Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone

[PatCarrington]

stop writing so many goddamn good poems Carrington! You are making me feel lazy.



Don't you have a beach to comb?
I don't even know what that means.

I am going to the sprinklers and I am not going to write any poems.

harumph!




I love the last few you have written, passion one two up was it? damn can't remember. but keep writing, I know I am a lazy ass.

going to comb the beach, now....you bundle of energy you.

 

[Guest]

I agree with anna, you've coughed up some beauties. Mr C.

 

[PatCarrington]

I agree with anna, you've coughed up some beauties. Mr C.

thanks, t.

 

[annaswirls]

comes rollin home

thanks, t.

okay quit passin' out roses and back to work, Mister!
we want 4 more before the weekend

whipcrack
paddywhack
give the girls a poem

 

[Angeline]

Sea roses big as saucers
climb on a bench where the cemetery
overlooks the peninsula. We are
on that rocky finger near rows
of gravestones, sentinels
of the blue expanse and three islands
rising in a sea serpent's dive
toward Cadillac Mountain, us

alone with pink Yankee granite
and stunted cedars more tenacious
than barnacles. Crowds of giant spruce
ring every open space, even tidal pools
are shadowed in thick branches,
awash in moss, broken clamshells.

Buoys dance on wavelets. You put
your arm around me and pointed,
There's Europe baby, but I looked
behind us at rusted lobster traps
beyond the dock and thought. Oh!
The sun is splashing into the end
of the ocean.

Birdcalls echoed a foghorn,
wind blew on the white stones,
but we just sat on a rock.

I have that cedar cone I held
in my palm. It's so light,
but my fingertips remember
its rough stony leaves, my mouth
remembers the soft corner
of your mouth, how the curve
of your lip tasted salty.

When the moon awoke
I heard pine trees hiss. You
breathed your secret night whispers.
I tucked a quilt around you.

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[Tathagata]

she compares herself
to a broken sparrow
flying in circles and crashing
into windows
she thinks are freedom

she wants to be saved but wont let
anyone
get close enough to do it

i've always been christ the bird watcher
healing the lame,giving sight to the blind
raising chicks who've fallen from nests
feeding them, with tweezers
till they discover their wings
and fly off

they all leave
they're suppose to

and each one takes a piece of me with them
time i'll never have again
listening to them sing
or squawk

and it hurts till it scabs over


I look at my new bird
but there's nothing left of me
the birds have picked me clean

and still I try

I remember when I was young
a pheasant crashed through my bedroom window
it thrashed around in there
flying into walls and bureaus
until my father caught it
and let it go
bleeding and half crazed

maybe that's where i get it from

it didn't know about windows
and wasn't looking for freedom
until it got trapped in my world

maybe i'll tell her to be a pheasant

 

[Tathagata]

They thought me mad,
or at least eccentric about this one thing,
because when we moved
I opened a ginger jar and told Dave
he was welcome to come with us to the new house.

( I could see the " He'll never get over it" look in their lying eyes)

He came

He sat and drank beer with me
made fun of my smoking and listened
as I spun out song after song
from 5 or 6 years ago
when we staggered across the state
like drunken zen monks
living in the NOW
of hormones and youthful immortality

I'd talk to him every day
sometimes half his head was gone
and I wouldn't look


at night he'd lead me to a house in the woods
I knew there was blood on the walls in there
and I'd awake
wet
angry
and empty


After a few beers
I told him he was a ghost
" You're a fucking specter you swarthy bastard"
ask asked if he was getting any
spirit poom-poom
and laughed
lit a Lucky
and told him I loved him

a year too late

I have no fear of the dead
Indeed i welcome them
and a part of me longs
to embrace their stilted arms
and sink below this realm
of pity
into the comfort
of harmonious
nothing

 

[Tathagata]

I have become the hand
that I see now
only in photos
instamatic spectrum
aging her even more

it protected me
when crossing streets
and smoothed my awkward cowlick
with spit
or dipity do

I am the bringer of wonder
who bends the rules
to make any day a birthday
and who conjures jelly candy
out of the air, and secretes it
into tiny fists

if you live long enough
you get to recreate
the good parts
instead of just
remembering them

Perhaps this is all there is
the ability to provide
the perfect world
for one moment

and then
retire
a god who fades away
remembered through photos
that miss all the color

 

[Tathagata]

I never understood
The Leaving.
The whoosh of the vacuum
inside my belly, the hole that days shambled through
the repetition of a name
like a funeral dirge in my head

the feeling it was me
always me
even when I left

I was cursed
a polar opposite to happiness
repelling that which was my twin
at the time

they never said they were leaving
they were just
gone
the phone became a cruel mute
mocking
beds were half slept in
one cup out for coffee
only my scent
like an imprisoned spirit
floating in my room
searching

they went to greener pastures
or holes in the ground
that always looked deeper
than 6 feet

and cold
it looked cold down there
and i wondered if it was better
than being with me

I still miss the ones who left
with no goodbye
but some left
as a blessing
and years later
I have the time
to thank them

 

[Angeline]

I never understood
The Leaving.
The whoosh of the vacuum
inside my belly, the hole that days shambled through
the repetition of a name
like a funeral dirge in my head

the feeling it was me
always me
even when I left

I was cursed
a polar opposite to happiness
repelling that which was my twin
at the time

they never said they were leaving
they were just
gone
the phone became a cruel mute
mocking
beds were half slept in
one cup out for coffee
only my scent
like an imprisoned spirit
floating in my room
searching

they went to greener pastures
or holes in the ground
that always looked deeper
than 6 feet

and cold
it looked cold down there
and i wondered if it was better
than being with me

I still miss the ones who left
with no goodbye
but some left
as a blessing
and years later
I have the time
to thank them

For a monkey full of vice, you're a prolific bastard aren't you?

