Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone

[annaswirls]

feeding his paranoia...........

 

[Angeline]

A Poem for My Great-Granddaughter

While waiting for you here
in the windchime afternoon, bells of suburbia
are ringing this small town's song
by my windshield and a chain-link fence.
Cars are turning through the remains
of the day, and an American flag on a red-cedar deck
is the only sign of anyone's allegiance.

I keep waiting, but I have no allegiance.
I can't pledge the country of myself, let alone
anyone else's because everything commonplace
is alien. I'm a stranger here, like you. I don't
belong in this town, on that deck, or even in this car
where I sit trying to scratch meaning into rows,
rationing my sensibilities in slants and loops
that might as well be cuneiform, might as well
lay ever undiscovered or, if I am lucky, found
curling in some attic time capsule when I
am someone's ancestor, when I finally belong
to the one community that will welcome me.

Someone will say
She was crazy. She never could quit vacillating
between dreaming the breadth of flowers
and waking to this deception: they grow in land mines.

Someone will say
She could never stay put because even
as she built a shrine of hope, carried it
in her imagination, she never set it down
long enough to sprout the roots of trust,
she never called any space outside her own pocket
a home.

Someone will say
She never saw it, but she pledged an allegiance
to lucidity and letters. And this someone will be
a woman, a future seed of some dark-eyed
daughter of Jerusalem, another generation
gripping the night of innocence, not a broken stem
in a parking lot no different from this one,
this place where people come and go,
unaware of coughs or crows or windchimes. I'd like
to think that when she sits her toes turn in
and that she twists one lock of hair between two fingers
like I did once.

If I am lucky
because lucky is the most allegiance
I can fashion from experience, she will be,
she will read this and think oh
my great-grandmother, that crazy poet
who sat in parking lots considering
the significance of windsong.

 

[PatCarrington]

Patrick, a moving poem, certainly.

I cannot help myself but to ask-- have you considered using a different line break structure? This poem with its riddle like quality feels to me that it could use more pauses through space... to show the discrepency between him and not him.

Just a thought. I don't really think you would actually do this, but think about it.

uncombed day. whoa.

very cool Mister Carrington. This image of twigs and branches, spiderwebs dang, very visceral.

overall a terrific analogy.



damn suddenly I want ice cream. why isn't delivery ice cream as popular as delivery pizza?

thank you for the suggestions. you are sharp, anna.

....rocky road, i assume.....it's on the way.

 

[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 edgeless days,
before time becomes a task master
each day is a lifetime
each morning a reincarnation.

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 yellow-green Zarex,
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 suburban back yards in the early 60's
I can't recall if it was before or after Dallas..
The sun was safe , 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.

Crackerjacks had real fake tattoos,
made from blue food coloring that lingered for weeks,
simply blue..just like Uncle Chicky's anchor,
he got while fighting Japs.

The railroad tracks next to the house are rusted
red powder forms a skin on the tadpole pool,
but you cant really have any fun in dress clothes.
You can eat candy,cake and get wired,
watch the grown up drink and laugh,
years later you realize 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

Storm drains are bases
trees are " goals"

Your world is divided up into markers,
adult things you have no use for
become playthings,
fences for imagination.

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.

Liked 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.

 

[PatCarrington]

While waiting for you here
in the windchime afternoon, bells of suburbia
are ringing this small town's song
by my windshield and a chain-link fence.
Cars are turning through the remains
of the day, and an American flag on a red-cedar deck
is the only sign of anyone's allegiance.

I keep waiting, but I have no allegiance.
I can't pledge the country of myself, let alone
anyone else's because everything commonplace
is alien. I'm a stranger here, like you. I don't
belong in this town, on that deck, or even in this car
where I sit trying to scratch meaning into rows,
rationing my sensibilities in slants and loops
that might as well be cuneiform, might as well
lay ever undiscovered or, if I am lucky, found
curling in some attic time capsule when I
am someone's ancestor, when I finally belong
to the one community that will welcome me.

