writing live

The edit was to add the footnote, but reading it again i see further edits are needed

butters said:

The edit was to add the footnote, but reading it again i see further edits are needed

Click to expand...

Yeah I see some of what you are saying,
great visuals, had me imagining a stone age burial in a open space surrounded by primal growth, good one

there's a sickness in the air
all living things hang limp
no current flows, the lake stagnates
pale bones suck silt in its dark bed

but somewhere on the windless day
the sound of ringing rocks
pure voices raise their living tones
sing where no bird can

still here, waiting, watching, mostly silent,
knowing the moan of frustration is so tiresome to hear
even more so than sticky love poems
all sugar and spit,
excuse me, a chore,
I'll be back in a bit

HarryHill said:

still here, waiting, watching, mostly silent,
knowing the moan of frustration is so tiresome to hear
even more so than sticky love poems
all sugar and spit,
excuse me, a chore,
I'll be back in a bit

Click to expand...

2
The beast is fed, garden put to bed,
Harry gluing letters together,
sketches of lovers sailing limitless scenes
scattered about his desk
cast your eyes past the bark where they lay
split aether with your far flung gaze
see the missus, abed, watching rock operas
that nightly play in her mind

last night i journeyed
to places with familar names
from a past long gone
not recognising landmarks
a stranger, hanging on for the ride
then walking along overgrown paths
skirting a small (manmade?) cave
tucked into the side of a hill
with a dark entrance no bigger than a man-hole

a black hole from whence emanated growls
and i thought there might be snakes inside
and maybe a wildman or beast
dangerous if disturbed
but then i came upon a queen
lying on the floor, feet together and raised in the air
making a neck of her ankles
suppporting regal shoes

the shoes were something special
glittering with pearls and sparkling stones
and this was no act of madness
but rather
a cunning plan to stave off
usurpers to her throne
for only by crowning her shoes
could she protect her head




and these are only scraps from the strange events in dream-world last night

She dream walks across the sky,
and I, left with the scent of sex,
the ghost of the taste of skin on lips,
carnal whispers,
declarations of intent so breath halting,
as to burst a heart with need.

Out darkened window where the street below
shines with night lights of yellow sulfur glow
inside, sighs for absent arms and circumstance,
shop worn patience still serviceable

I'm here, dear smithpeter
to bend your ear and rhyme,
try to still the stones
a'tumbling in my mind
churning dust from their collision
fragments missiles shot about
and in all this fury of erosion
the bastards not ground down

but slowing now that I've entered your presence,
the echoes of their non elastic impact
carry shrapnel to rattle down
to gravel banks of pay then sifted
for one shining gem
the labor's quite extensive,
rewards an elusive thing
and silence lies somewhere in the future
after the treasures found
dust settles wit no sound

reads and reads again, tumbling through words and images, feeling that ghost kiss of dust as it settles... extraordinary

I'm going to rent a billboard
in every Country, city and town
and emblazoned there will be
'What all men should know
is every time you deliberately
hurt a woman with words
a little bit of love dies
and will never come back again'.

Hello sweet smithpeter,
I've unearthed you in my quest,
and like a shard of crockery revealed
cracked ancient glaze that stops labor,
invites introspection, wonder,
saved for another day

I know I've been flighty
that the poems laid on your grave,
brighter than any flower in my garden,
give me pause to see how the years turned,
left me behind

I am like a spring unwound, smithpeter; all that tension/yearning, yes, still apt to wind at times, inadvertently. We all have our triggers, but still, what peace fills me now.

It's raw for a May day; rain as fine as grains of sand sifted over all as I walked the grounds, wished for the camera safe on the desk, images just stored in grey matter, slowly decaying with time. My hands were cold, face ruddy with the experience. Ku still dishabille, warm watching episodes of Game of Thrones, Ma'am in the kitchen with apples from the freezer, Paddy and I doing what dogs and men have done forever and ever, Amen.

And in this slice of grace, a can of gasoline for any new fire ant nests, thoughts drifted between the doctoring of the invaders and the sights between; there were dried cedar limbs we cut from the fence row, dried now, ready to collect and burn, a stop at the shop where the pup sniffed through the clutter while I looked for sockets to replace the truck mirror Ku damaged on the cherry tree, no damage there but the grass showed a skid mark moving away from it. I can only imagine Ku thinking as she spun away from the collision, "Oh shit!

A walk back to the garage, picked up the old red towel that I call my interactive leash, as long as it is in my hand he is on the other end. we made it all the way to the back of the garden before he tore a tiny piece loose and realized he was in a forbidden place. You would have laughed seeing him running hellafast to the safety of the rocks surrounding the Koi pond. Coffee must be ready by now. Goodbye for now smithpeter, smile for us.

Aphrodite, Draped in Tubes

That half-shell was enticing—
your well-placed hands
and careful hair redacting

the triggers we men trip on
navigating the slope
and rise of women's bodies.

And now these tubes.
Forgive me, dear, but nothing changes.
Your body is still your body,

your mind your mind and
while I can still see your form even through these tubes,
however murkily,

you cannot hide your thoughts from me
unless you fall silent.
Your silence is how beauty leaves my life.

