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Sara Crewe



sara crewe


s-a-r-a

c
r
e
w
e



a name to remember


the imagery of the metaphors as haunting as my dreams
 
paper poppies
stiff
waxen
fitting - i suppose
since they bear
as small resemblance
to the living blossom
as a corpse does
to the animate flesh
i wish
remembrance
was more like the the marvelling at tissue-petals
lustrous black eyes
movement
and momentum
the flush
of colour caught in the living flesh
pressed fierce
to my heart
 
another leaf
drops
in bright sunlight
it shines
upon the gentle breeze
it sails

peculiar to itself
in line
and color
and size

a marvel to behold
in it's too brief flight
as autumn once more takes
it's inevitable toll
 
sophieloves said:
bijou!

*** really nice things ***

HOW DO YOU DO THAT????????????
Click to expand...

Shucks. Thanks. And to you also, DA.

My best daydream would be that someone will read this and actually make that painting or photograph so I could see it. I just talk about what I wish I could see.

Any visual artists around here that want to give it a shot?

bijou

aside: hi Sara! yay! nicetaseeya!
 
unpredictablebijou said:
Shucks. Thanks. And to you also, DA.

My best daydream would be that someone will read this and actually make that painting or photograph so I could see it. I just talk about what I wish I could see.

Any visual artists around here that want to give it a shot?

bijou

aside: hi Sara! yay! nicetaseeya!
Click to expand...


Backatacha fav jewel o' mine.


Aside: Thanks to Sophie and Cicatrix for readin' ma rusty writtins. :rose:
 
unpredictablebijou said:
Shucks. Thanks. And to you also, DA.

My best daydream would be that someone will read this and actually make that painting or photograph so I could see it. I just talk about what I wish I could see.

Any visual artists around here that want to give it a shot?

bijou

aside: hi Sara! yay! nicetaseeya!
Click to expand...

We don't need a visual artist you have already 'painted' it
 
UnderYourSpell said:
We don't need a visual artist you have already 'painted' it
Click to expand...

hardly fair. That means everyone can see it except me.

Writing live, just to stay on topic and all:

Avoid poets at all costs.
Do not be seduced by their ability
to describe you in epic focus
or name the parts of your body
for fruit and flowers.
The invasion of a poet
into a regular life
tinges it with brilliance and disaster.
Avoid the abstract, the prophetic.
Settle in with what is real and known,
when you settle down.
Yes. fuck god and philosophy on a Friday night
spend a shameful and experimental evening
with metaphor and hyperbole
but marry science, marry the rational.
Do not stay till morning
with poetry and art. You'll be trapped
forever in the vines of the surreal.
Beware. Love the middle ground,
not the dark or bright, not
the unnameable,
anything but that.
 
In the words of the song ...... "Don't fall in love with a dreamer" ... very temped to put "screamer" there ....
 
missing him

stood on a wire-grass slope
hand shields my eyes from the sun's glare
looking past the broken mooring posts
the crab-like shells of toppled, abandoned boats
out over the scabby plain
catch the briefest glimmer of
the water dragged away
the tides no longer bring you round this way

makes me wish i was horizon....
 
She rounded the corner
on someone else's dime
a one way street away
from brokenglass
An incidental save
 
The Corset

She found it after her Mother had passed
away, whilst wandering in her flat
mothballing like a catacomb.
Unsheathing its protective wrapper,
she laid it on the bed and removed
all traces of her ageing sexuality.
Tightening its straps made
her breasts swell like a tsunami,
the electricity inside her chest
nearly reach overload. She wanted
men to come and be fucked,
to envelope them in the coral
of her thighs, like a clownfish
which had found its shelter,
its identity.
 
Blesséd be your Christmas
Hold loved ones to your heart
Even Grandma after sprouts
And each resounding fart.
 
Paper cups, ruched
brown waxed paper,
little paper cups, fluted
and pressed around caramels,
chocolates, kirsch and almond.
A purple velvet box, beribboned
and a gold-edged lid that lifts
off in a cardboard whisper,
scents the air dark and sweet.

An oak box with ornate brass
hinges and a gold-stamped name.
A box filled with six oval soaps
the colors of autumn: dark green
gold and burnt orange, rich
with scent of amber, lavender
patchouli that faded over years
to spicy linger among postcards
and newspaper clipping, beads
and poems, a ticket stub.

A cedar box, varnished shiny,
the tiny gold lock opened
and the reddened bare wood
inside. The white Old Testament
painted with gold leaf. Tissue
thin pages and your photo
glued crooked on the cover.
 
murder and mayhem and mines by the roadside
bodyguards shooting civilians they drive by
just in case they may be up to something
these are some signs that the earth needs mending

elected officials won't pass basic health care
single moms work 2 jobs to get a small share
of that elusive American dream
life is obviously not what it seems

on the tv, in the movies
every one's so gay
who are the assholes promoting these lies
while life rips apart at the seams ?
 