Someone will say
She was crazy. She never could quit vacillating
between dreaming the breadth of flowers
and waking to this deception: they grow in land mines.

Someone will say
She could never stay put because even
as she built a shrine of hope, carried it
in her imagination, she never set it down
long enough to sprout the roots of trust,
she never called any space outside her own pocket
a home.

Someone will say
She never saw it, but she pledged an allegiance
to lucidity and letters. And this someone will be
a woman, a future seed of some dark-eyed
daughter of Jerusalem, another generation
gripping the night of innocence, not a broken stem
in a parking lot no different from this one,
this place where people come and go,
unaware of coughs or crows or windchimes. I'd like
to think that when she sits her toes turn in
and that she twists one lock of hair between two fingers
like I did once.

If I am lucky
because lucky is the most allegiance
I can fashion from experience, she will be,
she will read this and think oh
my great-grandmother, that crazy poet
who sat in parking lots considering
the significance of windsong.

hey you. this is marvelous.

i tried to tighten it some. i wasn't fond of the line breaks in many spots. here's what one edit produced.

you can snug it up more. it is a wonderful read, really, ange. i would work on this one hard. it's beautiful.


While waiting for you in the windchime afternoon,
bells of suburbia ring this small town's song
to my windshield and a chain-link fence.
Cars are turning through the remains
of day, and an American flag on a porch
is the only sign of anyone's allegiance.

I keep waiting, but I have none. I can't pledge
the country of myself, let alone anyone else's
because everything commonplace is alien.
I'm a stranger here, like you. I don't belong
in this town, on that deck, or even in this car

where I sit trying to round up meaning into rows,
rationing my sensibilities in slants and loops
that might as well be cuneiform, might as well
stay undiscovered and, if I am lucky, found
curled in some attic time capsule when I am
someone's ancestor, when I finally belong
to a community that welcomes me. Someone

will say She was crazy. She never could quit
vacillating between dreaming the breadth
of flowers and waking to this deception:
they grow in land mines. Someone

will say She could never stay put
because even as she built a shrine of hope,
carried it in her imagination, she never
set it down long enough to sprout
one root of trust, never called any space
outside her own pocket a home. Someone

will say She never saw it, but she pledged
an allegiance to lucidity and letters.

And this someone will be a woman,
another dark-eyed daughter of Jerusalem,
another generation gripping the night
of innocence, not a broken stem
in a parking lot no different from this one,
this place where people come and go,
unaware of coughs or crows or windchimes.

I'd like to think that when she sits
her toes turn in and she twists one lock
of hair between two fingers like I did once.
If I am lucky, because lucky is the most allegiance
I can fashion, she will be.

She will read this and think oh my great-grandmother,
that crazy poet
who sat in parking lots considering
the significance of windchimes.

 

[Angeline]

hey you. this is marvelous.

i tried to tighten it some. i wasn't fond of the line breaks in many spots. here's what one edit produced.

you can snug it up more. it is a wonderful read, really, ange. i would work on this one hard. it's beautiful.


While waiting for you in the windchime afternoon,
bells of suburbia ring this small town's song
to my windshield and a chain-link fence.
Cars are turning through the remains
of day, and an American flag on a porch
is the only sign of anyone's allegiance.

I keep waiting, but I have none. I can't pledge
the country of myself, let alone anyone else's
because everything commonplace is alien.
I'm a stranger here, like you. I don't belong
in this town, on that deck, or even in this car

where I sit trying to round up meaning into rows,
rationing my sensibilities in slants and loops
that might as well be cuneiform, might as well
stay undiscovered and, if I am lucky, found
curled in some attic time capsule when I am
someone's ancestor, when I finally belong
to a community that welcomes me. Someone

will say She was crazy. She never could quit
vacillating between dreaming the breadth
of flowers and waking to this deception:
they grow in land mines. Someone

will say She could never stay put
because even as she built a shrine of hope,
carried it in her imagination, she never
set it down long enough to sprout
one root of trust, never called any space
outside her own pocket a home. Someone

will say She never saw it, but she pledged
an allegiance to lucidity and letters.

