An Edit a Day - getting back on track

[wildsweetone]

(30/30 - 2697 )

11

it is there in the weight of unshed tears,
the understanding of parting,
the knowledge of permanent separation
that is a piece of growth. it
is there in a smile,
in the holding of hands,
in clumsy, squeezy hugs.
it is there in special memories,
flash reminders of good times
and challenges.
it is there, in the weight of yesterday.

edit 15/12/07



It is there in the weight of unshed tears,
that understanding of parting,
the knowledge of permanent separation
that will be the peace of growth. It
is there in the Christmas smile
of a toddler, in that moment of delight
when one more gift
is placed in their hands.
It is there in the holding of hands,
in clumsy, squeezy hugs
that remind us friends and lovers
care, that they are only as distant
as our eyes see them
and as close as our beatin' heart
feels them. It is there in special memories,
the flashbacks of good times
when the sun rose with each dandelion,
and in challenges when we worked
alone walking in the footsteps of no other.
It is there, in the weight of yesterday.
It is there, in the eyes.

edit 14/3/08

It is there

It is there in the weight of unshed tears,
that understanding of parting,
the knowledge of permanent separation
that will be the peace of growth. It
is there in the Christmas smile
of a toddler, in that moment of delight
when one more gift
is placed in their hands.
It is there in the holding of hands,
in clumsy, squeezy hugs
that remind us friends and lovers
care, that they are only as distant
as our eyes see them
and as close as our beating heart
feels them. It is there in special memories,
the flashbacks of good times
when the sun rose with each dandelion,
and in challenges when we worked
alone walking in the footsteps of no other.
It is there, in the weight of yesterday.
It is there, in the eyes.

blogged

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Dora's Edit 1

This is such a good idea. This thread I mean. I need to force myself to edit some of my earlier 5/5 poems. I'm not sure I can do one each day, but I will try to edit those I think merit revising. That may not be too many.

Migrants
In our separate Saturday schools
we glass gaze
to Rumi's field beyond the pane and brick
where we will some day meet,
our strapped books left
at the edge of the road.

We will wade in without Gods,
without pockets, just bare arms
attending jumping bugs
that dance the breeze pulled blades
tall enough to drape us
in the evening hush and you can come out
from your moustached mask, the sarcasm
clinging to it but not to this new person

with the thin skin, your anima shining
shy and close
until our soft lips press
and my palms rise to embrace the dusk,
to hold your naked breast.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Improvement? hmm.

Placemats plot the courtship
of daughter and mother in law to be.
The rounded equanimity of the table
confesses no partisanship as the son
sits between them.

Conversation is constructed from the proper
boil of tea as it steeps, the tannen spilling
in curls from the silver tea ball
that the daughter to be slowly circulates.
Looking in, the mother sees menstruation, follows
the hand down to the young woman's lap,
tries to see through the daughter-to-be's sweater dress
to her ovaries, imagines holding them in her palms
like avacados, squeezing them
under the grocer's radar.

The son says nothing but cuts his ham,
the only one brave enough to hold a knife.



Original

Placemats plot the courtship
of daughter and mother in law to be.
The rounded equanimity of the table
confesses no partisanship as the son
sits between them.

Conversation is constructed from the proper
boil of tea as it steeps, the tannen spilling
in suggestive swirls from the silver tea ball
that the daughter to be slowly circulates.
Looking at it the mother sees menstruation
in her memories, tries to see through
the daughter-to-be's sweater dress to her ovaries,
imagining holding them in her palms
like avacados, secretively squeezing them
under the grocer's radar.
The son says nothing but cuts his ham,
the only one brave enough to hold a knife.

