs may slap a manacle round the poem's ankle. And true, conjunctions bring a fork in the road, wonder which way you or he or she shall take the words, maybe some of them spill on the pavement, get lost in the weeds. From this bashful view, from one who has yet to drop the last garment, it seems a pity that this word or that word is tagged as a this or that. And yes, I confess it openly! I do feel sorry for the poor adjectives. They didn't ask to be adjectives. Nor the poor adverbs. Many are the mistakes I have made, the volumes would be thick, and they would fill rows and shelves. The biggest and the greatest mistake was the moment - it must have been so long ago - that two beings who appeared to be gentle missionaries of benefit, knocked on the door, and I opened. But they weren't benevolent at all. They were Doubt and Self-consciousness. Even if you ever finally, after too many years, push them back out, they linger and peer into the windows.
Purple prose may ruin a poem, but Self-conscious Doubt will kill the Poet.

 

[Angeline]

Purple prose may ruin a poem or at the least make it ill, a few too many overly-excited adverbs may slap a manacle round the poem's ankle. And true, conjunctions bring a fork in the road, wonder which way you or he or she shall take the words, maybe some of them spill on the pavement, get lost in the weeds. From this bashful view, from one who has yet to drop the last garment, it seems a pity that this word or that word is tagged as a this or that. And yes, I confess it openly! I do feel sorry for the poor adjectives. They didn't ask to be adjectives. Nor the poor adverbs. Many are the mistakes I have made, the volumes would be thick, and they would fill rows and shelves. The biggest and the greatest mistake was the moment - it must have been so long ago - that two beings who appeared to be gentle missionaries of benefit, knocked on the door, and I opened. But they weren't benevolent at all. They were Doubt and Self-consciousness. Even if you ever finally, after too many years, push them back out, they linger and peer into the windows.
Purple prose may ruin a poem, but Self-conscious Doubt will kill the Poet.

I agree. The poem is tongue-in-cheek.

 

[Maria2394]

Urban sprawl ( part 3) prayer for the city dweller

I don't mind living on the outskirts
of the city
as it's dwellers fight traffic
noise and dirty air
But living out here is getting harder to do
'cause everytime I turn around, Mr City
I still see you

I have been called a redneck
clod hopper
hillbilly
country girl is the name I give myself
while my toes are planted in black dirt
and the coleus grows to my knees
I know , I know I need
the culture
the art poetry dance jazz and blues
but the coffee bars
and attitudes
I can do without
and the best thing about you City
is my legs are longer than yours
sufficent
to keep me ahead of you

 

[Tathagata]

with slow fluid movements
i polish the edge of my hands and fingertips
an excuse called exercise
but in reality
after all these years
a chance once again
to say
" oh my friend, I'd fuck you up"
and smirk

youth not recaptured
but at best
revisited

 

[hmmnmm]

I agree. The poem is tongue-in-cheek.

Well, I knew that.
But, a few adjectives and adverbs who live downstairs but who just happened to be upstairs, unbeknownst to me, they were looking over my shoulder, just at the moment my eyes laid upon the first couple lines... they saw it but they didn't see the intent. Frankly, rather upset, they were. No amount of reason or explanation sufficed to satisfy, until I wrote the responsive post. They still make little grumbles, surprisingly.
Sometimes I suspect they have secret meetings... plan to... you know, do stuff.

 

[Tathagata]

i always see the breasts
legs
and hips
the sway that bounces me always
into self mortification
a purge of the flesh
with self induced salt water

I always see them as pure and worthy of
worship
but the sad truth
is that goddesses have baggage too
and there is reason
they are walking
alone

 

[Angeline]

Yes, words are wicked little things, aren't they? Well at least when they don't cooperate. If I can keep the adverbs and gerunds out of my poems I'll be happy, but in truth I'm learning that nouns and verbs should support a poem because if you get too much descriptive language in there, you're telling what something is like, not showing what it is. And the showing (versus the describing) is what separates poetry from prose (or at least banal prose), imo.

And now I'll be a good forum moderator and stop talking in this thread. We're not s'posed to, yknow. Poems only.

