Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone

[champagne1982]

*

Where'd it go? Let me know if you want a comment or not, ok?

I'd like a comment. I was torn about leaving it up at one point. I really was a little miffed that it was getting buried on the thread, but I'm over that. so....

With The Devil

When the world subsides into the yawning pit
of chaotic abomination, how can one soul
contend with a million agonized shades?

The touch of blank-eyed petits
washed cold with hot blood.
                                                        le sang a lavé des mains de mort

                                       whisper despair, Roméo,
                                           as you shake hands

             Stay Roméo, don't run away!
                       Our last hope rests with you.

Thousands die each spinning
day, rescue only one.

Rwanda,
heart of Africa
                                                        your blood taints the Nile.

Yet your screams
are muffled against the gag
stuffed in your face
by UN strong men.

It was said, they offer nothing
there are millions of them.
Let them kill each other
we'll be better off
when the blight
consumes
itself.

Rwanda,
heartbeat of a continent
                                                        your pain taints the future.

             whisper despair, Roméo,
                       you've shaken hands with the devil.

                                      Stay Roméo, don't run away!
                                      Our last hope rests with you.

                                                 Be noble.
                                                  Don't go.
                                                   Be brave.

                                                  Stay.

Do what is right
reject escape
with every strong fibre
of morality bred into you.

Genocide was committed in Rwanda just over 10 years ago. Over 800,000 Tutsi and Hutu moderates died, as some of their Hutu countrymen immersed themselves in an orgy of slaughter. At the height of the killing, 10 people each minute were massacred, a human life every 5 to 6 seconds. The murderers ran out of bullets, thereafter they hacked their victims to death with machetes.

The UN withdrew all but a few members of their mission out of the country and denied General Roméo Dallaire a clear mandate on how to end the horror. He is still haunted today.

 

[Tathagata]

Would you come with me
back over salt sewn miles,
tears , sea water
to where
my blood is housed
beneath the mound
of Oghma?

Would you ply me with Uisce Beatha,
the water of life,
as mine slips lower,
let me sing of old things,
silly things,
allow me to tell each red haired maiden
how lovely she is?

Would you lay me down knowing
I'd never rise again?
Place my wasted bones
on a Rowan branch
and keen me a love song
in the old way,
in Gods own tongue,
that I could take with me
into the earth?

For if these words of love
you speak to me
are true
Then you could do no less
and I could ask
no other.

 

[Angeline]

Your poem is excellent Champers, imho. I had some quibbles about the punctuation and one line of phrasing, but that's about it. I wonder, too, if it would make more sense to have the explanation as an intro--might make the poem easier to get first time around, but that's really a small point.

All in all, it's an excellent piece.

My comments are in bold.


Ange

With The Devil

When the world subsides into the yawning pit
of chaotic abomination, how can one soul
contend with a million agonized shades?

The touch of blank-eyed petits
washed cold with hot blood.
le sang a lavé des mains de mort

whisper despair, Roméo,
as you shake hands this section, from 'le sang....shake hands" is not punctuated, not sure why

Stay Roméo, don't run away!
Our last hope rests with you.

Thousands die each spinning
day, rescue only one.

Rwanda,
heart of Africa
your blood taints the Nile.

Yet your screams
are muffled against the gag
stuffed in your face "stuffed in your face" seems too colloquial to me for the elegaic tone of the rest of the poem
by UN strong men.

It was said, they offer nothing don't think you need a comma after "said," but seems like there should be some punctuation between "nothing" and "there" maybe a period and cap for new sentence?
there are millions of them.
Let them kill each other again, want to punctuate after "other"?
we'll be better off
when the blight
consumes
itself.

Rwanda,
heartbeat of a continent need a comma here
your pain taints the future.

whisper despair, Roméo,
you've shaken hands with the devil. again, no cap for "whisper"?

Stay Roméo, don't run away!
Our last hope rests with you.

Be noble.
Don't go.
Be brave.

Stay.

Do what is right maybe a colon here?
reject escape
with every strong fibre
of morality bred into you.

