not sure how many words

[wildsweetone]

It's a bad day, but...

I might wash it down
with a red,
swallow the bile
that you painted
over my heart
and ignore the pekingese
piddling in the pothole, just
because I can.

 

[eagleyez]

In My Dream

He tore his stinking shirt
On a railroad spike,
Handhewn fermenting lumber
Moaned in high seas,
Pale children coughed up the bile of their futures.

The famine vessell reeked of gruel
A sheen upon all horizons-
The troubles behind them
Dismay ahead.

O'failan had red hair, his daughter limp
With ghostface before the fire.

On Ellis Island they changed his name,
Bloody Micks poured chamberpots on horses
For distraction.

West to the sponsor,
Day labour in East Bay lumberyards,
The floor of Saint Jeromes craned
Teetering men reciting latin responses,
Rosary beads the talisman of wife-mothers

And too many kids for one station
Of the cross, glosssed in reds and steeped in the blues
Of stained glass rememberances,

The ship listing port side,
Rusted rail spike had him pinned
To uncertainty as the vast cooly town
Promised to dust him off,

His opium was no vision
His drink was no avail
His pickaxe became
His slab of bread.

 

[wildsweetone]

rough draft...

He was a lumberjack
for a day, the old macrocarpa
with its tangled roots
twisting into the earth
had to go, its shadow
called satan to crawl
over the leaf line
a circle of dead
ringed the trunk
brought white bugs
crawling from the deep earth
and killed all shoots
that dared peek
above the ground. And so
the tree had to go
chainsawed and chopped
into small pieces
lugged to the old woodshed
and the stump,
and the stump was soaked
in petrol and burned
until the roots screamed
their protest, singed, ashed,
dead.

 

[eagleyez]

Meanwhile, back at the ranch

three twins
gather around the sweetest meal
cooked by the elder
a hitch in his gait
but a child none the less

While twin #2 tells tales of
Coming of age, cuts his meat with a butter knife
and models a new hoody he bought with kid wages, proudly

While the youngee filled up on chips and twizzlers
and forces down his well rounded repast,
Soy sauce for the corn,Dad?

The moon wanes like the years and the daylight
We tell secrets and jokes, I hear about the quirks, tell em not to worry,
Listen to the newest CD and turn the TV sound down-
Whip out the elders d-tuned 12 and hum a tune from a coal miners
holler.

3 twins, hair like a chestnut,
A familiar walk and a similar laugh.
Blood like a river
Running high into the mighty ocean of
Love and devotion.

 

[wildsweetone]

The no exit road

Grass grew down the middle of the road.
Grandfather's Daimler crawled
along the metal, he never wanted dents
on the white paint. He travelled

like a Godfather, grandkids like henchmen
hanging out the windows
scaring the livestock, stopping
their milk from fright. One grimace

was all it took to settle the back seat
drivers, one grimace and the promise
of a double chocolate ice cream
from the dairy down the road.

He wasn't all bad, but the cracks
in the back of his neck scared me
enough to wonder if they'd split
his head eventually. I figured

they must have, because one day
he didn't drive to take me
for an ice cream.

 

[Angeline]

Sunday

she listens to the haunting concerto
after long nights dreaming
awake I feel ancient
oboe and spanish guitar
call me into the woods
beyond the steaming supplyhouse
the day breaks with shadows and sunsplash

i feel brand new
just risen from the deeper ocean
silent gratitude
for ancestral dreams
now forgotten

she smiles in a lost language
as the world unfolds
energy synthesized
from grasses and the overflowing color
a window cracked
a breath like morphine

the holy hour for which
i am eternally thankful
wordless we gaze
we listen
we know something
as the harmonic rings
the tune to its close.

I am ancient
I am newborn
my day is covered
in humble majesty
I smile.

edited to say this is ee's wordplay.
forgot to change the login. *laughing*

 

[wildsweetone]

she listens to the haunting concerto
after long nights dreaming
awake I feel ancient
oboe and spanish guitar
call me into the woods
beyond the steaming supplyhouse
the day breaks with shadows and sunsplash

i feel brand new
just risen from the deeper ocean
silent gratitude
for ancestral dreams
now forgotten

she smiles in a lost language
as the world unfolds
energy synthesized
from grasses and the overflowing color
a window cracked
a breath like morphine

the holy hour for which
i am eternally thankful
wordless we gaze
we listen
we know something
as the harmonic rings
the tune to its close.

I am ancient
I am newborn
my day is covered
in humble majesty
I smile.

edited to say this is ee's wordplay.
forgot to change the login. *laughing*

i bet i could have picked it was yours... just little words give it away.

nice writing ee. i didn't know you liked dressing up.

 

[eagleyez]

i bet i could have picked it was yours... just little words give it away.

nice writing ee. i didn't know you liked dressing up.

Thanks sweetness.

You should see me on Halloween.

 

[wildsweetone]

Thanks sweetness.