 

[wildsweetone]

nice to see this thread working


original (15/11/07):
bridge over blue

you were there, standing
on one white cloud, and i
on another. no eye contact,
no reaching out of arms. Curtains veiled the happiness
we once shared. it took a child
for us to see beyond
the blinding anger, the rash
statements that built solid concrete
walls between us.

it took me facing death
to know i will walk that rainbow
to be with you.

~~~

1st edit:
Bridge over Blue

You were there, standing
in one room, and I
in another. No eye contact,
nor reaching out of arms.

Curtains veiled the happiness
once shared. It took a child
for us to see beyond
the blinding anger, the rash
statements that built solid concrete
walls between us.

It took the face of death
to know I will walk
through that door
to be with you.

~~~

2nd edit:

Bridge over Blue

You were there, standing
in one room, and I
in another. No eye contact,
nor reaching out
of arms. Curtains veiled
our happiness once shared.

It took a child
for us to see beyond
the blinding anger, the rash
statements that built walls
between us.

It took the face of death
to know I will walk
through that door
to be with you.

(gotta work on that last stanza. or chop it out.)

3rd edit:

Bridge over Blue

You are there, standing
in one room, and I
in another. No eye contact,
nor reaching out
of arms to clutch close
the warmth that was once us.
Curtains of anger veiled
our happiness. It took a child
for us to see beyond
the rash statements
that built walls between us.
It took the gray face of death
to know I will walk
through that door
to be with you.

 

[wildsweetone]

Original 21/11/07:

today i watched a pukeko run
across the grass at work.
i turned to tell you, to write
how odd it looked,
all skinny orange legs
lifting and bending at the knees
racing across the grounds.
it was like chewed dark blue bubblegum
on stilts.
i turned to tell you,
and turned back to watch.


~~~
Edit:

There are things I want to share

Today a pukeko ran
across the grass at work.

I turned to tell you, to write
how odd it looked,
all skinny stiff spaghetti legs
racing across the ground, a body
like chewed dark blue bubblegum
on stilts.

I turned to tell you,
and turned back to watch.

 

[wildsweetone]

original edited 17/11/08

The candle burns
and the lump has returned
to my throat, yet
I shed no tears
for fear I might drown
in their flood.

There are body husks
and creaking doors
in this space of grave
and mirrors of smoke
that lie of an ending
different to loss.

There are widows and poets
writing under flickering light,
children and dogs journey you
to your lasting place.

There is famine.

And when the candle has burnt
another will rise to reflect light
and cast their own shadows.

~~~

edit

i
The candle burns
and the lump has returned
to my throat. I shed no tears
for fear I might drown
in their flood.

ii
There are body husks
and creaking doors
in this space of grave
and mirrors of smoke
that lie of an ending
different to loss.

iii
There are widows and poets
writing under flickering light.

iv
Children and dogs journey you
to your lasting place.

v
There is famine.

vi
And when the candle has burnt
others will rise to reflect light
and cast their own shadows.

 

[wildsweetone]

original 4/03/08

a cooler breeze catches in the space between leaves
turns them out, sets them whispering, flying,
caught on the bow of Autumn
pushing the warmth towards the tropics
where the sun embraces palms and sand.

here in the south, birds fluff chests,
peck sparingly at the cabbage tree berries -
great star-burst flowers that poke the grey
from the sky. black birds fall

to the ground to break their fast
among weed and worm,
stretched worms
reluctant to leave the arms of the earth.


~~~
edit 1

A cooler breeze catches in the space between leaves
turns them out, sets them whispering, flying,
caught on the bow of Autumn
pushing the warmth towards the tropics
where the sun embraces palms and white sand.

Here in the south, birds fluff chests,
peck sparingly at the cabbage tree berries -
great star-burst flowers that poke the grey
from the sky. Black birds fall

to the ground to break their fast
among weed and worm,
stretched worms
reluctant to leave the arms of the earth.

The breeze is cool, and the sea slips
across the beach, laps the land
that dawn sifts in light, cleans the track
where footprints walked to the sun.

blogged

 

[wildsweetone]

original 11/01/08

SF - the homeless

They stand there until the theatres empty,
stand near the street corners
so the dairy's neons
catch their black skin,
capture it glistening.
There is a silent strength held in check.
It is their height!
These homeless people
are not so far broken
that they stoop in asking
for quarters, dimes, dollars!
They are tall, gift us
with kindness and smiles
as we walk past.