Genocide was committed in Rwanda just over 10 years ago. Over 800,000 Tutsi and Hutu moderates died, as some of their Hutu countrymen immersed themselves in an orgy of slaughter. At the height of the killing, 10 people each minute were massacred, a human life every 5 to 6 seconds. The murderers ran out of bullets, thereafter they hacked their victims to death with machetes.

The UN withdrew all but a few members of their mission out of the country and denied General Roméo Dallaire a clear mandate on how to end the horror. He is still haunted today.

 

[champagne1982]

With The Devil

Genocide was committed in Rwanda just over 10 years ago. Over 800,000 Tutsi and Hutu moderates died as some of their countrymen immersed themselves in an orgy of slaughter. At the height of the killing, 10 people each minute were massacred, a human life every 5 to 6 seconds. The murderers ran out of bullets, thereafter they hacked their victims to death with machetes.

The UN withdrew all but a few members of their mission out of the country and denied General Roméo Dallaire a clear mandate on how to end the horror. He is still haunted today.

When the world subsides into the yawning pit
of chaotic abomination, how can one soul
contend with a million agonized shades?

The touch of blank-eyed petits
washed cold with hot blood.
                                                        Le sang a lavé des mains de mort.

                                       Whisper despair, Roméo,
                                           as you shake hands.

             Stay Roméo, don't run away!
                       Our last hope rests with you.

Thousands die each spinning
day, rescue only one.

Rwanda,
heart of Africa,
                                                        your blood taints the Nile.

Yet your screams are muffled
against the gag
placed in your mouth
by UN strong men.

It was said, they offer nothing.
There are millions of them.
Let them kill each other.
We'll be better off
when the blight
consumes
itself.

Rwanda,
heartbeat of a continent,
                                                        your pain taints the future.

             Whisper despair, Roméo,
                       you've shaken hands with the devil.

                                      Stay Roméo, don't run away!
                                      Our last hope rests with you.

                                                 Be noble.
                                                  Don't go.
                                                   Be brave.

                                                  Stay.

Do what is right.
Reject escape
with every strong fibre
of morality bred into you.

_________________________

Thanks Ang. I was very fresh from watching the CBC documentary "Shake Hands With The Devil" The Journey Of General Romeo Dallaire, when I wrote this. I've ordered the book of the same title. M. Dallaire published this autobiographical journal as a step toward healing his life-threatening depression.

Watching the video made me realize exactly how many damaged heroes Canada's peacekeeping missions have produced.

I can only pray that a time will come when heroes will only be needed to teach their children how to ride bicycles.

 

[champagne1982]

Tath, I hope you don't mind my very quick edit. This piece is beautiful. My comments are in bold. Other than the minor details I've pointed out, I think the poem would benefit from a bit of work on the punctuation.

These are merely my thoughts. I offer them as suggestions to be used or discarded as you see fit.

Would you come with me
back over salt sewn miles, Do you mean sown?
tears , sea water
to where
my blood is housed
beneath the mound
of Oghma?

Would you ply me with Uisce Beatha,
the water of life,
as mine slips lower,
let me sing of old things,
silly things,
allow me to tell each red haired maiden
how lovely she is?

Would you lay me down knowing
I'd never rise again?
Place my wasted bones
on a Rowan branch
and keen me a love song
in the old way,
in Gods own tongue, I think you need to make 'Gods' possessive, even if you leave the word plural.
that I could take with me
into the earth?

For if these words of love
you speak to me
are true punctuation? Remove the cap from the following line?
Then you could do no less
and I could ask
no other.

 

[Angeline]

......

Thanks Ang. I was very fresh from watching the CBC documentary "Shake Hands With The Devil" The Journey Of General Romeo Dallaire, when I wrote this. I've ordered the book of the same title. M. Dallaire published this autobiographical journal as a step toward healing his life-threatening depression.

Watching the video made me realize exactly how many damaged heroes Canada's peacekeeping missions have produced.

I can only pray that a time will come when heroes will only be needed to teach their children how to ride bicycles.

