not sure how many words
- Thread starter eagleyez
- Start date
TheRainMan
black & tan
- Joined
- Nov 15, 2005
- Posts
- 1,497
Angeline said:I put it in the wrong thread--long day, tired and clicked in the wrong place.
A wonderful weekend coming. Hang in there, Trenton.
TheRainMan
black & tan
- Joined
- Nov 15, 2005
- Posts
- 1,497
Nana’s Colored Angels
I recall oddities from grandmother’s house—
bits of banter at the sewing club,
the scattered rattle of teacups, the Times
piled higher than me. And her
glass angels. Their rainbow of goodness
glowed above the bay window. As a boy,
I thought they were too tiny and sad
to be important. They seemed to exist
in a chaos of crayon still life
like her bent knuckles, locked
in a limbo of a flightless pain. To her,
they were sentinels. She dusted them daily
with fingers as stiff as their wings
while the newspapers browned
to chronicle the death of her hands.
She wanted them pure, she said. Pure
and ready. They were
with her when she cried, watched
raindrops race down the dirty panes.
Day and night they stared outside,
waiting for God to call
from a vague heaven. That seemed silly
as I tumbled in freedom across the floor,
but I know now they would have shattered
without hope. They were as delicate
as her, held together by nothing more
than her wish to make them white.
I recall oddities from grandmother’s house—
bits of banter at the sewing club,
the scattered rattle of teacups, the Times
piled higher than me. And her
glass angels. Their rainbow of goodness
glowed above the bay window. As a boy,
I thought they were too tiny and sad
to be important. They seemed to exist
in a chaos of crayon still life
like her bent knuckles, locked
in a limbo of a flightless pain. To her,
they were sentinels. She dusted them daily
with fingers as stiff as their wings
while the newspapers browned
to chronicle the death of her hands.
She wanted them pure, she said. Pure
and ready. They were
with her when she cried, watched
raindrops race down the dirty panes.
Day and night they stared outside,
waiting for God to call
from a vague heaven. That seemed silly
as I tumbled in freedom across the floor,
but I know now they would have shattered
without hope. They were as delicate
as her, held together by nothing more
than her wish to make them white.
TheRainMan
black & tan
- Joined
- Nov 15, 2005
- Posts
- 1,497
eagleyez said:Delightful.
Well Done Rain Man, as are the previous narratives.
Thank you, eagleyez.
Happy holidays, you and yours.
TheRainMan
black & tan
- Joined
- Nov 15, 2005
- Posts
- 1,497
Questioning Immortality
He did brave deeds once, they say,
they kind that do not die.
Stormed shores, ate bullets
for breakfast. Look at his face,
got the scars and crazies to prove it.
That’s all distant now. Everything
is distant. He sits in a deep doorway
on Delancey, nursing crushed Marlboros
round. I wonder if he finds soul mates
way down there in his hands,
those butts ground down to stubs,
or just longs to fill his lungs
with a variant of survival, like everyone.
I’ve passed him in the morning forever,
every evening headed back
to my safe version of his bags. He
looks me in the eye without fail,
his mind waging perpetual war
with his tongue. He mumbles, crowding
with the rockslides that force him back
to silent shelter in his cave.
I’ve been working up the courage
to touch the boulders of his language.
I want to remind him of something
he may have forgotten sleeping
on cement, using the discarded breath
of others to stay alive. How it feels
to be young, in a feather bed at night
with a woman’s hair
spread yellow across your pillow
like the certainty of another sunrise.
I want to walk up to him like a son
and thank him for everything
and for this desire to speak,
for being patient enough to wait
until I was ready to talk
to the ghost of my weakness. Today,
the doorway was empty. I stood there,
long enough to shrink
for not saying what needed to be said
when I should have. Long enough
to feel him, pressed flat between
the sidewalk and a stranger’s heel.
He did brave deeds once, they say,
they kind that do not die.
Stormed shores, ate bullets
for breakfast. Look at his face,
got the scars and crazies to prove it.
That’s all distant now. Everything
is distant. He sits in a deep doorway
on Delancey, nursing crushed Marlboros
round. I wonder if he finds soul mates
way down there in his hands,
those butts ground down to stubs,
or just longs to fill his lungs
with a variant of survival, like everyone.
