Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone

[Tathagata]

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

it's on it's way
: )

and my opinions are always general

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[Angeline]

Help! I don't like the ending...

Each child is allowed
ten books. Choose carefully,
that's ten adventures to read
over seven days, unfolding
in small still hands that lift
only to turn a page.

Ten books fill my bike basket
with ballet shoes and a four-story
mistake. On Saturday, I'll audition
for a radio show and repair a car
in a London garage, but never
move: just wrinkle time
in my imagination by projecting
myself into the life of words.

Two girls. One freckle-faced,
one pale with ten books each,
filling baskets like treasure.

Hurry!
Our black hair streams.
Our four legs pump pedals fast
through the Greenwood Cemetary
at dusk because the graven angels
look up then with sightless eyes,
rustle wings and whisper
Hurry!

I heard leaves scrape
on stone, the wind whoosh
through the metal spokes,
but I have ten books,
and I swing out
the Hamilton Avenue
exit and breathe easy.

 

[Tathagata]

She.
It's always a she isn't it?
Odes and laments,
she is yin and yang
and so are the tributes.

She understood.

The profundity of that can't be captured
in a thousand words,
but it can almost be expressed
in two.

Each level an amazement,
and you become aware
of how truly limitless this
all is.

To have it drawn away,
your marrow with it,
you collapse inside.
You are a reed
through which life passes
and makes a hollow moan
at midnight.

I can live
with dreading midnights,
but I wish my heart deaf
to that fuckin moan.

 

[Tathagata]

Soft the sound of forsaken dreams
dropping,
hushed snowflake plummet,
exquisite sadness,
a symphony in A minor.

Nostalgic embrace ,
lean in to hear the heartbeat
of yesterday.

That stillness

The world holds it breath
in anticipation
of your decision.

Ahhhh...
There.
You've become God

 

[Angeline]

I.
Each child is allowed ten
books. Choose carefully,
that's ten adventures
to read over seven days,
unfolding in small hands
that lift only to turn a page.

Ten books fill my bike basket
with ballet shoes, a four-story
mistake. On Saturday
I'll audition for a radio show
and repair a car in London
but never move, just wrinkle
time in my imagination, projecting
myself into the life of words.

On Friday nights two girls,
one blue-eyes and freckle-faced,
one dark-eyes and pale,
pack baskets with ten books
each, guard them like treasure.

II.
Hurry!
Black hair streams
behind us and our four legs
pump pedals fast rushing home
through the Greenwood Cemetary
at dusk because the graven angels
look up then with sightless eyes,
rustle wings and murmur
Hurry!

past the gray rows
and the mausoleums,
the long stone with
Boney-Nutt carved
in it makes us laugh
but not too loud
because the children
rest along the back
and in April their forgotten
Christmas trees make us
want to stop and weep.

III.
I could weep now
for not knowing our future
then when breathing hard,
we raced those books home
past the crawl of leaves
on the ground and the wind
whispering like Iago.

 

[flyguy69]

......

 

[annaswirls]

Mahlons poem.

the flat rock bank of the Macoby creek
has not changed much
since the first time she told me

"notice something interesting
lets sit in silence and figure it all out"

today, spaces between cracked shale
have grown, and the moss has thickened
like us, in need of another layer
to warm our stone coats.

up the embankment, all that remains of
the woodpile are collapsed shells
of hollow branches, not unlike those
made by Grandfather along the fence row.

these to, barely breaking even in
time's commitment to return like us
to the banks of the Macoby creek

where we still notice everything
in two minute increments of silence
followed by promises to meet again.

 

[PatCarrington]

-----

 

[flyguy69]

The Problem With Porn

I’m not much for pro basketball;
6-6 250 are not numbers in my world,
and I will not make as much money

in sixty years as Kevin Garnett
makes in as many minutes. I travel
to five different cities in a year
and don’t have a girl waiting
in any of them. But there is ecstasy

in sliding left at the top of the key
and draining one from sixteen feet
over the outstretched hands
of an opponent, and the pook
of a ball on string is as sweet as silk

sliding to her ankles. When I pivot
and point at the guy who fed me
the ball I am saying “thank you,
for making this real.” My girl

has small boobs and gags
when she blows me, she won’t eat
pussy or let me cum
on her face. But when I ride

her bedspring rhythm and smother
my groans in the side of her neck,
I am saying “thank you, baby.”