And this someone will be a woman,
another dark-eyed daughter of Jerusalem,
another generation gripping the night
of innocence, not a broken stem
in a parking lot no different from this one,
this place where people come and go,
unaware of coughs or crows or windchimes.

I'd like to think that when she sits
her toes turn in and she twists one lock
of hair between two fingers like I did once.
If I am lucky, because lucky is the most allegiance
I can fashion, she will be.

She will read this and think oh my great-grandmother,
that crazy poet
who sat in parking lots considering
the significance of windchimes.

Thank you so much Patrick. I think it's one of the best things I've ever written, and I want to do whatever I can to improve it. The line breaks were driving me crazy.

I'll work on it later and maybe you can see what you think of the revision. Now unfortunately, I have to do something a bit more prosaic--clean the kitchen and bathroom, lol.

Thanks again; I have such a hard time judging my own stuff and I really appreciate it.

 

[annaswirls]

Very nice, Angeline.

A few suggestions:

"remains of the day" made me wince and it took a while to get Anthony Hopkins out of my mind.

Beautiful predictions of ancestors, I especially liked your description of her with your attributes... very poetic attributes at that.


I think you use windchimes just enough, and would not add the word again.

While waiting for you here
in the windchime afternoon, bells of suburbia
are ringing this small town's song (this reads a little awkward. Consider trying to condense it-- what you are trying to say, I think, is that the windchimes are like the town anthem (tied into the pledge of allegiance...) you do not need the repeat of bells and ringing, they are implied, and everyone will know what you mean immediately. Maybe mention something about YOUR theme song, how it plays so differently than these fixed notes that rely on the winds fancy)

(by)[through] my windshield and a chain-link fence.
Cars are turning through the remains
of the day, and an American flag on a red-cedar deck
is the only sign of anyone's allegiance.

[I keep waiting, ]but I have no allegiance.
I can't pledge the country of myself, let alone
anyone else's because everything commonplace
is alien. I'm a stranger here, like you. I don't
belong in this town, on that deck, or even in this car (I am not sure you need to put yourself in the car more than once, you have the windshield reference before, one of these is something you could cut)where I sit trying to scratch meaning into rows,
rationing my sensibilities in slants and loops
that might as well be cuneiform, might as well
lay ever undiscovered or, if I am lucky, found
curling in some attic time capsule when I
am someone's ancestor, when I finally belong
to the one community that will welcome me. (with the dead? with ancestors in general? do people change when they are dead so that you fit in, or are all the people who welcomed you dead? Just questions for my own curiousity )


Rats the bus came just at my favorite part! I will be back to finish, I am afraid if I don't post this now I will lose it!

Nice work, Ange!

~J

Someone will say
She was crazy. She never could quit vacillating
between dreaming the breadth of flowers
and waking to this deception: they grow in land mines.

Someone will say
She could never stay put because even
as she built a shrine of hope, carried it
in her imagination, she never set it down
long enough to sprout the roots of trust,
she never called any space outside her own pocket
a home.

Someone will say
She never saw it, but she pledged an allegiance
to lucidity and letters. And this someone will be
a woman, a future seed of some dark-eyed
daughter of Jerusalem, another generation
gripping the night of innocence, not a broken stem
in a parking lot no different from this one,
this place where people come and go,
unaware of coughs or crows or windchimes. I'd like
to think that when she sits her toes turn in
and that she twists one lock of hair between two fingers
like I did once.

If I am lucky
because lucky is the most allegiance
I can fashion from experience, she will be,
she will read this and think oh
my great-grandmother, that crazy poet
who sat in parking lots considering
the significance of windsong.

 

[annaswirls]

While waiting for you here
in the windchime afternoon, bells of suburbia
are ringing this small town's song
by my windshield and a chain-link fence.
Cars are turning through the remains
of the day, and an American flag on a red-cedar deck
is the only sign of anyone's allegiance.