You're welcome. It really is good. Hope you find a good home for it.

 

[Tathagata]

Tath, I hope you don't mind my very quick edit. This piece is beautiful. My comments are in bold. Other than the minor details I've pointed out, I think the poem would benefit from a bit of work on the punctuation.

These are merely my thoughts. I offer them as suggestions to be used or discarded as you see fit.

Would you come with me
back over salt sewn miles, Do you mean sown?
tears , sea water
to where
my blood is housed
beneath the mound
of Oghma?

Would you ply me with Uisce Beatha,
the water of life,
as mine slips lower,
let me sing of old things,
silly things,
allow me to tell each red haired maiden
how lovely she is?

Would you lay me down knowing
I'd never rise again?
Place my wasted bones
on a Rowan branch
and keen me a love song
in the old way,
in Gods own tongue, I think you need to make 'Gods' possessive, even if you leave the word plural.
that I could take with me
into the earth?

For if these words of love
you speak to me
are true punctuation? Remove the cap from the following line?
Then you could do no less
and I could ask
no other.

The poem was submitted this morning
I fixed " sown" and Gods'"
thank you

 

[Angeline]

The poem was submitted this morning
I fixed " sown" and Gods'"
thank you

you were right. it's not macabre. it's loving.

 

[Tathagata]

you were right. it's not macabre. it's loving.

So is death, I hear
; )

 

[CharleyH]

Ok, there is just something I can't put my finger on, something I am missing, or missed editing. I just can't see this piece anymore and need your help. DO I need a form? Do I need more rhythm, are the metaphors cohesive enough?

Be gentle . . . in a critical way, just don't laugh me out of my tank, it's comfortable in here.


Ad Infinitum

Early morning fog rolled off the Atlantic,
ethereal over the shore.
The spill of salt like a relic of time,
filled every breath I took.
Bells of lobster boats dangled inside
moist white air,
and moorings clanged to waken the sea
with whispers of silhouettes
that stirred like morning
as I looked over the ocean to you,
and a life not yet led.

Whether an echo past,
a de je vous,
perhaps a longing
or a knowing of tomorrow,
I had – faith that you and I would love.

I have – the present,
the beacon from the lighthouse
faintly blinking through the canvass of air
as the song of gulls cull from
translucent fog
scavenging,
like me
to determine whether it was
memory, future
or delusion.

Tides have changed
and faith seems replaced by doubt.
I sometimes feel lost at sea
with the haunting of pirates
searching for treasures that may not exist
because this world of scientists, of theory and paradox
are keeping me from listening to whispers and,
from seeing reincarnated silhouettes.

How do we know we are meant to be?

The salt still tastes the same when I breathe,
and the ocean is still filled with the same amount of water,
though time has shifted beyond youth,
past mythology and dream.
You and I do love,
as we did in that strange memory,
that amorphous premonition
on the shores of the Atlantic
when I was young,
and you were foam born on the other shore.

Now, I know that you are real
even if I’ve never touched you
and that I adore you
though I’ve never felt your skin.
I rely on you, your love
like the sailor coming home relies on the lantern
and it is your faith that makes me certain
the sun will rise above the horizon,
as surely as the whispers of these silhouettes
past, present, future
are the songs of each new life we lead

ad infinitum.

 

[Angeline]

Ok, there is just something I can't put my finger on, something I am missing, or missed editing. I just can't see this piece anymore and need your help. DO I need a form? Do I need more rhythm, are the metaphors cohesive enough?

Be gentle . . . in a critical way, just don't laugh me out of my tank, it's comfortable in here.


Ad Infinitum

Early morning fog rolled off the Atlantic,
ethereal over the shore.
The spill of salt like a relic of time,
filled every breath I took.
Bells of lobster boats dangled inside
moist white air,
and moorings clanged to waken the sea
with whispers of silhouettes
that stirred like morning
as I looked over the ocean to you,
and a life not yet led.

Whether an echo past,
a de je vous,
perhaps a longing
or a knowing of tomorrow,
I had – faith that you and I would love.