You should see me on Halloween.

if i ask really nicely, can i have pictures, please?

 

[Angeline]

if i ask really nicely, can i have pictures, please?

Maybe after he puts on his big bad wolf costume for halloween.

Love,
Little Red Riding Poet

 

[eagleyez]

sky cracks open
tupelo is changin
off the interstate, side roads
north maybe minnesota

keeps you runnin
not enough living on the outside
hands on the wheel
feet on the floor

Louisiana drawls
Lost languages,
The wind changes channels
searchin for a truer sound.

 

[eagleyez]

if i ask really nicely, can i have pictures, please?

will my browneye hawkeye kodak get the job done?

decidely lo-fi round here.

 

[wildsweetone]

Maybe after he puts on his big bad wolf costume for halloween.

Love,
Little Red Riding Poet

howdy doody Little Red, so nice to see you! *hugs* hope you're getting some time out for yourself.

will my browneye hawkeye kodak get the job done?

decidely lo-fi round here.

write a poem instead. your words always manage plenty of photographic images in my mind.

 

[wildsweetone]

The wickedness of caffeine

there's coffee in the steam
rising from my cup
i know it even though
i put a herbal tea bag
in there, even though
i swore i'd never drink coffee
again. how it happened
is beyond my knowledge.
perhaps there is another half
of me, that half that craves
chocolate and strawberries
and wild lusty sex
on fresh mown lawn
under the stars, hell,
under the sun will do. perhaps
it is that half that seeks
out the coffee, slips
it into the cup when i don't look
and tricks
me into dreaming of chamomile
or passion flower, mandarin
or slippery elm bark.
whatever it is, there is
coffee in that steam.

 

[cjh]

highway 61, no blues

the river road meanders, althea,
running the length of the mississippi
from somewhere in minnesota
tumbling toward the gulf.

the stretch from vicksburg to clarksdale
is a drive through yesterday.
through yesteryear.
it's like visiting your great aunt
the former beauty queen
who's now a ghost of too much powder,
whose lips are a slash, a crimson stain.

at dusk, though, just before fall returns
a delta drive is a salve for the soul.
a ribbon of green to the left,
cypress and oaks and sweet gums,
and to the right flat plains,
rich brown earth
dotted with white blurs of cotton,
bolls waiting to be picked and ginned
and spun, spun into the sheer white
of your panties,
spun into the light dress hiding your form,
feeding my desire.

there are just a few towns here, largely forgotten,
and byways there,
shotgun shacks echoing refrains of charlie patton and son thomas,
driveways turning into ruins of former prestige and power,
but there's not much, not really.
some suv's in the other lane,
a crumbling dixie station over there,
rusty tin sign, paint peeling from a once-proud flag
like prosperity has peeled from this once-proud land.

and then there's you
shifted in your seat,
legs crossed at your ankles,
shifted slightly,
facing me.

the setting sun's orange glows on your cheek,
the wind whips through the window,
tossing your hair,
ruffling your dress,
and i know, god i know,
i need you so.

do you feel it, althea?
the hunger in my eyes?
do my fingers telegraph my need?
does their curl, around your thigh,
under your knee, transmit me?

friday night is football night.
yellow busses carrying 17-year old bruisers
hell bent on bragging rights
2a champions 1987!, and 2002! too.
17 years of testosterone, multiplied,
focused on moving the ball yard. by yard.

my testosterone is focused,
too.
my testosterone is focused,
on moving,
you.

gently stroking you, fingers tracing you,
your cleft, gliding the length of your lips,
shift your leg for me, sweet althea.
let me stroke you, coax you, until your river flows.
shift for me, so that i can find your tenderness,
so that i can bury one, and then two, fingers deeply inside you.
arch, althea, as the yellow bus rumbles by,
so those bruisers can ponder
can meditate
upon how testosterone is best spent.

furrowed fields flow under our windows.
and as the farmer feels the need to work them each spring,
i so want to work you,
i want to find your folds
to caress the round of your bottom,
to inhale your essence.
i want so for you to nourish me.

so lean into me, dear althea,
as we head north on highway 61.
let me feel your lips on my neck,
and your whisper in my ear.
tell me, althea, how
on this dusty september night,
a delta drive is just the salve for your soul.

 

[wildsweetone]

oh my gosh

*cough splutter* that's quite a drive!

 

[cjh]

oh my gosh

*cough splutter* that's quite a drive!

and i didn't even go into the detour through panther burns.