I just noticed while swirling
swishing and spitting, to clean
turn and lift, Crane patented
so many nights unnoticed

how many more answers
have drifted by unobserved
as thoughts obscure observations,
too busy to notice life's details

auto pilot, off to work
fuck the crystals, clear the windshield
obliterate uniqueness, another day
to buckle under to the ordinary

Slow down ! Smell. See. Absorb.
Inundate in everyness !
Relish in the chill as you shiver
from top to tail. Shake yourself

into being. This moment matters
if you can be here. Never again
will you be here. The end
is unpredictable. Pay attention
 
at first
you learn to pause
seeing it all pass
a procession of beauty
disintegrating
moments like lemmings
always following each other
over the cliff

no stemming the tide
finger in the dike
the film burns and blots
when you freeze an image

drift along
beside the cavalcade
to move at the same speed
ensures a clear view
even when falling
into the unknown

the beauty in a flower
is the knowledge
of it's impermanence

such is life
such is life
 
U-35 and I-26

her shoulders talk
about fragility,
fluttering moth
in the cold; i am wearing only
indifference to the past.

when all the clothes are gone,
you can't get more naked.

what's important, in the dark?

it's not her nudity,
not the skin she calls tired,
not the veins, not the mole,
not the breasts
she's afraid i'll see.
it's the smile.

this is what calls me to passion.
this smile and smell of her,
herbgarden i thought i'd left
behind the swings, in the park,
freedom i didn't know from handcuffs
soft powder snow.

she is so almost;
slight fancy, thin streak
of please in the moonlight.
i've seen more than this woman
scared back to sixteen.

call these few wrinkles creases.
call this skin parchment.
call these veins blue highways,
I will make her a map I have unfolded
to find us both back home.
 
whose hand has sown
these gentian root thoughts
in the fallow fields of
my everyday equanimity

my every day equanimity
a frail and perishable thing
subject to seasonal law
walking the embracive circle

walking the embracive circle
wither to seed to flower
cling neither to harvest or famine
these thoughts too shall pass
 
It was daring back then
Untied from the penumbra
Left lone to calculate infinity
Your breasts were taut with alabaster
And you were silent when your blouse opened
I thought back then you launched 1000 ships
And that I was at the bow fighting the sea
I left you like that,
Unfinished, and perfectly complete
Haunted and diffuse
Untouchable as irony
In drowning umbrage
I did what I ought
And left...
 
Chaplain Jack

he a walking triptych
three lives lived
in some 60 years
layers that shift
dust that never settles and motes
phantoms dancing
always the war
where he spoke the required words
over ruined remnants of men
his words of comfort
and salvation
a dirge accompanied by
arterial spurts
pleas of forgiveness
in their final moments
no one wanted Jesus
they begged for mama
and home

he finished the benediction
into hundreds of dead eyes
eating hundreds of souls
hoping some how
he had placed them in Gods hands

he never dreams of mangled friends
doesn't see jungle or hear the taunts
it was the prayers he said
with no conviction
as pleading half faces
whispered burbled confessions
the sign of the cross
was useless
useless
and sometimes he thinks
the last thing those boys saw
was the doubt
on his face

this is his war
there is no end in sight
on Friday nights he calls a bingo game
at the American Legion

everyone says Jack is a great guy
 
Last edited:
Touch me
give it up, set me on fire
Feel me
burning up, ablaze with desire
Kiss me
can you feel it, this wanton need
Take me
do it now, don't make me plead

Touch me
give it up, I need you now
Feel me
burning up, I'll show you how
Kiss me
can you feel it, my sexual desire
Take me
do it now, bring me up higher
 
Last edited:
questions

what if
the paths we walk
braid back upon themselves
and all our lifetimes
entwine?

can we then leave messages
for ourselves
to find along the road
when next this way
we travel?

and what then
might we tell ourselves?
to be wary of the easy way?
to walk the path of righteousness?
to follow our bliss?

and upon discovery
of said communiqué
would we heed our own advice?
or dismiss it
for origins suspect in nature?

or, what if sage wisdom
no longer fits
the current world view?
can we then change
our view to fit the new?

or can we change the world
to fit wisdom we know
once answered ageless questions
and spun galaxies into cosmos
without end?

and would this be enough?
 
Syndra Lynn said:
what if
the paths we walk
braid back upon themselves
and all our lifetimes
entwine?

can we then leave messages
for ourselves
to find along the road
when next this way
we travel?

and what then
might we tell ourselves?
to be wary of the easy way?
to walk the path of righteousness?
to follow our bliss?

and upon discovery
of said communiqué
would we heed our own advice?
or dismiss it
for origins suspect in nature?

or, what if sage wisdom
no longer fits
the current world view?
can we then change
our view to fit the new?

or can we change the world
to fit wisdom we know
once answered ageless questions
and spun galaxies into cosmos
without end?

and would this be enough?
Click to expand...

I have enough wisdom
to know how little I have

;)
 
full moon in cancer crosses PMS

i am nothing

i don't deserve the nice gifts i received
i deserve nothing

i mean nothing

i am a spec of dust in a cosmos that swallows

swallow me! eat my pain
destroy my heart that it may no longer feel

why am i here when i do not exist?
 
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