Discipline

Bull’s Eye

drunk alone through the eye of a straw
swallowed it's piquant burn
taste fire and brimstone
as ash drops from the glowing white coil
of breakfast
whiskey-laced coffee and nicotine

admit that you want to confess your addictions
but the mouth won't move
a walking billboard sign
through the betrayal of neurons
the stutter twitch

the tick

the tick

the tick

that tocks to it's off set gyroscope rhythm
a cadence that unsettles the heart beat
rhythm
and theres a rhythm to the repeats
repeated
in their insane spiral

and how do we know how we would deal with you and your
schemes predicated to the end of rambled words
that draw slick as a gunslinger
aiming with eyes closed
at moving targets

all the hallmark greetings in the world
don't give enough to stop

emotions are her skin
the whole world affects her
so deep she is not art for arts sake
but a living embodiment of art

beauty, love, pain
and a shade of every variable in between

sometimes so raw
in the hurt that looking on
you feel like an intruder,

but it's so beautiful
you can't help
but take some of it with you.*

Enchanted at first sight
the way the sun winked
in reflection
danced to the churning, rhythmic poetry
that filled my ears
and still echoes
while the horizon beckoned me
to explore its breadth
barely hinting at hidden depths

As it lapped at my toes
I knew the danger of drowning
the receding waves a crooking finger
tempted me to come closer
until my feet lost ground
I was embraced
and carried away

In this endless ocean
that could swallow me whole
I surfed the giant swells
floated on gentle waves
swam through sudden storms
dove deep down to marvel at secrets held
below the surface
a chaos of life and color
and the profound darkness of the deepest realms

I let it take me
pull me down into a world of fractured light
hold me while I fought fear
my lungs burning for air
until I surrendered
to the pain
to the freedom
and learned to breathe under water




I haven't been around much, and didn't see an obvious place for this, so thought I'd pull this thread out off a dusty shelf.

It was not Death, for I stood up, (355)
BY EMILY DICKINSON

It was not Death, for I stood up,
And all the Dead, lie down -
It was not Night, for all the Bells
Put out their Tongues, for Noon.

It was not Frost, for on my Flesh
I felt Siroccos - crawl -
Nor Fire - for just my marble feet
Could keep a Chancel, cool -

And yet, it tasted, like them all,
The Figures I have seen
Set orderly, for Burial
Reminded me, of mine -

As if my life were shaven,
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key,
And ’twas like Midnight, some -

When everything that ticked - has stopped -
And space stares - all around -
Or Grisly frosts - first Autumn morns,
Repeal the Beating Ground -

But most, like Chaos - Stopless - cool -
Without a Chance, or spar -
Or even a Report of Land -
To justify - Despair.

Bumpity

Email from Christ

God's revelation,
until I looked carefully
an extra 'i' at the end,
Christi not Christ and
she'd been waiting at home for
long weeks, with no, well you know
exactly what she's
talking about and she had
some photos for me before
I clicked the delete button.


Started as a haiku, then tanka but just kept on going

Science

Here's the thing about love:

This other body is new to me
and I want to explore

it like I am walking the surface
of another planet.

As I am a scientist,
I want to stroke this outcrop,

run my gloved hand along
this interesting crevice.

That this moon whose surface
I cautiously traverse trembles

as I investigate
its hollows and seas,

it reminds me to be sure of
my magnetic boots, my ship's tether.

Without them I might be lost
and drifting, loose over this perfect, tender world.

Love

I lift your weight
onto my hips

and settle my loins
inside of your body. This

movement is life, or what will become
life,

randomly, if my seed finds
your egg.

Natural selection or, perhaps, sexual
selection explains

how I so claw at your smooth skin
even as you open yourself to me.

How desperate are my genes
to join with yours

I cannot honestly complete this poem,
given its clearly false title.

Tzara said:

Love

I cannot honestly complete this poem,
given its clearly false title.

Click to expand...

how true is the man
who catches himself
corrects himself
and walks away
fertilization, imminent
lest he twist deeper
into the lie that is love
and the tail of the poem
swallow its head!

No need to fret
just start a new thread-
call it Lust
go wild.

Poem Ironically Rejected by Salon

My hair's too long. It falls about my ears.
It's messy and it's difficult to train,
And so I long for swift return of shears.

A stylist's what I need, but there's the fear
They're out of practice. Should I then abstain?
My hair's too long and falls about my ears.

I don't maintain this distancing's not fair,
For Public Health's outside of my domain—
But I so long for swift return of shears,

They're prominently featured in my prayers.
The Governor, I'm sure, is under strain
With too-long hair that overflows his ears,

But aren't we being just a bit austere?
I have to paste mine down with urethane!
And I so long for swift return of shears,

The clipper sounding Music of the Spheres,
A haircut bringing cheers and chilled champagne;
Oh, how I miss the crisp, swift churn of shears
And hair not long nor covering my ears.





Um, yes, I am a little bored. Why do you ask?

Transience

Headed out early this morning walking
the dogs with a blue sky overhead but
a bank of cumulonimbus clouds building
to the northwest with a faint shard of a
rainbow base hanging on that horizon.
By the end of our walk, the clouds
had moved east and we returned
home in a light sun-shower.

He came to bed late, settled in next
to her and in the morning
left only his mortal remains.

Fishing with Dad

Mostly they are good memories of rising early
in the morning and heading to the foothills.
I’d fish near the car, while Dad went off to fish
coming back with a basket full of trout.
One time at the Kananaskis beaver ponds,
he returned early because he’d lost his
glasses when he’d disturbed a beehive.
When we went back to look for them,
the bees were still mad and we had to run
but never found his glasses. Another time, I
I played peek-a-boo with a young otter
until his mother called him back.