I have – the present,
the beacon from the lighthouse
faintly blinking through the canvass of air
as the song of gulls cull from
translucent fog
scavenging,
like me
to determine whether it was
memory, future
or delusion.

Tides have changed
and faith seems replaced by doubt.
I sometimes feel lost at sea
with the haunting of pirates
searching for treasures that may not exist
because this world of scientists, of theory and paradox
are keeping me from listening to whispers and,
from seeing reincarnated silhouettes.

How do we know we are meant to be?

The salt still tastes the same when I breathe,
and the ocean is still filled with the same amount of water,
though time has shifted beyond youth,
past mythology and dream.
You and I do love,
as we did in that strange memory,
that amorphous premonition
on the shores of the Atlantic
when I was young,
and you were foam born on the other shore.

Now, I know that you are real
even if I’ve never touched you
and that I adore you
though I’ve never felt your skin.
I rely on you, your love
like the sailor coming home relies on the lantern
and it is your faith that makes me certain
the sun will rise above the horizon,
as surely as the whispers of these silhouettes
past, present, future
are the songs of each new life we lead

ad infinitum.

This is beautiful Charley. It's well fleshed out and narrative yet lots of beautiful ethereal images.

I think it needs to be broken into more digestable parts.

I can make more specific suggestions (after I take the hot shower I've been wanting to take all day lol) if you like.


Ange

 

[CharleyH]

This is beautiful Charley. It's well fleshed out and narrative yet lots of beautiful ethereal images.

I think it needs to be broken into more digestable parts.

I can make more specific suggestions (after I take the hot shower I've been wanting to take all day lol) if you like.


Ange

Please. If you don't mind

 

[BooMerengue]

Re: Quiet Baby Lullabye

Quiet baby, Momma's pride
Watching you
I pray that
She will always find
Her quiet baby, by Momma's side.

Quiet baby, Momma's pride
Holding you
Singing sweet
Lullabyes for
Her quiet baby, by Momma's side.

Quiet baby, Momma's pride
Sleep sound now
And do not cry
Momma's here for
Her quiet baby, by Momma's side.

Champ. This made me think the baby is dead. Baby's usually aren't quiet, not for long anyway. And the repitition of those words, "quiet baby" made me think the Mother was singing to a baby she had finally made quiet... forever.

Just my opinion... no offense intended, but you know that, right?

 

[BooMerengue]

Yikes, Champ! I was just browsing around reading; I didn't realize how long ago you had posted that!

Feels like I slipped into the Twilight Zone for a sec... wishing I could do that at will.

 

[Angeline]

For Charley

Here is what I saw in your poem Charley. I thought about it a lot. It is such a beautiful, seaching piece of writing . It's also a very active poem, in the sense that it's filled with imagery that awaken the senses.

I saw it as three distinct parts that deal with the same thing but different cycles of it--past, present, and still present but with expectation about the future--if that makes sense.

Anyway, these are all just suggestions and if they don't work for you, lol, well that's how it goes sometimes. I do think though that the main thing this piece needs--because of the length and the way it proceeds thematically--is to be separated into discrete pieces.

Hope this helps.


Ange


Ad Infinitum

I.
Early morning fog rolled
off the Atlantic, ethereal
over the shore. Here, the spill
of salt lingered like a relic of time
and filled each breath I took.
On the lobster boats, subdued bells
rang, dangling in the moist white air.
Moorings clanged, awakened the sea
to whispers of silhouettes. These stirred
morning as I looked over the ocean
to you, and a life not yet led.

Whether an echo past,
a deja vous perhaps
a longing for or a knowing
of tomorrow, I had faith
that you and I would love.

II.

I have at present,
the beacon from the lighthouse
faintly blinking, and culled
from the translucent fog I have
the songs of gulls, scavenging,
like me. Was the past a memory,
prognostication, delusion?

Tides have changed,
faith replaced by doubt,
and I am sometimes lost at sea,
haunted by pirates who search
for treasures that may not exist
in this world of scientists,
of theory and paradox that keep me
from hearing whispers, from seeing
the reborn silhouettes.