I keep waiting, but I have no allegiance.
I can't pledge the country of myself, let alone
anyone else's because everything commonplace
is alien. I'm a stranger here, like you. I don't
belong in this town, on that deck, or even in this car
where I sit trying to scratch meaning into rows,
rationing my sensibilities in slants and loops
that might as well be cuneiform, might as well
lay ever undiscovered or, if I am lucky, found
curling in some attic time capsule when I
am someone's ancestor, when I finally belong
to the one community that will welcome me.

Someone will say
She was crazy constantly vacillating
between dreaming the breadth of flowers
and waking to this deception: they grow in land mines.

dang not doing a good job with suggestions, but this line needs some work.
As for the line breaks, I am not crazy about starting both stanzas with the same phrase, but I also do not think they should completely flow one into another... it feels like they should have some chop to them.

The things that they say are wonderfully written. I think this could be a poetry challenge....hmmm.... let me think on that. It has been a long time since I came up with one.


Someone will say
She could never stay put because even
as she built a shrine of hope, carried it
in her imagination, she never set it down
long enough to sprout the roots of trust,
she never called any space outside her own pocket
a home.

Just an idea:


Someone will say (s)he never saw it,
but she pledged an allegiance
to lucidity and letters.

And this someone will be
a woman, a (future seed of some) dark-eyed
daughter of Jerusalem, (another generation) gripping the night of innocence, not a broken stem in a parking lot (no different from this one, )
this place where people come and go,
unaware of coughs or crows or windchimes. (I'd like
to think that) when she sits her toes turn in
and that she twists one lock of hair between two fingers
like [her grandmother?]I did once.


And this someone will be
a dark-eyed daughter of Jerusalem
gripping the night of innocence,
not a broken stem in a parking lot
where people come and go,
deaf to the coughs or crows or windchimes.

When she sits her toes turn in
and she twists one lock of hair
between two fingers like I did
the day I first imagined her existance.



<-- your references to ancestors might be redundant, I think the image is already there, too much kind of beats my head over it)
are they unaware of the windchimes? if it is their theme song, maybe they do somethinng like a mindless march to their tune? okay that is a BAD example, but you know those songs that play in your head? I think of your suburban theme song windchimes as numbing their senses-- windchimes I swear reduce my IQ by 20 points when I am not listening to them, and raise my blood pressure 20 points when I am

If I am lucky
because lucky is the most allegiance
I can fashion from experience, she will be,
she will read this and think oh
my great-grandmother, that crazy poet
who sat in parking lots considering
the significance of windsong.

hmmm I like this thought, I do, and it is beautiful.

I want her grandmother to be considering something else.

maybe something already in the poem.
inventing afternoons for her ancestors.
or listening to crows complaining about the ambiance lol!

okay I just had the image that crows must hate windchimes.



Very nice work, Angeline. I hope I am not too presumptious to give you suggestions on how to write a poem, eh hem, but when poems are this close to you, I know it is nice to get suggestions from just about anyone

Cannot wait to see what you do with this,

~J

 

[flyguy69]

Pause

In the dim quiet she pauses
frantically, lids in mid-blink
and shivering blue, air half-
way through parted lips. Caught
between frames she trembles
at the crest of a moment, forever debating
the cost of a word let slip.

Night-eyed lover shuttered
from the public sun of spouse
and work rends clocks
from the wall, tears time in shreds
with twilight fingers and nails
this second to the wall for the

drip

drip

drip

of eternal ache.

I advance one frame and enter
the image, traced by phosphor beam.
The seam between us blurs
at sixty cycles per second; the edge
of my lip becomes hers. In the cool

static of an ice-bound scene
I want nothing more
than to live this moment sixty
times again. To know this instant
when lovers promise nothing
but give everything, the half-
frame of surrender.

 

[Angeline]

Presumptuous? Are you kidding?

I know the work that goes into a close review like this, and I know that when I get one from good writer, a gifted writer, my poem is gonna be better.

Please presume whenever it moves you to do so, ok?

And thank you; I'm going to work on it.

hmmm I like this thought, I do, and it is beautiful.