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[Tathagata]

wrong thread

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[impressive]

I'm struggling with a new poem & would love some input -- but I'd rather do it privately. Any takers? (Happy to reciprocate, if needed.)



EDITED: Thanks to Boo & Pat for their assistance -- and to flyguy for the offer. I think I'm on the right track now.

 

[Tathagata]

familiarize yourself with the dead
the wasted wounded waylaid shadows
of this circus realm

embrace them as you would
a former lover
with tenderness and regret,

a miasma of sensory overload
that forces you back
to whence you came

seat them at holiday tables
and pour them the finest whiskeys
cuban cigars and sonatas in A

talk and listen
as they emote crisp memories of times kept
only in their wasp hive minds
and learn from them

ignore the blood and bone
and the smell of origin
dark,rotting
rich mushroom wood and swamp side

be nice to the dead
someday
they will be your only
companions

 

[Tathagata]

She.
It's always a she isn't it?
Odes and laments,
she is yin and yang,
and so are her tributes.

She understood.
The profundity of that can't be captured
in a thousand words,
but it can almost be expressed
in two.

Ascending recklessly
You feel each platform a summit
and then..
higher still

The journey
becomes
the joy.


To have it drawn away,
your marrow with it,
you collapse inside.

You are a reed
through which life passes
and makes a hollow moan
at midnight.

I can live
with dreading midnights,
but I wish my heart deaf
to that fuckin moan.

 

[PatCarrington]

-----

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[annaswirls]

Side-kick Camille didn’t mind being the
village idiot, both dog and pony
always on the soft end of pie in the face
or sleeping warm under a blanket of
ragged costumes in the sizes of past girls,
tight sequenced bodice and baggy Chaplin pants


He jumps her only after a drum roll announcement
of his record holding cock that disappears
like magic into so many spaces.

Camille knew, despite the choking finger grip
and cruel disregard for dryness and pain,
it was good he was here.

Here he could only pick back up whatever nasty ailments
that she had gotten from him, gifts of bugs and
the wrath of god poisoning their sinful parts
that should not be so close to each other

Better here than in the hunting ground
with the local push-up slut
dressed and speaking high society inside
but just a short drive down the river
she talked like a gun-slinging, can crushing soldier

Always finding her opened wide and pre-primed
no trouble taking it full on plus two fingers forced in
before the encore head hanging upside down
out the passenger door taking his trick cock
down an open throat no longer surprised by intrusion


Camille sleeps shallowly, waiting for cramps
to signal the inevitable splattering of cum softened stool
spitting from her torn and tender ass and the
gin scented vomit surging from her mouth.
She empties herself of him from both ends at once,
perched on splintered seat with a bucket between her feet.

Shivering, she puts on her Marcel Marceau face,
holds the hat, and rolls the drum to announce
the next greatest thing.

 

[BooMerengue]

Side-kick Camille didn’t mind being the
village idiot, both dog and pony
always on the soft end of pie in the face
or sleeping warm under a blanket of
ragged costumes in the sizes of past girls,
tight sequenced bodice and baggy Chaplin pants


He jumps her only after a drum roll announcement
of his record holding cock that disappears
like magic into so many spaces.

Camille knew, despite the choking finger grip
and cruel disregard for dryness and pain,
it was good he was here.

Here he could only pick back up whatever nasty ailments
that she had gotten from him, gifts of bugs and
the wrath of god poisoning their sinful parts
that should not be so close to each other

Better here than in the hunting ground
with the local push-up slut
dressed and speaking high society inside
but just a short drive down the river
she talked like a gun-slinging, can crushing soldier

Always finding her opened wide and pre-primed
no trouble taking it full on plus two fingers forced in
before the encore head hanging upside down
out the passenger door taking his trick cock
down an open throat no longer surprised by intrusion


Camille sleeps shallowly, waiting for cramps
to signal the inevitable splattering of cum softened stool
spitting from her torn and tender ass and the
gin scented vomit surging from her mouth.
She empties herself of him from both ends at once,
perched on splintered seat with a bucket between her feet.

Shivering, she puts on her Marcel Marceau face,
holds the hat, and rolls the drum to announce
the next greatest thing.

Jesus, Anna! I LOVE it just as it is...

 

[average gina]

Just curious...

Is this thread for others to look at one's poem to assist with or is it better for me to post a poem on a separate thread for it to be raked over?