If I didn't have to go teach, I'd find all your missing commas.

But I'll be back....

 

[Tathagata]

For a monkey full of vice, you're a prolific bastard aren't you?

If I didn't have to go teach, I'd find all your missing commas.

But I'll be back....

They are not MISSING, they have not yet been invited
I'll put out their seating cards when I'm almost done
Teach
; )

have fun, save dimes



And who is Weiss, und vy am I full of him?

 

[Angeline]

They are not MISSING, they have not yet been invited
I'll put out their seating cards when I'm almost done
Teach
; )

have fun, save dimes



And who is Weiss, und vy am I full of him?

Don't ask me difficult questions before I've had my coffee.

I had a crush on Tom Weiss in 6th grade.

Anyway you remind me of a joke my grandfather used to tell me.

The viper is coming.

Be very afraid...the viper is coming...he's here!

Hello, I'm the viper. I come to vipe your vindows.

Yeah, I'll go to vork now.

 

[Tathagata]

Don't ask me difficult questions before I've had my coffee.

I had a crush on Tom Weiss in 6th grade.

Anyway you remind me of a joke my grandfather used to tell me.

The viper is coming.

Be very afraid...the viper is coming...he's here!

Hello, I'm the viper. I come to vipe your vindows.

Yeah, I'll go to vork now.

Oy gevault

 

[Angeline]

Oy gevault

Your Yiddish is coming along nicely bubeleh.

 

[Tathagata]

Your Yiddish is coming along nicely bubeleh.

would it be uncouth of me to add some Bostonian to it and say
"Wicked oy gevault"

 

[Angeline]

would it be uncouth of me to add some Bostonian to it and say
"Wicked oy gevault"

Maybe if you said "Vicked," but it seems wrong to me...

 

[RhymeFairy]

Breakfast...

strawberry jam dripping
the toast is dry
again

is it too much to ask for a lil butter
creamy
spreadable
sinfully sweet

who wants strawberry toast
with no butter

not me

not again

strawberry jam
dripping
sliding down the spoon
dropping succulent berries

plop

plop

where's the damn butter?

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[Tathagata]

she compares herself
to a broken sparrow
flying in circles ,headlong frantic
into windows
she thinks are freedom

she wants to be saved but wont let
anyone
get close enough to do it

I've always been Christ the bird watcher,
healing the lame,giving sight to the blind
raising chicks who've fallen from nests
feeding them, with tweezers
till they discover their wings
and fly off

they all leave
they're suppose to

each one takes a piece of me with them
time i'll never have again
listening to them sing
or squawk

it hurts a little to be
torn apart
piece by piece
like some relic, scattered
to the 4 corners


I look at my new bird
but there's nothing left of me
the others have picked me clean


and still I try
to rebuild her wings
with skeleton hands

I remember when I was young
a pheasant crashed through my bedroom window
it thrashed around in there
flying into walls and bureaus
until my father caught it
and let it go
bleeding and half crazed

maybe that's where i get it from

it didn't know about glass
and wasn't looking for freedom
until it got trapped in my world

maybe i'll tell her to be a pheasant

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[Tathagata]

I never understood
The Leaving.
The whoosh of the vacuum
inside my belly, the hole that days shambled through,
the repetition of a name
like a funeral dirge in my head.

The feeling it was me,
always me,
even when I left.

Blame, like water, seeks
the lowest level.

They never said they were leaving
they were just
gone,
the phone became a cruel mute,
mocking
beds were half slept in,
one cup out for coffee,
only my scent,
like an imprisoned spirit,
floating in my room,
searching.

They went to greener pastures
or holes in the ground
that always looked deeper
than 6 feet

and cold.
It looked cold down there
and i wondered if it was better
than being with me.

I still miss the ones who left
with no goodbye
but some left
as a blessing,
and years later
I have the time
to thank them.

 

[Angeline]

I never understood
The Leaving.
The whoosh of the vacuum
inside my belly, the hole that days shambled through,
the repetition of a name
like a funeral dirge in my head.

The feeling it was me,
always me,
even when I left.

Blame, like water, seeks
the lowest level.

They never said they were leaving
they were just
gone,
the phone became a cruel mute,
mocking
beds were half slept in,
one cup out for coffee,
only my scent,
like an imprisoned spirit,
floating in my room,
searching.

They went to greener pastures
or holes in the ground
that always looked deeper
than 6 feet

and cold.
It looked cold down there
and i wondered if it was better
than being with me.

I still miss the ones who left
with no goodbye
but some left
as a blessing,
and years later
I have the time
to thank them.

We have the same soul, monkey mein. This is superb.

Maybe "the hole that years shambled through"?

Ted Berrigan has this wonderful line in some poem about the worst thing about the death of someone you love is that they move from your outer life to your inner life and you're like a blind person learning your way in a new environment when that life moves into your imagination and memory. That notion seems like the essence of your poem.