Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone

[twelveoone]

His singular aim
focuses on one thing

his one thing

But I crumble
under the weight of one
I must lie naked on a bed of nails
weight distributed over the many

Is singularity even possible
for one shattered and scattered
this way that way there and blown
without quick-lime glue
to fasten the stone?

Dusted down for fingerprints
it is apparent,
I have been played
like a borrowed piano


Madagascar and
Bulgaria barely speak to each other


Yes, of course!
I will tell him we met

Conversation is always more lively
with grit between teeth to grind down
the pain of our plural state


While that low down belly riding sand smooooothed
side winding slit-eyed devil
himself

has got me clawing at the door of hypocracy

Friend, you too have seen that entryway
sure as salt you got your claw marks scratched
down that metal knocker begging passage

Don't deny it, you too beg this prayer.

I
swear
I
do
not
mean
any harm

Forgive me I swear baby it is not you. You are the many glorious nails upon which I rest, but never enough. Never enough to hold this weight. You would pierce right through me, I would sink right through.


I paint it red
maybe the curse will pass us over again

My love
my lone rock
pressed deep into this life of sand

fer starts...
what stone?
What does this mean, will anyone see it?
Madagascar and
Bulgaria barely speak to each other
First three lines are great, as is this:
Conversation is always more lively
with grit between teeth to grind down
the pain of our plural state

I leave, I perceive this is a closed circle, pardon the intrusion.

 

[Tathagata]

I am a rumor,
a ghost.
I exist without benefit
of being seen.
I'm passed back and forth,
like a bad penny,
in closeted conversations
and wondered about
during the
in between
moments of life.

Ordinary things
cause me to flash
into the real world,
your world,
and just as suddenly
I fade to black,
scene change,
and my stage becomes shadow.

As if your minds eye
catches movement in its corner
but turning to see
there is nothing .

That sudden glimpse of
a different dimension
stays with you,
like a vivid dream
of an unknown lover.

I'm a knick knack in the attic
that you mean to take downstairs
every time,
but are comforted knowing
I'm still up there,
somewhere.

 

[PatCarrington]

I leave, I perceive this is a closed circle, pardon the intrusion.

incorrect perception.

clean your glasses, and come back.

bring some wine.

 

[Tathagata]

incorrect perception.

clean your glasses, and come back.

bring some wine.

clean wine glasses

 

[green lights]

fer starts...
what stone?
What does this mean, will anyone see it?
Madagascar and
Bulgaria barely speak to each other
First three lines are great, as is this:
Conversation is always more lively
with grit between teeth to grind down
the pain of our plural state

I leave, I perceive this is a closed circle, pardon the intrusion.

Circle? Hmm. I hadn't noticed.

stone=singular sand=plural
singular man living with a plural girl
solid sitting in broken


I will work on a way to try to make this more clear.


Madagascar and Bulgaria, I think is in there just to piss people off, get them ready for the grit, I don't know. I have not figured out why they are there yet.

I told Angeline that it is a hiccup in the middle of a ministers sermon
a candy wrapper opening in the middle of a touching love scene

that is pretty much it.

Thank you for reading. And commenting.

I am a little intimidated by your Aware poem. It is good. I remember reading it awile ago, thought so then too.


gl

 

[Tathagata]

I am three years old...on a warm summer day.

There is no pain in the taking
only in the loss,presumed loss,
like swallowing knives
it stays with you.
There
in your chest.

How does one comfort the internal scars?
They wait like jagged corners in a dark room,
ready for the slightest mistake in judgment.

Mainline the barley water and dance,
repeat primeval footprints
stomped onto the earth,
(patterns of piety)
or fill yourself with the sacrosanct smoke.

All to ease the ache of knowing.

Knowledge is pain.
Let this be your mantra as you drag
your impious body through interchangeable days.
A horse race for dead flowers
lathered and lame,
we reach the winners' circle to stand alone.

I am three years old and my cousin has a green balloon...from a parade

You grope in the twilight of hope,
braille readings of soft imperfections,
tender spots ,
and find a warm embrace.

Letting go becomes death.

It colors your gift,
covers it in flagellistic spikes,
that renders you righteous,
but eases your morals down
into fears' cooing bed...
like lying with a dying relative,
afraid to stay,
afraid to leave.

My cousin asks if I want the balloon. I say yes....and he lets it go.

