Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone

Tathagata said:

Does that happen when you have your head up your ass??

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Syndra Lynn said:

Why I love my Husband


no matter how hot,
and sweaty tired
he’ll rise from the shade
and drive across town
in the grueling heat
to help his sister
because she’s his sister

then still find strength to kneel
between my thighs
and worship there
till I find religion,
scream his name
then he spoons me close
and pets my hair

when I stood shamed,
exposed,
wearing my big red A
and townsfolk gathered
to toss their stones
he held them back,
knelt beside me,
took my hands in his
and said, “Please come home.”

Yet still he has the courage
to let me explore,
search my soul
take spiritual retreats
live my own life,
discover myself

his heart is true
after 20 years
he still holds my hand
takes me to Yosemite
for my birthday
cares for me when I’m sick
pays bills without complaint
he’s my best friend
What’s not to love?

Click to expand...

Syndra Lynn said:

Why I love my Husband


no matter how hot,
and sweaty tired
he’ll rise from the shade
and drive across town
in the grueling heat
to help his sister
because she’s his sister

then still find strength to kneel
between my thighs
and worship there
till I find religion,
scream his name
then he spoons me close
and pets my hair

when I stood shamed,
exposed,
wearing my big red A
and townsfolk gathered
to toss their stones
he held them back,
knelt beside me,
took my hands in his
and said, “Please come home.”

Yet still he has the courage
to let me explore,
search my soul
take spiritual retreats
live my own life,
discover myself

his heart is true
after 20 years
he still holds my hand
takes me to Yosemite
for my birthday
cares for me when I’m sick
pays bills without complaint
he’s my best friend
What’s not to love?

Click to expand...

echoes_s said:

still working on this one, there is something in there....


ringlets of rebels push back
then race to trap your fingers
embellished tangled warps of whorl
twisted after spontaneous sex
sweat kissing steam, vaporizing

{{pulsing laughter painted and dripped
swaths of green meadows
cloud-shadows rippled the surface
sifting patterns of olive to darkest leaf
so like a boundless sea of trees}} take this out?

silver-grays and russet browns
in jungle slaked thistle of hair
tangy sharp taste, faintly seasoned
the forest glows in bonfire deep
long past a set sun in sauntered drink

teasing tides now heavy with sighs
wind-tossed limbs churn leisurely
moon weeps with smoldered release
a jagged silhouette against starry peaks
lulled to dreams curled into you
gibbously

Click to expand...

tarablackwood22 said:

tears and curses


chronic sighs hang heavy
in the air,
sad and wasted dreams, constant
as a circle, clear
as clean water,

carrying the hollow hopings
of the lonely
as they wait and barter,
the lost
who search for things that matter,
the loves
who’ve never found each other.

they can be heard
from men in sidewalk chairs
who watch, with folded arms,
a morning river
and its guttered wrappings,
from a weary woman
as she hobbles
with a noontime bag
of well-picked apples,
from the night-time diaries
on their bedroom shelvings
and from their hearts in prayers.

they will not stop,
those timeless rages
that reach the street
in tears and curses
as poignant as a crooked rose,
eternal as the sea,

with the daily bread
at evening tables
or in the lines
for soup or wages,
or in some funny twisting
as it passes
from the face of one
who homes among the benches,
those actions
whose only consequences
are mentions of parting
in the printed pages.

****************************

talking to pirates - new poem......please read.

Click to expand...

Syndra Lynn said:

Why I love my Husband


no matter how hot,
and sweaty tired
he’ll rise from the shade
and drive across town
in the grueling heat
to help his sister
because she’s his sister

then still find strength to kneel
between my thighs
and worship there
till I find religion,
scream his name
then he spoons me close
and pets my hair

when I stood shamed,
exposed,
wearing my big red A
and townsfolk gathered
to toss their stones
he held them back,
knelt beside me,
took my hands in his
and said, “Please come home.”

Yet still he has the courage
to let me explore,
search my soul
take spiritual retreats
live my own life,
discover myself

his heart is true
after 20 years
he still holds my hand
takes me to Yosemite
for my birthday
cares for me when I’m sick
pays bills without complaint
he’s my best friend
What’s not to love?

Click to expand...

tarablackwood22 said:

Like everything you write, Syn, it's heartfelt yet mature, never bending too far towards sentimental !

you wonder why I love him?


............if that's what California men are like, I'm moving!

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tarablackwood22 said:

what waits there he cares not, wild
like a madman’s dream
or soft as the prayer
of a woman in passion, asking
a man for his love.




sucking the dry breast of a sunset
on the edge of decision, ready
for orgasm, primed
for the street to force
climax
with a sudden and crushing kiss.

