all of a sudden passion suddenly

[SeattleRain]

raise heel between knees
nail it down dont leave me
tender footed
driven iron tame and ready
for the walk of man

trimmed and delivered
blind to all but
you who bind and pull

whipsler slow the beauty of my strength
whisper slow the beautty of my strength
I am yours sugared and smooth
tamed and delivered
prepared

 

[Maria2394]

burl my mahogany, oh lover of the lathe
tweak and polish, carve my teak-
it is all plantation grown, though
it lessens not the creak,
nor groan and thunder
of the give
when at the mercy of the saw

 

[SeattleRain]

thoughts of hands
splintered wood
chicken wire, building something
from nothing

in the dark of morning
panties inside out
my slick satisfaction
polishes the shiny side

nothing soaks in
my reminders of sin


~

the remainders of sin?

 

[SeattleRain]

I want a totem damn it!

I do not have a totem animal

the cow has always haunted my dreams
with forceful noses that corner and stomp
scratching the dusted head dbefore the slaughter

cats have been there always
tickling legs at the bus stop
stealing heat from my head in the wintertime

I have never really liked horses
or dolphins or unicorns
(making me question my own femininity)

maybe the turtle
the box turtles that I rescued as a girl as they crossed our road
Painting a "J" on their back with my pink polish

they scratched my belly, the space between halter top and purple shorts, as a girl
patient and waiting for them to feel safe
first to come out were the claws that tickled
into a laugh

scaring them back in again


maybe it is the turtle then

kind of sucks as a totem

I will have to think of this some more

maybe the lion
have always fantasized about being eaten by a lion
whole
no, not whole
piece by piece until nothing remains
but after feast for hyena and vulture
crow?

ha!

lions never cross my path
not the kind with a mane and roar

the only thing that crosses my path anymore are the cars on the green
while I wait in my jungle
revven up and late for work


damn it I need a totem

butterflies and moths have brought me messages from the dead
maybe...

those fragile grrrr...

I guess they are not, I have heard they make war

what am I doing here

this is not supposed to be a blog
my fault

merry christmas

buy me a totem
damn it

 

[WickedEve]

Pining

Wind changes a landscape
in uprooted seconds
before coffee, moments before
shades go up on the sun.

I was in those branches
when they were evergreen
and steadfast beneath my grasp.

No wind or god
could fell this tree.

Now, I see shadows rooted,
stark on those white boards of home
as I come from below the hill.

My childhood monolith of endurance,
if you can be bent to touch the ground,
then what hope is there for this woman?

 

[Liar]

someone said not long ago
(in fact, so says the most)
It feels odd to call you a Liar
in every bloody post

and I guess a tag should nag
a good game clearer
maybe brag and be
a brilliant boaster bearer

as for now, here I am
it's my blessing, and curse
because whatever complications
it coulda been worse

what if the byte line I was
was another, and instead
my monkier woulda called for a
Merry Christmas, Fuckhead!

#L

 

[Vampiric_Mirage]

Lol, nice poem Liar, very nice.

You're confusing your traditions -
kissing the mistletoe
eating the Christmas tree
rocking the gifts
(okay I might do that too, but...)
Silly puppy
When you jumped off the deck
did you know you couldn't fly
or were you trying out for Santa's team?
With the leap you made if I was him
I would replace Rudolph
(he must be getting old anyways).

Happy Holidays!

 

[twelveoone]

for y.

the sadness of the news overwhelms me,
the loss of someone like you
too often the words, they fail me
how does one put tears on a page?
how does one put tears on a page?

to sit here so blank and so empty
choking for the words
Oh, to have you take me to task, again,
for the inadequacy of my words
-you have been heard
-you have been heard

Oh, to have you take me to task, again,
for these failures, of tears on a page
for the loss of someone like you

 

[Angeline]

Elliot said The Collective I
meaning you understand that if I
say rosebush by the garden fence

you feel mulch squish under your shoes
and see a stem incline toward you.
The Sun which casts slats of shadow
onto the lawn feels warm on your cheek,

and you know you are reading my poem
because you have higher-thinking skills,
being a human. If I say it's the beginning

of summer and it rained last night
so this morning the grass is just drying,
and a few drops fall from oak leaves
to your hair, aren't you there?

