all of a sudden passion suddenly

[echoes_s]

empty nest syndrome

idle echoes

fingers tapping, idle
echoes, empty restless
heartbeat,

blue tips paint
sleet against
rattled pain.

tears trickled
nacre-gray
frame, reflecting
the absence
of you

 

[tungtied2u]

Better off

You rest on a shelf.
Sometimes I try you on,
to see if you still fit.

Encircle myself with memories,
of life and love and shit.

The guilt and gold,
from days past,
melted into one.

Comfort fit,
so comfortable,
I forget it’s there.

Until,
tightening like a tourniquet,
I risk loss of limb.

Pain.
Sacrifice pleasure,
for a life together.

Better off alone,
than joined as one.

Better off.
Back on the shelf.

 

[echoes_s]

it's always walking
by, not even glancing
upon reflections
light and shadows
dancing
barely listening
to festivity
laughter

never mind
being in
or nose pressing
to window
dreaming

accepted and natural
not looking for anything
but peace, quiet stillness
and what each day
brings

 

[echoes_s]

pulling the branch down
tenderly slow
not to damage
nor break a figment
of imagination
with this flow

and lace light brush
of petals on skin
sprinkling pollen
and sweet aroma
then surrounds the air

cool buds
scented dew
trace teardrops
upon cheeks
kissing lightly
gently leaving
inhaled embrace
of lilacs

eyes closed
pale skin,
white and clear
with hint of color
blush of peace
childlike joy

being
the blossom herself
for one moment

 

[Lauren Hynde]

The fruits of trees along the Rhine and the clothes
suspended, white, across the plane
of dolmens of wheat of gold
as the stage set of death of your eyes.

The calligraphy.

They were lightnings the red flowers
that left on the stem of the horizon
a shadow of horses
conquerors of worlds
through the deserted side
of your tragic name.

Through the walls, the reptilian whispers
and poison;
through the waters, the eagles with floating and fulgent bones
of spaces;
and the tall trees of intimate seas
below the oceans and coral islands
with lit florescences
of neon and anemones.

As if through the throat the rhythm,
as if through the thirst the blood and the lime.

Dress the centuries of stone
with ripples and steps
filled with lamps and wild moss.

It's the action of the poem on God's stage set.

The lights, the camera



The same sky and the brief sky,
the root and bisector of time
the forge and sorrow of fire and instinct.

Slow is the cadence,
the flux of sound.

 

[normal jean]

incandescent

I can see beyond
the flame of your candle
your hand, the outline
of your face,
the empty of your space,
just go and be
better yet, be without me

your pen is running low
and oasis surrendered
along with that pretentious soul
buried deeply, sleep sweetly
sing a song of gravel
harmonize chords of angels
with folded wings and dirt hands
digging, clawing and tears
dive naked
from ethereal eyes
as dawn breaks loose
from mourning

~for AS~

 

[perks]

I didn't think it would be you
after two, no three
years of fighting fears
steering myself around
different boys and girltoys
thought joy would be
with one of those
god knows
I tried to slide
up against them
once or twice
yeah, it was nice
like sweet sultry sex
with an ex
just a little heat
all neat with no strings
just butterfly wings
in my tummy
it's funny that in the end
they didn't bend
well neither did you
you were true to yourself
and me, you see
I never thought it would be you
but now that I think about it
obsess about it
no doubt, about it
it really shouldn't have been anyone
else

 

[perks]

don't bet against my snowmen
they're strong
standing in a line of three
full of aces
and you sit there
handing me your money
thinking you're going to flush
me out
when I know
you're full of
bluff

 

[eagleyez]

It might have been a Moose Lodge. Or a VFW hall.

I had walls to paint
West of the jukebox,
another night moonlighting
another night-

Wesley drank Old Crow over and
leaned on his walker
and talked about his circulation and
the foot and all,

And after a third round he was
punchdrunk and talking about how
the misses got away and
his bad foot throbbed and his knee
hung on the edge of the walker
and he looked at me as i eavesdropped
and I got a wad of paint in my eye.

John O'Neil said "why dont you write that on the chalkboard Wes, cause we sure the fuck dont wanna hear about it."

 

[Angeline]

Summer Sonnet

The sky is made of marble, blue gray streak,
and the willow green iridescent sways
in summer's moist grass-scented haze oblique
as memory of other years allays
the small apartment and the tiny room
where music plays, where poetry is born
in tears and laughter, even in the gloom
of rain or breaking night, so Sun's not worn
from care or pain. Each day the dawn breaks light
like lemon sliced in tea, so sweet and tart
that underneath the darker taste of fright
is swallowed. Let the morning sing its heart,
its freedom taken in small bites, its dreams
built warm in shaded season's burnished gleams.

