not sure how many words

[RhymeFairy]

On the edge


I came here. this place. A time in
space, where memories are caught.
Distraught fragments - foreplay
to say: a dream weaver

spider webs placed, spiraling
sporadic, spastic
churning memories, hiccup-throw up
thatch and hatch. Wide awake
dreaming - of lost moments, in time
simple tides, waves
sweetly surrounding an undertow.
Lost breath of longing, time escapes
serenading back to lyrics

a time capsule, hot tub, green- tree's
ah' forest, of naked nymphs, cascading, dancing
left roadside, bald tire spinning, radio blasting
speakers broadcasting a whipping. Bodies
colliding, conspiring. Worshipping
singing in tune. Bubbles exploding
gingerbread goading. Run, run
fast as you can - I caught, dove
sun dried and tasted
those memories and knew
loving. Moonrise dreams
played out, took a part, took
a part
of me, when he stood tall. Music
swayed, called out
I answered and he
he
happened by.




....

 

[RhymeFairy]

Some say, death
brings life. Fast forward
into eternity. Mortality
goes on, hearts
mend, people reach
out. Some sit glued, stuck
in a moment. A yellow
rose is happiness. We view
rose colored tombstones. Deep
breaths, stomach churns, hearts
break. No - do not breathe, don't
move. Pause time, bring back
what I once - had ...




...

 

[eagleyez]

Diamonds and mudpuddles

It was with a thud-
That I came across it,
Buried there and hidden by a mangle of brush.
No color other than the clay that swallowed around it.

Now this is something, I say,
Fumbling thru the wet trees to get a look.
Magnificent, I surmise.

Slpit windshield and crome rearviews,
2 buckshot holes in the drivers door.
The grill has been bent back into the radiator.
Not a scratch on the hood.

Mustve been here for 45 years.
The grave of the unkown soldier
Gets a one gun salute-
The echo finishes the tribute.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Springtime on The Ark

Even though the skies still weep
and no land’s in sight,
no plum blossom or pussy willow,
it’s springtime on the Ark.

Animals pairing off,
doing what comes naturally.
Motion sickness to morning sickness
and Noah leaves buckets
in strategic spots like ashtrays
worrying all the while, as bellies swell,
if the Ark can stand the strain

Ham and Japheth roll up their sleeves
taking turns to watch for problems
breach births, failing hearts
or other such un-pleasantries.
Mrs. Noah muses, thanking God
it isn’t her turn, lying in the straw,
belly drum-tight.
Catching Noah’s eye,
she blushes and blows a kiss.

The Ark fills with nursery sounds,
baby bleats and mini-mews
as mothers nurse and fathers preen
indifferent that they are on the way
to repopulating God’s drowned earth.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

I adore this thread,I just spent time to go through the whle thing. Archival, treasures galore.

 

[RhymeFairy]

I really do not know where to start. You leave me
stumbling, in the dark
but not quiet alone. I feel your presence there
just beyond a message, a line
spreading a warmth throughout.
A sing song feeling of what I never can quiet figure
out.

Guiding me, each step
with whispered words, letters, standing tall
my mountain of " come catch me " but I sense
a kindered soul
a shelter, in the storm. What is to become

what shall be, leaves me breathless
with anticipation. Always on the outskirts
always not quiet
looking in. You

share wisdom, feeling, real


real

feeling. But I cannot help
but be skeptical and weary
maybe it is, we are - meant
to be. I wander always, in the darkness
but at this time, this moment
you hold me captive. On the edge
of the cliff, wondering,
what if. In the past I have always
looked to anther, a past love, a friend

who means the world to me but
but
but
what if I really let loose. I fly
I soar
into your cave. I can see it, us
clearly as the new morn sun and I ache
dream, catch my breath
hoping, just maybe. Maybe able IT
will be be

us. On the horizon. Walking a path, into
the future, where maybe - just be.
dreams really do mix
into reality and life, is no longer a dream, a wish
where life with you, shall be what
I've always dreamed
always hoped - where life really was
is what we make of it ....



....