We chase pleasure, afraid of catching it
it brings forth claws,
strangle and suffocate.

The hole within us becomes an abyss,
a garbage dump,
we jettison all we can to satiate its hunger,
all the while admiring its teeth
coated with remnants of our well being.

Desire is a glutton,
and contentment comes bearing a blight,
a wasting withering of your confidence.

Where once you made your bed
you find desolation,
and the house echoes your private anxieties,
each wall a mirror,
surrounded by a thousand false idols.

I jump and miss the string...I watch it float away for what seems like hours....

We capture the flag and turn to see
a thousand better flags,
cruel reminders of conquests untried, unrealized
markers of self loathing.

Three years old ..and things float away

The world shifts to one side,
balance an illusion.
You cultivate holes in your hands and character.
You can't hold the sands of time,
can't keep out the killing frost.

Draw a curtain over the window,
a shawl over your shoulders,
and a shroud over your heart.

These lessons learned burrow,
waiting till the season of ego changes,
and in the midst of your cold devastation,
they flower,
lilies on the grave,
and bring you some measure
of peace.

Even now 42 years later..I catch myself searching the ground..for a frayed length of string..tied to a green weather worn piece of faded rubber.
__________________

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[annaswirls]

Charades with Death

I.
I was not lost the day death promised
to trade his knight for my queen.

I challenged him to charades instead
down along stony shoreline.

It might have been Placentia on the edge
of Newfoundland's Avalon Peninsula.

Same fog, same smooth oval stones
like in the bin at a garden store.

Only here, in their element, abundant and free
for step and skip and drying of fish.

These fish that no longer pass these waters,
I have forgotten their names.



Cod.

Paddy showed us the whales, he did,
in the open waters out past Bay Bulls.

He told us of their kindness.
They'll save yeh, they will!

Paddy, the youngest
in a line of men who turned:

Fisherman turned tour guide,
whaler turned fisherman,

heir of Irishman who turned his fortune
on a Canadian whaling vessel.

This is not the poem I intended.
I sat to write of tricking death
into changing his game.


II.

I have never washed my face in the salted sea
nor have I been greeted by death,

stalling him for another moment to understand
the point of all this absurdity.

Oh to be painted into a traveling troupe
twisting cameo night to day with a turn of cheek!

Step high bow low
the people do not want your gaiety now.

They want your cross, complete with bound virgin
who sees Satan on either side.

Skinny arms outstretched,
burning, burning.

Better to be the monkey in the tree.
as Death chops the timber down.

Fallen without torturous pause leading to
the inevitable confession of nothingness.

Yet I stall. I make the sign
for Movie. Death rolls his eyes.

He was never able to stay awake
for misguided mind-numbing reels.

Damn if this girl doesn't trip him
on an Olsen twins re-make.

We laugh.
He never saw them coming.

 

[annaswirls]

three years old

My 3 year old lost a balloon out the open sunroof this fall.

He had nightmares about it. Waking up in the night weeks later!

Mommy my balloon! My balloon!

he did not want a replacement.

You captured this and took it to other levels.

I am three years old...on a warm summer day.

There is no pain in the taking
only in the loss,presumed loss,
like swallowing knives
it stays with you.
There
in your chest.

How does one comfort the internal scars?
They wait like jagged corners in a dark room,
ready for the slightest mistake in judgment.

Mainline the barley water and dance,
repeat primeval footprints
stomped onto the earth,
(patterns of piety)
or fill yourself with the sacrosanct smoke.

All to ease the ache of knowing.

Knowledge is pain.
Let this be your mantra as you drag
your impious body through interchangeable days.
A horse race for dead flowers
lathered and lame,
we reach the winners' circle to stand alone.

I am three years old and my cousin has a green balloon...from a parade

You grope in the twilight of hope,
braille readings of soft imperfections,
tender spots ,
and find a warm embrace.

Letting go becomes death.

It colors your gift,
covers it in flagellistic spikes,
that renders you righteous,
but eases your morals down
into fears' cooing bed...
like lying with a dying relative,
afraid to stay,
afraid to leave.

My cousin asks if I want the balloon. I say yes....and he lets it go.

We chase pleasure, afraid of catching it
it brings forth claws,
strangle and suffocate.

The hole within us becomes an abyss,
a garbage dump,
we jettison all we can to satiate its hunger,
all the while admiring its teeth
coated with remnants of our well being.