How can we know we are meant to be?

III.
The salt still tastes the same
when I breathe, and the ocean
is still filled with the same water,
though time has shifted beyond youth,
past mythology and dream.

You and I do love,
as we did in that strange memory,
that amorphous premonition
on the Atlantic shores when I was young,
and you foam born on the other shore.

Now I know that you are real,
even if I’ve never touched you
and that I adore you though I’ve never
felt your skin. I rely on you, your love
is the sailor coming home
guided by my lantern, your faith
makes me certain the sun will rise
above the horizon, surely as whispers
of these silhouettes--
past, present, future
are songs of each new life we lead,

ad infinitum.

 

[Angeline]

Version 1 (or 2?)

<I originally wrote this poem after I heard that Donald O'Conner had died. I susequently lost the poem, so now I'm trying to recreate it. Is it any good? Any suggestions?>

Make Em Laugh

When I heard
you were gone I thought
now I'll never know how
you choreographed that scene,
turned your nose left then right
like a crazy traffic signal, fought
the good fight with that dummy,
flying over the couch, then you
straight through the wall,
which is how I want to exit life.
Bam! I'm done.

You weren't graceful like Fred
who makes me want to be
sophisticated in silk stockings
and a bare-shouldered gown
with a big swooshy skirt,
arcing and bending like a flower
in a warm evening breeze
on that great Manhattan stage set,
Central Park, spotlit by a streetlamp.
Fred will croon no no they can't
take that away and we'll sink
to the bench, darkness closing
its curtain on our kiss.

You weren't balletic like Gene
leaping across locations,
that jackhammer sailor
on the town where the Bronx
is up and the Battery down,
or splashing puddles of song
in pure joy of new found love.
I'd want to make one grand
jete to his strong arms and spin
around the Trocadero,
an American transported, transfixed
by Gershwin's jazzy grace.

You're more a hometown boy,
freckle-faced and a loony grin,
a lopsided next door neighbor
kind of guy. My dad would approve
when you rang the bell
for our innocent date, a movie
and pistachio ice cream. I'd say
no, let's not take the bus, let's
walk and we would, holding hands,
commenting on the moon's
familiar glow on the diamond
sidewalks. Only the moon
and one alley cat would see
our measured stride and skip.

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[CharleyH]

Re: For Charley

Here is what I saw in your poem Charley. I thought about it a lot. It is such a beautiful, seaching piece of writing . It's also a very active poem, in the sense that it's filled with imagery that awaken the senses.

I saw it as three distinct parts that deal with the same thing but different cycles of it--past, present, and still present but with expectation about the future--if that makes sense.

Anyway, these are all just suggestions and if they don't work for you, lol, well that's how it goes sometimes. I do think though that the main thing this piece needs--because of the length and the way it proceeds thematically--is to be separated into discrete pieces.

Hope this helps.


Ange

Thank you so much for taking the time. Yes, I see your point regarding the three parts, and this completely makes sense, and I will definately make this change.

However, I was curious, because you do not say it, but rather when edited . . . you pulled my intentionally fragmented sentances into complete ones. Did the fragments not work for you? Did you feel it needed to be more narrative, and flow at a slower pace?

Again, much appreciated. Thank you.

 

[Angeline]

Re: Re: For Charley

Thank you so much for taking the time. Yes, I see your point regarding the three parts, and this completely makes sense, and I will definately make this change.

However, I was curious, because you do not say it, but rather when edited . . . you pulled my intentionally fragmented sentances into complete ones. Did the fragments not work for you? Did you feel it needed to be more narrative, and flow at a slower pace?

Again, much appreciated. Thank you.

It's funny Charley--lots of people say my poems break lines so as to fragment sentences. I've done that in the past to try to suggest more than one way to read a line, but lately I've been trying to break lines in more easily readable chunnks. I think I just put my latest preference for doing things in your poem.

It's six of one, half dozen of the other as they say. Your breaks are good. It really works either way, lol.