Well, I knew that.
But, a few adjectives and adverbs who live downstairs but who just happened to be upstairs, unbeknownst to me, they were looking over my shoulder, just at the moment my eyes laid upon the first couple lines... they saw it but they didn't see the intent. Frankly, rather upset, they were. No amount of reason or explanation sufficed to satisfy, until I wrote the responsive post. They still make little grumbles, surprisingly.
Sometimes I suspect they have secret meetings... plan to... you know, do stuff.

 

[RhymeFairy]

I can go, no more.

I've finally reached the end.
My story has ben told, off to bed.
Away, I go.

Too long a day. Too short
my nights, for sleep hides
her weary soft head,
while I chase rainbows
to their end and back.

Counting sheep, does no good.
Only, a full belly, hot cuppa coffee
and my sweet fluffy pillow ... call to me.
Come and behold, we have much to offer
tired old you ...




Thought I could, should ... might write. Alas, my sleepless nights have caught up with me, yet again ~

 

[champagne1982]

Spread Your Wings

There's a pattern to the fall;
shaped in an inside loop
and spin: along the longitudinal
axis until, straight and level,
you join the flock to soar.
High and fast; a starburst
of adventure and freedom:
to fly like no other
in celebration of escape.
Gravity can't hold you now,
you soar above the hard
and hollow stones of Earth.

 

[Angeline]

with slow fluid movements
i polish the edge of my hands and fingertips
an excuse called exercise
but in reality
after all these years
a chance once again
to say
" oh my friend, I'd fuck you up"
and smirk

youth not recaptured
but at best
revisited

I'd take that basebll bat,
the one I swung at the Hamilton Little League
field, disallowed by gender on all but Sundays.
It would be small now in my hands,
but big enough. I am small now,
even with the years I carry on my face,
breasts, hips, the years of dishes,
diapers, reduced by the mortification of my dreams,
but big enough to spin cold vengance
on the axis of denial, discredit, dismissal,
associate, assistant, adjunct. All that atrophy
of expectation, but big enough
to crack open the Lord's Prayer for the father,
the son, the Holy Ghost and the husband,
knock them over the fence, past the field,
drain my rage with every step, slide
into home plate triumphant.
Mine, mine, mine.

 

[darkerdreamer]

Hitaro like pocket rockets
and Pocky sticks
and cold pavement deathplants.
He went to the local Vietnamese-Catholic church
to talk shit and spit game,
an odd combination.
Turned the rectory into a ressurectory.
He went to the local Korean BBQ,
to gnash the meat and spit the bones,
an predictable MO.
Turned the smoking section into a barbeque pit.

"A Zippo isn't a katana."
"It is, it just has a longer range and a sharper blade."

Hitaro needs to take a history lesson
or a Mandarin class.

 

[annaswirls]

the arch of words ending in yes
always we wonder, knock on doors softly sa to not wake anyone inside
loudly enough to say we had been there
we had tried

they line with their burning sticks to light candles
two, three, four in a row and I wonder how anyone can find their own issues so important
the glow of their care candles competing with the sun

time is a female cardinal who beats herself against the church windows

 

[vampiredust]

Poem

The wasp screams of a jetski ploughing
the Irish Sea interrupts you gathering
your beauties - Jellyfish washed up
from the Atlantic - their translucent

bodies lit up in the morning light, ghostly
dresses with bell bottoms. Rolling up
your sleeves, you picked up the dead
and layered each carefully in the bucket,

the accompanying dog whining. Some
nights you'd swear they would sing
in the kitchen, each bait uttering one
last hymn before the ritual burning.

Mammy used to say this is what he did
to his sisters - gather their paper bodies
and dress them in Grandmother's
Victorian nighties - then blow a spark

and watch them burn, the way Father
said they would. Burn, baby, burn.

 

[RhymeFairy]

my head is pounding.


I cannot wait
till life moves forward with flourish
and fascination.

I shall walk the halls, head erect
warding off bad vibes, to cross
the finish line
and end this nightmare
that has shadowed my coattails from days
on end.

she wished to consume my life
only to find
she hated the taste of lemons.