Desire is a glutton,
and contentment comes bearing a blight,
a wasting withering of your confidence.

Where once you made your bed
you find desolation,
and the house echoes your private anxieties,
each wall a mirror,
surrounded by a thousand false idols.

I jump and miss the string...I watch it float away for what seems like hours....

We capture the flag and turn to see
a thousand better flags,
cruel reminders of conquests untried, unrealized
markers of self loathing.

Three years old ..and things float away

The world shifts to one side,
balance an illusion.
You cultivate holes in your hands and character.
You can't hold the sands of time,
can't keep out the killing frost.

Draw a curtain over the window,
a shawl over your shoulders,
and a shroud over your heart.

These lessons learned burrow,
waiting till the season of ego changes,
and in the midst of your cold devastation,
they flower,
lilies on the grave,
and bring you some measure
of peace.

Even now 42 years later..I catch myself searching the ground..for a frayed length of string..tied to a green weather worn piece of faded rubber.
__________________

 

[Tathagata]

My 3 year old lost a balloon out the open sunroof this fall.

He had nightmares about it. Waking up in the night weeks later!

Mommy my balloon! My balloon!

he did not want a replacement.

You captured this and took it to other levels.

I can relate
I still see it, still watch it float away, 43 years later
I was inconsolable.
I think because it is one of the first things we " posses and lose",and many times we are responsible for it
" Hold on to it..." and the minute we forget..something is gone.
But i think there's something about it " rising" that strikes some basic chord in out brain and even though we can't quite put our finger on it at that age...it's someone dying and " going up to heaven"


that's some pretty heavy shit to lay on a friggin balloon huh?
LOL


I'm sorry your boy lost his.
Tell him there's a place where all the balloons that get away hang out, way up behind the clouds...and mines there as well.

 

[PatCarrington]

I am three years old...on a warm summer day.

..............................................................


Even now 42 years later..I catch myself searching the ground..for a frayed length of string..tied to a green weather worn piece of faded rubber.
__________________

i think this gets better ever time it shows up, tath.

in my opinion, you have to cut the end. this:

Even now 42 years later..I catch myself searching the ground..for a frayed length of string..tied to a green weather worn piece of faded rubber.

it hit me very wrong. it felt ruinous to the whole piece, i think. it is too explanatory, and even a bit preachy, like you have been lecturing the reader.

closure is already there.

 

[Angeline]

I can relate
I still see it, still watch it float away, 43 years later
I was inconsolable.
I think because it is one of the first things we " posses and lose",and many times we are responsible for it
" Hold on to it..." and the minute we forget..something is gone.
But i think there's something about it " rising" that strikes some basic chord in out brain and even though we can't quite put our finger on it at that age...it's someone dying and " going up to heaven"


that's some pretty heavy shit to lay on a friggin balloon huh?
LOL


I'm sorry your boy lost his.
Tell him there's a place where all the balloons that get away hang out, way up behind the clouds...and mines there as well.

I'll send you a new one. Will that help?

 

[Tathagata]

i think this gets better ever time it shows up, tath.

in my opinion, you have to cut the end. this:

Even now 42 years later..I catch myself searching the ground..for a frayed length of string..tied to a green weather worn piece of faded rubber.

it hit me very wrong. it felt ruinous to the whole piece, i think. it is too explanatory, and even a bit preachy, like you have been lecturing the reader.

closure is already there.

I think you are right..with the trimming I've done ( and perhaps will do) it does close up nicely on " peace"
me??
preachy?
I'm shocked


Thank you sir

 

[Tathagata]

I'll send you a new one. Will that help?

i'd just lose the friggin thing again

but thanks sweetie

 

[Angeline]

i'd just lose the friggin thing again

but thanks sweetie

Awww here, take it anyway just cause I think your poem is ready now.

 

[Tathagata]

Awww here, take it anyway just cause I think your poem is ready now.

You think??


That's very sweet of you
Thanks for the balloon
I don't know why eve says you're so mean and "Dom-y"

 

[Angeline]

You think??


That's very sweet of you
Thanks for the balloon
I don't know why eve says you're so mean and "Dom-y"

I thought that was you, not Eve.

 

[Angeline]

528 Hobart Avenue

Sitting by the screen door
on late summer nights
Daddy and I watch storms
as if in a theater box seat.

