Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone

[Tathagata]

hell lingers in innocuous places
it waits
in innocence
a beggar with death touch
the scorpion in bed covers

it lounges over ice
cocktail
and each lift of the glass
fills your mouth with smooth demon incantations
of lies and pettiness

it smiles from
between her legs
garbed in slick pleasure raiments
that bitter like wormwood
once exposed to light
and your mouth tastes only
jealousy and want

compassion becomes a prison
barbed wire payback
from smoke stained teeth
vampiric abduction of good will


a thousand places, a thousand
pinpricks of warning
we all dance with the fever
raging
ashes ashes

all fall down

 

[Tathagata]

I harvest these words
from secret places in the night
blended as wine
disguised as pleasantries
bathed in vestal dew

I beg you
sip with passioned palette
savor
and taste, with discerning tongue
what I've crafted
from my vintage love for you

 

[PatCarrington]

1st revision

.....

 

[flyguy69]

Untitled

I think I am done with this one, but I can't come up with a decent title! I am looking for something that evokes mud, or adolesence, or memory, or all of the above....

That summer was mud, a warm flow
of weeks and cousins
that slid into swimming holes and browned
under a wide-eyed sun. Heat

shimmered from our skin; a languid light
for meandering plans of gooseberry wine
and cigarettes twisted
of willow. During those distracted days
we risked our bellies
for adulthood's strong taste.

We peeled away youth
at a brown pool, plunged into adolescence
and pawed the slippery women
we knew awaited us. Titans posed
on greasy pedestals, proud of the stiffness
in our flexible bodies. Stretched later to dry
we searched the blue future
for grains of truth in a classmate's claim;

I bet he never touched a real
boob; he probably squeezed
his mom's bra!

Dirt flaked from our shaking bellies
at that one. Cicadas passed along
Aunt Connie's call; we arrived with clay masks
at dinner and marched
right
back
out
to the hose.
In a paling stream mud sloughed from my shoulders
and slipped through my upturned hands.

 

[Guest]

This thread overwhelms me.............

 

[Tathagata]

I harvest these words
from arcane fields in the night,
blended as wine,
disguised as pleasantries
bathed in vestal dew.

I beg you
sip,with passioned palette,
savor
and taste,with discerning tongue
this fluent artifact,
produced
from my vintage love for you.

 

[Zanzibar]

I think I am done with this one, but I can't come up with a decent title! I am looking for something that evokes mud, or adolesence, or memory, or all of the above....

That summer was mud, a warm flow
of weeks and cousins
that slid into swimming holes and browned
under a wide-eyed sun. Heat ...

I liked this one... made me smile.

What about... "Summer Puddles" or "Mud Puddle Memories"

or even... "Summer Muddles"

Just a few things tossed out in an array of jumbled thoughts!

 

[Tathagata]

I gather these words
from curious fields in the night,
blended as wine,
disguised as pleasantries
bathed in vestal dew.

I beg you
sip,with a passioned tinted palette,
savor
and taste,with discerning tongue
this fluent artifact,
produced
from my vintage love for you.

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[annaswirls]

buried in last year's passion, unearthed and polished a bit...

Lets not talk about poetics, politics or religion,
god and the like

My beautiful friend,
your aim is true and meaning agrees,
ripeness of fruit and gothic stone
are inspired by the same passion.

Life comes to completion
consumed and knowing
the seed goes on

Sometimes when I pray, I shout
up to trees and creatures of the canopy

I am so small
teach me, teach me!
I do not know how to do this!

They answer in the language of god
They promise to never mourn for me
and drop raspberries into open hands
without request for thanks, praise or payment

This is what ripens when the crows speak
without caw. Perched on upturned roots
they mutter to each other in low tones
when they think no one is listening

magestic


Her head tucked under,
her steps soft as moss,
she tries to sneak up on something real.

They continue their conversation
for all those who believe truth
only from the source


T-I found this with a message from you --- saying "don't forget about this...." Thank you

 

[Tathagata]

"Show me your face
before you were born"

I'll show you hollow boot marks in snow
endless roaming through chilled child forests
pine trees draped
in Morpheus crepe
paw prints and claw marks
jackrabbit heels
like fingers in flour

my face was the moon
with lead lidded eyes
somnambulant steps
past grown up things

asleep to the worry
asleep to the pain

lulled and loved
i was led toward the sun


dread the pin sharp waking
return to cool tree overhangs
searching
for sleep walking paths
in disintegrating snow

 

[Tathagata]

Lets not talk about poetics, politics or religion,
god and the like

My beautiful friend,
your aim is true and meaning agrees,
ripeness of fruit and gothic stone
are inspired by the same passion.

Life comes to completion
consumed and knowing
the seed goes on

Sometimes when I pray, I shout
up to trees and creatures of the canopy

I am so small
teach me, teach me!
I do not know how to do this!

They answer in the language of god
They promise to never mourn for me
and drop raspberries into open hands
without request for thanks, praise or payment

This is what ripens when the crows speak
without caw. Perched on upturned roots
they mutter to each other in low tones
when they think no one is listening

magestic


Her head tucked under,
her steps soft as moss,
she tries to sneak up on something real.