~~~
edit - a 6/03/08

SF - the homeless

They stand there until the theatres empty,
stand near the street corners
so the dairy's neons
catch their black skin,
capture it glistening.
There is a silent strength held in check.
It is their height!
These homeless people
are not so far broken
that they stoop in asking
for quarters, dimes, dollars!
They are tall, gift us
with kindness and smiles
as we walk past, no matter
that we are the ones
with downcast eyes, we
dodge their questions, their smiles
until we are far distant
that not even the wind
carries their poverty. Then
we look back, sad to see
how they blend in with the buildings.



~~~
edit - b 6/03/08

SF - the homeless

They stand there until the theatres empty,
stand near the street corners
so the dairy's neons
catch their black skin,
capture it glistening.
There is a silent strength held in check.
It is their height!
These homeless people
are not so far broken
that they stoop in asking
for quarters, dimes, dollars!
They are tall, gift us
with kindness and smiles
as we walk past, no matter
that we are the ones
with downcast eyes, we
dodge their questions, their smiles
until we are far distant
that not even the wind
carries their poverty. Then
we look back, sad to see
how easy they blend with the buildings.


~~~
edit - c 6/03/08

SF - the homeless

They stand there until the theatres empty,
stand near the street corner
so the dairy's neons
catch their black skin,
capture it glistening.

There is a silent strength held in check. ) --- sounds okay sort of.
It is their height! ) --- sounds really odd.

These homeless people
are not so far broken
that they stoop in asking
for quarters, dimes, dollars.
They are tall, gift us
with kindness and smiles
as we walk past, no matter
that we are the ones
with downcast eyes, we
dodge their questions, their smiles
until we are distant enough
that not even the wind
carries their poverty.
We look back, sad to see )
how easy they blend with the buildings. ) not sure about these last lines


NB
consider one homeless person, not many homeless people. narrow down the focus.


~~~
edit - d 13/03/08

SF - the homeless

He stood there until the theatre emptied
stood near the street corner
so the dairy's neons
caught his black skin,
captured it glistening.
There is a silent strength
in his height held in check.
He is not so far broken
that he stoops to ask
for quarters, dimes, dollars.
He is tall, gifts me
with kindness and smiles
as I walk past, no matter
that I am the ones
with downcast eyes, I
dodge his questions, his smiles
until I am distant enough
that not even the wind
carries his poverty.
I look back, sad to see
how easy he blends with the buildings
and in that moment I hate
the policeman who warned me.

(hell, that's hitting the spot)

~~~
edit - e 13/03/08

SF - the homeless

He stood there until the theatre emptied,
stood near the street corner
so the dairy's neons
caught his black skin,
captured it glistening.

There is silent strength
in his height held in check
& he is not so far broken
to stoop as he asks
for quarters, dimes, dollars.

He is tall, gifts me
with kindness and smiles
as I walk past, no matter
that I am the one
with downcast eyes, I

dodge his questions, his smiles
until I am distant enough
that not even the wind
carries his poverty.

I look back, sad to see
how easy he blends with the buildings
and in that moment I hate
the policeman who warned me.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

3rd draft

Placemats plot the courtship
of prospective daughter and mother
in law. The rounded equanimity of the table
confesses no party, no loyalty as the son
sits between them.

Conversation is constructed from the proper
boil of tea after the fact, as it steeps, the tannin
unfurling from the silver ball
that the daughter to be slowly pulls
in its small orbit. Looking in, the mother sees
the moon, menstruation, follows
the slim crescent of hand down to the young
woman's lap, peering through knit
to her ovaries. The mother evaluates these fruits
in practiced palms without squeezing,
careful not to bruise.

The son says nothing but cuts his ham,
the only one ready to hold a knife.



Second Draft

Placemats plot the courtship
of daughter and mother in law to be.
The rounded equanimity of the table
confesses no partisanship as the son
sits between them.

