not sure how many words
- Thread starter eagleyez
- Start date
BooMerengue
Literotica Guru
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- 5,456
omg! ee! There used to be a guy in Lit Chat named Chilly Willy! Was that you? Whooohoooooo! No wonder Ange is always howling at the moon! 
Angeline
Poet Chick
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- 27,199
BooMerengue said:omg! ee! There used to be a guy in Lit Chat named Chilly Willy! Was that you? Whooohoooooo! No wonder Ange is always howling at the moon!
it's gorgeous, no? and he wasn't chilly willy at lit, but it's damn cold out here tonight.
TheRainMan
black & tan
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In Gravesend, a hush of reverence graced her.
Everyone in black
should have the benefit of silence
and worship. All stilled as she walked,
if you could call it that.
She was more a marionette, bent
and bobbing in a prison of wires dangled
from god’s fingers.
No need to wonder where she was going;
you could hear the hollow thump of fingers
on fruit as cane
snapped the sidewalk, and the breath
of St. Peter in her wheeze. I saw fear
in men’s eyes
as she passed, as they read her seasoned scars
like tea leaves. In the dry riverbeds of her face,
they saw the evaporation
of their own fertility, saw what they were,
and where they would be. Ancestors plucked
grapes and olives
in the green and purple Tuscany of her skin
as they looked up at dirt and cut flowers
planted in their eyes,
under their name and numbers. Even strangers
stopped, held breath at so much evidence
of sainthood,
of truth. They smelled the stealthy perfume
of wildflowers in grass, and saw a girl’s hand
gather and bring them
to the worms. They put down their wine,
folded their stained hands until she was gone,
then glanced in shame
at the dirt there, like little boys at dinner.
Everyone in black
should have the benefit of silence
and worship. All stilled as she walked,
if you could call it that.
She was more a marionette, bent
and bobbing in a prison of wires dangled
from god’s fingers.
No need to wonder where she was going;
you could hear the hollow thump of fingers
on fruit as cane
snapped the sidewalk, and the breath
of St. Peter in her wheeze. I saw fear
in men’s eyes
as she passed, as they read her seasoned scars
like tea leaves. In the dry riverbeds of her face,
they saw the evaporation
of their own fertility, saw what they were,
and where they would be. Ancestors plucked
grapes and olives
in the green and purple Tuscany of her skin
as they looked up at dirt and cut flowers
planted in their eyes,
under their name and numbers. Even strangers
stopped, held breath at so much evidence
of sainthood,
of truth. They smelled the stealthy perfume
of wildflowers in grass, and saw a girl’s hand
gather and bring them
to the worms. They put down their wine,
folded their stained hands until she was gone,
then glanced in shame
at the dirt there, like little boys at dinner.
Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
- Posts
- 27,199
I struck the first match
when the world weighted
my thighs with terrible gravity.
Grandmother returned
ten years dead. I was
blind crazy holding back
the pain, but saw her dark
eyes steady on mine
in the dawn of his birth.
The crooked shadow
of her fingers crossed
his damp little palm,
and they all passed
out of his new old eyes
even the ones I never
knew, smokey memories
I don't have, ashes
scattered sixty years
and a continent away
sputtered a benediction
of comfort before
the flame died,
so I waited for years
frozen in solitude before
I lit the second match.
I burned the house down.
This isn't a fairy tale.
I wasn't the snow queen
or a witch in a gingerbread cottage.
These children did not escape,
I did, fleeing blind again
through the icy forest.
I left them everything
but a trail of breadcrumbs,
and I didn't look back
at the crumbling beams.
There are no matches left.
Grandmother is not waiting
in a spark's embrace
and snow is falling, falling
while I am warm, cosseted
ever after, melted safe
on the tin soldier's heart.
when the world weighted
my thighs with terrible gravity.
Grandmother returned
ten years dead. I was
blind crazy holding back
the pain, but saw her dark
eyes steady on mine
in the dawn of his birth.
The crooked shadow
of her fingers crossed
his damp little palm,
and they all passed
out of his new old eyes
even the ones I never
knew, smokey memories
I don't have, ashes
scattered sixty years
and a continent away
sputtered a benediction
of comfort before
the flame died,
so I waited for years
frozen in solitude before
I lit the second match.
I burned the house down.
This isn't a fairy tale.
I wasn't the snow queen
or a witch in a gingerbread cottage.