Morning feels fresh and you shake
your head Yes, a raindrop falls
from your hair to one petal on the rose
just starting to bloom, like you. It's still

new and it's still my poem
but aren't you there, faintly glowing
with the blush of some memory close
enough to my own that it's your hair,
your rose?

You can bend and touch it if you want.
It's our experience now even if it never
happened anywhere but here, and if you

keep listening in whatever part
of your imagination links my words
to your heart, you'll hear a screen door slam
Look up. Your father is smiling at you
and the garden and the morning.

When he picks you up and sings
your name, you will still be reading
my poem but you will have become
a moment in my life and I
will have known yours.

 

[WickedEve]

Those moments
when frost lay over windows,
Bunny would delight in grade school
spit-balling,
mowing teacher's lawn
on days when breezes blew in.

It was '49 and Bunny was simply
a fifteen year-old boy
in the back of the class.

Never learned how to write,
"Watch out!" but knew how to scream
before the turn,
just before the bridge.

Bunny understood spit-balls and bridges
and how to stop breathing
behind frosted glass.

 

[Liar]

as the commotion died down
the options hollered still
three way debate club hulaballoo
hysterical happening blabbering
between my ears
one shouting of fears
andother slithering sweet promises
stealthily into my coat pocket
and the third one opting
dry as paper
the easy way out

thus they scream and shout
while all I can hear
is the shower worshipping her skin
drops falling to her feet in awe
just ten feet away

commotion, is seems
will be my companion
many days still

 

[WickedEve]

transcendental lay

there is no need to be dreamy below grass
just to touch god. i kneel at his feet
with your every breath

on my back,
over my nape,
below my spine.

rock me steadily into heaven.

and how can such bliss
(such a shameless affair)
seduce me into clouds
haloing in the sky?

then

all is divine in that second
before i tremble down to earth.

 

[tungtied2u]

do you dare
to become inimate with strangers
about your passions

will you try
to reach inside them
plant a seed

do you fear
laughter, ridicule, rebuke
of your progeny

are you willing
to let her stand, spread her wings
leave the nest

can you share
in her success, her courage, her freedom
through your nurturing

 

[Angeline]

On December 26th,
you say, everything
is different. It loses
the magic.

We turned off
the Chirstmas lights
draped over the bay window,
turned off the tree lights,
and stood side by side
in the dark room
watching flakes swirl,
covering the driveway,
the Nativty
and Pauline's car.

When I lay in bed,
I can see the weather
whirl under the moon.
Everything is different
and the same
and magic.

 

[WickedEve]

they arrive,
simplicity of words
that must fill my lungs

i would not have died before i read them
but now they are air

and in breathless night
i unfold them
until they fade
beneath the love of my fingertips

i linger for revival
in your letters

 

[tungtied2u]

the ocean rose
and scoured the land
as if the hand of God
itself
flung bodies
into boughs of trees
carelessly like toys
strewn about a shelf
tore houses, families, lives
apart
battered bits and pieces
ripped out of context
spun topsy turvy
into a new reality
cars in hotel lobbies
cadavers in fish freezers
and lifeless souls
washed up on to the shore
like so much flotsam and jetsam
to be gathered like driftwood
grey and gnarled
and burned upon the pyre of pain

 

[WickedEve]

Poets and lovers,
they snow us with beautiful words.

Let me compare you to a winter sun
from Paris to one falling
beyond your window.

We look to the horizon for love.

There must be more
than beautiful words.

