Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone

[PatCarrington]

Kansas??

i thought she was making some whacky Wizard of Oz reference (one only the French could pick up on) .

 

[duckiesmut]

thanks fly.

i'm with you on the "gull." it just flows so well with it, and fits the beach image.....i need another one-syllable beach bird.

A tern is a beach bird similar to the gull. I'm sure there's more--> just can't think of them offhand.

 

[PatCarrington]

A tern is a beach bird similar to the gull. I'm sure there's more--> just can't think of them offhand.

i don't know if that "sounds" too good.

do they sing pretty?

 

[duckiesmut]

i don't know if that "sounds" too good.

do they sing pretty?

Are there birds that don't sing pretty?

They're lovely birds--> the oystercatchers are prettier, but that word *really* wouldn't work, now would it.

 

[Tathagata]

i thought she was making some whacky Wizard of Oz reference (one only the French could pick up on) .

Must have been the " surrender dorothy" part...

 

[*Catbabe*]

i don't know if that "sounds" too good.

do they sing pretty?

*whacks the monkey upside his head*


I think you should use "loon" Mister Carrington and then it could be an autobiographical reference.

 

[Tathagata]

*whacks the monkey upside his head*


I think you should use "loon" Mister Carrington and then it could be an autobiographical reference.

ow


hehehehehe
nice one


sorry pat

 

[PatCarrington]

Are there birds that don't sing pretty?

They're lovely birds--> the oystercatchers are prettier, but that word *really* wouldn't work, now would it.

yeah, gulls. they're the only ones....and they're the ones i need to....isn't that the way it works?

"oystercatchers" WOULD be just a bit too......something.

 

[PatCarrington]

*whacks the monkey upside his head*


I think you should use "loon" Mister Carrington and then it could be an autobiographical reference.

what's ange eating supper, hired gun?

 

[PatCarrington]

ow


hehehehehe
nice one


sorry pat

didn't anyone tell you it's boys vs. girls?

what kind of grammar school education are they giving you guys in the Boston schoolyards?

 

[*Catbabe*]

what's ange eating supper, hired gun?

Ange doesn't need to pay me. I do it for the love of a job done well.

 

[The_Fool]

Walking with the Dead


It’s years since I slept and crawled
across the edges of my silence
to talk to you. One must speak
to feel alive. I am trying. Trying

to find what words remain past day’s
mute borders. It’s time to know if I
remember the soft way we sang
each other’s name, if I can still see

your moonshadow pull the tides
to dance and feel your hand holding
mine, gripped until the bad things
drown. I should have paid attention

as you lifted brittle clamshells to save
from crumbling in the heat, to polish
a second life onto something already
dead. I need to use your healing

hands, the way they cooled and fixed,
always pointed toward morning. I
want to press them against the night,
unwrinkle scars that settle themselves

in loneliness. And seal the cracked
darkness so it no longer leaks to day.
I want to hold the shell of you
in those hands, walk you on the beach

and rub. I know we could be young
again and cast off worlds gone tight
like last year’s coats. Unzip our skin,
naked and reborn. I will go slow. Night

is delicate now, too fragile to touch
with anything but a shy kiss. I dare not
move your yellow hair that spreads
once more across my shoulder as I sleep.

It smells of salt. When I breathe
I see your wings and hiding places
that only fit two lovers and their secrets.
I etch you in the sand, enshrine you

on a shore where no one else has ever
been. Each night I let you fly. Bank
toward me in moonlight like a gull,
eyes aglow. Sing your night song.

Interesting how you break phrases across lines and sentences across strophes. Makes the reader pay that much closer attention. Which is hard for me (paying attention that is). I like the Coat and skin image. I like the seashell image. Yellow hair didn't do it for me but I have no other option than "golden" which does even less for me. How about "sun-drenched?" Very good poem sir....