These children did not escape,
I did, fleeing blind again
through the icy forest.
I left them everything
but a trail of breadcrumbs,
and I didn't look back
at the crumbling beams.
There are no matches left.
Grandmother is not waiting
in a spark's embrace
and snow is falling, falling
while I am warm, cosseted
ever after, melted safe
on the tin soldier's heart.
DeepAsleep
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Jul 17, 2004
- Posts
- 774
long grain
basmati mornings
cooking in a
bachelor kitchen
drinking beer
dicking around
doing nothing special
pet the kitty
feed the kitty
clean the litterbox
dusty stink
sleep and wake up
wild hair
need to shave
push ups
sit ups
outside to smoke
cigarettes in sharp air
shower with new clean towel
wild hair
need to shave
smell like being single
cheap sex
losing weight
dignity pride motivation
want a routine that
ain't running away
basmati mornings
cooking in a
bachelor kitchen
drinking beer
dicking around
doing nothing special
pet the kitty
feed the kitty
clean the litterbox
dusty stink
sleep and wake up
wild hair
need to shave
push ups
sit ups
outside to smoke
cigarettes in sharp air
shower with new clean towel
wild hair
need to shave
smell like being single
cheap sex
losing weight
dignity pride motivation
want a routine that
ain't running away
TheRainMan
black & tan
- Joined
- Nov 15, 2005
- Posts
- 1,497
Needed Elsewhere.
Last edited:
Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
- Posts
- 27,199
Safety is an illusion
you understand baby
birds fall from nests
before the egg
is even hatched. I've
seen blue shells crushed
near a tree, told my own
children there are times
when the mama bird
will not save her young.
This is a safe place
if you don't look
too closely. You
are welcome
to my illusion. I walk
on eggs every day,
and I shut my ears
to the way loss sounds
when it crunches
and you just step,
put one foot
ahead of the other.
You are welcome here,
no need to tell
you where the map
lies buried beneath
the tree. Spring will flourish
soon enough anway,
lift its leafy palms
as if in prayer, nourished
by what seeps to mud
from the bones
of broken wings.
you understand baby
birds fall from nests
before the egg
is even hatched. I've
seen blue shells crushed
near a tree, told my own
children there are times
when the mama bird
will not save her young.
This is a safe place
if you don't look
too closely. You
are welcome
to my illusion. I walk
on eggs every day,
and I shut my ears
to the way loss sounds
when it crunches
and you just step,
put one foot
ahead of the other.
You are welcome here,
no need to tell
you where the map
lies buried beneath
the tree. Spring will flourish
soon enough anway,
lift its leafy palms
as if in prayer, nourished
by what seeps to mud
from the bones
of broken wings.
Last edited:
eagleyez
going up
- Joined
- Jan 11, 2003
- Posts
- 22,879
The sun belies the crystaline beauty-
Gloved and jacketed against the season's
Repetition, North of No North where the Ice cuts the river
And the trailways are locked in a slip of words,
Steam rises from her wool sweater
Like a mist that reveals the heat locked inside-
I see the continent and hear the songs that drawl
Under the brightest blue.
Icecutters, rockhaulers, northern boys
Dont stick to city benches-
But I do.
I pull layers from their perch and venture
Forth-
Zeal for the day
Hours till dusk
And wrought iron dreams
Flow down almost touching the ground,
But they know
The crow will snatch them up
And dance the circle dance
Hoppity hop.
Gloved and jacketed against the season's
Repetition, North of No North where the Ice cuts the river
And the trailways are locked in a slip of words,
Steam rises from her wool sweater
Like a mist that reveals the heat locked inside-
I see the continent and hear the songs that drawl
Under the brightest blue.
Icecutters, rockhaulers, northern boys
Dont stick to city benches-
But I do.
I pull layers from their perch and venture
Forth-
Zeal for the day
Hours till dusk
And wrought iron dreams
Flow down almost touching the ground,
But they know
The crow will snatch them up
And dance the circle dance
Hoppity hop.
eagleyez
going up
- Joined
- Jan 11, 2003
- Posts
- 22,879
A dollar in the basket
Toys for kids with forlorn folks
No wonder the Blues
No wonder the Hunger
No wonder the Muse
Slumbers with teeth clenched-
Our eyes speak volumes
Visions and Quests
See the stars
Dance with the biggest moon
No wonder the anguish
No wonder the prayers
No wonder the power
Electric
Volcanic
Dragon mouth
of the Ancients-
Understand
Lonesome
Roads
Ice covered
Treacherous
In their
Beauty.