I’ve passed him in the morning forever,
every evening headed back
to my safe version of his bags. He
looks me in the eye without fail,
his mind waging perpetual war
with his tongue. He mumbles, crowding
with the rockslides that force him back
to silent shelter in his cave.
I’ve been working up the courage
to touch the boulders of his language.
I want to remind him of something
he may have forgotten sleeping
on cement, using the discarded breath
of others to stay alive. How it feels
to be young, in a feather bed at night
with a woman’s hair
spread yellow across your pillow
like the certainty of another sunrise.
I want to walk up to him like a son
and thank him for everything
and for this desire to speak,
for being patient enough to wait
until I was ready to talk
to the ghost of my weakness. Today,
the doorway was empty. I stood there,
long enough to shrink
for not saying what needed to be said
when I should have. Long enough
to feel him, pressed flat between
the sidewalk and a stranger’s heel.
BooMerengue
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Mar 15, 2002
- Posts
- 5,456
TheRainMan said:
Bravo! For what it's worth I think this is astounding! Thank you.
I have been silent for so long it's hard to remember to speak sometimes; I had to this time.
Boo
TheRainMan
black & tan
- Joined
- Nov 15, 2005
- Posts
- 1,497
Rybka said:
Boo and Rybka, thank you.
You are both too kind.
TheRainMan
black & tan
- Joined
- Nov 15, 2005
- Posts
- 1,497
Removed. Needs more work.
Last edited:
BooMerengue
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Mar 15, 2002
- Posts
- 5,456
oooops...
Last edited:
Her face reflected the light
around her but inside
she was empty, a set
of lines living alone
in a flurry of others
all headed down
in a silence that begged
for a scream. She is his
snowflake, dancing a ballet
staged against the grey,
a delicacy that invites
more than dissuades
his need to hold her,
even if it hastens her demise.
Just once is all I need
and once was all he had,
before she melted
into a tear that slid
between his fingers
and hit the ground.
around her but inside
she was empty, a set
of lines living alone
in a flurry of others
all headed down
in a silence that begged
for a scream. She is his
snowflake, dancing a ballet
staged against the grey,
a delicacy that invites
more than dissuades
his need to hold her,
even if it hastens her demise.
Just once is all I need
and once was all he had,
before she melted
into a tear that slid
between his fingers
and hit the ground.
TheRainMan
black & tan
- Joined
- Nov 15, 2005
- Posts
- 1,497
The streets turn blue in the meat locker
of March. A man moves, one
small squirm on the sidewalk. Stiffening
in preserve, not yet rotted. The coming
mouth of spring will judge his prime.
I see his grief and solitude
as he looks up a last time, St. Sebastian
frozen in his stare. It makes me think
he might be holy. I’m warm and tucked
behind a window, of course.
Like any form of worship, mine feeds
on my own safety. We Christians
prefer our Gods imperfect and distant,
touching the human side of providence
but not us. We like them on the hook,
spread. And I find a certain comfort
that his woolen crown is tight
and crooked on his head. I look
for seepage as I hold my hot cup,
imagine a time when I’m weak
and trembling and thorned,
and place the liquid to his lips.
Even as I stain the glass with yellow
breaths of cowardice, that lie
sounds more like truth than anything
I know. His eyes find me
with the secret of his suffering. It’s not
the ice sharp as iron pegs, not cement
that is his hanging wood.
It’s a town he dangles from, a woman
he loved that has forgotten him.
And I realize he’s dying
in the church where he was married.
Winter is his priest. I watch in silence
as we do, as another king
passes like a peasant. Nailed
to the cold arms of his big queen city.
of March. A man moves, one
small squirm on the sidewalk. Stiffening
in preserve, not yet rotted. The coming
mouth of spring will judge his prime.
I see his grief and solitude
as he looks up a last time, St. Sebastian
frozen in his stare. It makes me think
he might be holy. I’m warm and tucked
behind a window, of course.
Like any form of worship, mine feeds
on my own safety. We Christians
prefer our Gods imperfect and distant,
touching the human side of providence
but not us. We like them on the hook,
spread. And I find a certain comfort
that his woolen crown is tight
and crooked on his head. I look
for seepage as I hold my hot cup,
imagine a time when I’m weak
and trembling and thorned,
and place the liquid to his lips.
Even as I stain the glass with yellow
breaths of cowardice, that lie
sounds more like truth than anything
I know. His eyes find me
with the secret of his suffering. It’s not
the ice sharp as iron pegs, not cement
that is his hanging wood.
