all of a sudden passion suddenly

JUDO said:

June Gloom

Waking early today, I find
After hours of being that my mind
Still drifts in hazy circles of grey.
Memes exchanging looks
But not numbers.

Another mystical morning
With a low lying coastal warning
Lending its mystery to treetops and chimneys.
The world steps with me
Adrift in the fog.

Out of the smoky dark
Resurface a face, a spark
Ten years gone with no eyelashes
Over acute oriental curves
That I once kissed and kissed again.

A woman called June
She and I never in tune
Down different paths we parted
Into impressions of what came
Waving bye-bye.

Out of the haze, not fears,
An iridescent pearl appears.

Click to expand...

Sweet surfer from a distant shore calls me
with her Pacific waves, a foamy blues
that soaks into the sand. Look here! I see
you reborn sister. Poetry renews
my faith in dear ones come to sing. Remain
my girl, and fill these pages up with jazz
that hoofs across the space of time's refrain,
untangling my faded smile for what has
been, for fallow words I have yet to write
well up in me to flow in tides of ink
when Judo's here and I am giddy, light
of heart, awash in happiness, a blink
of joy, the means to my iambic end
was here--my teacher, sonnet sister, friend.

careless poet

careless poet how dare you flex
words much less verbs, pumped
engorged and pressed,
against an overflowing breast

carelss poet how dare you flaunt
talent, your assets so freely abound
and phrases peppered with covert meanings,
meet me at ten, when the moon is still

careless poet how dare you paint
acceptance in garlands of words
and splash emotion with such abandon
let me be carelss and watch me spill

my words all over yours

Judo teaches Ange a sonnet
the words all woven in loose mesh
pentameter trims that bonnet
and metaphoric bows refresh
the soul that bends beneath
the crushing weight of rhyme.
How can we make it work this time
when The Bard has this to us bequeath'd?
Well, look now, deep in your thesaurus
there is a lighter bon mot within
the heart that beats inside us.
Fear not soul's payment for the sin
of playing with simpler words, unseeming,
for once done, naught be left but meaning.

champagne1982 said:

Judo teaches Ange a sonnet
the words all woven in loose mesh
pentameter trims that bonnet
and metaphoric bows refresh
the soul that bends beneath
the crushing weight of rhyme.
How can we make it work this time
when The Bard has this to us bequeath'd?
Well, look now, deep in your thesaurus
there is a lighter bon mot within
the heart that beats inside us.
Fear not soul's payment for the sin
of playing with simpler words, unseeming,
for once done, naught be left but meaning.

Click to expand...

Passed from pen to pen again our poet's craft
that measures words by rhythm's lyric muse
is singing in the poems of women, laughed
in whispered knowing of our wider truths.
Here we delight in daughters' open eyes
that never meet but understand how days
unwound in skeins of kitten joy, grew wise
with feline power. Sisters speak the ways
of flowers, swayed to grace upon a breeze
or drunk on hours underneath the moon,
swallowing storms of pain to live with ease
through countless sorrows. Mother Earth is hewn
of tender flesh stretched on the rock, this bone
of who we are, the core of what we've known.

it is this annd it is that
freshly laundered and clensed for the return home squeek your clean
behind her ears with a whisper
of only you
nothing else

with these time tripping Rubies and orchids

trading expectation with a mirror

give it as it comes baby give it as it comes

the one I wait for
watch for through the drapery of submissions
references and lists of links below their names
it does not matter when you come to me
my love, just come to me,

keys under tongue
passed between good luck lips
knowing you will bring on the release of metal
water
glass
before you emerge at the last moment

we survived this day
fingers twiddle thumbs
we wait
until their breath is no longer able to be held
and they swear
there is no way
you will find your way this time
this time


but you do, my breath
you alsways come to me
before the sway of depletion
you fill me

baby who rows this boat ashore
octopus arms carry us home
pacified
rocked
delivered
this dangerous longing

and I could sit here all night eyes closed writing to you
holding you in my mind, telekinetic twists to hold your angle
straight on
uuntikl morning
saying the same thing
like a child who mumbles nonsense to fight that nap, to fight the passing of another unit of life
I will write you
always my gypsy
thread loosens
letters bklow the breeze
never let go lover
words come down tomorrow
dont make me hold my breath
you know how I love
to hold my breath
for you

I don't wanna man with a slow hand
or a lover with an easy touch
as the Pointer Sisters sang.
I've had enough
of the soft spoken man
opening doors,
soppy and emotional in bed,
making love in candle lit rooms
over romantic and sensual tunes.

