007 Challenge

If you are not annaswirls or jennifer van buren or the other dozen names she has here, then, I apologize and thank you.. Oh and Prison girl resonated in that it sympathetically portrayed a person who resonated horribly in the halls of misadventure. I relate.

Pomegranate

Monkey nails
Pluck seeds to lip
Tiny tart bursts as one
Monkey on a continuum of monkeys
Later experts at eye hooks
And suspension bridges. I am just
A naked monkey with a pomegranate
In a city of bridges.

UH, no . . . I was a regular here from about 2004 - 2006 and then tapered off. I really stopped pretty well all bulletin board/chatroom stuff for about a decade. Angeline may wish t give me a reference.

You mentioned Northern Canada. That's a vast area but my northern experience (apart from diving in the Northwest Passage on the rack of the ill-fated sir John Franklin expedition of 1845/6 in search of the Northwest Passage) is mainly round the lakehead and up north of Superior.

I was just looking through old pix of Armstrong Station, e.g. at the head end of highway 527, north from the trans-canada east of Thunder Bay (it's, arguably, a lot more fun to say Toonder Bay, actually)

I've also been fairly far north on Vancouver Island. but am abysmally ignorant of the far, bleak places of Manitoba, Alberta, Saskatchewan and BC so, who knows, quien sabe?

Your poetry is very very good and certainly bears out Nietsche's apothegm

I was on mile 300 of the Alaska Highway. Beautiful country.

Judy

Aunt Judy Facebooked
New account, New Mexico,
New last name. Sudden change
Worries me like rosary beads
On death row. She is twice widowed.
Nurse Judy witnessed my mother's death
So I owe her. I called. She said
She was happy, but he never
Left her side. I heard him
Telling her what to say. I heard
Her parroting.

Harlem Shake

Deliverance! Burger heaven.
Dressed up in biodegradable
Jewel cases steaming yum
Right up to my iguana brain.
Instantly, tongue sharpens
To the object of a $4 tip.

Apothogems and Interludes

All the salted corpses were not mine.New York's water is yet fresh.
I am not a rich housewife. I was never either. But neither am I thief, plagiarist nor liar.

JCSTREET said:

UH, no . . . I was a regular here from about 2004 - 2006 and then tapered off. I really stopped pretty well all bulletin board/chatroom stuff for about a decade. Angeline may wish t give me a reference.

You mentioned Northern Canada. That's a vast area but my northern experience (apart from diving in the Northwest Passage on the rack of the ill-fated sir John Franklin expedition of 1845/6 in search of the Northwest Passage) is mainly round the lakehead and up north of Superior.

I was just looking through old pix of Armstrong Station, e.g. at the head end of highway 527, north from the trans-canada east of Thunder Bay (it's, arguably, a lot more fun to say Toonder Bay, actually)

I've also been fairly far north on Vancouver Island. but am abysmally ignorant of the far, bleak places of Manitoba, Alberta, Saskatchewan and BC so, who knows, quien sabe?

Your poetry is very very good and certainly bears out Nietsche's apothegm

Click to expand...

Ah! Still bucket list for me

"NOT all the salted corpses were mine"

Not sure I can parse the rest - rich housewife??? plagiarist thief liar not - I can't keep up with you

pain anger

The pain anger is a ghost on an old room. I am opening windows on it to set it free. Sorry, this exorcism is mostly done. What is left will be done elsewhere. There was an injustice perpetrated by the privieged upon the vulnerable. But I am fine. And it is almost dealt with.

I'm tempted to repeat the old joke, "if one fails to pay one's exorcist, does one get repossessed," but I won't. I'm glad you feel that you're rising to the surface, which is becoming brighter and brighter as you float upwards

Meridian

Schools swim bright and warm
Toward the meridian
South of Texas.
An old bugle rusts in shallow
Graves of Confederates
Passed. The faceless sun rises
And sets regardless
As do we.

Jennifer brilliant
Vital Jennifer
This is a love poem.
I dusted the knife you
Left in my back. Of course
You sent dogs, minions,
A plagiarist and one IT genius
To gut me. Lucky me
They had fish schematics.
I walked away. Walked the
Circumference. All that
Nonsense was beneath you.
Queen, take this pile
Of jewels you own.

Jewel there being accolades. Space. Friends. Not me. I am not a friend. Just a poet and fellow teacher who has to wake up tomorrow. But not an enemy. Well, not on my end.

oh yeah - this is a sweet, tasty poem. You may not revel in running the gauntlet but it steels you

Thanks! Write one back!

40 paper bags

1.79 at the dollar store, maybe one branch,
The favorite hang of several beetles,
An abandoned nest
That might have been adopted.
All that became 40 brown paper bags,
Some filled tonight
For the 12 students whose parents
Will not or cannot pack a lunch
For tomorrow's field trip.
Honestly? Ut was a pleasure cruise to kid brain.
Cheese sticks, carrots, apples, breakfast bars, and one poptart for desert. I am ao full
Without taking a bite.

Also Leslie Gibson is heart impaired. Sorry Maine.