Conversation is constructed from the proper
boil of tea as it steeps, the tannen spilling
in curls from the silver tea ball
that the daughter to be slowly circulates.
Looking in, the mother sees menstruation, follows
the hand down to the young woman's lap,
tries to see through the daughter-to-be's sweater dress
to her ovaries, imagines holding them in her palms
like avacados, squeezing them
under the grocer's radar.

The son says nothing but cuts his ham,
the only one brave enough to hold a knife.



Original

Placemats plot the courtship
of daughter and mother in law to be.
The rounded equanimity of the table
confesses no partisanship as the son
sits between them.

Conversation is constructed from the proper
boil of tea as it steeps, the tannen spilling
in suggestive swirls from the silver tea ball
that the daughter to be slowly circulates.
Looking at it the mother sees menstruation
in her memories, tries to see through
the daughter-to-be's sweater dress to her ovaries,
imagining holding them in her palms
like avacados, secretively squeezing them
under the grocer's radar.
The son says nothing but cuts his ham,
the only one brave enough to hold a knife.

 

[Yoron]

Lovely ))
both of you.

 

[wildsweetone]

original 20/10/08

i watch it fall, the rain
watch it fall and splash
in puddles, filling
land dents as if we need
one more ocean
of watered down tears,
one more reason to wade
through grey days,
one more mitred
and levelled out illusion
to mark the edge
of our day. i watch the rain
fall and i watch the earth cradle it.

edit - a - 16/03/08

I watch it fall, the rain
watch it fall & splash
in puddles, filling
land dents as if we need
another ocean
of watered down tears,
another reason to wade
through grey days,
another levelled out illusion
to mark the edge
of our day. I watch the rain
fall & I watch the earth cradle it.

edit - b

edit 16/03/08

We watch it fall, the rain,
watch it fall & splash
in puddles, filling
land dents as if we need
another ocean
of watered down tears,
another reason to wade
through grey days,
another levelled out illusion
to mark the edge
of our day. We watch the rain
fall & we watch the earth cradle it.

 

[Eluard]

WSO — I've read these about 10 times now and I think I prefer the first one by a nose. the reason is that, as you've altered the ending, it puts the repetition of days/day a little too close together for me, upsetting the rhythm. OTOH I quite like the "we", but I wouldn't say it is better. I might also favour taking the `I' out of the last line — just to see how that sounds. The ampersand does nothing for me, really, other than make it seem like a scrawled note, something that perhaps fits, perhaps not. (I'm a bit neutral on this, I think.) I think I also prefer `another' to `one more' but it is close.

I do think, however, that in ALL versions it is a terrific poem. (Wish I'd written it, dammit!)

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Original (untitled)

don’t ask in darkness when the fine
red hairs of the day are all
that paints our skins

(air stirred by the fan,
afternoon rain breeze rolled
over our hips (yours an echo of mine,
a second parenthesis))

enveloping the phrases we made
when you stormed in me
and I felt your life inside mine
still fingers cling

don’t ask in the darkness
when all that’s lit is love
in my cheek
in your palm

for any sweet answer is printed
in these shining eyes
where the slave’s sigh
does not echo


EDIT (Title under consideration: Graphoerotic)

don’t ask in darkness when the fine
red hairs of the day are all
that paints our skins

(after rain air stirred by the fan,
rolled over our hips (yours an echo of mine,
a second parenthesis))

enveloping the phrases we made
when you stormed in me
and I felt your life inside mine
still fingers cling to sheets
like letters to the page

don’t ask in darkness
when all that’s lit is love
in my cheek
in your palm

the only answer I can give
is printed in shoulders in ink
darkening under your breath
or in these shining eyes
where the slave’s sigh
does not echo