 

[PatCarrington]

Interesting how you break phrases across lines and sentences across strophes. Makes the reader pay that much closer attention. Which is hard for me (paying attention that is). I like the Coat and skin image. I like the seashell image. Yellow hair didn't do it for me but I have no other option than "golden" which does even less for me. How about "sun-drenched?" Very good poem sir....

thanks, fool.

'yellow' doesn't do it for me either. it's a pointless sun image, and the strophe is better off without it.

i think there are still some line-break improvements to be made, and the bird image needs refining.

 

[The_Fool]

thanks, fool.

'yellow' doesn't do it for me either. it's a pointless sun image, and the strophe is better off without it.

i think there are still some line-break improvements to be made, and the bird image needs refining.

I had a thought and an image that comes to me of sunlight shining through a woman's beautiful hair, catching some rays, reflecting others, shading so many different colors. How about iridescent? Even sounds cool....

 

[Tathagata]

4th

Among shrapnel promises,
this ruinous wonderland,,
now sulfur, now malignant,
where once hands were clasped
and oaths sworn
bare ,since leave was taken
bare,
since love was taken.

Traces in ash,
our journey remained for me to follow,
as if
I could step in the same river twice
as if,
I could walk with you,
ever again.

Having breached the mausoleum
where secrets and sin sleep
side by side,
a carnival of lifeless clowns awaits,
forlorn and forgotten,
one eyed porcelain faces.

Surely nothing lives
but shadows of shadows,
their sandpaper hiss
abrasive cleansing,
their sandpaper hiss
hourglass laughter.

an unexpected
uprising,
this tender phoenix
a remnant of Eden
as my eyes negated my indifference.

and I missed you,
then and there
and i missed you,
always.


I offer you
this exception to transience,
this affirmation,
with all embracing arms
I offer
this

yes.

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[sandj]

revision

The Crowded Room

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

I grope the air for her and slide
my hand across the empty sheet
where she had been, but I'm denied
her touch, my 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.


Still not sure I'm completely satisfied, but at least I fixed the pronoun problem. Now consistent throughout. No more switching from 2nd person to 3rd. Bugs me when I do that.

 

[Tathagata]

final

Among shrapnel promises,
this ruinous wonderland,
now sulfur, now malignant,
where once hands were clasped
and oaths sworn
bare,since leave was taken
bare,
since love was taken.

Traces in ash,
our journey remained for me to follow,
as if
I could step in the same river twice
as if,
I could walk with you,
ever again.

Having breached the mausoleum
where secrets and sin sleep
side by side,
a carnival of lifeless clowns awaits,
rag dolls strewn
across grey corkscrew wreckage.

Surely nothing lives
but shadows of shadows,
their sandpaper hiss
abrasive cleansing,
their sandpaper hiss
hourglass laughter.

An unexpected
uprising,
this tender phoenix
a remnant of Eden,
as my eyes negated my indifference.

And I missed you,
then and there
and I missed you,
always.

I offer you
this exception to transience,
this affirmation,
with all embracing arms
I offer

this yes.

 

[flyguy69]

Umm, Machination? Servitude?

::

I arose needing something to weaken
my resistance to sleep; warm milk,
perhaps, or dry text. In the midnight
kitchen I discovered the sound
of the dryer, laboring
without complaint in the adjacent room
over a load of whites my wife assigned
at bedtime. The important but thankless
task of fluffing my t-shirts before wrinkles
set in. I pulled fresh milk

from the refrigerator’s cold embrace,
generously lit by the opened door and offered
with crisp pickles and bacon had I
the time. I declined, but allowed
the microwave to pour several seconds of warmth
into my mug. The furnace, too, seemed glad
to see me up at this surprising hour,
held my chair back and apologized
for the night-setting chill. The pen

with paper, this poem, perhaps, scrawled
with rich draught at the table. At length
a still mind, a yawning spirit. I rinsed the mug

and turned to the stairs, but not before
placing my hand upon the thermostat,
the blinking phone, the patient radio.

Thank you, lads, keep up the good work.