 

[echoes_s]

why i write

i write,
because i couldn’t talk,
always
unheard in the shadows,
a corner away,
head hidden,
not even to
open my mouth,
to cry out
or whisper...

anything.

but i could write,
i was allowed,
so this is how i learned to talk
…all my life
different versions,
unfailing,
even in the dark
without looking,

here i can talk…

 

[echoes_s]

Before, swaying
a mountain,
green granite, grained
trees dipped in shadows,
chocolate dripping,
sea-scape shimmer,
rippled tongue,
rivulet wet, heated
quick breathing,
slight raise of steam
melting the first layer
clouded lining
lazy mist of dreaming
before a push of tongue
cool contact
bursting taste
pulsing joy
as the blazing sun
catches upon it…

 

[Eleanora Day]

Whose arms hold you Amante
in the night when fear crosses your cheek
under the wing of a shadow? Whose arms?
Whose eyes watch your own shade
with pleasure or sadness, your face twist
with pain or passion? Who carries your secrets
as carefully as weeping children?
Who holds them close, loves you even
when their fingers are jagged, even when
they cut and hurt? Who knows the whisper
of your truths? Who forgives the stumble
of your lies? Who lays beside you in the pale
wash of moon and chides the morning
for tarrying too long in your dreams?
Usted sabe quién somos mi amor.
Usted sabe quiénes somos. Siempre aqui.

 

[Liar]

Re: why i write

i write,
because i couldn’t talk,
always
unheard in the shadows,
a corner away,
head hidden,
not even to
open my mouth,
to cry out
or whisper...

anything.

but i could write,
i was allowed,
so this is how i learned to talk
…all my life
different versions,
unfailing,
even in the dark
without looking,

here i can talk…

here
you can

yes
you
can

whisper on an inhale
still
tranquil
contemplative
careful

and words will resound
echo
magnify
magnificent
multiply

and notify
nonjudgemental eyes
not closing out
an uncomfortable
non conformist mind

or sifting out
the bitter bile
that is
as all
as love
a part of life

that here
noone shall
display
discredit
and discard

no
here
you can

yes
you
here
now

 

[eagleyez]

the immeasurable symphony
of 4am birds is conducted
by the pale return of the king-
some promise of sun that they
inherintly surmise to mean gifts given
in short twills and returned as long lives.

and the scratching head man
lifts from dreams of a flood in the house
and her mother leaning in and becoming
you-the ancient face she will wear in heaven.

we searched for a match, that mother and I, laughing over cigarettes in the great gathering hall of dreams and
of families past and presently waiting on mystical airplanes
to be flown to an end, to the perfect destination,

and I sit cynical and settle gladly for the winged orchestra
and its mysterious sonata-
glad to have woken from that dream
and anxious to make coffee
for you.

I have no secrets-
Only the daily prayers
and rituals and routines.

I have often thought that you returned
as a sparrow,
in that song of the nuzzling dawn.

 

[Angeline]

Here comes the Sun King
or at least the alarm usually,
but this morning eyes open
to hugs, a face buried in my neck.

It's cold here
sliding into black jeans,
dawn never quite warm
for less than a sweatshirt
and chilly fingers.

I think your best smile
is the one over coffee,
handing me a mug
and that careless smile,
a here we go again smile,
warm as the thick porcelain
and the steam on my face.

 

[eagleyez]

the immeasurable symphony
of 4am birds is conducted
by the pale return of the king-
some promise of sun that they
inherintly surmise to mean gifts given
in short twills and returned as long lives.

and the scratching head man
lifts from dreams of a flood in the house
and her mother leaning in and becoming
you-the ancient face she will wear in heaven.

we searched for a match, that mother and I, laughing over cigarettes in the great gathering hall of dreams and
of families past and presently waiting on mystical airplanes
to be flown to an end, to the perfect destination,

and I sit cynical and settle gladly for the winged orchestra
and its mysterious sonata-
glad to have woken from that dream
and anxious to make coffee
for you.

I have no secrets-
Only the daily prayers
and rituals and routines.

I have often thought that you returned
as a sparrow,
in that song of the nuzzling dawn.

4 years
4 summers
4 winds
4 limbs
2

and the upheaval saddens you im sure,
i know you hate that mystic shit
but i can only imagine
you watching

Porcelain birds again
since youve been gone.
I have your collection-
Mallards, Sparrows, pale brown wood ducks.

As the crow flies-
it aint that far,

or near for that matter.

 

[Angeline]

It's the West in your voice.
I understand
though I've lived always in crowds
somehow never escaping
schtetl life even two generations
later in America, promise handed down
from brave young grandfathers
journeying past the edge
of another culture
until they transformed
to proper old European Yenkees
in fine suits with vests, hats.

My poems coast down avenues
My muse struts grand fashion
or peers from tenement windows
writing wary East Coast poems
in hotel rooms or painting spatters
on rain-washed city streets
alive at midnight in flim-flam neon blinks.

Not you. Your poems swin in clear streams,
pan for gold next to dirt trails that lead
to meadows full of morning
frost and whinny, cabins and logger roads.
Your vistas unfurl above rivers,
and the distant ocean surrounds you
like a gentleman cowhand
with a six-shooter in one hand
and renaissance overflowing
the other.