2nd Edit

Graphoerotica

don’t ask in darkness when the fine
red hairs of the day are all
that paints our skins

rain cooled air
rolls over our hips
yours an echo of mine
a second parenthesis

enveloping the phrases we made
when you stormed in me
and I felt your life inside of mine

still fingers cling to sheets
like letters to the page

don’t ask in darkness
when all that’s lit is love
in my cheek
in your palm

the only answer I can give
is printed on that part
of my skin that touches yours
where the slave’s sigh
does not echo

 

[PandoraGlitters]

editing day 2 (gonna try for 5)

EDIT

feed a fever
________________________________________
this is how danger comes in
through the front door riding a sunbeam
to storm in the living room washing over
the sofa with hushed
hurricane breathing
all at once blood and air rushing apocalypse
into my lungs
fingers a tight stroke
of balloon squeal attraction
and I wonder how we will ever
survive its static
hair high as its wave breaks
its great curl
smashing the bottle
the one that ferried
all of the letters I wrote
when I thought I would know better
than to drown in this heat
sickness we call love



feed a fever (original)
________________________________________
this is how danger comes in
through the front door riding a sunbeam
a long flirting glance only
to storm in the living room washing over
the sofa with hushed
hurricane breathing
all at once
blood and air rushing apocalypse
into my lungs, fingers a tight stroke
of balloon squeal attraction once
more and I wonder how we will ever
survive its static, hair high
as its wave breaks
its great curl
smashing the bottle
the one that ferried
all of the letters I wrote
when I thought I would know better
than to drown in this heat
sickness we call love

 

[PandoraGlitters]

EDIT: Graphoerotica de Sade
________________________________________
Ink your love until it
wars on my skin until those
chanting marches leach
occupancy through layers.

Gatekeepers relent
when you call them;
no one sings louder than
Victory. Press
your watermark

into this crumbling bank,
no mercy for protesters.
There is no treaty--
just ink and paper
revolution.

I will know the bomb
when it is planted by
its two names. Oh
to see
all the way
inside
the blast.


Original:
Parchment
________________________________________
Ink your love
war on my skin until
those chanting marches
leach occupancy through layers.

Gatekeepers relent
when you call them;
no one sings louder than
Victory. Press
your watermark

into this crumbling bank,
no mercy for protesters.
There is no treaty--
just ink and paper
and revolution.

I will know the bomb
when it is planted by
its two names.

See all the way inside
the blast
through.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

EDIT: Graphoerotica de Sade
________________________________________
Ink your love until it
wars on my skin until those
chanting marches leach
occupancy through layers.

Gatekeepers relent
when you call them;
no one sings louder than
Victory. Press
your watermark

into this crumbling bank,
no mercy for protesters.
There is no treaty--
just ink and paper
revolution.

I will know the bomb
when it is planted by
its two names. Oh
to see
all the way
inside
the blast
through.


Original:
Parchment
________________________________________
Ink your love
war on my skin until
those chanting marches
leach occupancy through layers.

Gatekeepers relent
when you call them;
no one sings louder than
Victory. Press
your watermark

into this crumbling bank,
no mercy for protesters.
There is no treaty--
just ink and paper
and revolution.

I will know the bomb
when it is planted by
its two names.

See all the way inside
the blast
through.

You are going to HATE me. And I will completely understand, seriously.

And this is why I don't edit or volunteer much critique, because it's always insane, but two things.

This is rockin'. Most, most excellent. That's the first thing. I actually love both versions, but I can't disagree with the edits you've made either.

But the second thing, for which you're allowed to hate me and tell me i'm full of shit if you want, is this: I think it would be better if you deleted the last word. Take out "through:"

to see
all the way inside
the blast.

You see how you might hate me. But it's so damn good, and I want to be hit between the eyes at the end, with the blast. If to see 'through' it is important, and I think it is, maybe the phrasing can be rearranged somehow. I dunno.

*assumes the position*

bj

 

[PandoraGlitters]

BJ you are right! And I could never hate you. Seriously. THANK you for reading and responding and giving me some help with this. You're an angel.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Silly, silly me. I had BJ right there in "assumes the position" and I didn't take advantage. Damnit. Well next time you assume the position, young lady, I promise to spank in the best possible way.


