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Tathagata said:
It is no small thing
to answer the calling
when it comes.

Be it from cloth
or bottle
both demand subservience
to a higher power.

There will be sacrifices
( not all bloodless)
withdrawal from the normal life
to live beyond the mundane
touched by the grace
of the spirit
speaking in tongues
an intuitive grasp
of what lies
at the sidewalks end.

There are rituals to be preformed
endless prostrations
as we approach the altar
or the Men's room
The ringing of sacramental bells
or the rattling of ice cubes
both to claim the attention
of the deity du jour.

Whiskey has better music

God has exotic incense
and the women dress bright and tight and colorful

Jesus never made me
tip,sip and smack my lips
put match to Lucky Strike
and feel the stillness
of the void.

But he never made me throw up in my shoes either.
Click to expand...

Oh. Yes. :heart:
 
flat dark waters speared
by a greening of the reeds
as yellow-crystal bubbles slide
towards the paler grey
linger then break
like a fish's gasp
unheard by those behind flat glass
who yearn for brighter days
the lightness of a sudden smile
when sparkling scales break water
the softening of the year
 
Fingers poised
I gazed as bud unfurled,
a drop of dew
emerged,
those fingers flew
landing softly there

Just there....
you sighed.

I obliged.
 
butters said:
flat dark waters speared
by a greening of the reeds
as yellow-crystal bubbles slide
towards the paler grey
linger then break
like a fish's gasp
unheard by those behind flat glass
who yearn for brighter days
the lightness of a sudden smile
when sparkling scales break water
the softening of the year
Click to expand...
..
The surface is clear as yet
no algae rose from the depths where
it hid from the winter
reeds sleep in the mud
If I had a glass bottom bucket
I bet I could see
all the way to England

Young doves under the plum
a matched pair
waiting to lose their virginity
in warmer air, build a nest
coo for me in the evening
 
You need not eyes to see
A man
Nor hands to touch or stroke
His cheek

Slide them instead up into his hair
Cradle and gras[p it, dark locks on pale

Thumbs trace strong nose, eyes closed
Draw them
Broad brush-strokes, out and down
His face

We draw one another in the dark
We see each other before we part
 
The boys will all be there today
Mom will be happy as we pace the tiny rooms ignoring
the Irish Catholic elephants
that have lingered there
like dust bunnies
and the smell of frying liver
and onions
for years and years.

There will be beer and the retelling
of clannish tales
(with the mandatory embellishments)
laughter and Ma's lasagna
and pacing the rooms

This used to be the TV room
this my bedroom
and this and this..

Nostalgia as cloying
as a layered dessert
both just a trifle

And pacing the rooms

No one can sit still in one place
too long
lest the elephants notice
and come to rest
squarely in our laps.

It is quite a sight
us and the elephants
all doing Kinhin
weaving in and out of ever shrinking Irish Catholic rooms
wearing Noh masks.
 
We've all tried to explain
that no one eats
all the cookies and scones
cake, candy and other sweets she prepares
in the days before our gathering.

Even grand children are allowed only
a token sample,
things being what they are these days,
Sugar is bad, empty, the bearer of
all manner of scourges
and as we leave she tries to send all the leftovers home
in Ziploc bags.

Which end up
unopened
in the trash.

She insists she makes them for us,
But, in reality (at 80 years old),
she makes them
to confirm her existence
to remain relevant
to keep herself
intact.
 
Last edited:
Through wooden days we strive,
for moon-stormed nights we wait.
On a trickle of rhyme we survive,
with wooden cocks procreate.
 
Each morning I wait
while the ghosts in my coffee argue
over what they will haunt me with
today

I'm told that eventually
I will see them all
as neurosis,
little bothersome friends,
simple repetitive firing of synapses
and neurons.

I am also told
there are several stages and temptations to pass through
when I drop this body
to determine the tone of my next life.

It will be the sensual pleasure room that waylays me.

For the ghosts that come most often
are the restless atoms we exchanged
long ago
that buzz with memory
twitch with anticipation
wander my mind like lost children
looking again
for the touch of your hand.
 
Tathagata said:
Each morning I wait
while the ghosts in my coffee argue
over what they will haunt me with
today

I'm told that eventually
I will see them all
as neurosis,
little bothersome friends,
simple repetitive firing of synapses
and neurons.

I am also told
there are several stages and temptations to pass through
when I drop this body
to determine the tone of my next life.

It will be the sensual pleasure room that waylays me.

For the ghosts that come most often
are the restless atoms we exchanged
long ago
that buzz with memory
twitch with anticipation
wander my mind like lost children
looking again
for the touch of your hand.
Click to expand...

The ghosts in your coffee are seen as the ghosts
of past activites coming to present life before
your very eyes.

If your Karmic activites proceed in more enlightened ways
than self created in the days of yore
the ghosts of the past will be no more.

~ by Reality Girls on the distant shores ~
 
I am weary tonight and slow to write
doc files closed in disgust, all rusty now
that seemed sun bright not so long ago
jesus writhes on the cross again
high definition, wide screen
how many time does the son of a bitch have to die
before they'll let him rest
give me some peace
 
Take a breath, step back, remove those flannel sheets
even if
you shiver tomorrow night
dream about the sun in summer
hot nights, air on skin like water
heated exhalations on loins
the inferno of joining
all toasty now
 
a pm sent at the wrong time
can cause a double post, it's fine
I'll write it all away
 
Last edited:
I am world weary
of all the dances being done
with no conviction
no spirit no
sense of worship, joy
or awareness

Daily, weekly yearly
elections, holidays
funerals and birthdays
arid pretense
cow skulls in the desert
life is parched of anything
with meaning
sated at the snack bar
(they even have a TV)
distracted

there are songs and voices
now and then
from the innocent
wasted in showers and playrooms
always trapped, never thrown to the wind

I want to be a ghost in the forest
where each movement is conscious
has meaning
is attuned to it's surroundings

I will welcome the innocent there
and invite them to sing and dance
for my salvation
 
the gift of surprise

when first we crawl from the sea
gasp our first lungfuls of air
what first is given
is also taken away
as we're driven to our knees
flesh turned to lead
mind alive but trapped by gravity
foreheads pressed to wet sand
volatile and vulnerable
in humility
calling out for a god's protection
until we learn first to stand
then run
fear at our backs
walking the step we forgot to take
 
dammit - crawl implies already on hands and knees. maybe i should have used 'stumbled', or 'floundered' or even 'lumbered'. pfft

now i'm just annoying myself, as most of those feel wrong too. crawl it is and be damned.
 
Last edited:
he fits me
like my mattress on the bottom bunk
shaped by child-i
holding me just right
comforting
bespoke
each evening happily to bed
each morning reluctant to leave its warm embrace
he fits me
 
This is the part
where my lips cross the cusp
from stocking to thigh,
like I'm walking the distant tracks
where the train still passes by
at 2:00 a.m., heartbreaking as rain.
This is the same part
where your fingers twirl through grasses
and push me down
like there's a searchlight on us
scoping for our twining bodies.
Someone will be home in due time.
One of us should board that train.
 
Graf_Severin said:
This is the part
where my lips cross the cusp
from stocking to thigh,
like I'm walking the distant tracks
where the train still passes by
at 2:00 a.m., heartbreaking as rain.
This is the same part
where your fingers twirl through grasses
and push me down
like there's a searchlight on us
scoping for our twining bodies.
Someone will be home in due time.
One of us should board that train.
Click to expand...

Wow!

It wouldn't post the first time because Lit requires 5 letters, so..

Wow! Wow!
 
Last edited:
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