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Author Topic: the poems thread  (Read 260586 times)

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Devery

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #480 on: June 02, 2008, 09:08:29 PM »

A Combination of Words

In this time when
phones are dead
and letters are
tossed in
unmarked boxes

this time
when we are
separated
I'll follow stars
by clock and
fist
I'll listen for
the early
sound of white
static

precious -
are you in an
alley with the
rats
a house that
rids itself
of children
restrained in
cloth and
wire by Drs.
keen to find
THE answer -

are you still
among those who
are not you?


there is a change
the moon splits
oceans wash
the world clean

a window frames
your head
ghosts shimmy down
the ledge
throwing pebbles
against
the glass

we talk of the
unspeakables
and lost
paradigms
you say you think
you might be dead

the window disappears
I can hear you
singing
a song you wouldn't
sing
casually asplendor
in a boat on the
river of moving souls

a collar around your
neck, studded and
rough, choking at
the pull - in my
hands I see a leash

and jump into the water
to loosen the clasp
the boat disappears
as well the simple man
at the oars

as well the history
of one-way transport
shaded on the far bank

we are drenched and
quietly satisfied
on a grassy hill
in the park
we talk again and share
an ice cream

the leash (again) appears
in afternoon air
now a necklace
made for me of finest
thin braid with a
garnet resting

and yours - three bands
of beautiful silver
around your neck

we sit side by side at
a desk in the middle
of the park
you scribble out one
single line
and I follow with
another.
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"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa

preferpencil

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #481 on: June 02, 2008, 09:37:55 PM »

STUPENDOUS


(a paradigm has appeared)





Can I share the desk with you? AND THE ICE CREAM? :glasses9:
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"But it's never too late for the poetry of regret."--lee upton

Devery

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #482 on: June 02, 2008, 09:54:26 PM »


Since I combined your ideas with mine in the above poem, and "borrowed" a few words from you, it appears that we are already sharing the desk. 

What flavor do you like? 

 :love5:
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"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa

preferpencil

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #483 on: June 04, 2008, 07:28:29 AM »

we had lost sight
of the shredder next
to the fax machine when
our tickets were passed to us
near an iron gate
by a man with a
buffalo-head.

we both wished we had been
drawn to the left, where
cupcakes were falling off the
backs of horses,
and mermaids were joking,
wrapping their hands around
their throats, waving them into
the air, mimicking drowning--
on that side of us,
the clients wore heels
and their faces held the tint
of blue against foggy
curtains.

but in front of them was a
man with a buffalo's body
and he hummed idly by
a stake crying in anguished
flames,
or rather,
the skeletal gristle of
a single cloud wrapping its
way up into blue vapors.

i felt the sting of a drop
and we started to dash in fright,
but the result was walking
backwards of course,
and the dog with
fingers in front of us
told us to piss off, or at least
quiet down...
the journey Outside had no
bearing on your place in the Animalia
Index.

------------
our identities were in the
shredder.
our identities were fused
at the iron gate.
our identities had lost all
their blood.
--------------

a crowd walked onto a stage
where stakes waited for their
shapes, and I reared back
with my mouth open
while you clenched down hard
with yours.
it happened quickly and dust
splattered our hair with pockets
of grey...

behind us
a man with a boisterous
baker's hat informed us that unless
we started to eat the rotting fishes
pinned against the shoreline,
we would lose our privilege of
Becoming
and continue to venture downhill
with a soup kitchen just out
of reach.

i looked up for guidance and was
handed the smaller salmon
which only started to flail
upon reaching my hand.
my mouth did the rest as
fast as it could, feeling pasty.

perhaps three more feet
and floating began
as a breeze,
it was then
we both realized we were
standing without gravity.

---------------------
our identities were in the
shredder.
our identities were fused
at the iron gate.
our identities has lost all
their blood.
-----------------------

i broke off one rib
to show you my secret.
you showed me an
hourglass
where the sand resisted
movement.
Something Sighed before
saying "yes"
and spinning a film reel...

this part is where
i apologized,
crying out the explanation of
our deaths.

here is where
you danced without a
partner
to show me how we had
lived...