The kitchen is on the right,
basement steps the left,
but we linger in a doorway
that smells like last winter's galoshes
and tonight's dinner.

We are comfortable,
companionable even
in the old rump-sprung chair.

We don't much talk,
just share root beer
and watch the sky flash.

We count seconds:
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.

When you feel safe
it's easy to predict thunder.
You don't have to hold your ears
or cringe, you just say

There it is.

Sometimes we walk in the rain,
get soaked to the skin, and he says:

See? You won't melt.
You're not a sugar cookie,
cookie.

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[annaswirls]

Outlander- hopefully final

changed to present tense, reordered awkward lines.

My mother found two heart shaped rocks
on the banks of the creek. She held them
heavy in her hand until words came.

She was not raised among these grasses
that slice invisible lines across our legs.
We did not know of the sting to come
or which roots might ooze relief.

This is a new land.
She does know the family
who burned lime in the kiln
that watches over borrowed water.

As we throw rocks
into the nameless creek,
Mother reinvents history to include us
in her leather books of poetry.

How Sport led Uncle John
through a blinding blizzard
when little Charles fell
from the wall, which was once
white wash bright and lined
with Nana's pink begonias.

The boy surprised everyone
and survived to write stories
of white smoke that stung eyes
and powder that sweetened the soil.

She tells us that these days
his great grandson brings ponytail interns
to test the water’s pH,
returning her to work with her elbows
scraped from leaning under the press
of counted kisses.

Maybe this girl is your distant cousin.
But we know she is not.

Our family never worked this land,
never owned this land.
Its secrets pass as we play.
Children of the auslander.

 

[Angeline]

Version 3--Ready to Submit?

Poet Chick dives through clouds
in a vowel-sequined cape.
She has big soul eyes full
of world and words. Her fingers
shoot stories into constellations.

Power of vision, satori power, cosmic karmic comic sight,
able to twist tall phrases to a single word,
x-ray empathy, faster than a speeding simile.

Poet Chick races to Earth,
muse bubbles her blood.
She's a narrative cauldren
salted with imagination
and a pinch of personification.

Poems fall from her lips, scales from your eyes.
You remember the twist of your mother's smile,
the taste of fresh-plucked honeysuckle sipped
from a bitten flower or your chin tinted yellow
with petals from some near-forgotten summer day
when the Sun danced a breeze on your bare arms.

 

[Syndra Lynn]

Poet Chick dives through clouds
in a vowel-sequined cape.
She has big soul eyes full
of world and words. Her fingers
shoot stories into constellations.

Power of vision, satori power, cosmic karmic comic sight,
able to twist tall phrases to a single word,
x-ray empathy, faster than a speeding simile.

Poet Chick races to Earth,
muse bubbles her blood.
She's a narrative cauldren
salted with imagination
and a pinch of personification.

Poems fall from her lips, scales from your eyes.
You remember the twist of your mother's smile,
the taste of fresh-plucked honeysuckle sipped
from a bitten flower or your chin tinted yellow
with petals from some near-forgotten summer day
when the Sun danced a breeze on your bare arms.

This is a treasure! I love the third stanza, you little narrative cauldron, you. (Oh, spellcheck on cauldron!)

Syn

 

[Syndra Lynn]

a new piece of me

Too drunk to fly

my words swirled
as if in a toilet
like so much vomit
and just as valuable

dizzy, wicked this way
i ran along forked
path with splintered
tongue

can’t find me now!

swimming so far gone
along the reef
of lies, self hatred
spit!
upon the mirror
i dared not look
on wretched soul

i found a stone
to support my dead weight
and let myself go slack,
comfortable in his arms
offering little,
nothing
in return

i wore the stone smooth
with constant wallowing
tossing, fidgeting, angry
bursts
of misdirected energy
until my rut
was inescapably deep

one day a Higher Power reached
down, pulled me to my feet
and dusted me off.
She reminded me of my worth,
told me my value came from ancient
indisputable truths.

She handed me my voice
and a pen.
I repaid the stone.
Now I fly!

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[Tathagata]

Too drunk to fly

one day a Higher Power reached
down, pulled me to my feet
and dusted me off.
She reminded me of my worth,
told me my value came from ancient
indisputable truths.

it's funny...when I see a higher power called " he" my mind sees " it'
but when I see you call it " she"..it makes me smile
i'm not sure what that means but i'm glad " she" found you and vice versea