 

[eagleyez]

multicolored lights imitating stars,
cigarette wisps a milky way,
the night is fileted thin like holy socks
exposing mortal skin and a jagged nail.

on some checkerboard floor with the tables out of skew,
positioned for you and by you
random heelbeats begin a flamenco chant
on barrio streets and under chandoliers.

while out in the freedom of the darkblue silver iceburg
the percusiion cracks like a mountain
as fingers pick out a benediction and women long to dance
with the glaciier, the patient certainty, the color of slow.

the impermanent things
the metronome slowly ceases
the wind shakes the grassland, rustles up a dance
to another Dec 25

bootheel stories us all.

 

[RhymeFairy]

I really do not know where to start. You leave me
stumbling, in the dark
but not quiet alone. I feel your presence there
just beyond a message, a line
spreading a warmth throughout.
A sing song feeling of what I never can quiet figure
out.

Guiding me, each step
with whispered words, letters, standing tall
my mountain of " come catch me " but I sense
a kindered soul
a shelter, in the storm. What is to become

what shall be, leaves me breathless
with anticipation. Always on the outskirts
always not quiet
looking in. You

share wisdom, feeling, real


real

feeling. But I cannot help
but be skeptical and weary
maybe it is, we are - meant
to be. I wander always, in the darkness
but at this time, this moment
you hold me captive. On the edge
of the cliff, wondering,
what if. In the past I have always
looked to anther, a past love, a friend

who means the world to me but
but
but
what if I really let loose. I fly
I soar
into your cave. I can see it, us
clearly as the new morn sun and I ache
dream, catch my breath
hoping, just maybe. Maybe able IT
will be be

us. On the horizon. Walking a path, into
the future, where maybe - just be.
dreams really do mix
into reality and life, is no longer a dream, a wish
where life with you, shall be what
I've always dreamed
always hoped - where life really was
is what we make of it ....



....

playing with visions, life and a lil love bite ...



A kiss

a simple kiss. Popped
in an afterthought.
A moment of truth. Baring such
clarity that goose bumps

appeared. Spreading chicken pimples
and laughter, a lofty
flight of feeling, long since lost
in the purple mist of rain

and hazy motions, we call life.
You came, when none was expected.
When life had dealt a flopped
hand. I circled and landed,

played with the bait only to be
caught and presented. Your feast
to be taken
nibble by nibble of

fleshy, feline delight. Nipping
away the past you sought a new life,
a new - me. To pounce around, proud as any cock

would be. Strutting your stuff and pronouncing
to all "look, what I caught, look
what I landed." I surprised by the limelight,
stared and hypnotized

bemused by a sudden soft, red beard looked
and flounced around the ground. Your trap caught
tripped up and tuckered. Past baits leaving
me bruised and abused ... this subconscious lady

trout, trying to decide if up was down or down
was up. You, puckered and blew, blowing away
arsenic visions, in the scenic river
of life ...


............


a lil on-going, working on it ~~~

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Rough copy

Expansion sestina

This motherless boy left home in his fourteenth year,
1847, leaving behind his mourning, drunken father
who, bitter in his solitude, used and abused him as a slave
beating the boy on a whim with any weapon at hand
often leaving him bruised and broken the next day,
he figured nothing out there could be as bad.

Brutal life had taught him to recognize the bad
and good in men, it was the bad he met this year.
Wandering the byways at night and sleeping in the day,
he reached St Louis and had no taste to go farther.
In a local tavern he took an oath and shook a hand
and so became a soldier, just another kind of slave.

Befriended by one Toadvine, admitted, willing slave
to all things addictive. “Boy I need it bad!”
He’d seen so many fights, lost two fingers from his hand
and some marauding Yumas had lobbed away an ear.
As days drew on Toadvine became his makeshift father
and the boy missed his own not one solitary day.

They left for Mexico before the very crack of day,
a motley rabble, teacher, trapper, an ex-slaver,
a bellicose and bald fellow claiming to be a judge. “Bad
news,” muttered the boys surrogate father.
Like Christians in the wilderness they wandered all that year
murder, massacre and bloodletting always close at hand.

That winter was a bitter trial with frozen foot and hand,
no band of brothers this, suffering others company by day
and sleepless in the huddled night longing for the year
to turn to warmth so each one need no longer slave
to stay alive. Along the Yaqui River an Indian ambush was bad
and the callow youth became the protector of the father

wounded by an arrow to the chest he held his father
as he coughed blood and gripped, fearsome, the young hand.
Death was no stranger now, their losses had been bad
and Toadvine’s leaving was no different as on any other day.
There was no other recourse than to slog and slave
on through hostile land and make traces for next year.