::

 

[annaswirls]

how'sthe rabbit?

::

I pulled fresh milk

from the refrigerator’s cold embrace,
generously lit by the opened door and offered
with crisp pickles and bacon had I
the time. I declined, but allowed
the microwave to pour several seconds of warmth
into my mug.

um... are you pregnant?
I swear it it not mine....


okay this is as serious as I get right now, I will be back to give you a nice comment

 

[WickedEve]

::

I arose needing something to weaken
my resistance to sleep; warm milk,
perhaps, or dry text. In the midnight
kitchen I discovered the sound
of the dryer, laboring
without complaint in the adjacent room
over a load of whites my wife assigned
at bedtime. The important but thankless
task of fluffing my t-shirts before wrinkles
set in. I pulled fresh milk

from the refrigerator’s cold embrace,
generously lit by the opened door and offered
with crisp pickles and bacon had I
the time. I declined, but allowed
the microwave to pour several seconds of warmth
into my mug. The furnace, too, seemed glad
to see me up at this surprising hour,
held my chair back and apologized
for the night-setting chill. The pen

with paper, this poem, perhaps, scrawled
with rich draught at the table. At length
a still mind, a yawning spirit. I rinsed the mug

and turned to the stairs, but not before
placing my hand upon the thermostat,
the blinking phone, the patient radio.

Thank you, lads, keep up the good work.

::

Okay, I really like this fly. It could be a bit more relaxed in a spot or two, like: "had I the time. I declined, but allowed." I mean, it's fine but a little stiff. You're stiff, fly.

 

[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,
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
we reach the winners' circle
lathered and lame,
to stand alone.

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

You grope in the twilight of expectation,
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,
that 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
there's desolation,
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 go away

The world shifts to one side,
balance becomes 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.

 

[flyguy69]

Okay, I really like this fly. It could be a bit more relaxed in a spot or two, like: "had I the time. I declined, but allowed." I mean, it's fine but a little stiff. You're stiff, fly.

That's a compliment, right?

I'll try to make my revisions throb.

 

[CupidsGurl]

Temptation~

Strawberries in cream
Drizzling in chocolate delight
Sprinkled with flakes of coconut whispers.

Yearning lips smeared with cherry glaze.
Sensual tongues meeting with a hypnotic craving.
Sultry mouths suckling every drop.

Slippery heated skin tingling with hurried kisses.
Unrestrained fingers caressing, trailing past.
Intertwine with our rhythmic union.
Melting souls delighting, taking flight.

Sweaty bodies draped in a silken steam.
Swollen hardness meeting willing hot flesh.
Sprinkles of stardust afloat in the air.
Pleasures tweaking fervent stimuli.

Shaking assault burning into a feverish explosion.
Weakness fluttering calming into sensual exhaustion.
Tormented longings laid to bed.
Till the temptation of tantalizing loving begins again~

 

[flyguy69]

3rd Draft

Third Shift

I arose needing something to weaken
my resistance to sleep; warm milk,
perhaps, or dry text. In the midnight
kitchen I discovered the sound
of the dryer, laboring
without complaint in the adjacent room
over a load of whites my wife assigned
at bedtime. The important but overlooked
chore of fluffing my shirts before wrinkles
set in. The refrigerator, too, hummed

in quiet devotion to its task; the cold embrace
of fresh milk, a generous light with the opened door.
I could not grasp the fine-print physics
of microwave radiation at that or any other
hour, but welcomed the several seconds of warmth
poured into my mug with the touch of an oversized
button. The usually unflappable furnace
paused in its whir to see me
up at this hour, afoot during the night-setting
chill, but quickly turned its attention to data
flowing from corners of the house. Then the pen

with paper, this poem, perhaps, scrawled
over rich draught at the dining table. At length
a still mind, a yawning spirit. I rinsed the mug

and turned to the stairs, but not before
placing my hand upon the thermostat,
the blinking phone, the vigilant radio.

Thank you, lads, keep up the good work.