I want her grandmother to be considering something else.

maybe something already in the poem.
inventing afternoons for her ancestors.
or listening to crows complaining about the ambiance lol!

okay I just had the image that crows must hate windchimes.



Very nice work, Angeline. I hope I am not too presumptious to give you suggestions on how to write a poem, eh hem, but when poems are this close to you, I know it is nice to get suggestions from just about anyone

Cannot wait to see what you do with this,

~J

 

[annaswirls]

Someone who'll say: She was crazy. She never could quit
vacillating between dreaming the breadth of flowers
and waking to this deception: they grow in land mines.

Someone who'll say: She could never stay put
because even as she built a shrine of hope, carried it
in her imagination, she never set it down long enough
to sprout the roots of trust or call any space
outside her own pocket a home.

Someone who'll say: She had no allegiance
to anything but lucidity and letters. And this

Here. This is how I like the line breaks. I just read this in the passion thread, and I like it like this. You know how I feel about the passion

 

[Angeline]

Here. This is how I like the line breaks. I just read this in the passion thread, and I like it like this. You know how I feel about the passion

Thanks, A. That Doug had the right idea--sometimes the passion is the right way to go. And you know that is the first poem that I actually wrote with a pen on paper in at least a year--scrawled it sitting in the car and typed it up exactly as scrawled.

I guess there's something to be said for the old-fashioned way.

 

[Tathagata]

Kelli O' Leary
appeared in front of the Erie pub,
by the salt-scalded sign post
that points absent sons of the sod back across
the Atlantic
to Dublin, and Mayo, and Athenry.

There on Cape Cod
beside an orange dinosaur
on a miniature golf course.

Kelli O'Leary
used to dot her i's with little hearts
and smiley faces
Now she just says
" With an I"
the symbols of her childhood
abandoned for precision.

Sheathed like a switchblade,
form fitted black,
sleek, shimmer of 5th avenue silk,
nyloned legs and heels,
open toed and spiked.

Crucifying heels.

Her hair an explosion
of deliberately restrained abandon
and her make up
a still life
of bored sexuality.

She was used to the door being held but
thanked me anyway,
and again when I lit her
petite fashion cigarette.
Everything about her was a statement.

Kelli O'Leary,
with an "i",
was down for the weekend
with a phantom husband I never saw,
and a daffodil daughter,
whom she danced with in her murderous heels
and abrupt midnight skirt
in front of a hall full of people.

We all watched.
She demanded it.

We saw the perfect thigh tops flex,
smooth jungle muscle,
as she waltzed with her child,
and we felt those thighs flexing
against our ribs.

All the boyos exchanged glances over their pints,
those with girlfriends or wives
made sure they studied the paintings on the wall
or the menu
the whole time she danced.

Kelli O' Leary
told me to enjoy my evening
as she strode back inside
to resume her get away.
The phrase flew of her lips with the practice
of a hawk launched from
a masters arm.
It had no more emotion
than the cigarette she annihilated
under the toe
of her genocide shoe.

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[flyguy69]

Tucker Says

::

Tucker says the music’s the thing;
everyone understands the language
of love songs. He can’t get enough

Lynard Skynard, shoves his I-Pod
through his eardrum and pumps
southern gittar straight into his brain.

Tucker says it’s high school psychology;
scratches his belly just to watch
his legs kick. He can’t get enough

puppy love, bats his brown eyes
at the witness and pumps
her for details of her sexworker past.

Tucker says always wear latex;
bacterial resistance is mounting
a terrorist attack. He can’t get enough

jet fuel, sticks his dick
in the gas tank and pumps
his date’s price tag out of reach.

Tucker says try and stay with him;
he breaks it all down
into logical proofs. He can’t get enough

Aristotle, stabs his finger
at scribbled figures and pumps
us full of Greek facts.

Tucker says we still need a straight man;
comedy and drama require
stiff upper lips. He can’t get enough

reality TV, claps his face
when a secret’s revealed, pumps
his fist at nipple slips.