I wanna hear head banging music
that make me scream and shout,
have it up so loud, vibrations are felt
between my legs when the back of my head
is being slammed up against the headboard
getting fucked missionary
with legs over shoulders
as worked up sweat
drips in my eyes from my
manwhore's temples,

and I quiver and moan loudly
waking
mile away neighbors
when called his bitch
pulling my hair, forced to knees
thrusting from behind,
rigid and tense, I climax.

the stars fade...

the moon is barefoot
and jet entrails
emerge from the
womb of night
in lilac clouds
delivered by caeserian and
dressed as jasmine
wearing silver necklaces
in the hovering dawn.

the trees are plaid
above black underthings
on pinestraw gurneys
in line at
wild rose turnstiles
and maple bloodsugars wear deciduous uniforms and
clutch honeysuckle
binoculars
eyeing appleblossom
honeybees
coaxing jealous
photographs
from shudderless
images
meant to disappear
in the headlights
of ultraviolet
mornings.

low ceilings
with adequate visibility
all blown out to see,
offshore
beyond periscope
xrays
and tissued in
oxygen torpedos
washed up quite
to my
surprise
on mussel beds
and fields of
buried endeavors
forgotten like dreams
as the repetition signals
maps and legends
open to migration.

All of a sudden
passion is spring green
suddenly bursting the seams
of branches, lolling on the ground,
dandelions and buttercups
in a scattered palette
and no more frozen crabapples
forlorn on last year's skeletons
but blossoms sweet with a delicate
promise of fruit to bear

Big hands full of lilacs
barely budded. He arranges them
carefully in a vase on my desk.

I have a green thumb, you know

Lilacs for remembrance
of today and six bushes planted
with grandfather long ago. Petals
feel the same on the years
of my skin, planted in in me
that scent of fresh lilacs
on grandmother's bureau.

My Ange
(an acrostic Sonnet)

My Ange can set a fallow heart to tunes,
Yet neither eye nor ear it has for dance,
But in the light of her blue smile perchance
A pit to pat befits a song it croons.

Beat jazz, it's known, alights her tethered soul
Ere I can taste the rythmic, lightning bolt,
She leaps a thousand sighs to find the jolt -
A magic vibe to reach her wanted goal.

Where mind and heart know not which road to take
Our Princess' words make birds with flawless grace.
Now, we who listen soar to keep the pace
Down roads to follow dreams from Ange's wake.

Each one must choose a muse whose work inspires
Rich Ange's song may sooth my base desires.

Angeline said:

Passed from pen to pen again our poet's craft
that measures words by rhythm's lyric muse
is singing in the poems of women, laughed
in whispered knowing of our wider truths.
Here we delight in daughters' open eyes
that never meet but understand how days
unwound in skeins of kitten joy, grew wise
with feline power. Sisters speak the ways
of flowers, swayed to grace upon a breeze
or drunk on hours underneath the moon,
swallowing storms of pain to live with ease
through countless sorrows. Mother Earth is hewn
of tender flesh stretched on the rock, this bone
of who we are, the core of what we've known.