******************************* [/B]

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tarablackwood22 said:

COMMENTS and CRITIQUE of all sorts would be very welcome.....
something's still missing here......I think.....I'm too close to it now to tell!!

old poet on a street at sunset

the sparkling asphalt, winking
with water, the round and fading blaze
of pink and orange
are so vivid,
so alive to the senses, poignant toys
for lifetimes of senses.

ah!
he walks the street, tasting
its juvenile vulgarities, seared
by the scorch of a sun
that sinks with him,
leaves history behind, travels
dark to new places.

what waits there he cares not, wild
like a madman’s dream
or soft as the prayer
of a woman in passion, asking
a man for his love.

he falls, hears
the tutoring words of his father
as he struggles to his feet again,
that time he was taught
about manhood:

rise, son,
this is no day for dying.

he walks once more, in slowing pace,
past friends who fit in corners, dead
without death, past rat-race runners
varnished
with proverbs and polyurethane,
past common men, discussing
serious matter, nothing
that is not carved already
somewhere
on a caveman’s wall.

hat finely mated to his head,
his weary rear smacks a bench
and from his torn bag he feeds
hard bread to birds, shares
the little life that’s left, those crumbs
he brought with him
for them.

the script of larger poets has taken
his teeth, his hair,
now drains his veins in the name
of vainglorious dusk.

walk, son,
this is a day for living.

three-legged again,
through the tip of his cane, meter
to the earth’s pulse,
he knows that his words
were the rants of a fool, his penstrokes
sidewalk scribblings.

he tastes death on his lips, feels
his gravedigger’s sweat dripping, feeding
the beds of fresh flowers, sees
his life as Monet saw his cathedral,
through ever-changing light, different
each time, compelling
him to paint another,
another,
and another,

sucking the dry breast of a sunset
on the edge of decision, ready
for orgasm, primed
for the street to force
climax
with a sudden and crushing kiss.

*******************************

talking to pirates - new poem......please read.

Click to expand...

echoes_s said:

ringlets of rebels push back
then race to trap your fingers
embellished tangled warps of whorl
twisted after spontaneous sex
sweat kissing steam, vaporizing

silver-grays and russet browns
in jungle slaked thistle of hair
tangy sharp taste, faintly seasoned
the forest glows in bonfire deep
long past a set sun in sauntered drink

teasing tides now heavy with sighs
wind-tossed limbs churn leisurely
moon weeps with smoldered release
a jagged silhouette against starry peaks
lulled to dreams curled into you
gibbously

Click to expand...

Syndra Lynn said:

The first stanza and these 2 are fucking beutiful to look at. I wish I could help with the dangling/unfinished pieces, but you are way outta my league, little Sister!

How does one help
the pretty poet
whose perfect pictures
flow in phrases fresh,
spill from her pen across the page
to dazzle, draw envy from the Witch?

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Syndra Lynn said:

I like the last 2 stanzas a lot. But I don't get this:

in jungle slaked thistle of hair

My mind is NOT coffee incduced, yet. That's the best I can do!

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echoes_s said:

does mine suck that bad its beyond help, or no one wants to respond?

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echoes_s said:

uhmm, talking about pubic hair, slick, sweaty, matted and tangled like a jungle of thickets...was thinking of calling this poem afterglow or something like that


so drop the first stanza also then?

Click to expand...

tarablackwood22 said:

COMMENTS and CRITIQUE of all sorts would be very welcome.....
something's still missing here......I think.....I'm too close to it now to tell!!

old poet on a street at sunset {{Maybe sunset poet?}}

the sparkling asphalt, winking
with water, the round and fading blaze
of pink and orange
are so vivid, {{ drop the "are"}}
so alive to the senses, poignant toys
for lifetimes of senses.

ah!
he walks the street, tasting
its juvenile vulgarities, seared
by the scorch of a sun
that sinks with him,
leaves history behind, travels
dark to new places.

what waits there he cares not, wild
like a madman’s dream
or soft as the prayer
of a woman in passion, asking
a man for his love.

he falls, hears
the tutoring words of his father
as he struggles to his feet again,
that time he was taught
about manhood:

rise, son,
this is no day for dying.

he walks once more, in slowing pace,
past friends who fit in corners, dead
without death, past rat-race runners
varnished
with proverbs and polyurethane,
past common men, discussing
serious matter, nothing
that is not carved already
somewhere
on a caveman’s wall.

hat finely mated to his head,
his weary rear smacks a bench {{rear kind of sticks out}}
and from his torn bag he feeds
hard bread to birds, shares
the little life that’s left, those crumbs
he brought with him
for them. {{ perhaps...to share?}}

the script of larger poets has taken
his teeth, his hair,
now drains his veins in the name
of vainglorious dusk.

walk, son,
this is a day for living.

three-legged again,
through the tip of his cane, meter
to the earth’s pulse,
he knows that his words
were the rants of a fool, his penstrokes
sidewalk scribblings.

he tastes death on his lips, feels
his gravedigger’s sweat dripping, feeding
the beds of fresh flowers, sees
his life as Monet saw his cathedral,
through ever-changing light, different
each time, compelling
him to paint another,
another,
and another,

sucking the dry breast of a sunset
on the edge of decision, ready
for orgasm, primed
for the street to force
climax
with a sudden and crushing kiss.

*******************************

talking to pirates - new poem......please read.

Click to expand...

Syndra Lynn said:

jungle slaked isn't working for me, but then I warned you I am reading before coffee. This afternoon that phrase could look pristine.

And, no, the first stanza needs work, but not beyond redemption. Leave it sit a while, then come back to look at it with fresh eyes.

I wish you had more confidence, my friend. If you could see your poetry through my eyes (after coffee ) you would see it and yourself as so beautiful and worthy!

Syn

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