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writing live

it used to be a direct route
thought to pen to paper
with much crossing out and rewriting with each version
tidy tidy tidy
now the pull of electricity
stirs
a switch opens
and the ideas course
fan
fingertips the medium
words on the screen a neater reflection
the blinking cursor a permanent reminder of
on
waiting
continue
 
It's never easy, Smithpeter,
but sometimes it is painless.
A long silence
spent looking out of a window
of green and light
sky neither blue nor white
bright nothingness
 
Last edited:
Yippie kai yai yay

A thousand things run wild
racing like spring colts,
kicking their heels
over the pasture of thought

I need a rope,
or a bucket to shake,
full of the grain of attention,
a lure or a snare to bring close
just one of those stampeding things
 
HarryHill said:
A thousand things run wild
racing like spring colts,
kicking their heels
over the pasture of thought

I need a rope,
or a bucket to shake,
full of the grain of attention,
a lure or a snare to bring close
just one of those stampeding things
Click to expand...

You've summed up the elusive process perfectly. :rose:
 
harry's poems

makes me wonder about twelvio
if he's got his eyes on this one
lessons have been eaten and absorbed
new growth startling
green, and fresh
reaching
neither knowing nor caring the blue's further away than it looks
because
after all
it's that space between
the void
that begs the filling
 
I got some butter on my popcorn
feet kicked up in the lounger
munching away
flipping the channels
found a movie on AMC
made by the BBC
about two Victorian poets
star-crossed lovers
what a beautiful mess
wish I could remember the title
I forgot it when I flossed
 
close eyes
slip
within
the slow, lazy lava
step-swim
fire-proof
find a brightness
surface
post
 
Look within
slide
deeper
find the jewel
focused center
opaque depths
essence
existence
birth
born into a strange place
start again
 
Evening falls, cool and shadowed
well worth the sweat and stink
of a long day in the sun, fried
now dried in rising breeze
there are hours yet to work
comfortable hours
before dark
 
Commanders Log

Three weeks now since the drop into section 57. Non fatal casualties approached 100 percent in the first two weeks establishing our niche in this corner of hell so far from Earth. Even I have scars from the first week.
The mineral deposits are everything reported by the few scouts that returned from surveys, although the elusive Thorium remains beyond reach behind walls of warring faction that squabble over the precious resource like wolves descending on fallen prey.
One enterprising trooper has built a hooch near the edge of base, distilled a version of moonshine, (from his grand pappy's recipe he says) and opened a bar where the local females throng to drink and dance to the classic rock that constantly plays there. They are quite accommodating and flexible; morale is greatly improved.
The sirens sound another attack. Time to suit up.
Cmdr. 101st resource force
 
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I really should be at the bar, Smithpeter
but I couldn't walk that far, besides
I really don't need another drink
Loquacious libation
stumbling speech
clear indications
I need to
sleep
zzz
zz
z
 
Listening to Fresh Air with Terri Gross

That's it.
It's done.
His hand on hers.

The look on her face.
What's the difference?
Her tongue is in her cheek.

It's cheap.
It's watered down.
The show must go wrong.

What's next?
What's going to happen?
Do you know the difference?

The one.
The only.
The second half of the show.
 
Morning, Smithpeter
if there is morning where you are
mine seems frozen
nothing moves beyond the window
still life
displayed in a plastic cube
a novelty item
sold in some distant limbo
between you and I
 
harry, these communiqués between yourself and smithpeter are so neat, so expressive. they would make a great little series.
 
butters said:
harry, these communiqués between yourself and smithpeter are so neat, so expressive. they would make a great little series.
Click to expand...
*shrugs* Smithpeter is a good listener. How are you chipper? :rose: first I've seen you around the forum in a week or more; you must have finished your contest poem, or given up... somehow I don't see you as a quitter... ergo.
 
HarryHill said:
*shrugs* Smithpeter is a good listener. How are you chipper? :rose: first I've seen you around the forum in a week or more; you must have finished your contest poem, or given up... somehow I don't see you as a quitter... ergo.
Click to expand...

:)

i'm hot, knackered, job-hunting for a better-paid one, and it's all good stuff mr.H. how's yourself? not given up, but not yet started. now there're 2 ideas itching and when i begin to write we'll see what happens. i haven't a clue how it'll turn out but am aware of time running out :eek:

so, to keep in tune with the thread, a live 'un.

trees sweat their glaze on limp leaves
waiting for a cool-breathed breeze to lift
their spirits, redirect the hardest darts
of sunlight slicing at these itching eyes
as i wait, skirts raised to solemn thighs
hoping for a summer shower




hmmn, that last line's a bit suspect :eek:
 
butters said:
:)

i'm hot, knackered, ...not necessarily a bad thing according to bing

trees sweat their glaze on limp leaves
waiting for a cool-breathed breeze to lift
their spirits, redirect the hardest darts
of sunlight slicing at these itching eyes
as i wait, skirts raised to solemn thighs
hoping for a summer shower
Click to expand...

your thighs must get out more often,
enjoy the suns heated eye,
prying upward
for scant covered assets,
while calling for the wind
to lend a hand and perhaps,
tickle a smile from waiting lips.
 
Arguments belabor.
Certainty diminishes,
evidently forever galvanizing
her impulsive joie de vivre,
kooky left-handed mashup
(nourishing overdone palaver).

Questions?

Remember Sunday
then upward, variously,
whenever exceptions
yield zeal.
 
butters said:
it used to be a direct route
thought to pen to paper
with much crossing out and rewriting with each version
tidy tidy tidy
now the pull of electricity
stirs
a switch opens
and the ideas course
fan
fingertips the medium
words on the screen a neater reflection
the blinking cursor a permanent reminder of
on
waiting
continue
Click to expand...
..
this is good on at least two levels; how tidy...:)

but then I came here to write,
a one handed conversation with a blind man
too intent to switch on the light,
above a shadowed keyboard.

What, smithpeter,
why am I so silent?
I don't know, perhaps it's the other conversation
going on inside my head.
 
Angeline said:
Arguments belabor.
Certainty diminishes,
evidently forever galvanizing
her impulsive joie de vivre,
kooky left-handed mashup
(nourishing overdone palaver).

Questions?

Remember Sunday
then upward, variously,
whenever exceptions
yield zeal.
Click to expand...
..
*snaps*
 
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