Click to expand...

you say
I need my rest
darling

but you know it it s not rest I need
no vacation from these images you paint
every other line left in the background taking me there far enough

you never know what will happen when we sit down to write
your carpet fringes may stain or become my rim
tongue ridged and shifting gears, automatic run with it

no sugar daddy
no sugar grand-daddy
those are your rules
only rules

but baby you know whose
sticky sweetness has settled down the back of my throat
cliding upside down gravity straight towards nasal
mm nothing better than smelling you from the inside


and you tell me sweetness you need your rest
lucky we have our own time zones because see see my playmate
you call me out
I am there

speaking writing in code
pressing my tongue
to the ridged roof
of my mouth as i strain
waiting for that
one perfect word to
roll on out
i don't pick up roget
when i'm here
so its never pretty
and oh so limited
but we both know what
it means when
i say
passion me baby
a just muse whos
starting little fires
all over...little pyro
lovin the heat
heating me up and
putting me out with
gasoline
my passion burns like
a mountain of tires
it just goes on
for weeks
months even
making cluods of black smoke that i
choke myself on.

we dream of silver clicks
on enamel
tapping out the morse code to capture that
bent over backwards
open throat
douse that just

feeds it more

multipliing
fishes loaves and hunger for more


smell your singe
we hide the alarms deep under pillow muffled like the cries face down we dont want to hear
protest nor warning
v chip baby telling us to

sleep

black billow clouds steal breath
we choke in the smoke
fall down on our knees
crawl to the clear

but we catch fire before
we are safe

safe

what is that really?
where do we go?

I can tell you baby, sometimes
it is safer where you are
curled here
tucked under my chin

if not, at least we'll
burn together

but he likes a slow burn
a constant glow that grows
with every shot of O
the black smoke
and black blood
i'll suxck right up without
a worry
i had this disease
before you wrere born baby
you just might be my
anti venom
my comfort nitche
not some notch
on my 17.5 viewable

friday morning instant coffe
intant poetry motherfucker
spat out by numb fingertips
and dumb figments
of an ill fated imagination

still clinging to the last fleeing fragments
of another dimesion
of cut up logic and timelines
in a blender

wow
what a bender
to shut the lids and recap
the freaky funked out screenplay
that was my world
cut by plot twisting cutcut
mere minutes ago
and I wonder

am I really
Tarantino enough
to be attempting that
kind of cult status direction
even on my own
ever so private
silver screen

hot spiced liar

quentins got nothing on you
turn the dial to frappe
rough ice edgex becoms smooth and
we drink it down

morning delicious chock with vitamin yes
did I mention
hot spiced liar
thank you

he takes his words on a loose leash
drops
"Heel"
from the list of commands

they circle and nip my ankles into a dance
down the rain puddle sidewalk

we come in quarters
folded into squares
sunny side up

she smacks fingers that long for the turn,
for the painful curiosity to be eased,

to be the one who gets to read the inscription
on the inside folds of the greeting card

chica chica
smile pretty girl
look at the pretty cover art
lick your plate clean
you have had your fill
of his insides

babes in boyland

can johnny come out to play

no

can johnny come out to play

no


can jphnny come out to play please


no


no



no


please


okay okay okay

f i n a l l y




but no
satisfaction extinguished
he blurrrrrrrrrs past with a highfiveseeyalater girlfriend
and knocks on the neighbor door
with a can jimmy come out to play

leaves me kickin down the sidewalk
selling my wares to the next john
dick
harry
there is always someone to play

or pass the toys to over the fence
cheering john and jim in their pursuits of happioness
in the boys only game

maybe they will let me in
if I bring

loves
baby
soft
bonie
bell
glitter
lotion
mamas
make
up
holly
hobby
training
bra
patent
leather
shoe
full satin slip
confirmation
white

let them lift the shirts
show them what is missing
show them what god pulled from me
to make them grow

all my holes that can be filled

lift the skirts
taunt them from their jars of bugs
buried alive down the hole to china

they dig their way
to where babies come from

come play come play
boys will be girls and girls will be boys
we trade parts
they build me sticks and stones
run for home in the game of compromise
swallowed whole

Last night frappe splash
on the parking lot in a buggy film,
hapless victim of a pre
Little League error

I visualized that moment,
your kindness meter
hovering between willingness
and irritation, the curve
of your spine weighted
with impromptu cappuchino
runs, skateboard pick ups
and weary guitar tunings

Tomorrow we'll be
harborside, twisting our toes
past beached lobster boats,
gulping sunshine.

Reality comes crashing down,
Time, and time again,
A fire, burning the past to cinders,
A flood, washing away memories.