I want to break things
right now
10:42 pm

I want to walk out to the shed
pick up the fucking sledge hammer
and swing the fucker
smash the side window
dent the shed
I want to tear into the car
scream my rage
swing until cyanosis
kisses my lips blue

and all that's left
is raw
and ragged
and exposed

until the cold winter air
is the only thing left to feel
until the sound of sirens

Gracious Dream

Fabulous love twists linen around
flesh creating plaited cords
bonded together and lengthened;
a lifetime worth lingering over

Grace shines through glances
between two minds calmed
in the presence of this goodness;
a connection time strengthens

Tension in neck tendons when lips
seek the hollow between shoulder
and jaw or throat and breast;
a desire burning barriers to ash

Unwind those braids
Pull the cords taut
and tighten these ties
to bind flesh to flesh

Time holds no sway over need
Distance is only inconvenient
and gaps will be filled with life;
a dream woven into life's fabric.

.....

Acid reflux

"Am I too handsome for my height'"
Lewis would ask the faceless mannequin
as we tripped through the department store
and he swore they sometimes replied
and the answer was always "Yes".
Then out into the night and that
John Lee Hooker concert where
paranoia came on with the vulturine
ladies of the night hanging from the
first balcony and we had to get out
fast and did just in time to fade into
another night on the farm, before Ken's
pot field was ripped off, when we sat on the
roof watching the colours flash across
the heavens, waiting for the alien landing
that never came, although an intense Aurora
Borealis was noted the paper the next day
and finally that bizarre party at the university
press convention in Penticton, where everyone
was on acid, save for an older guy who was only
drunk and icicles ran up and down my spine as
he sat playing Moonlight Sonata on the piano,
"They always have Beethoven at church camps."
Then into the snowy night, where the lights of
planes coming in low over the lake made them
look a little like flying saucers, but
"We won't get fooled again."'

Later in the 70's, something happened and most
everyone got serious and went on to become
"doctors, and lawyers and business executives."
But no ticky-tacky for us, we went for luxury
German touring sedans and single malt
became the reality shield of choice.
But not everyone.

Tony died in a single car crash;
Tom whom I lost touch with after the
hash deal fell through, died while
sleeping in a house trailer fire;
Paul who used to play ragas on his
banjo just for fun was murdered
over another deal gone bad and
Lewis was institutionalized with
paranoid schizophrenia and was never
the same when he got out. I still accept
his ranting phone calls even though I have
call display and could let it ring. But I never
give him my ex-girlfriend's sister's phone number
cause I don't know it.

This hash about after reading Angie's "Acid Test" (Terza Rima) in GP's cliche challenge (which I was unable to join) and .........

Socialist Realism

I know I should praise your hips—
that way you look in snug jeans
walking away from me, recognizing
it is only a ploy to focus my attention,
and that you will eventually turn around.

Or let me hail the soft shelf of your breasts,
how they hold a line any architect
would admire, a perfect cantilever,
not needing even my eager palms
to (gently, gently) hold them up.

What it really comes to is this—
how we would talk if finally together,
over coffee or wine, me focused
on your words, on your thought
even more than your eyes, though

forgive me if I mention your knees
in our discussion of the dialectic;
their perfection has no antithesis,
and they so aptly codify materialism.

needs on a hot hot day

i find myself in need
of more than one interpretation of need
hunger fed by the devouring
the clamouring of heated blood for more
silk and stone beneath my fingers and lips
stone brought to life by the brush of damp breath
and still
all this
i still am in need
of solitude
a temporary, intermittent necessity
the quality of not being so loudly connected
to the humanity of others
of feeling their needs and desires
the noise of their thoughts
the weight of my responsibility towards them

in cool shade and shallow streams i find respite
draw breath knowing i am not needed by the grass to grow
or the air to cross the skies
that the deer has no need of my input or the worm
in its damp tunnel
the bird to fly or sun to shine
i am
there
but my presence is as much and as little as a fly's
i do not need to give
and so am replenished
ready to give again
to immerse myself in people

he is the only.
comes closest.
the balancing point between two sets of mind
the calmness he emanates
so akin to the boon of nature
the turbulence
though
full-on humanity
today there is no turbulence
only a conflict of my hungers

:reminds oneself to check in case of a double post: duh

Denny

I always write live
When I die my brain will quit
Until that time I'll dream of a tit

I see this thread began in 2002
How did it live this long?
For sure I'm no poet so I think I'm through
I'll sit here dreaming of big boobs as I stroke my dong

The words won't come
So I'll end with a high five.
It's embarrassing that I did this live

Isn't it just?

Sunglasses

Yellow lenses
turn the blues
to melancholy,
though I still
cry, cry, cry baby
I'm so over you

Ever fond of forms, I found Piscator's mention of the "Golden Shovel" poem an interesting concept. Here's a slapdash try (though following the original idea of using a line from a Gwendolyn Brooks poem rather than P's modification):

Source poem: "An Aspect of Love, Alive in the Ice and Fire" from Blacks.

After Watching a Romantic Movie

I wore the underwear
you forgot to take from our apartment,

in an attempt to remember
how your body felt next to mine.

But the knickers didn't fit, so I twisted
the cap off that bottle

of Four Roses your drunk brother
left here years ago.

Drank it all down,
and made sure I didn't feed your cat.