And you're very welcome. It is a lovely piece of writing--I enjoyed working with it.

 

[Lauren Hynde]

Ok, there is just something I can't put my finger on, something I am missing, or missed editing. I just can't see this piece anymore and need your help. DO I need a form? Do I need more rhythm, are the metaphors cohesive enough?

Be gentle . . . in a critical way, just don't laugh me out of my tank, it's comfortable in here.

I definitely agree with Angeline. Your poems is beautiful and rings very true to my own heart, but could gain a lot from being more structured. The first reading left me, to some extent, torn between two feelings. The message of the poem is so positive and emotive, but was tainted by a certain sadness. Splitting it in three is a good idea, and I think reflects the content of the poem. Past, Present and Future, either literal or perceived, are an integral part of the message, as are the fluxes and refluxes of life and of ocean tides.

Personally, I would only make small changes to the text, for clarity and pace:


Ad Infinitum


I

Early morning fog rolled off the Atlantic,
ethereal over the shore.

The spill of salt,
like a relic of time,
filled every breath I took.

On lobster boats,
bells dangled inside moist white air,
and moorings clanged to waken the sea
with whispers of silhouettes
stirring like morning
as I gazed across the ocean,
to you,
to a life not yet led.

Whether an echo past,
a déjà vu, perhaps
a longing
or a knowing of tomorrow,
I had faith

that you and I would love.


II

I have the present,
the beacon from the lighthouse.

Faintly blinking through the canvass of air,
like the song of seagulls, it culls
across the translucent fog
scavenging,
like me,
to determine whether it was memory,
future
or delusion.

Tides have changed
and faith seems replaced by doubt.

I sometimes feel lost at sea
with the haunting of pirates
searching for treasures that may not exist
because this world of scientists,
of theory and paradox
are keeping me from listening to whispers,
and from seeing reincarnated silhouettes.

How do we know if we are meant to be?


III

The salt still tastes the same when I breathe,
and the ocean still filled with the same water.

Though time has shifted beyond youth,
past mythology and dream,
you and I do love,
as we did in that strange memory,
that amorphous premonition
on the shores of the Atlantic
when I was young,
and you were foam born on the other shore.

Now I know that you are real
even if I’ve never touched you.
and that I adore you
even if I’ve never felt your skin.

I rely on you, my love,
as a sailor coming home relies on his lantern,
and it's your faith that makes me certain
that the sun will rise above the horizon,
as surely as the whispers of these silhouettes
- past, present, future -
are the songs of each new life we lead,

ad infinitum.

 

[CharleyH]

I definitely agree with Angeline. Your poems is beautiful and rings very true to my own heart, but could gain a lot from being more structured. The first reading left me, to some extent, torn between two feelings. The message of the poem is so positive and emotive, but was tainted by a certain sadness. Splitting it in three is a good idea, and I think reflects the content of the poem. Past, Present and Future, either literal or perceived, are an integral part of the message, as are the fluxes and refluxes of life and of ocean tides.

Personally, I would only make small changes to the text, for clarity and pace:

Thank you. Your opinion means a lot to me. I will go over yours and Angeline's observations and then submit. Thanks again!

 

[Tathagata]

We're doing the may pole crepe streamer sugar kool aid dance,
with cowlicks and pigtails,
short checkered knee pants,white socks,
and Buster Browns.

It is one of those boundless days,
before time,
where each day is a life, an adventure, a fresh slate
It is the mind I try and get back to
through meditation and drugs, music, sex, and finally
through writing.

Card tables bearing bowls of Frito's and Cheeto's
Wise Potato chips and split silver mushrooms of Jiffy Pop.
Dixie cups of Zarex,
(we call "bug juice")
The boys drink it and gag pretending to be poisoned.
We stagger around retching and laughing.
The girls are not amused.

Performing some pagan ritual in Irish Catholic back yards in the early 60's
I can't recall if it was before or after Dallas..
The sun was bright , people laughed
I was snug in the belief
the world would always be this way.