They continue their conversation
for all those who believe truth
only from the source


T-I found this with a message from you --- saying "don't forget about this...." Thank you

 

[Tathagata]

"Show me your face
before you were born"

I'll show you hollow black bottomed boot marks in snow
endless roaming through chilled child forests
pine trees laden
in Morpheus crepe
slump spellbound
paw prints and claw marks
jackrabbit heels
like fingers in flour
grey slush soup
where life lingered for a second

my face was the moon
with lead lidded eyes
somnambulant steps
past grown up things

asleep to the worry
asleep to the pain

lulled and loved
i was led toward the sun


dread the pin sharp waking
return to cool tree overhangs
searching
for sleep walking paths
among polar sentries

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[Zanzibar]

From the Diary of Movement


I watched you climb the stairs.
There was no way to know
it was the last time, or almost.
I remember how the moonlight

made me miss your skin so quickly,
how home it was in your sky eyes <--- line reads awkwardly to me. "it"?
as you turned your head again
to take it in and keep, to nearly

say goodbye. When I reached
my hand you came to me, back
after going. Like a circle, I couldn’t
tell start from finish, which
came first or mattered most. Day

broke as you finally closed your door.
But it was somehow darker
then. There seemed a difference
in dawn, some strange longing,
a hesitation of light. It paused, <---
like the moment when lovers know <--- I really love these lines
they are no longer quite themselves. <---
New, yet unchanged.

There have been no other days
like the one that fell away, became
a morning not itself and never
more alike. I learned beginning
can be one with end, learned
to see and know both motions
as the same. The coming toward,
the going away.

I really like this piece. The overall picture it paints for me is very vivid and rich. Just the one awkward spot. Thanks so much for sharing this.

 

[Guest]

"Show me your face
before you were born"

I'll show you hollow black bottomed boot marks in snow try this line without "black"
endless roaming through chilled child forests
pine trees laden
in Morpheus crepe
slump spellbound
paw prints and claw marks
jackrabbit heels
like fingers in flour
grey slush soup I'd drop this line
where life lingered for a second

my face was the moon
with lead lidded eyes
somnambulant steps
past grown up things

asleep to the worry
asleep to the pain

lulled and loved
i was led toward the sun Try “drawn” instead of “led”


dread the pin sharp waking
return to cool tree overhangs
searching
for sleep walking paths
among polar sentries

I love this poem Tath. Just a couple of ideas.

 

[Zanzibar]

Razors in my heart - Comments requested.

First draft, comments appreciated.


Razors in my heart

Replaced by revision 2. See the latest post.

 

[Tathagata]

"Show me your face
before you were born"

I'll show you hollow bottomed boot marks in snow,
endless roaming
through chilled child forests,
pine trees, laden
in Morpheus crepe
slump spellbound,
paw prints and claw marks
jackrabbit heels,
like fingers in flour,
slashed to bare earth
where life lingered for a second.

my face was the moon,
with lead lidded eyes,
somnambulant steps
past grown up things.

asleep to the worry
asleep to the pain

lulled and loved,
i was led toward the sun.


dread the pin sharp waking,
return, to cool tree overhangs,
searching
for sleep walking paths
among polar sentries.


Thanks Tess

i was, however. most definitely led
; )

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[Angeline]

A Prayer for My Great-Granddaughter--revised

I'm waiting in the windchime afternoon
that echoes a small town's song, cars
whoosh streets away, noisy crows
call no man or woman. I’m waiting,

just here, watching one flag wave
a stranger's backyard allegiance,
not my own because I can not pledge
the country of myself, let alone that
contradiction of stripes. I'm just here,
anchored to a car in a windy parking lot,

trying to rein my sensibility, inky slants
and loops that might as well be sand
drifting, lost to a random gust of time
unless I am lucky and my words dust
an attic, a time capsule, forgotten
poetry of an ancestor.

Who will know me? Who will remember?

Maybe someone will say She was crazy.
She never could quit vacillating, dreaming
fields of wildflowers, positing their breadth,
but waking to this deception:
they grow in land mines.

She never could stay put.
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. She never knew home
in any space outside her own pocket.

If I am lucky someone will say this,
a woman, a dark-eyed Rose of Sharon,
my future, innocent like hope but tenacious,
not like me, a broken stem in a parking lot
where people come and go unaware
of coughs or crows or windchimes.

When my great-granddaughter sits
her toes turn in, but she won't notice.
She'll twist one lock of hair in her fingers
like I did once. She'll know how to be still,
and people will say it's her eyes,
it's something dreaming in her eyes.
My great granddaughter will open
her window. She's not afraid to breathe.

If I am lucky, she will be real enough
to sift through the detrious of years
in an attic and read this and think oh
my great-grandmother, that crazy poet
who sat in a parking lot, considering
the significance of windchimes.

 

[Zanzibar]

i appreciate the reading and comments, Z.

i agree with the awkwardness you point out. but it seems clear to me that the antecedent for "it" is "moonlight." i'm trying to wring out the clumsiness with improved line break.