Food grew scarce, sickness gripped and fighting worse than bad,
often in his fevered mind the boy longed to join his father

in oblivion yet he was one of a few survived the trek that year
and, outside Tuscon, fought the Apaches, Chiricahuas, hand to hand.

As if the blood had washed him clean of hate he quit that day,
travelled north to Canada and found him a wife, a Dene of the Slaveys.

 

[Angeline]

Expansion sestina

This motherless boy left home in his fourteenth year,
1847, leaving behind his mourning, drunken father
who, bitter in his solitude, used and abused him as a slave
beating the boy on a whim with any weapon at hand
often leaving him bruised and broken the next day,
he figured nothing out there could be as bad.

Brutal life had taught him to recognize the bad
and good in men, it was the bad he met this year.
Wandering the byways at night and sleeping in the day,
he reached St Louis and had no taste to go farther.
In a local tavern he took an oath and shook a hand
and so became a soldier, just another kind of slave.

Befriended by one Toadvine, admitted, willing slave
to all things addictive. “Boy I need it bad!”
He’d seen so many fights, lost two fingers from his hand
and some marauding Yumas had lobbed away an ear.
As days drew on Toadvine became his makeshift father
and the boy missed his own not one solitary day.

They left for Mexico before the very crack of day,
a motley rabble, teacher, trapper, an ex-slaver,
a bellicose and bald fellow claiming to be a judge. “Bad
news,” muttered the boys surrogate father.
Like Christians in the wilderness they wandered all that year
murder, massacre and bloodletting always close at hand.

That winter was a bitter trial with frozen foot and hand,
no band of brothers this, suffering others company by day
and sleepless in the huddled night longing for the year
to turn to warmth so each one need no longer slave
to stay alive. Along the Yaqui River an Indian ambush was bad
and the callow youth became the protector of the father

wounded by an arrow to the chest he held his father
as he coughed blood and gripped, fearsome, the young hand.
Death was no stranger now, their losses had been bad
and Toadvine’s leaving was no different as on any other day.
There was no other recourse than to slog and slave
on through hostile land and make traces for next year.

Food grew scarce, sickness gripped and fighting worse than bad,
often in his fevered mind the boy longed to join his father

in oblivion yet he was one of a few survived the trek that year
and, outside Tuscon, fought the Apaches, Chiricahuas, hand to hand.

As if the blood had washed him clean of hate he quit that day,
travelled north to Canada and found him a wife, a Dene of the Slaveys.

This is a fine, sort of experimental take on the sestina, and the history lession is fascinating. I searched a little on the web to try to flesh it out, but couldn't find much--just a few stories about two men who fought together in the Civil War, were imprisoned together. That doesn't sound like it though. Got a linky to info by any chance? Maybe a book source?

Right now the poem sounds more prosey to me though I see you followed some of the basic sestina tenets. I see places where you could cut back on extraneous (seeming) language and maybe be more metaphoric. Not sure you want to do that though as you'd likely lose some of the informative (though not the narrative) value of the piece. You're always surprising me, my crone-y.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

This is a fine, sort of experimental take on the sestina, and the history lession is fascinating. I searched a little on the web to try to flesh it out, but couldn't find much--just a few stories about two men who fought together in the Civil War, were imprisoned together. That doesn't sound like it though. Got a linky to info by any chance? Maybe a book source?

Right now the poem sounds more prosey to me though I see you followed some of the basic sestina tenets. I see places where you could cut back on extraneous (seeming) language and maybe be more metaphoric. Not sure you want to do that though as you'd likely lose some of the informative (though not the narrative) value of the piece. You're always surprising me, my crone-y.

It was inspired by Cormac McCarthy's novel about the Western Expansion Blood Meridian, very loosely. I was more shackled by the form than I expected, there should be far more violence and sympathy for the native Indians. Perhaps a narrative theme was a poor choice.....back to the drawing board. It was fun though.