Toys for kids with forlorn folks
No wonder the Blues
No wonder the Hunger
No wonder the Muse
Slumbers with teeth clenched-
Our eyes speak volumes
Visions and Quests
See the stars
Dance with the biggest moon
No wonder the anguish
No wonder the prayers
No wonder the power
Electric
Volcanic
Dragon mouth
of the Ancients-
Understand
Lonesome
Roads
Ice covered
Treacherous
In their
Beauty.
Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
- Posts
- 27,199
eagleyez said:
crocus unborn
seeds wait the blankets
of ice warm the coldest
winter night all clear
and one face so dear
breathes warm under blues
this morning the solstice
moon hung blind
in the bruised sky
you slept and i watched
an eagle wing by
the pines, headed south
TheRainMan
black & tan
- Joined
- Nov 15, 2005
- Posts
- 1,497
In a Looking Glass
After that weekend you left us,
we never saw our mother again
in your eyes. You said the retreat
would bring back the you you were,
but you returned with a deeper mist
and items you couldn’t explain:
colorful sea glass and driftwood
you placed where diplomas
and ancestors had been.
A fisherman’s knit with holes
in the elbows, frayed like the corners
of your forced smile and stained
like you, with drops of mystery.
The postcards started
and the fog grew as dense
as summer morning in the harbor,
until we couldn’t find you at all.
But you saw clearly
when he wrote. He penetrated
the shell, onto the one-way glass
of you. In each opaque eye
were the silverbacks of mirrors,
in each mirror you stared
at the heavens of your dreams.
Your posture would change.
There were wings where weight
had been. Then, you slouched again,
numb to everything
but the embossed burns of his hands.
And when you walked, you always
wore that tattered sweater around
your shoulders, like a sad stole.
After that weekend you left us,
we never saw our mother again
in your eyes. You said the retreat
would bring back the you you were,
but you returned with a deeper mist
and items you couldn’t explain:
colorful sea glass and driftwood
you placed where diplomas
and ancestors had been.
A fisherman’s knit with holes
in the elbows, frayed like the corners
of your forced smile and stained
like you, with drops of mystery.
The postcards started
and the fog grew as dense
as summer morning in the harbor,
until we couldn’t find you at all.
But you saw clearly
when he wrote. He penetrated
the shell, onto the one-way glass
of you. In each opaque eye
were the silverbacks of mirrors,
in each mirror you stared
at the heavens of your dreams.
Your posture would change.
There were wings where weight
had been. Then, you slouched again,
numb to everything
but the embossed burns of his hands.
And when you walked, you always
wore that tattered sweater around
your shoulders, like a sad stole.
flyguy69
Arch Angel
- Joined
- Oct 29, 2003
- Posts
- 2,661
This is exceptional, Raymond. The forlorn beauty of the story is wonderfully captured in the curios of the subject's transition. The only lines I question are: "bring back the you you were," which seems awkward and could just as clearly be expressed with the italicized you, and "heavens of your dreams," which seems a little OTT for an otherwise restrained piece.
TheRainMan said:
TheRainMan
black & tan
- Joined
- Nov 15, 2005
- Posts
- 1,497
Found a new home.
Last edited:
eagleyez
going up
- Joined
- Jan 11, 2003
- Posts
- 22,879
Its a wide swing son
Silvered and tremelo'd
A blonde country Gentleman
Pick axed
Furied
Serenitied
F-holed and stuffed
Like a cold turkey
With blue foam
To control the gain
And feed it back
With a slight turn at the knee
A doorjam arm
Leaned overhead
Bowed
And fingered
Melody'd again
Rattle trapped again
Very little sleep
It need
Curved
And vivid
Like a railyard boy again
Rough bark feels
Gloved and fit again
Spectacle'd again
Level with her son
The deadbolt is broke again-
Coming in out of the brutal cold,
Again and again and again-
Begin the begin.