Tucker says he can’t get enough
down-time. Pumps
a bullet through his ribcage
and studies the red flow.

::

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[PatCarrington]

1st revision

.....

 

[flyguy69]

This is a brilliant ending, Pat!

.... But what really makes

her special is knowing that stealing
your dreams is only petty larceny.

I love the blade imagery throughout- you convey her danger and hard-edged beauty very well. I think the language could be clipped to better catch the cutting motion. Exempla gratia:

For lovesticks like Louise it’s all about
thin edges. Staying as sleek

as her heels. Body a blade, attitude
a razor. It’s the way she walks

the wire, quivering on stilettos
with a hint of ruin

like balance is a yardstick of courage,
like freezing traffic as stiff as she does

a cock reminds her how much woman
she is. And it’s the way she talks
....

With, of course, appropiate editing.

 

[PatCarrington]

2nd revision

This is a brilliant ending, Pat!

I love the blade imagery throughout- you convey her danger and hard-edged beauty very well. I think the language could be clipped to better catch the cutting motion. Exempla gratia:

For lovesticks like Louise it’s all about
thin edges. Staying as sleek

as her heels. Body a blade, attitude
a razor. It’s the way she walks

the wire, quivering on stilettos
with a hint of ruin

like balance is a yardstick of courage,
like freezing traffic as stiff as she does

a cock reminds her how much woman
she is. And it’s the way she talks
....

With, of course, appropiate editing.

i agree totally, fly. thanks for the thoughts.

shaving is always the last thing i do, perhaps because of my fondness for whiskers.

 

[Tathagata]

I am three years old...on a clear 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 barley water and,
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 disintegration.

It colors your gift,
covers it in flagellistic spikes,
that render you righteous,
but ease 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 need 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.

 

[Angeline]

If you will insist

on continuing to edit this poem, I will insist on offering suggestions.

Namaste sweety. Hope they help.



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

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

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

Mainline barley water and,
repeat primeval footprints
stomped onto the earth,
(patterns of piety)
or fill yourself with again "the" seems superfluous here 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.
It's a horse race for dead flowers, here you need the comma to clarify that it's the horses, not the flowers, that are lathered and lame
we reach the winners' circle to stand alone,
lathered and lame. I think it makes more sense grammatically if you switch these two lines, imo gives it more impact, too
.

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 slow disintegration.

It colors your gift,
covers it in flagellistic spikes,
that render you righteous,
but eases your morals down
into fear's--singular possessive seems to work better here for me 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,
strangles and suffocates.

The need 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 I'd delete "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,
balances 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 I don't think you need "learned" because it's implied by "lessons" burrow,
waiting I'd use "until" instead of "till" because the poem has a certain gravitas that is undermined by more colloquial usage, imo 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.

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[sandj]

The Crowded Room

Our bed is large after you've gone,
a vast, uncharted ocean wide,
and I am fitful, tossing on
this half-sleep's manic lunar tide.

I grope the air for you and slide
my hand across the empty sheet
where you had been, but I'm denied
both you and dreams still incomplete.

But now, together here, the heat
and night make this a crowded room.
Past strife revives as we compete
for space. The sweat-soaked shadows loom;

the walls contract. Tensions consume
what's left of sleep. She pushes me
without a single touch, the room
too small to breathe, too dark to see

her silent nudge, or maybe she
is reaching out as hours fray,
and I, in stubborn vanity,
keep pulling more and more away.


*The last line of the second quatrain is the one that bothers me most. Help is appreciated.*

 

[sandj]

The Size of Stillness

If I sit still and quiet long enough
with narrowed vision, narrowed sense of space,
a deafness, all my senses dulled and rough,
not sleep nor trance, but out of time and place,

then, when I let myself slowly return,
everything is larger than before;
my body swollen; distance vast between
my fingers, toes; the ceiling and the floor.

The scale is magnified, and size distorted.
I am a mountain rising from the land;
a giant in a giant's house, amid
my large and Brobdingnagian fellow man.