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"But it's never too late for the poetry of regret."--lee upton

Devery

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #484 on: June 04, 2008, 07:52:21 PM »

The Vagabonds (about a Dolls show)

Strange
Circus folk painted silver spin like change
Not spent on smiley brand-name dessert
Food Product spins on elementary school lunch tables
Until stomped by a flat palm.
They conjure and manipulate electric rainbows while the Red Angel
And her trusty consort (servants after all)
Scatter joy
And the occasional ruined drink
Over a crowd of well-groomed sex addicts

The fiddlers strike a luminescent chord
And the waltz begins
Shrieking, howling like a dog
With that fool
Gathering roses and our Red Angel
While he may, never letting go.
Meanwhile, that orchestra of
Eerie Roma campfirefly glow
Coaxes eternal resplendent transformation shining
Down
On the Red Angel,
Now twirling alone.

Until,
Of course,
The lovers take the stage.
A voice and a soldier,
Grimacing joyfully, making
The room vibrate with their shouting
Rhythms while Lolitas and Humberts emblazon
Their initials across the floor.
Arms and hands and lips
Fingers navels shoulder blades toes
Painted truth with antique cobweb eyebrows
Whose sweet dreams dissolve into light and
Evaporate,
Leaving nothing behind but echoes
Bouncing off the wall,
And on the floor,
Those scars of passion hidden
Under a blanket of confetti.


This is an amazing poem.  If you have more, I hope you post them.  Or else write some more. 
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"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa

Devery

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #485 on: June 05, 2008, 09:54:45 PM »

how fragile it all is:

butterfly against
mountain

pale blue eggshells

our hearts

the memories
that bring us here

in cool evening
treading air

embracing the blood trail

the crunch of rib in
our mouths

dolls cascading upon you
like snakes

the smell of tragedy foretold
in the walls

basements made of chalk
and dreams

the shade on the river
witness our twin dives

and our ascension

to the other dance
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"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa

Rob

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #486 on: June 06, 2008, 06:57:01 PM »

I'll Be Back

Some day
I'll come around again
We'll walk and Talk
The way we did
When we were young
Hand in hand

Some day
I'll look you in the eyes
the way that you deserve
I'll say all the right things

Not because I should

Because I want to.
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Everybody dies
Frustrated and sad
And that is beautiful

Devery

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #487 on: June 10, 2008, 12:21:00 PM »

I see the light
has come to you.

It fills your eyes.

The girl you were
I never knew.

Fettered by your mother's
lessons, the ones you
try to dream away.

You unlock the box that
turns night to morning.
Because the light has come.


You're in the garden, in
soft grass, putting flowers
in your heart.

I put my arms around
your vision.

And let you go.
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"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa

The Great Ma Chao

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #488 on: June 10, 2008, 01:19:00 PM »

For Prefer:

Blast from the scene of the crime, dot the line, between the words and the rhyme I find a beauty sublime, like a brook running strong with the heat of a Nine, in a forest burnt down to make way for a lot, to fuel a shitty donut shop that feeds shitty cops.

This beauty is the essence of the world on a tilt, spinning through space despite the waste that we've built, disconnected to connection, not a blade for a hilt, just the knowledge that these people have to live on in guilt.

There's no need to pull the trigger if you're already dead, livin' ain't synapses snappin' to the tune of your head, it's breathing minus burden while your chest is compressed, and letting go of everything you've used to impress.

So keep on keepin' on in the hole that you've dug, we're only so below you 'cause your mirror's your rug, the fact is I don't care whether your better or not; here, have a cannon; it's a hell of a shot.
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Just follow her next time you see her head into the bathroom, and corner her. Women love that shit.

Devery

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #489 on: June 10, 2008, 06:54:24 PM »


For you
I came above-ground
in air and light

like it was the
easiest thing in
the world to be
a regular person

talking of books
and weather

leaving cinder and
concrete and the
cool dark swells
of time.

But I am a basement
child, I will rot
in the sun.

I shield my eyes
from snakes and tales
of heroic sinners

this garden
in perfect balance

and other useless things.
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"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa

Kenny Wisdom

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #490 on: June 11, 2008, 04:00:40 AM »

I'm calling this poem:

Whatever Happened to Jack's Broken Heart?

Whatever happened
to
Jack's Broken Heart?
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http://www.diggers.org/overview.htm

A life played for keeps. Read it, dig it, man...

Laissez lire, et laissez danser; ces deux amusements ne feront jamais de mal au monde!!