But these are just things,
Bits and pieces of the past,
Nothing compared to what is lost
To the maelstrom of a simple phrase...

"I never loved you."

The happy wag of a shaggy tail,
Outstretched arms of a smiling child,
This is love, Unconditional,
Not malice, fear, anger and finally regret.

Passion is extinguished, the flames
Die in a flood of tears.
The coals grow soggy, repeated rains
Relieving the pain of being reignited

The fuel is spent,
The tank finally dry,
Irony found in belief, or rather,
Disbelief.

So eager was the doubt,
So intent and so intense,
That it could not work,
It would not be.

Too attached to that, too accepting of it,
To release it and accept Love.
One fought for, another fought against,
Finally bitterness wins, and everyone loses.

Serenity comes from acceptance,
Of belief that you do what you can,
Wisdom comes from the realization,
The only way to win, is to choose not to fight.

And as the cover closes on another chapter of life's book,
This reader sheds a tear and smiles,
Knowing he did what he could, and tried,
Happy for a momentary glimpse of bliss.

traffic is backed up
slow crawl all the way
everyone heading out

I hurry up and wait while noon day
express-way, flies by
got to have two to a car
to earn those wings

but I don't mind
don't mind at all

people in cars catch this eye
different faces, just like
coffee houses in bookstores
eavsdropping at it's best

up in front is a cruel blonde
stomping on breaks, murdering
reality under her sharp heel

next car over has a punk
smoking up his, planting
cancer gardens way too early

behind is cardiac arrest
waiting to happen
red and honking his horn

me, I have my kit in the front seat
gloves, bandages, pocket mask
ready for whatever ails or dies on I-5

I loved Shirley.
When she giggled,
her nose wrinkled. She couldn't
see worth a damn
without her Coke-bottle glasses,
but she had eyes like caramel
and thick black lashes. She cut
my hair once in the salon chair
by the sink in her basement,
and we listened to the Beatles
sing There's a Place Where I
Can Go. It was all so normal

like everything is seemingly
normal until the universe sneezed
and Shirley caught the cold.
A week later her mother said
She can't move her legs,
and I visited the isolation ward
at Saint Francis Hospital.

I had to wear a gown and mask,
my hair under a surgical cap, even
my feet in shoe covers. I looked
as if I could operate on Shirley.
I would have if it could have
helped, if anyone knew
what was wrong. They didn't

anyway Shirley just looked
like herself but with legs
that wouldn't move. She could still smile
then. No one knew what was wrong,
so we watched while she just ebbied away,
each day a little less able
to reach past wherever she was
to our lives that held her hands,
gave her backrubs, played her Beatle songs.

We all talked to her as if
she never left, as if there were something
more behind those burnt sugar eyes
staring, sometimes tears rolling
down her face and I'd say Don't
cry, Shirley, but I think she cried
my tears because those were dry days
for me, those were stone years
when I only watched the mirror
of my sadness projected
on other peoples' eyes.

Shirley's mother was afraid
to tell me that she died
because it was the same day
you did. I wanted to hold her hands
again, sing If You Wear Red Tonight.

Instead I got to wear my black dress
twice that week or was it three times?
Her mother said you came to take her
because you are an angel, but I
wasn't listening to. I was sitting
on a plank bench on her roof,
sitting in her father's little grape arbor
above the house on Division Street
where the sun shone on tar paper
and our thin voices flew away
on summer morning's breeze.

Wild Holly grows up thru
Rusty engines
With Poison Ivy in vines
Wrapped around steering wheels,
Embossed with a varnished Indian-
And seized up since spring-- 59.

Mandolins and hayforks lean
On wheelbarrow porches,
The bog now become soft clay,
Underfoot and
Leading to the
L and Barn, where the trail
Will again turn to Granite
In the season when the Blueberries are high
And we retrace our steps and mark maps-

Come November,
Come the squalls from over the ridge-
Come the wildoats
And the ocean again-
Getting nearer every year.

passion
passive it isn't
whittling away
carving a hole
through bone
make myself
at home
in the big black hole
in you.