I suddenly realised that for the last couple of days I've been tuning into Literotica purely and solely to check your messages and attempt to respond with considered replies that aren't too vacuous. Have I got an addictive personality or am I still in shock at being potentially mistaken for the legendary annaswirls.

How are the mighty fallen (editors will often change this to "how the mighty are fallen, causing teeth-grinding (bruxistic) chagrin and a desire to hurl contumely at them.

Yes, I will write one back:

I would flash a dark fire at her that
any man touching
should burn,
his sex withered and

in her gold mouth
a labyrinth construct that
consorts probing
would be lost, I would

caution tradesmen
to watch her private movements and
noting Philistines
report at once, I would

anoint my body with charcoal
to roll with her
in a bath of white vellum

checking for fingerprints

fiendish intelligence, brilliantly applied is the most seductive of all. Glamour is merely irritating

Loving yet needless, needless
yet loving, I
quiesce, I
see her so quiet, so

quiet in her chair
alone
with a book
pensive perhaps just
knowing what she knows, knowing
who she is
perhaps
knowing

in the charnel of my rooms I
pick over memories, put things
in their places, bury
the shell casings of my anger, bury
the expended ordnance of yesterdays, the

aftermath of battle, am I
plaintive or defendant in this
court case of pain this
self immolation that
fails yet again, leaving nothing
nothing behind but spent
muscle

Sisyphus again never quite
climbing to rest but
only to fall
tipsy in a plummet
back to myself
alone again, the

silence speaks in cold tongues no
succor there
only rubble so

I take up my Masonic square to rebuild
stone by stone
the fractures of the heart, she has

a skin-soft feel that held me
that last night that
loved me that last
night, I knew
she was letting go

and I

But it is all
misinterpretations, all
misunderstandings, communication

breakdown, a
lost connection

for I was not
letting go
only clinging
too hard perhaps, only clinging she

needed something to cling to herself but
my hand was too slippery she
fell away
tumbling akimbo
twisting in a gyre

pensive we
did not know ourselves did not
know ourselves, did not
know how to love, how to
love each other at all, how to
come into each others’ arms and be

still

(to be continued I think)

yet we loved hot, singing
with desire
moaning with intensity, revelling
in the warmth of our hearts, feeling
the magic
of the timeless night, the

timeless night with the big freights
howling through the dark not
far, not
far at all, the big
midnight mournwhistle as we kissed
again and again as we
held and cuddled
again and again as we
held each other and just whispered, stillness

was best, stillness
melded us, melded
us with no words with
no parables her

skin throbbed with the plangency of thrushes I
gave her my healing
in those moments when I could, when I
suspended doubt suspended
the love-pains in my heart the
gristle of badly-chewed memories the
charnel of jealousy

gave her my healing when I could put away
the things of childish fear the
gristle of badly-chewed memories that to her
made no nevermind, that
to her were a nothing a
sand castle only which
washed back to the sea
after the Spring rains a milestone

that faded into the past that
faded into the wake of her new love she

urged us always forward
into the light, I
pulled her back I

made her look, made her
see again, I said
SEE, SEE WHAT YOU DID . . . BAD GIRL!

till she cried

I am reminded of
self-mutilation, how I
never understood the scars that people bore, how I
never understood, Norman

drove his wife to suicide
with his pen and his mouth

back there in the 60s on Ste Famille street

that bleak morning, a
murder of crows
round the window the

snow is tinkling down today
wooling over the footprints of the past
a year to the day
of her first trysting

now just a sand castle, snow is
wooling over the footprints of the past I

quiesce, I

see her through a jeweler’s loupe
pristine it
would be a far far better thing
to let go, when I

swam out to save the girl she did not
let go, she
kicked me in the face she
dragged me down and down
and would not let go
until I sank below her
seeing for a moment that white stricken face she

would not let go till I sank
below her she
wanted to rise to the light to the late
sun’s light, it was

salt water, edematous


i could strike a noble pose, I could
walk into the snow in the far fields

not to be seen and she would
pine a little and then heal but then

she never healed from the last time, never quite
healed from the last time it
scarred the small bird of her heart
many years ago, scarred her

so that in beginnings
she saw ends, so that
limerance always died

scarred the small bird of her heart so that
in meetings she saw partings

only, she saw

only that all must end and
in all beginnings
incipience the

incipience of summer
already heralding Fall, the
prologue to winter when all things

become still and there is
no song, no
song to be sung any more no
nightfreight mournwhistles
to hold by, to

feel the thrush once more
singing in her heart
in her lover’s arms, no more

only the snow
wooling over the footprints
of the past, wooling over
all that is memory, all that was

she knows that he is silent now
picking at scars
waking from a dream he

reaches out in the dark wanting to scream
wanting to scream for her, reaches out
in the dark
palsied fingers
seeking only a touch

only the thrushes beating in her heart

not knowing
if ever
he will feel
those soft wings again

(maybe it ends here – dunno)

Yep. It is as I thought. Five bullets to go, Tex.

Powerful writing, JC.

heavy calbre revolvers only chamber 5 - leaving 4. You have to check

I meant to put a smily after that

JCSTREET said:

heavy calbre revolvers only chamber 5 - leaving 4. You have to check

Click to expand...

1. subj. refers.