Greg Nova wrote:
Harper tu n'es qu'un petit couillon!

preferpencil

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #491 on: June 12, 2008, 05:35:20 AM »

Jack's Broken Heart --he simply liked the old Box better. Of course, you can pm him to let him know errrr. Suede --i hope-- remains ok.



you flowed up into the
bottom of my sock like a
cat's claw,
sharp and obtrusive
with a soft, bulbous belly

and we smoked
and you cut my hair
and we made agreements
and promises every lover fiddles.

i lost you in the parking lot,
a complete reversal
of kissing you with my fingers
in the right place
late at night

and you asked for it
over and over again you needed
tonic just to stand by my side,
and in this you didn't waver,
your loyalty stretched

like gauze
that catches birds.
like the edifice called a mall
where you worked and I know

you had sex with her also,
because no one puts another's
picture in on display unless
it means cheating.

i played the fool and let you
laugh when you knocked me
to the floor.
and i played mother to your
crying.

but all you ever wanted my
dearest junkie
was some medicine,
and now and look what you
have done...

your dolly has run out of
smell
except maybe must.
dust from something sticky.

we are gone from the
space from nose to nose,
from hand to hand,
from pelvis to pelvis.

and it's your turn to bawl.
you said "i'll handle this"

and the frost sliding down
should have told me as much,
the ending
and the start.

one kiss for the love
one kiss for the loss
one for the digging
and one for the climbing...

i'll handle this.
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"But it's never too late for the poetry of regret."--lee upton

preferpencil

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #492 on: June 12, 2008, 06:11:20 AM »

i found you in a pocket made
for microwaves,
and confessed every lie, every
fortuitous finding,
every baked confection
and all those pretty angels

Gone.

once you give a confidante
the bones of your pocket change,
they will either find misery and
edge away from you as slowly
as a wolf smelling metal,
or clasp on to you through
the waves like the sandy floor,
pointing out where not
to slip or sink.

Gone.

taking the sum of accomplishment
and throwing it up to the phantasm,
my god (assumption)
my god (perhaps not)
my god (no way)
there are colors i can't name,
like your blackened fingernails--
be my mechanic please.

Gone.

i've thrown the relatives outside
of the caged Thought,
and brought you here so that you
may see the splendor
or how a body swells
and retreats,
going grey without aging
is quite the carnival trick,
isn't it?

Gone.

it takes very little for a
complete stranger to fall dead
and you will walk over it like a
construction zone.
you must go on inside the tears
and outside the smiles
unless, of course, you ain't that
Kind.

Gone.

we are on the roller coaster
so put your arms out and feel the
breath. when you are pretty,
it's so close to petty. let's make it
graceful instead. let's make it handsome
once again. there is only so much time
to name the worthy.
so

i'm telling you that the
jackhammer doesn't stop for
anyone or anything...
except when work is done.
and then we're all good and

gone.
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"But it's never too late for the poetry of regret."--lee upton

preferpencil

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #493 on: June 12, 2008, 06:46:29 AM »

the sky lies about the
thick nature of ink, water, skin.
and we notice that this
red wine is ready to stretch.

one smack across the nose
becomes a running horse,
and whatever captures the Fall
is penniless.

i want to believe the pink sun
but the poisoning has me sunk
and clinging to the side rails
like a jack rabbit caught in a
spittoon.

i bring you anger with a bow
on top, a swirl of chocolate and
vanilla soft-serve Ice.
i dream of something vanilla,
not caring how muddy we get.

throw the rope over king's hill
and drag me over dirt's gravel.
bring me spinning on a rooftop
and i will slip in slow and grinning,
my last bed --
yours.
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"But it's never too late for the poetry of regret."--lee upton

lanskyy

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #494 on: June 12, 2008, 02:24:54 PM »

the mouse.

the dust flies at the sound
of the resistance
of the persistance
of the ever-lasting notice
i know, i know
now let it be
the wounds shape scars
fueled by the unwanted
and the thoughts of the taunted
and the,
the lonesome, the youth
who want nothing but to leave
they say i am a mouse
a mouse with no intentions
yet i have no prevention
yet these ideas you implant in me
swallow my meaning, my thoughts
and cause my fall
i feel the days unraveling
my speech is dry and blank
shove me until i'm off the plank
shove me and scar me
i'm nineteen, i'm twenty-three,
no darling, you're only five.
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That someone as beautiful as Regina Spektor looked like that as a child should give hope to millions of ugly kids.
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