Thanks for your input, Ange. I have wanted to try a sestina for a long time,

 

[Angeline]

It was inspired by Cormac McCarthy's novel about the Western Expansion Blood Meridian, very loosely. I was more shackled by the form than I expected, there should be far more violence and sympathy for the native Indians. Perhaps a narrative theme was a poor choice.....back to the drawing board. It was fun though.

Thanks for your input, Ange. I have wanted to try a sestina for a long time,

It's a very shackling kind of form, isn't it? I'm not overly fond of the forms with repetitions because it's hard to reuse words in fresh ways--and the sestina because of its length has sooo many repetitions. They often sound very constricted because of that (at least mine do, to me). Oh, and I should read that McCarthy novel. I loved All the Pretty Horses.

Anyway, I always give props to people who write sestinas. They're a friggin lot of work!

I actually tried to write a paradelle once (which has insane repetitions) before I knew that Billy Collins invented it specifically to write a bad form poem lol. (I do love Billy. ) If you check out the pdf file on the linked page, there are some examples of decent paradelles. Well, decent given how nutty the form is.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

It's a very shackling kind of form, isn't it? I'm not overly fond of the forms with repetitions because it's hard to reuse words in fresh ways--and the sestina because of its length has sooo many repetitions. They often sound very constricted because of that (at least mine do, to me). Oh, and I should read that McCarthy novel. I loved All the Pretty Horses.

Anyway, I always give props to people who write sestinas. They're a friggin lot of work!

I actually tried to write a paradelle once (which has insane repetitions) before I knew that Billy Collins invented it specifically to write a bad form poem lol. (I do love Billy. ) If you check out the pdf file on the linked page, there are some examples of decent paradelles. Well, decent given how nutty the form is.

Pradelles do look nasty, I think I'll rest my brain for a bit. I'm not finished with sestinas yet though.

Word of warning about Blood Meridian, it is frightfully violent. I just read C.M's The Road, devastating in a totally different way. He's such a great writer. I began Michael Ondaatje's Divisadero last night - preparing for more poetic inspiration - he has a way of doing that to me.

 

[Angeline]

Pradelles do look nasty, I think I'll rest my brain for a bit. I'm not finished with sestinas yet though.

Word of warning about Blood Meridian, it is frightfully violent. I just read C.M's The Road, devastating in a totally different way. He's such a great writer. I began Michael Ondaatje's Divisadero last night - preparing for more poetic inspiration - he has a way of doing that to me.

Hmmm maybe I'll wait on that one a while. I have to be in the right mood to read something with graphic violence in it.

A friend of ours gave us a copy of Kerouac's San Francisco Blues recently. I think I need to read that and listen to some Prez. That'll get me writing.

 

[UnderYourSpell]

It's a very shackling kind of form, isn't it? I'm not overly fond of the forms with repetitions because it's hard to reuse words in fresh ways--and the sestina because of its length has sooo many repetitions. They often sound very constricted because of that (at least mine do, to me). Oh, and I should read that McCarthy novel. I loved All the Pretty Horses.

Anyway, I always give props to people who write sestinas. They're a friggin lot of work!

I actually tried to write a paradelle once (which has insane repetitions) before I knew that Billy Collins invented it specifically to write a bad form poem lol. (I do love Billy. ) If you check out the pdf file on the linked page, there are some examples of decent paradelles. Well, decent given how nutty the form is.

I read this as Billy Connolly I must get my eyes tested

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Dirty Dancing

A hot wind dances
dust one, two, three
and swirls it
in a dervish whirl.

Capricious partner
skips away to snag
a cheap candy wrapper
or flirty food-court carton.

The fickle breeze drops them
to lie breathless
in the gutter waiting
for the next blustery gust
to lift them once again.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

How funny

that you should waste your time checking
rubbernecking my sheets to see
if I am real or a dream
if I have melted like some white peaked
fantasy, some cake cream

you should know better if you've been awake
but perhaps you are still dreaming
I see how it would be simpler
more restful
to imagine me so easily managed
--to dry right up
in a warm breeze

I have a box but I do not
live there

 

[eagleyez]

Well then,
there ya go,
give it a good roul,
trundle on down and
ramble around,
go back in
with yer plug knickle
give er a go,
moonlit 2bits while ya chew the fat
a bit
before
sitting
still
until
dark.