 

[Guest]

In the sky
silver clouds glide
cross a full moon
sailing at half mast

Night penants read
two red-and-black
with upside down ensign
soon to follow

These wispy veils
trail messages
Mothers cry
for sons and daughters

Get married
gain or lose -
no matter
they always return

Go to war
they may fall -
be gone too long
or come back in boxes

 

[Liar]

There is no edge
to the universe.
Just a line in the void,
an agreement,

        Here,
        but no further!

strung between aging stars.

And on the other side,
spent souls in unison,
eyes wide, amazed,
observe and absorb.

        You are not alone,
        you are not alive
        until you know this.

        But you will.
        You will.

There is no edge, no beginning,
no barricade eternal. Only this,
and what we create,
while days roll.

 

[WickedEve]

I have written every image
outside my window--
elms have fallen into verse,
the sun, a burned-out metaphor.

I cannot pen Paris,
with beauty,
never loving its streets,
not once content to die there.

Only a few leaves,
a contorted wind
remain.

I gather them for a final poem,
wondering about Paris in the spring.

 

[Angeline]

I know Paris.
It's black and white,
fits on a small screen.

There's a little jazz club there,
just the one. Paul Newman
and Sidney Poitier play there,
but they aren't actors

They're struggling jazz musicians.
Sidney is pragmatic. Paul
is a dreamer, lost somewhere
between the smoky cavern
and the cassoulet
his mistress cooks.

Once Louis Armstrong
played at the club. He wasn't
Louis Armstrong. He was
famous though. Even
the small screen knows
he's a jazz king,
who arrives victorious
at the Gard du Nord
to a cheering crowd.

Anytime now
Joanne Woodward
and Dianne Carroll
will enter this mise en scene
only to fuck up
Paul's and Sidney's
carefree lives
just by being women.

There will be relationships,
complications, meandering
strolls along the Seine.
There will be passionate
rain-slicked kisses.
Madame Cassoulet
will not be pleased.

I will watch all this
as a passive observer.
I will understand
Sidney's reluctance
to return to the States,
and approve Paul's choice
to leave with Joanne.

I'm not leaving
the club though
because this is my Paris.
I'm staying, sitting alone
in the back of that club,
listening to the soundtrack
over and over.

 

[WickedEve]

we went ballooning,
and our words were so much air,
written down, then confettied
over the world.



(I had great plans for this but it popped.)

 

[WickedEve]

Nude Listening

Liaison-speak
hushes to distant susurrus,
as they move
just beyond the grove.

So soft through trees,
barely audible,
wind that alludes to breathless sigh.
It leaves me poised

for the canopy
to billow green with words.

----------

Liaison-speak whispers,
as they move beyond the grove.
So soft through trees,

wind that alludes to breathless sigh,
and leaves me poised for canopy
to billow green with words.

---------

oh, what did I write late last night.

 

[WickedEve]

This is a suddenly poem from 2 weeks ago (just found it) and I don't think it's posted. It's a bad, bad, get drunk and screw poem. And if it's already on this thread, well... I'm officially old and forgetful!



I'm alone tonight.
I should take my red car,
go to a bar, get drunk,
and screw around.

There are no kids, tonight,
but money in my pocket
and fucking panties waiting in the drawer.

I should not sit alone,
writing poetry and drinking green tea.

So, when tomorrow is here,
I will complain about loneliness
and all variations of boredom.
And all I will have to show for a night alone
is a single poem and good reputation.

 

[Liar]

Whoa,
what
am
I doing
here
?

I shouldn't be doing this,
wasting brain
that could metamorphose
through market powers
to bread and butter,
that I could feed
the remaints
of my brain
with.

Chased
by a deadline.
a dandelion?
No a dead, very dead, line,
behind which too much wasted time
will be as dead as the line

And still here I am
jotting dittys
nonsense nomenclature
notation nitty grittys
that couls as easily
spill over the side,
and glide into oblivion
as get stuck here,

prolonging a thread,
reining in
on a line
that is dead.