Then we’d head back home, often stopping at
the Cremona Hotel, where he’d buy me a pop
and chocolate bar and I’d wait in the car, while
he went inside for a beer before driving home.

A few years later, I had my own waders, a new
fishing rod and the Zebco reel, I’d saved months for.
I would fish upstream, while he’d walk downstream
before turning upstream to fish, catching up with me
in a couple hours, always with more and bigger fish.
Once on the Fallen Timber, he met me on a deep pool
where I’d raised a big brook trout and we spent about
ten minutes teasing that fish to no avail and
again I ended up waiting outside the Cremona Hotel.

A year or two later, a glorious Indian Summer day
I headed upstream as usual and caught some good trout.
Around dusk, Dad hadn’t joined me, so I hiked up to the road
and walked back towards the car, to meet him driving up the road.
This time, I had more and bigger fish. Nothing was said
but that night, we didn’t stop at the Cremona Hotel

________________________________________________________________________________________

It's Father's Day today and although he passed more than ten years ago, he's still part of my story.

This piece was triggered byTod's piece in his "I have some blood in my alcohol stream" thread.
While the stories are different, both reflect on coming to terms, or not coming to terms, with a father with an alcohol problem.

todski28 said:

drunk alone through the eye of a straw
swallowed it's piquant burn <snip>

Click to expand...

This is fabulous! May I read it aloud in the Hear It thread?

champagne1982 said:

This is fabulous! May I read it aloud in the Hear It thread?

Click to expand...

Help yourself, I appreciate that you would want to read anything of mine, one condition, any ideas on a title?

todski28 said:

Help yourself, I appreciate that you would want to read anything of mine, one condition, any ideas on a title?

Click to expand...

How about Bull's Eye?

champagne1982 said:

How about Bull's Eye?

Click to expand...

I’ll edit it in now, it’s less wordy than my normal troupes so brevity for the win

Piscator said:

Fishing with Dad

________________________________________________________________________________________

It's Father's Day today and although he passed more than ten years ago, he's still part of my story.

This piece was triggered byTod's piece in his "I have some blood in my alcohol stream" thread.
While the stories are different, both reflect on coming to terms, or not coming to terms, with a father with an alcohol problem.

Click to expand...

I must have been lost in la,la land to have not seen this write, your story in this is strong and evocative, bringing back some memories of my father that are a lot more “normal” than for the most part, there was a connection in the doing despite the rest, if it wasn’t for writing I don’t know if I’d have been able to recognise or reconcile the violence and the normality.

And now I want to write something about fishing and such, thanks for the rod and reel

todski28 said:

I’ll edit it in now, it’s less wordy than my normal troupes so brevity for the win

Click to expand...

It's done and posted now. Thank you for letting me explore your words with my interpretation. It's always an honour, not to mention fun.

todski28 said:

I must have been lost in la,la land to have not seen this write, your story in this is strong and evocative, bringing back some memories of my father that are a lot more “normal” than for the most part, there was a connection in the doing despite the rest, if it wasn’t for writing I don’t know if I’d have been able to recognise or reconcile the violence and the normality.

And now I want to write something about fishing and such, thanks for the rod and reel

Click to expand...

Thanks Tod - tight lines. And I guess that applies to fishing too.

Poem for Carolyn,
Imagined as a Roman Statue

We now are both old, but
your body is still lovely.

Even in its infirm curves,
I can recall your younger self—

You were so beautiful
I would have bound my soul

Into servitude just to enjoy
An afternoon with you, unclothed,

Even if that meant I only looked
At you like a sculpture

Of some nymph or perfect being.
That you were real only meant

The agony in my hands, not
Being allowed to touch you, stroke

Your perfect thighs, meant
I thought of your skin as marble,

Chiseled smooth by a master sculptor,
Too delicate and perfect for my touch.

Now that age has finally weathered
The burnished stone of that monument,

Your body, may I, supplicant, at last approach
And touch you as in worship, or duty,

Or in some kind of devotion like love,
And have you at least remain calm, indifferent

To my touch, as if a fly had landed,
unnoticed, on your bare shoulder?

Thread Count

When times were, we good indulged
and bought Egyptian cotton sheets
with a thread count over five hundred
which you said qualified as luxurious
and who was I too argue as we fucked
like rabid rabbits through night and day.

But now with hard times, although
the count is still high, like us
the threads look a
little frayed.

I don't know where else to put this. I'm angry because I should just get to be sad, or solemn, or quietly celebrating an amazing life. And yet...


I do think that I was born under a very bright star

Requisite struggle for needed change:
until it self replicates; have you ever watched
the process of crystalization? perfection
happening from, begat by, imperfection!

Because order will always arise from chaos
and it's adherent's ultimately self
destructive nature which
eschews the common sense of
return, by embracing empty disruption for it's own sake.

Get thee behind me Satan!
instead, like Peter, you savor the things of man, a genius
not aware of the patterns you create
sure only of short term victory with your devil's
bargain. Against all kindness, or sense, against
everything you would claim you hold up to the light
running this ship aground
gambling for Christ's clothes with other's money in failed casinos.

Exercise: Amphibrachic Dimeter

Explaining his longing
Was like a confession—
He thought of her body
As heavenly, cloudlike,
Her flesh evanescent,

Her beauty as fleeting
As dawn's soft glow, rosy
And delicate, warming
And welcoming, wrapping
His spirit securely

But hardly forever,
For heat follows daybreak,
Emotion is burned off,
And nothing is left but
The stark light of day.

I always look
for your notes, stuck
like Post-Its

on my screen.
3M's famous semi-adhesive,
simply tacks

them where they can be blown away
by a sufficiently strong wind.
Which is why

I always watch how you respond
to my replies, if you do.
For we are just words

posted from different coasts,
as if somehow that meant
anything to you.