 

[eagleyez]

since your going thru them,
hand me down that book, up there,
leaning there up top.
Its signed by Bishop Sheen,
its his book Peace of Soul,
and i just want to glance at it.

Before we drove east, ole Q's mother
handed it to me with her eyes held down,
offering up something to go to when the pain came.
Its all about forgiveness and perservering and meditation
upon the ultimate outlook, a set of keys for the trunk full of joy, thats what
she said.

I opened it to random pages
a few times in Arizona, a couple in New Mexico,
and each time i read a line or a passage, above the din of the interstate,
each of us grinned and nodded heads,
sand music and Navajo roadsides notwithstanding,

And here it is 26 years later
and I have had that requisite pain and learn to live with its
painted deserts. flash floods and minor ecstacies, and
weather my skin,
tatter the pages,
it feels good in a leather hand,
just by chance.

 

[Angeline]

since your going thru them,
hand me down that book, up there,
leaning there up top.
Its signed by Bishop Sheen,
its his book Peace of Soul,
and i just want to glance at it.

Before we drove east, ole Q's mother
handed it to me with her eyes held down,
offering up something to go to when the pain came.
Its all about forgiveness and perservering and meditation
upon the ultimate outlook, a set of keys for the trunk full of joy, thats what
she said.

I opened it to random pages
a few times in Arizona, a couple in New Mexico,
and each time i read a line or a passage, above the din of the interstate,
each of us grinned and nodded heads,
sand music and Navajo roadsides notwithstanding,

And here it is 26 years later
and I have had that requisite pain and learn to live with its
painted deserts. flash floods and minor ecstacies, and
weather my skin,
tatter the pages,
it feels good in a leather hand,
just by chance.

Yay for new computers and poetry.

 

[annaswirls]

The Man always takes them Just as they get Cute

The dogs on the block are all acting crazy.
Thermometer half past 80 and people have green
on their brain, open windows instead of a.c.

One speaks, the others hear
through the airways in every room
they run to window to speak back.
Reunite.
It has been since fall.
Much to chat about.
Missing voices, new pup on Maple
cracked nails and stray cats under porch.

If dogs ruled the world there would be no screens or fences.

Or lids on containers.
No chains blades or needles.
Fleas would snuggle.
Caves would contain pillows and puppies would stay around
Squirrels would slow down, just a bit.
Bits of hope on twisted rope hanging from every cloud.

 

[bogusagain]

beyond the shadow, as if it is
the literal end of the world
hands that reach out
are amputated at the wrists
people have overdosed to leave this life
I am presented with something more common place
a simple open door
a veil less veil between
what is and what is not
where logic ends and faith begins
or if you're faithless
the ultimate full stop

 

[bogusagain]

have you ever considered
the results of the alternative
of changing beds to find
the same lover turning her back on you

life that struggles for meaning
has no difficulty serving up disappointment
a morning mirror that reflects too honestly
the chiselled choices show the age
etched in your countenance

 

[eagleyez]

The Man always takes them Just as they get Cute

The dogs on the block are all acting crazy.
Thermometer half past 80 and people have green
on their brain, open windows instead of a.c.

One speaks, the others hear
through the airways in every room
they run to window to speak back.
Reunite.
It has been since fall.
Much to chat about.
Missing voices, new pup on Maple
cracked nails and stray cats under porch.

If dogs ruled the world there would be no screens or fences.

Or lids on containers.
No chains blades or needles.
Fleas would snuggle.
Caves would contain pillows and puppies would stay around
Squirrels would slow down, just a bit.
Bits of hope on twisted rope hanging from every cloud.

the dogs eye view
pheremones on a 4 by 4, willow tree.
those cats down the block,
uppity them cats,
but i got my eye on them ubangees,
tree climbers.

 

[annaswirls]

I love your backyard.

I wish I were a mouse so I could spend some time there, rooting around your eggshells and chickenwire

sip drops from your water barrel
nibble your new lettuce leaves

maybe startle your dogs and wake your neighbors
but never tell these secrets
of how you take care
take care of us all
with potion and breath and whispering fingertips

I park across the street
we pull blinds closed
windowless kitchen kissing
hushed tone you take me,
backyard familiar, hidden key close.