Silvered and tremelo'd
A blonde country Gentleman
Pick axed
Furied
Serenitied
F-holed and stuffed
Like a cold turkey
With blue foam
To control the gain
And feed it back
With a slight turn at the knee
A doorjam arm
Leaned overhead
Bowed
And fingered
Melody'd again
Rattle trapped again
Very little sleep
It need
Curved
And vivid
Like a railyard boy again
Rough bark feels
Gloved and fit again
Spectacle'd again
Level with her son
The deadbolt is broke again-
Coming in out of the brutal cold,
Again and again and again-
Begin the begin.
wildsweetone
i am what i am
- Joined
- Feb 1, 2002
- Posts
- 6,809
eagleyez said:
*insert bookmark here*
i think i'm not reading clearly. and i think this is one of those poems i need to read many times.
TheRainMan
black & tan
- Joined
- Nov 15, 2005
- Posts
- 1,497
flyguy69 said:
Thomas, my brother. Thank you.
I agree, "heavens" was over the top. I changed it. It's up today, with a few other tweakings. Have a look.
I think "the you you were" is kind of clever, but you know us savants. We're usually too busy with calculus and toothpicks to notice our unusual twistings of tongue.
TheRainMan
black & tan
- Joined
- Nov 15, 2005
- Posts
- 1,497
I look out familiar glass at another day
that hid its last flame
in the twilight sparkle of a trellis rose
float away. Dark marks a sun-dead spot
where youth leaped
off itself, free of its frayed twine
like a kite. This is no longer childhood
where nothing flies too far,
where someone white appears at dusk,
its wings at the window.
Tags and Sundays made life simple then.
Everything was made
in heaven or Japan, and was unchanged
tomorrow. But devils are airborne now.
They disturb the balance
of angels, whose safety was of another life,
who watch grounded from the moon
with violins. Mood
is always altered when the strings
come in, when tremolos
of moonlight lick the walls. The sky
is a jewelry case
displaying the lost twinkle of my eyes.
And I am dulled with change that robs me
of my nature. I hungered
once to understand, and now I starve
to know why nothing answers any longer
to its given name, and if I can
reach high enough to claim my old eyes,
or whatever I need to call them now.
that hid its last flame
in the twilight sparkle of a trellis rose
float away. Dark marks a sun-dead spot
where youth leaped
off itself, free of its frayed twine
like a kite. This is no longer childhood
where nothing flies too far,
where someone white appears at dusk,
its wings at the window.
Tags and Sundays made life simple then.
Everything was made
in heaven or Japan, and was unchanged
tomorrow. But devils are airborne now.
They disturb the balance
of angels, whose safety was of another life,
who watch grounded from the moon
with violins. Mood
is always altered when the strings
come in, when tremolos
of moonlight lick the walls. The sky
is a jewelry case
displaying the lost twinkle of my eyes.
And I am dulled with change that robs me
of my nature. I hungered
once to understand, and now I starve
to know why nothing answers any longer
to its given name, and if I can
reach high enough to claim my old eyes,
or whatever I need to call them now.
Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
- Posts
- 27,199
Poem Tartare
Poetry in progress
discusses perfect circles.
Which came first
the poet or the poem?
I like mine sunny side up,
not hard-boiled, ruint
when cooked again
and again. Some food
for thought
is digested right
from the pen, even
when I'm unsure whether
I want butter on my line
break outside the shell,
unsure how many words
it takes to write a poem
We're all swallowed
by the pride of nouns, verbs
and I should just bite my tongue,
but my glutton appetite
demands fresh poetry
melting in my mouth.
Poetry in progress
discusses perfect circles.
Which came first
the poet or the poem?
I like mine sunny side up,
not hard-boiled, ruint
when cooked again
and again. Some food
for thought
is digested right
from the pen, even
when I'm unsure whether
I want butter on my line
break outside the shell,
unsure how many words
it takes to write a poem
We're all swallowed
by the pride of nouns, verbs
and I should just bite my tongue,
but my glutton appetite
demands fresh poetry
melting in my mouth.
TheRainMan
black & tan
- Joined
- Nov 15, 2005
- Posts
- 1,497
Boy, you're quick on the trigger.
I had just started reading this on the other thread, thinking you wanted comment...went to get coffee, and poof.
I had just started reading this on the other thread, thinking you wanted comment...went to get coffee, and poof.
The_Fool
smiling for the camera
- Joined
- Jan 14, 2003
- Posts
- 17,755
Angeline said:Not really. I edit my stuff obsessively, just not in this thread. This is the thread where I just spill out whatever is rambling through my head at the moment.
I know that darling. That is why my response was so obnoxious....