It’s a town he dangles from, a woman
he loved that has forgotten him.
And I realize he’s dying
in the church where he was married.
Winter is his priest. I watch in silence
as we do, as another king
passes like a peasant. Nailed
to the cold arms of his big queen city.
Last edited:
champagne1982
Dangerous Liaison
- Joined
- Aug 31, 2002
- Posts
- 7,671
those eyes peek
through the embered
twilight
heat exhausting
out of the flames
banked for the night
sleep soft with me and close
those windows
for only a short time
until the fire kindles
up from slumber
and the daylight
invites you to share
some time with me
in passing morning
warm in bed
through the embered
twilight
heat exhausting
out of the flames
banked for the night
sleep soft with me and close
those windows
for only a short time
until the fire kindles
up from slumber
and the daylight
invites you to share
some time with me
in passing morning
warm in bed
eagleyez
going up
- Joined
- Jan 11, 2003
- Posts
- 22,879
Icewipers chanked with cocktail cubes,
Me headed for meteor oil
Widnswept gray center lines,
Plumes of cryogenics
Lavender fingers as marquees-
Oven burnscar heals slow,
Pharmacies and Barber poles
Barely audible/visual
All smokeringed and postofficed
Delivering close shaves and
Sleeping giants.
Dark by four
2 x 2 in a headlamp dream
Eeking miniscule length to afternoons
Still birth mornings-
They come with a whispering thaw
Her hairblanket tickles my underear to hear.
Me headed for meteor oil
Widnswept gray center lines,
Plumes of cryogenics
Lavender fingers as marquees-
Oven burnscar heals slow,
Pharmacies and Barber poles
Barely audible/visual
All smokeringed and postofficed
Delivering close shaves and
Sleeping giants.
Dark by four
2 x 2 in a headlamp dream
Eeking miniscule length to afternoons
Still birth mornings-
They come with a whispering thaw
Her hairblanket tickles my underear to hear.
TheRainMan
black & tan
- Joined
- Nov 15, 2005
- Posts
- 1,497
A Heraldry of Hands
I’ve always been taken by women’s hands,
each with their own way of being
in history. But I’m untouched
by the ones satiny with birthrights
and a pinky raised for tea. I’m
never sure what to make of hands
like those, the purchased purity
as spotless as new linens,
lifelines like the seam
of untroubled glass. They are
so unlike hands of earned identity
that are more soul than skin,
that bear damage,
the blemishes and bends that say
earth is not a place of justice,
that wear a simple ring so well
union really does seem sacred. As a boy
I was fascinated by my grandmother’s,
how her hands were a human story
written at Hardscrabble Creek
in knobs and nicks, in slants
that spoke celery snaps of bones,
cottonfields and crazy days. I listened,
and they told me hands were made
before spades, and I could hear
the wail of slaves
as they dug with crooked fingers,
the sobs of mourners
muffled in palms as dirt was turned.
And too, I heard better times. Crackles
of ice they held in enough highballs
for her to miss a few trains and steps,
the secrets in the silky rub
of rented rooms. They said years
are pushed down hard by rain,
and in the mud I could tell
without looking at her face
how beautiful she must have been
in a storm. Her hands were clean
because she had wept on them so often,
and marked fields and flesh
with their chaste blood. I stared
until I wanted to grow up clutching
such beauty and scars to me,
closer than any love or tattoo.
***********
all is well, Boo.
I’ve always been taken by women’s hands,
each with their own way of being
in history. But I’m untouched
by the ones satiny with birthrights
and a pinky raised for tea. I’m
never sure what to make of hands
like those, the purchased purity
as spotless as new linens,
lifelines like the seam
of untroubled glass. They are
so unlike hands of earned identity
that are more soul than skin,
that bear damage,
the blemishes and bends that say
earth is not a place of justice,
that wear a simple ring so well
union really does seem sacred. As a boy
I was fascinated by my grandmother’s,
how her hands were a human story
written at Hardscrabble Creek
in knobs and nicks, in slants
that spoke celery snaps of bones,
cottonfields and crazy days. I listened,
and they told me hands were made
before spades, and I could hear
the wail of slaves
as they dug with crooked fingers,
the sobs of mourners
muffled in palms as dirt was turned.