 

[Maria2394]

Louisa

at eleven already well educated
in the art and understanding
of precious time and value
of being able to see by moonlight

back bedroom, closer to yard
away from patio light
daddy wouldnt see them running
out and bound for grandma's
way past midnight

and mama told them often
run as fast as you can, if you hear anything
get your uncle, call the law
be strong baby, take her little hand and run
everything will be fine

and Louisa learned how to run
in the dark, and kept sarah from crying
she learned that daddy's get angry
when they burn a midnight dinner
and all mama said about that was,
men shouldnt ever cook drunk

and a new hole in the wall
ever so often,
is a good place
to put a new bookcase

louisa learned that quiet is good and
perception of parents and love
is like paneling, just look long enough
the patterns become muted
grain flowing downward
making mahogany veneered puddles
on the carpet, with mama's tears

 

[Eleanora Day]

The Gift

Never apologize
for passion's face
annointed. Validation
is a gift that quells
the questions in your eyes.

When I am sketched down jaw
or limb, there's living art.

There is no sin
in singing sighs wet
with breathless strength
like gull cries over cracks
of ocean gray with splashing
and their restless skies.

Love glues days. We never know
when waves will churn us gasping
at the shores of frailty.

Now is right. This sinless purity
falls complacent over human night.

 

[perks]

there's a dinasaur
stomping around
on my chocolate brown couch
the giggly kind
with the sweet baby
hidden underneath
her armpits
her roars shake my house
and her destructive powers
are comparative to godzilla
or GAAAAWD zeeeewa
ROOOOOOAR!
that's how she says it
I want to wrap her up
and tickle her back to
herself, and then I realize
in a few years, before I know it
she won't even remember
cause her dinasaur will be extinct
and all I'll have
are smudgy toeprint fossils
and her history

 

[Angeline]

Thank you Perks, muse sugah--you inspired me.




I know dinosaurs.
They reappeared on Earth early in 1990.
The first ones were conjured by Vitsie,
the Video Friend.
She calls them "terrible lizards,"
that's what "dinosaurs" means,
and somehow you transmogrified
that into

Terrible lizards for the town!

sung with gusto, command,
one arm raised like a little Mussoulini
in blue pajamas with a zipper
and plastic feet.

You worked those names
over your lips

Braciosaurus
Stegasaurus. (Spike Tail!)
Tyranosaurus Rex, deadly hero
of small boys everywhere.

Dinosaurs crept out of the Mesozoic Era,
sneaking under Christmas trees,
into birthday presents,
grandpa trips to the flea market.

Some roared, blew smoke,
took halting Frankenstein steps
before tumbling to the carpet.
Some were just squishy friends
for hugging. Others managed
to paint themselves onto sheets,
curtains, quilts, walls, growth charts,

They spilled into your cereal bowl,
flickered on screens,
telling their cautionary tales
like wise old African griots.

It was a prehistoric zoo.

In about 1994 they Darwined
into Japanese move monsters.
It was adaptation.
The age of technology.
What could they do?

They were destined for bigger things,
major motion pictures,
earthquake-sized footprints
in the Walk of Stars, and smaller things,
stories whisper-giggled at bedtime.
Godzilla on a spaceship. With you!
And you have special powers!
Flight! Invisible Sheild!

We still don't understand extinction.
A comet or some other cataclysm
made them all pop out of the world,
into some geological magician's hat.

In my house they just trudged
into toyboxes and closets
like another Rite of Spring.

 

[Mia Moore]

calico kitty litter

( with really HUGE apologies to neonurotic and all other vegans, cat lovers, et al)

calico kitty parts litter roadside
marring an otherwise scenic view
imagine this-

returning from farmer's market
kristen said, let's take the long way, again
and kitty still there though
this time not alone

tufts of fluff, orange protrude
from beaks of buzzards black
as tar against the morning haze
carrion hasnt had time to raze
the pitiful body of the Risinger's cat

turn around car and go back
take another look, delicious
breakfast where you find it
roadside buffet, no cows
in the way, innards glisten
against freshly mowed grass

was kitty chasing crickets
when she ran into the road?
I guess we'll never know

 

[Mia Moore]

dirty mind

miracle gro, finger poke
thinking of him with each new hole
seedling beware, I use you
as my surrogate whore

ohh, alyssium, you have no clue
what lies beneath, waiting for you
and caladium? you tag along
you bulbous fool, you can't see
buried there among the hollyhock roots
and catnip seeds

index finger, push so slight
enter with breath held, hoping
too deep, no sprouts no sun
nothing to come
up from blackness, presenting
virgin leaves to sun

I fuck you with fingers and trowel
fertilize with cloud spit, rain
and a vowel, o, o o
u make me so
hard

I want to thrust my fist
into your womb and rip
your belly apart
show me the magic, the secret of life
buried down low, in your dirty
earthen heart

 

[darkmaas]

Felix of Barsoom

I was informed today
there are no cats on Mars
as an hypothesis
the interplanetary feline
has no legs

it seems John Carter and
the lovely
(might I add curvaceous)
Tara of Helium
were misconstrued

perhaps it’s ‘cause there are no mice
but then again
without the cats
the red planet may be
redolent in rodents

Or maybe the earnest man
at JPL in Pasadena
was hiding some ugly truth
behind his bureaucrat’s distain

How would he know?
Losing the race to Mars
to some small, furry,
domesticated, quadruped
might result in budget cuts.

NASA is like that.