Here's today's edit.

EDIT

The Arrangement
________________________________________
At this stage she is more watercolor
than woman, gold stippled wildflowers patina
a history of bruises under frail skin.
Her color fades in this hot house with cool floors
and pastel walls because white
is out of fashion

even in hospitals. She wears death beautifully
as a stamen, her neck long and throat open, resigned
but not ready. Thick hair overspills the pillow,
gray petaled against russet. I still paint
her nails in bright denial. Her brief times awake
break her with suffering
yet she will not push the button for relief

as long as she counts hours
with family who sit in shifts
to witness the end of her season:
the son, the daughter,
the sister, the mother,

first husband who comes in the last hours
when she can no longer speak
except with the black of her eyes as his
blue gaze eyes the pillow-- how it would quiet
her for good. He leaves crying, bellowing
I don't smoke at the woman
who asks for a light

but he wants one. She looks old
to him. All the women here look old.
He speeds away in his thunderbird
turning the radio off because every song
might be one that played on jukeboxes
of honkey tonks where he danced
with women not his own.



ORIGINAL

The Arrangement
________________________________________
The bruises on mother's skin make her seem
more watercolor than woman,
gold stipples wildflower patina under pale
frail from the hot house with cool floors
and pastel walls because white
is out of fashion

even in hospitals. She wears death beautifully
as a stamen, her neck long and throat open, resigned
but not ready. Thick hair spills over
the pillow, gray twined with russet. I paint her nails
champagne. Her brief time awake is suffering
yet she will not push the button for relief

as long as she counts hours
with family who sit in shifts
to witness her death:
the son, the daughter,
the sister, the mother,

first husband who comes in the last hours
when she can no longer answer him,
eyeing the pillow-- how it would quiet
those eyes for good.
He leaves crying, bellowing
I don't smoke at the woman
who asks for a light for her cigarette

but he wants one. She looks old
to him. All the women here look old.
He doesn't dare
turn on the radio because every song
has played on honkey tonk's jukebox
where he danced with women
not his own.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

EDIT
All Spheres are Promises
________________________________________
Hidden among the Rhodophyta,
bluewhite eggs gleam the moon's longing,
calling the traveller far up coast
from home and all he knows
to fulfill the cycle
spilling possibility on bedded beads.

This is how promises are made--
not by duty or surrender
but by the call of the reed
on the spine, reassuring all right
as the night closes around us,
taking half in its mouth, breathing into us
lullabies for faith that the universe contains
reason after all.

This is how promises are broken--
not by carelessness or decision
but by the curl of self against failure,
the eggs withering in unexpected swirls of salt.
It is only nature to seek relief, soaking tired eyes
in night's lullaby, dulling ears
in the universe's inscrutable hiss
until moon song dries to a film,

until the head turns to find some new
distant call and a new direction
becomes forward.



ORIGINAL

All Spheres are Promises
________________________________________
hidden among the Rhodophyta
bluewhite eggs gleam with the moon's longing
calling the traveller up coast
(so far from home and all he knows)
to fulfill the cycle
spilling life on beads of possibility

this is how promises are made
not by duty or surrender
but by the call of the reed
on the spine
reassuring all right
the night closes around us
taking half in its mouth
breathing into us lullabies for faith
that the universe contains reason after all

this is how promises are broken
not by carelessness or decision
but by the curl of self against star scream
soaking night's lullaby in the universe's inscrutable hiss
withering moon song to a film
that dulls the eardrum

until the head turns to find it again
and a new direction becomes forward

 

[PandoraGlitters]

EDIT

Rattle of Chains
________________________________________
This is not a love poem, it is an account
of a haunting. No need for pseudo
scientists or television crews. Just listen

until you ear the static lit sigh
that curls my toes into the shape of the hiss
calling him up from the crusts.

As his ghost rises along my body, I flinch
penetrated through my skin in all the ways
he can, now, possessing me and filling
my cup with his sparkle, pushing
inside to be born again

and again.