And too, I heard better times. Crackles
of ice they held in enough highballs
for her to miss a few trains and steps,
the secrets in the silky rub
of rented rooms. They said years
are pushed down hard by rain,
and in the mud I could tell
without looking at her face
how beautiful she must have been
in a storm. Her hands were clean
because she had wept on them so often,
and marked fields and flesh
with their chaste blood. I stared
until I wanted to grow up clutching
such beauty and scars to me,
closer than any love or tattoo.
***********
all is well, Boo.
BooMerengue
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Mar 15, 2002
- Posts
- 5,456
TheRainMan said:I’ve always been taken by women’s hands,
each with their own way of being
in history. But I’m untouched
by the ones satiny with birthrights
and a pinky raised for tea. I’m
never sure what to make of hands
like those, the purchased purity
as spotless as new linens,
lifelines like the seam
of untroubled glass. They are
so unlike hands of earned identity
that are more soul than skin,
that bear damage,
the blemishes and bends that say
earth is not a place of justice,
that wear a simple ring so well
union really does seem sacred. As a boy
I was fascinated by my grandmother’s,
how her hands were a human story
written at Hardscrabble Creek
in knobs and nicks, in slants
that spoke celery snaps of bones,
cottonfields and crazy days. I listened,
and they told me hands were made
before spades, and I could hear
the wail of slaves
as they dug with crooked fingers,
the sobs of mourners
muffled in palms as dirt was turned.
And too, I heard better times. Crackles
of ice they held in enough highballs
for her to miss a few trains and steps,
the secrets in the silky rub
of rented rooms. They said years
are pushed down hard by rain,
and in the mud I could tell
without looking at her face
how beautiful she must have been
in a storm. Her hands were clean
because she had wept on them so often,
and marked fields and flesh
with their chaste blood. I stared
until I wanted to grow up clutching
such beauty and scars to me,
closer than any love or tattoo.
***********
all is well, Boo.
lol It's beautifuler.
[SIZE=-2]You would love my hands.[/SIZE]
G
Guest
Guest
Hands in my pocket
for attitude
hips
aslant
Hands in my pockets
for warmth
deep
clenched
hands in my pockets
for keys
money
searching
Hands in my pockets
for safety's sake
in case I
slap
your
damn
face?
for attitude
hips
aslant
Hands in my pockets
for warmth
deep
clenched
hands in my pockets
for keys
money
searching
Hands in my pockets
for safety's sake
in case I
slap
your
damn
face?
eagleyez
going up
- Joined
- Jan 11, 2003
- Posts
- 22,879
Back o my hands
Clasped and doubled
Enough blood to reach around
The easy breath of orions belt
Prayer machinations
The Sunday's and
The craw of belts drawn tight
Metabolized whilst famine and
Degradation sweep drive in's
Past freeways
Along hilltops
Brushfires alight
Gingerbread houses
Cardboard mudslides
Rain and swollen hearts
The squaw wood lights anew
55 gallon drums huddle
In dooryards and porchlight
Illuminationan diverse light
Generations whisper
Oral tradition
Wordlover.
Clasped and doubled
Enough blood to reach around
The easy breath of orions belt
Prayer machinations
The Sunday's and
The craw of belts drawn tight
Metabolized whilst famine and
Degradation sweep drive in's
Past freeways
Along hilltops
Brushfires alight
Gingerbread houses
Cardboard mudslides
Rain and swollen hearts
The squaw wood lights anew
55 gallon drums huddle
In dooryards and porchlight
Illuminationan diverse light
Generations whisper
Oral tradition
Wordlover.
annaswirls
Pointy?
- Joined
- Dec 9, 2003
- Posts
- 7,204
Advice to the Sleeping Poetess
Do not stumble
from tight stretched sheets
and try to record
dreams and nightmares
in iambic pentameter
or other poetic trickery.
Charm cannot translate
the spun sugar of dreams.
It pours like crystals
into a metal sink.
Do not stumble
from tight stretched sheets
and try to record
dreams and nightmares
in iambic pentameter
or other poetic trickery.
Charm cannot translate
the spun sugar of dreams.
It pours like crystals
into a metal sink.
FilthyCute
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Jan 4, 2006
- Posts
- 917
BooMerengue said:
Ditto
Just stunning, moved me to tears, and, for the first time in six years made me want to try to write again. I don't know what else to say.