 

[annaswirls]

Jesus, Anna! I LOVE it just as it is...

Thanks! It seems a bit run-ony. I have to let it sit a bit.

 

[annaswirls]

title?

Side-kick Camille never seemed to mind playing
both dog and pony, or the petite village idiot
who always winds up on the soft side of the pie.

Pretending to sleep beneath a blanket of
tight sequenced bodice and baggy Chaplin pants,
he sees her form moving under the ragged costumes
in sizes of girls past.

Jumps her only after a drum roll introduction
of his record holding cock that disappears
like magic into so many spaces.

Camille knew, despite the choking finger grip
and cruel disregard for dryness
it was good he was here.

Here he could only pick up nasty ailments
that she had gotten from him, generous gifts
of bugs and the communal wrath of god,
poisoning their sinful parts
that should not be so close to each other.

Better here than in the hunting ground
with the local push-up slut, there is always one,
dressed and speaking high society inside
but just a short drive down the river
strings are loosened, octaves drop.

Always he found them, opened wide and pre-primed
no struggle taking it full on plus two fingers
before the encore head hanging out the passenger door
taking his trick cock down an open throat
no longer surprised by intrusion.

Camille submerges into shallow sleep,
waiting for cramps to signal the inevitable splattering
of cum softened stool spitting from her torn
and tender ass and the retch of gin scented vomit
surging from her mouth.

She empties herself of him from both ends at once,
perched on splintered seat with a bucket between bare feet.
Shivering, she paints on her best Marcel Marceau face,
holds the hat, and rolls the drum to announce
the next greatest thing.

 

[PatCarrington]

Side-kick Camille never seemed to mind playing
both dog and pony, or the petite village idiot
who always winds up on the soft side of the pie.

Pretending to sleep beneath a blanket of
tight sequenced bodice and baggy Chaplin pants,
he sees her form moving under the ragged costumes
in sizes of girls past.

Jumps her only after a drum roll introduction
of his record holding cock that disappears
like magic into so many spaces.

Camille knew, despite the choking finger grip
and cruel disregard for dryness
it was good he was here.

Here he could only pick up nasty ailments
that she had gotten from him, generous gifts
of bugs and the communal wrath of god,
poisoning their sinful parts
that should not be so close to each other.

Better here than in the hunting ground
with the local push-up slut, there is always one,
dressed and speaking high society inside
but just a short drive down the river
strings are loosened, octaves drop.

Always he found them, opened wide and pre-primed
no struggle taking it full on plus two fingers
before the encore head hanging out the passenger door
taking his trick cock down an open throat
no longer surprised by intrusion.

Camille submerges into shallow sleep,
waiting for cramps to signal the inevitable splattering
of cum softened stool spitting from her torn
and tender ass and the retch of gin scented vomit
surging from her mouth.

She empties herself of him from both ends at once,
perched on splintered seat with a bucket between bare feet.
Shivering, she paints on her best Marcel Marceau face,
holds the hat, and rolls the drum to announce
the next greatest thing.

very good stuff, anna. title.....8 1/2?.....Purging?......

some technical suggestions:

sidekick (one word, no hyphen)

tight-sequenced (needs hyphen)

period (instead of comma) at end of stanza 2, small "j" on jumps

drum-roll & record-holding(technically need hyphens, though they look better without them)

6th stanza - period after 'slut.' capital "T" for 'there.'

add the word "where" at the beginning of the last line, 6th stanza.

; after pre-primed in the 7th stanza.

cum-softened and gin-scented (hyphens)

 

[Angeline]

very good stuff, anna. title.....8 1/2?.....Purging?......

some technical suggestions:

sidekick (one word, no hyphen)

tight-sequenced (needs hyphen)

period (instead of comma) at end of stanza 2, small "j" on jumps

drum-roll & record-holding(technically need hyphens, though they look better without them)

6th stanza - period after 'slut.' capital "T" for 'there.'

add the word "where" at the beginning of the last line, 6th stanza.

; after pre-primed in the 7th stanza.

cum-softened and gin-scented (hyphens)

I think "drumroll" is probably spelled solid. I'll check my Webster's.

<edited to add>

yep, it is:

One entry found for drumroll.


Main Entry: drum·roll
Pronunciation: 'dr&m-"rOl
Function: noun
: a roll on a drum or its sound