writing live

[butters]

old ghosts

when our ghosts first find us
haunt us
they're restless
hungry things
greedy to feed
off our fear, our distress

time and familiarity
wears them down
till they're no more than echoes
like cool air across a tooth's empty socket
an almost-shadow
the memory of an ache
once bone-deep but now
a dull creak
just a copy
of a copy
of a copy
faded scraps of a lost dog poster


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



this version accepted for publication on the Open Arts Forum Front Page in August '23
https://openartsforum.com/

 

[EllenMore]

Weekend

Passion can make you dumb,
but does so much to keep you going.
—Carly Simon

I never want to be shallow,
but sometimes sex
leaves me with the emotional depth
of an oil slick on a hot driveway,
slipping me onto my back, legs askew,
hoping nothing other than my ego
gets broken in our mutual frenzy.
This isn't love, not even hardly,
it's more Darwinian than that—
wanting your cock inside me
because, well, the line of your jaw
or the slimness of your hips
or because I noticed the swell
in your jeans when you spied
how well my hips fit my leggings
or even just because it'd been too long
for either of us and no one else
we liked was anywhere near.
Don't read too much into this:
while I loved having you lift my legs
onto your shoulders, if I never
see you again, I'll live through it,
happily prowling at times
for some other guy who wants
the same thing I want, sometime
late at night on a weekend
when I can sleep in late
for two, or even three, days.

 

[Rockymtnman]

to LD


It’s just a hint
but it’s there
like a whiff of smoke
from a fire miles away

light, ethereal
gone swiftly
oh, but it’s there

eyes don’t lie
you like what you see
the little too long stare
the slight flush
of the neck
a nervous fiddle with your hair

seen it too many times
to miss it anymore
shall it be a chase
a wait and see
maybe, never
i don’t know

but you gave me your number
and where there’s smoke
there fire

 

[Rockymtnman]

Purpose

what purpose do you serve?
she asked

to fill your life with love

i have many for that
she replied

then to fill your life with dread

i have many for that as well
she said

 

[butters]

the psychology of fallen leaves

deep drifts
move
wave-form
before the yard broom
their dryness transmuted
to ochre liquidity
mimicking the voices
of bluer cousins wetting a beach

and i got to thinking
about leaves—
moments in our lives that fall from time's tree
to litter the lawns and driveways of our days
how they pile up
deep and deeper
against fences of our own erecting
blow aimlessly
before cold winds of chance
or plaster, wet and clammy
slick hazard on the tarmac

is it better to pull down those fences
allow our sere foliage
in all its hues
find their own place
their compounded weight scattered
to replace lost soil
via humble worm and microbe?
or pour gasoline
all over
thumb-flick the lighter
divine immolation
last blaze of glory
burn it all down
even the fence?

for now i choose a middle path
hoard them deep
against the old prone log
cover them with mesh
know snakes and bugs will over-winter there
amidst the shades of laughter and regrets

 

[butters]

with pockets full of eggs
i hear the news
of 5 years' drought
and the impact of a war
thousands of miles away
mothers having to choose
which child gets food today
as babies die
for want of milk
and eggs

 

[Rockymtnman]

It flutters and floats
as if pulled on a string
by someone yet unseen

to and fro and fro and to
unique, light, cold
soft as a dandelion
before it explodes on a windy day

it covers all
in a blanket
shining like crystals
in the soft winter sun

 

[Winter_Fare]

A.I.

A lace maker's hands
Soft and nimble
Plied art unsurpassed
By machines

But
Good enough

And
Cheap enough

Have long ago stolen
The lace makers means

An artist expounds on
The shape of reality
Filters and processes
Tweaks and resizes

Hubris personified
Data anonymised

Crafting commodities
Curious oddities

Packaged and sold
And re rendered in bold

For the sake of commission
And popular vision

And greed

Pieces of artists
Become
Art Indeed

 

[29wordsforsnow]

I honestly wonder when this will happen to writers too.

 

[Rockymtnman]

The chimes on the wind
echo through the trees
faintly, like a whisper
as if to challenge
the silence of the budding evening
to become the rightful heir
of the moonless night

 

[Rockymtnman]

The last of the autumn leaves
rustle on the branches
as the wind tries to tear them
from their only earthly anchor
a sound of dried paper
rubbing against a dry hand
brittle, scratchy, dead
the wind rages
the leaf holds, quivering
knowing its fate

 

[Piscator]

26 writers from across Canada make the 2022 CBC Poetry Prize longlist​

This poem ain’t gonna win no literary award

Damn can’t even get the title right
should be ain’t gonna win any
ain’t that right?