ORIGINAL
Rattle of Chains (for S.D.)
________________________________________
This is not a love poem it is an account
of a haunting. Do not send
televised pseudo-scientists. Just listen:

do you ear the sigh that curls my toes
into the hiss of his name?

As his ghost rises along my body
flanks flinch into moon-paled timbers which give

as if he were between them. He drinks
my sparkling cup in all phases, pushes
inside to be born again

and again.

 

[wildsweetone]

bump to give myself a nudge and to find out where it surfaces lol

 

[wildsweetone]

12/04/09

Autumn comes, bringing fire
to trees and smoke to the sky,
underfoot a rapid softening of soil
teases insects and worms to surface
blackbirds sup and the cat stealthily stalks
the path's edge, paw pausing mid-step
patiently waiting...



edit

26/08/09

Autumn arrives, bringing fire
to tree tops, smoke to the sky,
and underfoot a rapid softening of soil
teases insects and worms
to surface. Blackbirds sup
and the cat stealthily stalks
the path's edge, paw pausing mid-step
patiently waiting...

 

[wildsweetone]

13/04/09 (easter monday)

This isn't Broadway
though every kid with a spray can
thinks he's a star, climbing
buildings and bridges
to leave his mark
as if he's the most important one
as if he needs to prove he's the one
with the upbeat future, and digs
too fancy to soil.
He'll hang around big-noting, skyteing
of the daring danger, how the train
near-clipped his ankle as it passed under
his fancy paint-job. Another night
there'll be a new decoration, some other kid
some other gang battling behind the tags.


edit 27/08/09

Tagger

This isn't Broadway
though every kid with a spray can
thinks he's a star, climbing
buildings and bridges
to leave his mark
as if he's the most important one,
as if he needs to prove he is the one
with the upbeat future, and digs
too fancy to soil.
He'll hang around big-noting, skiteing
of the daring danger, how the train
near-clipped his ankle as it passed under
his fancy paint-job. Another night
there'll be a new decoration, some other kid,
some other gang battling behind the tags.

 

[wildsweetone]

16.04.09

like followers led by a prophet
they sup from her words
as if she were the voice
of reason when all else
was muddied with the beliefs
of a few who were determined
to write holy law for all
based on their own understandings
when really we have evolved
into thinking beings with minds
able to decide the rights and wrongs
of what is, on our own.
Peace is there, and grace,
in that place we each know exists
a separate peace determined
by the weather, the buildings,
the ability to scaffold
our own pedestal.

note: too preachy


edit 28/08/09

(i)
Like followers led by a prophet
they sup from her words
as if she were the voice
of reason when all else was browned
by the beliefs of a few.

(ii)
Peace is there, and grace,
in that place we each know exists -
a separate peace determined
by the weather, the buildings,
the ability to scaffold
our own pedestal.

note: take from both previous stanzas and create a (iii)

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

This is such a great idea, WSO, may I? I wrote this years ago and was never satisfied.

Reflections on a shaved ham sandwich

Small package
flimsily wrapped in transparency
carefully
he opens
and gently reveals
pink folds,
succulent and moist
lie waiting
making him salivate.

Tenderly
with two fingers
he separates the folds
tasting the saltiness.

Gently pulling, dividing,
he arranges the pink flesh
as he wants.
Licking his fingers
lowering his mouth to bite.

Spicy sea-taste
moistened sheen
creamy filled furrows
the act complete

he stoops to devour this
his lunch.

Too obvious, not suptle enough.

edit:

He’s thinking of her
as he opens
this small package
wrapped in transparency
and gently reveals
pink folds,
succulent and moist
making him salivate.

Tenderly
with two fingers
he separates the folds
tasting the saltiness.
No sweet pink pearl waits
here for mutual pleasure.

Gently pulling, dividing,
he arranges the pink flesh
as he wants.
Licking his fingers,
lowering his mouth to taste.

Spicy sea-taste
moistened sheen
the act complete
creamy filled furrows.