 

[eagleyez]

the river road meanders, althea,
running the length of the mississippi
from somewhere in minnesota
tumbling toward the gulf.

the stretch from vicksburg to clarksdale
is a drive through yesterday.
through yesteryear.
it's like visiting your great aunt
the former beauty queen
who's now a ghost of too much powder,
whose lips are a slash, a crimson stain.

at dusk, though, just before fall returns
a delta drive is a salve for the soul.
a ribbon of green to the left,
cypress and oaks and sweet gums,
and to the right flat plains,
rich brown earth
dotted with white blurs of cotton,
bolls waiting to be picked and ginned
and spun, spun into the sheer white
of your panties,
spun into the light dress hiding your form,
feeding my desire.

there are just a few towns here, largely forgotten,
and byways there,
shotgun shacks echoing refrains of charlie patton and son thomas,
driveways turning into ruins of former prestige and power,
but there's not much, not really.
some suv's in the other lane,
a crumbling dixie station over there,
rusty tin sign, paint peeling from a once-proud flag
like prosperity has peeled from this once-proud land.

and then there's you
shifted in your seat,
legs crossed at your ankles,
shifted slightly,
facing me.

the setting sun's orange glows on your cheek,
the wind whips through the window,
tossing your hair,
ruffling your dress,
and i know, god i know,
i need you so.

do you feel it, althea?
the hunger in my eyes?
do my fingers telegraph my need?
does their curl, around your thigh,
under your knee, transmit me?

friday night is football night.
yellow busses carrying 17-year old bruisers
hell bent on bragging rights
2a champions 1987!, and 2002! too.
17 years of testosterone, multiplied,
focused on moving the ball yard. by yard.

my testosterone is focused,
too.
my testosterone is focused,
on moving,
you.

gently stroking you, fingers tracing you,
your cleft, gliding the length of your lips,
shift your leg for me, sweet althea.
let me stroke you, coax you, until your river flows.
shift for me, so that i can find your tenderness,
so that i can bury one, and then two, fingers deeply inside you.
arch, althea, as the yellow bus rumbles by,
so those bruisers can ponder
can meditate
upon how testosterone is best spent.

furrowed fields flow under our windows.
and as the farmer feels the need to work them each spring,
i so want to work you,
i want to find your folds
to caress the round of your bottom,
to inhale your essence.
i want so for you to nourish me.

so lean into me, dear althea,
as we head north on highway 61.
let me feel your lips on my neck,
and your whisper in my ear.
tell me, althea, how
on this dusty september night,
a delta drive is just the salve for your soul.

Robert Johnson hitches a ride thru this.

Crossroads and wonderment Jackie. Very visual my friend.

 

[eagleyez]

smoke signals
blow thru all that you have
east west winds blow
them from one side
to another
then another,

tar pit smokestack
east of Cleveland
or in the power place
replete with shellmounds and
siren orchestras
ocean repeating,
they all come from somewhere,

A Chord and a melody
a devil up your sleeve,
flowers shed from a vase
as Colors and dancing girls gamble on
sliding blue shoes
east west.

Beaver traps
Old timers
And rivers,
green like sage,
running north south

Wound harmonies, spinout
Double axles, and
Flare ups
shred red, a jacknife of 18 wheels
and voices in high caves
Siren windchimes ring in
All directions,
Blowing,
Blowing.

 

[eagleyez]

Maybe after he puts on his big bad wolf costume for halloween.

Love,
Little Red Riding Poet

Fangs at the dollar store!

 

[Angeline]

Fangs at the dollar store!

we will have halloweens.

:snuggle:

 

[Angeline]

dream

haybarn
old timbers
in a shadow night-

we were all there
cousins,roomates, lost friends and a horse or two.
Nancy the nympho made moves on Cris,
Who wittled a box camera and ran scared like a boy.

Scitzo Bill played dobro, slide in hand, scary smile
He was on the uspside of down
Drinking a tall beer
As I surmised the twilight
Fading into a blue blue night.

My back aches in the dream,
Sleeping hours-"what time is it honey."
"Quarter to four."

My best friend Bob said "she wants you."
We slap hands and a pool table appears.
Cuthroat someone says, leave your own balls on the table.
Laugh in dismay

Chris shivers at the thought of her
I look at his boyish face and long brown hair
He's a virgin I surmise
And wake up smiling.

Long gone, its now Friday sunrise-
No remembrance, fragments
But today my honey-
Today we aint got much to do,

My wakened smile, she yawns,
Love you
Love you too.

EE' s dream, Ange's login again.

 

[Angeline]

Oy. Every morning.

<glares at you to make you use your own computer>

 

[cjh]

i have discovered
what cartographers don't say.
true friendship, too,
points north.

 

[Angeline]

i have discovered
what cartographers don't say.
true friendship, too,
points north.

Imagine a compass is thrown
through the looking glass. It spins
in all directions. Wind blows up
from the ground and leaves
scatter far adrift of one's own sphere
of nature. The clock turns back and even
now in this autumnal equinox I find
warmth in the chilling ground.

Sometimes the dead walk with me.
I hold their insubstantial hands.
They tell me stories that have
almost, almost slipped
into the secret of their ashes.

I do not ask them questions
nor claim any answers for who
in this backward spin, this upturn
of days can sustain words
that will surely blow away
to seed a stranger's field.

I hold their hands. I hold your hand.

I do not worry comfort, but sip
the brew of friendship
from a cracked cup
that someone else discarded.