But down here in the gutters the
principal existential problem
is existence - you know what I’m saying

And if you’re looking for being
and nothingness - well my being is day
to day, but we got lots of nothingness
and to paraphrase Dylan who’s on tour
again, I ain’t feeling no ease.

While we’re all waiting for Godot
to get up and go or at least get off
the crapper, vernacular for toilet, and
Thomas Crapper who actually didn’t invent
the toilet (kid you not I’m full of that shit),
but he’s really know for inventing the
ballcock and if you lift the lid of your
crapper you’ll both ball and cock
just like at the Adult Theatres I used
to visit before all this free porn and VR
was available for do-it-yourself relief
if and when I get that Viagra or Cialis
from that mail order Canadian pharmacy.

Anyway, this year I'll spend my $ 25 on a
BJ from a struggling poet who’s in need of
inspiration and CBC will
fuck itself as usual.

 

[Rockymtnman]

The purple dusk
settles into an ink dark night
as a sliver of the moon
peaks over the mountains, like a spy

 

[Rockymtnman]

thanksgiving

family around a table
laughter, food and booze
happy thanksgiving to all of youz!

 

[sirhugs]

just old enough to recall
when a mere hint of bra strap
was shocking to all
but now it barely teases
though still it me pleases
for I am old enough to think
of sweeping the strap down
to free a breast
cause nipples are best
to interrupt sexual rest
to start my creature stirring
to want to devour her mouse.

 

[butters]

day's mild
grey
chickens scratching in the yard
an inbetween kind of time
after a damp, bright morning
stormy weather to come
and i want to step lightly in this world
so bent grass springs back
on my passing
presence evaporates
on a small breath of air
untethered
except for a memory
a small tree planted in my wake
small poems in fossilized print
an imprint on his heart

 

[29wordsforsnow]

Is it hard...?
to keep the rhythm
command my limbs
behind closed doors
and still hold your eyes
and answer your lips
among a gentle tune
noting the subtle hints
your eyebrows tell
when my touch is daring
or slipping down to bold
is an art itself
trying to move in flow
avoid collision
with all these others
couples riding the same sea
allow me a glimpse
now and then
over your shoulder
and learn
the back and forth
because with all this
it is hard
the accidental contacts
their whispered instructions
and sudden sighs roaming
all over the mirror-clad room
the sweet torture
of losing control
just any second
on Thursday night
amateurs dance course

 

[Rockymtnman]

As I walk into the bitter winter wind
my coat flaps around me, unclosed
the cold goes unnoticed
the wind doubles it’s effort
as if angry with me for ignoring its power
i shudder and pull my coat tight
satisfied, the wind dies, victorious

 

[Piscator]

As I walk into the bitter winter wind
my coat flaps around me, unclosed
the cold goes unnoticed
the wind doubles it’s effort
as if angry with me for ignoring its power
i shudder and pull my coat tight
satisfied, the wind dies, victorious

Blow on Chilly Wind

 

[Rockymtnman]

Blow on Chilly Wind

Cool

 

[Piscator]

Document #14

although not parallel
universes in the
sense envisioned
by science fiction
writers and string
theory physicists
my dog and me
live in the same
but very different
worlds, mine is
more colourful
but his far more
fragrant and his
hearing more
acute while our
tastes differ as i’m
sure i’d find the dry
kibble he wolfs down
boring while he is ok
with eating broccoli
and even brusselsprouts
yet when he thrusts his
head into my lap and
I scratch behind his
ears while he
wags his tail
our worlds converge

 

[Winter_Fare]

Some words don't translate well
The senses shift in time

Disconnected names
Once so familiar to the tongue

Are adjectives for
Intimacies half remembered

Time becomes a distance
Of atlantean proportions

I've no map
No means to find my way back

 

[sirhugs]

Some words don't translate well
The senses shift in time

Disconnected names
Once so familiar to the tongue

Are adjectives for
Intimacies half remembered

Time becomes a distance
Of atlantean proportions

I've no map
No means to find my way back

one step at a time
the distances defy
if Lassie can do it
why not you?

 

[Piscator]

December

Faint of heart beware,
vampthused we share
naked mind to bear
always up for dare

Transfixed, suspended,
feet fixed in overnight ice
awaiting dawn and sun's warmth
frozen in place,lost
in a static dream
I can't remember
but can't forget.

Into the sucker hole
a brief interlude
of bue sky
in a dreary succession
of cold, grey days.

 

[EllenMore]

Memes

He told me, I want
to choke you—
and though I shook my head no,

he did it anyway, because the internet
told him it was hot.
I thrashed and hit

at his hands and arms
until he finally relented
and I never saw him again

until three weeks later
when he did some special thing
with his fingers

that made me come like Revelation.
But do not touch my throat,
I said, still flexing my hips,

long afterwards.