Welcoming spring with a sucrose powered mania
and noticing skirts for the first time.

Sonic booms and cigarettes ,
drums and bugles
benevolent parades, and monkeys on a stick.
Moms all sipped beer..or a cocktail,
(I think they were Tom Collins')
Tall frosted glasses that contained a jekyll and hyde concoction

Grab bag of goodies and real fake tattoos,
made from blue food coloring that lingered for weeks,
just rough edged blue.. like uncle Chicky's anchor,
he got while fighting Japs.

There are rusted railroad tracks next to the house,
that orange dust finds it's way into dungaree creases and behind ears,
a marsh with tadpoles,
but you cant have any fun in dress clothes.
You can eat candy and cake and get wired,
watch the grown up drink and laugh,
you realize years later they were all hitting on each other
but mom was smiling so I guess it was ok.

The boys play army and the girls aren't allowed to climb trees in dresses

We stand in the middle of the street and play games.
It's a dead end
we can draw with chalk on the street,
bases and " goals",
hide and seek but don't go near Old Man Browns house.

The streetlights come on and we know the day is over.
The Bat signal for boys to head home.
There will be a bath,
we have managed to get dirty after all,
and as your putting your pajamas on your mother says something about Mimi Roberts..
how cute she is...and how she seemed to like you.

Like me?
the fear rises mixed with something else
don't tell anyone
liked me??

and later that night as your body winds down
you think about those skirts.

 

[Angeline]

We're doing the may pole crepe streamer sugar kool aid dance,
with cowlicks and pigtails,
short checkered knee pants,white socks,
and Buster Browns.

It is one of those boundless days,
before time,
where each day is a life, an adventure, a fresh slate
It is the mind I try and get back to
through meditation and drugs, music, sex, and finally
through writing.

Card tables bearing bowls of Frito's and Cheeto's
Wise Potato chips and split silver mushrooms of Jiffy Pop.
Dixie cups of Zarex,
(we call "bug juice")
The boys drink it and gag pretending to be poisoned.
We stagger around retching and laughing.
The girls are not amused.

Performing some pagan ritual in Irish Catholic back yards in the early 60's
I can't recall if it was before or after Dallas..
The sun was bright , people laughed
I was snug in the belief
the world would always be this way.

Welcoming spring with a sucrose powered mania
and noticing skirts for the first time.

Sonic booms and cigarettes ,
drums and bugles
benevolent parades, and monkeys on a stick.
Moms all sipped beer..or a cocktail,
(I think they were Tom Collins')
Tall frosted glasses that contained a jekyll and hyde concoction

Grab bag of goodies and real fake tattoos,
made from blue food coloring that lingered for weeks,
just rough edged blue.. like uncle Chicky's anchor,
he got while fighting Japs.

There are rusted railroad tracks next to the house,
that orange dust finds it's way into dungaree creases and behind ears,
a marsh with tadpoles,
but you cant have any fun in dress clothes.
You can eat candy and cake and get wired,
watch the grown up drink and laugh,
you realize years later they were all hitting on each other
but mom was smiling so I guess it was ok.

The boys play army and the girls aren't allowed to climb trees in dresses

We stand in the middle of the street and play games.
It's a dead end
we can draw with chalk on the street,
bases and " goals",
hide and seek but don't go near Old Man Browns house.

The streetlights come on and we know the day is over.
The Bat signal for boys to head home.
There will be a bath,
we have managed to get dirty after all,
and as your putting your pajamas on your mother says something about Mimi Roberts..
how cute she is...and how she seemed to like you.

Like me?
the fear rises mixed with something else
don't tell anyone
liked me??

and later that night as your body winds down
you think about those skirts.

I'll review yours if you review mine.

 

[Tathagata]

I'll review yours if you review mine.

mine is no where near done..
lol

you mean the donald o connor one??
i'll have a look and pm ya

 

[Angeline]

mine is no where near done..
lol

you mean the donald o connor one??
i'll have a look and pm ya

ok. i'll review it when it's cooked. mine needs a good edit, too--i just want a general opinion....