From the Diary of Movement


I watched you climb the stairs.
There was no way to know
it was the last passage, or almost.
I remember how the sweeping

moonlight made me miss your skin
so quickly, how home it was
in your sky eyes as you turned
your head again to soak it in

and keep, to nearly say goodbye.
When I reached my hand you came
to me, back after going. Like a circle,
there was no start or finish, no
way to tell which one came first

or mattered most. Day moved as you
finally closed your door. But it was
somehow darker then. There seemed
a difference to the dawn, a hesitation

of light. With some strange longing
it paused before it tipped,
like the moment lovers know
they’re no longer quite themselves.
Unchanged yet new.

There have been no other moons
like the one that you absorbed.
It become a morning not itself
and never more alike. I learned
beginning can be one with end,
to see and know both motions
as the same. The coming toward,
the going away.

Definitely reads a lot smoother to me, and putting moonlight as the operative word made a big difference as well. I didn't see that plainly in the last revision and I feel it's much clearer this time. Really nice poem.

 

[Zanzibar]

i appreciate the reading and comments, Z.

i agree with the awkwardness you point out. but it seems clear to me that the antecedent for "it" is "moonlight." i'm trying to wring out the clumsiness with improved line break.


From the Diary of Movement


I watched you climb the stairs.
There was no way to know
it was the last passage, or almost.
I remember how the sweeping

moonlight made me miss your skin
so quickly, how home it was <---- add "at" before home?
in your sky eyes as you turned
your head again to soak it in

and keep, to nearly say goodbye.
When I reached my hand you came
to me, back after going. Like a circle,
there was no start or finish, no
way to tell which one came first

or mattered most. Day moved as you
finally closed your door. But it was
somehow darker then. There seemed
a difference to the dawn, a hesitation

of light. With some strange longing
it paused before it tipped,
like the moment lovers know
they’re no longer quite themselves.
Unchanged yet new.

There have been no other moons
like the one that you absorbed.
It become a morning not itself
and never more alike. I learned
beginning can be one with end,
to see and know both motions
as the same. The coming toward,
the going away.

Pat,
Just a last comment. Not a big thing, and may be left out easily, but I wanted to send it your way just in case. I've done a couple revisions of my latest work, and it's back in the other thread. I posted the new revision here as well. Take your pick.
~Z

 

[Zanzibar]

Razors in my heart - 2nd revision.

Razors in my heart - Revision 2

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Going back over the comments from before, and coming back to it once more... I did a little more carving out excess words and striving to strengthen more. Now for me it brings out the helpless feeling associated with watching the end come so quickly. I also posted it here because a different set of writers seem to congragate here vs the Thin Skin thread, and I'd like different viewpoints.

Sorry if you outpacing any comments/review... it's become a frenzy for me. I think I'm going to grab a book and chill out for the rest of the night.

~Z


Razors in my heart

It started with sunburn.
“Nothing to worry about,” the doctor said.
Twisting tendrils of disease
lurking deep inside encroach unseen,
the insidious infiltration undetected.

“I can’t stop itching.”
“Nothing to worry about,” the doctor said.
Tendrils became clutching limbs,
unsuspecting organs suddenly engulfed,
while leeching poisons steal precious strength.

“Everything hurts inside.”
“I’m sorry, there’s nothing we can do,” the doctor said.
Embattled organs struggle in vain,
suddenly collapsing as I watch on helplessly.
Prayers race heavenward as vital signs plummet downward.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
“She’s in a better place with God,” the minister said.
Razors in my heart, slicing wide and deep.
Like the cancers that devoured her,
leaving behind an empty husk.

The aching deadens me.
Yet I still remain.

 

[Tathagata]

hell lingers in innocuous places
it's patient in innocence
a beggar with death touch
a tickle in the throat

it lounges over ice
cocktail
and each lift of the glass
fills your mouth with smooth demon incantations
of lies and pettiness

it smiles from
between her legs
garbed in slick pleasure raiments
that bitter like wormwood
once exposed to light
and your mouth tastes only
jealousy and want


crouched by the bedside
of newborns
eyes frozen to
respiration
and glancing up
when you switch on the light

it has tobacco stained teeth
abducts your goodwill
with vampiric precision
and laughs
with a dry scraping sound
like dead leaves

a thousand places, a thousand
pinpricks of warning
we all dance with the fever
raging
ashes ashes

all fall down

 

[flyguy69]

Seismology

::

The ground has a tell, a deep
bedrock rumble that betrays
impending mayhem, the ripped-
earth moans of movement
at the core. Scientists lick their lips
and stare into the flushed faces
of their instruments, curl their fingers
and mop their brows.

I know their joy.

Your dilated awe reveals
the seismic slip of rapture
in the black pools of your pupils,
a wordless warning of howls
and nail-ripped sheets
to come. There is nothing

the geologist can do; buildings will fall
or stand for reasons beyond his control
and bridges will strain to grip
both trembling shores. The fires
and panic ensue in headlines
that alert the world,
but in this moment the lips

are soft, the eyes are wide,
and the earth stands still.

::