007 Challenge

1-3 Grey Dawn

Dawn won’t arrive
wearing red today. Perhaps slate grey
will match impending autumn’s chill.

Summer leaves
One less star in the sky.

Week 6, Poem 3

Elementary

Sit.
Write your name.
Memorize your address.
Learn school procedures.
Create the desktop and if
the teachers are good, most of the folders.


Middle

Ignore the body.
Ignore the mild psychosis
of its wild bloom, of its new height.
Remember, no one is unscathed. It may hurt.


High

Try out, try
to catch the pass
pass third trimester tests
or if unfortunate, the third trimester.


Beyond

There is the world waiting
to greet
and smash you. Love her
even when her shoe
is on your neck. Actually
I lie: she never waits.

Week 6, Poem 4

precious
give me the eye
pass it palm to palm sister
so I can see the fire
and the shadow at the barrel's edge

with or without
the eye we three sniff
wary air while smoke braids
our croning hair and our long nails clack
against bony palms

we cannot distinguish which mouth
voices our common thought
stranger why have you
come to us and what
have you brought
in your pack

I pass the eye
automatically left
then right trafficking
our sight openly
vulnerable to the drying flame
and quicker hand

NOMAD'S POEM

In Mongolian they call Saturday
the half good day:
what they mean by that is
the day I can always talk to you
but I can never have you.
Come to me, my green-eyed love,
on a day yet to be named.

DRUM SYLLABLES

Dha dhin dhin dha:
because the tongue remembers
what the hands forget
this is how I memorize

dhage din ta tete
the ways that I have touched you
exactly where and how softly,
how quickly and with which finger

kata gadi gena ta ka dhin
how many times repeated
where in your black center,
where on your skin-white rim.

Put your lips against my lips
and with my tuned singing drums
I'll cover you with shivers
as rain does with a pond.

LovePoet, Fabulous to see you posting on this thread and welcome to the PF&D.

Week 6, Poem 5

Put on your shoes and begin
crossing the distance. Might as well
start now--stars freckle the cheek
of morning and birds perfume the air
with their red and black splashes.
Stiffen your brim against chill and wind.
Come to me in the park where coffee
melts our lips to kisses amid the rising
steam of the city before the rising
sun makes it blink and reach for shades.

Brought to you by.... (#1)

With every thrust
She rocks up on the wires
Binding both her wrists down
Her hair is waving in soft tufts
Rhythmically back-and-forth
Like seaweed under the sea

In unblinking intensity she rides
Her dry mouth gaping open
Surreally, it's as if her voice
Is coming from somewhere else
As her excitement is building

The pumping arm picks up speed
Her downy mane is thrashing in the storm
Squeals echoing from across the room
Until her jaw finally hitches to the side
And wires suddenly ping from off her wrists
Rebounding off the far wall and the
Incoherent two-headed director

She collapses facedown on the floor
Her sweat-plastered hair is now
Looking like mangled cotton candy
Prairie Dawn leans down to her ear
Whispering, 'Say it into the camera'

Shakily she turns herself over
Feeling like a big furry jellyfish
"Brought to you by the letter 'O' "
She is slurring the words, while

Prairie Dawn is quickly drying
Fingers on her flowered dress
Holds up her sticky hand, saying
"And the number 4"

Alchemist (#2--for Mike Lefty McGee The_Fool)

Perhaps your philosophy is correct
Once our words transfer to others
Their magic of construction is lost to us
Much like every miracle of creation

Baptism into the world marks its transition
Away from being the sum of its creators
To an entity of its own, in estrangement
Absorbed first by the masses, then history

Yet you are creating, your paragons gone paradox
Sentimental romantic, engineering new systems
Diligent strategist, analyzing and disseminating
The schematics and semantics for the rest of us

Brilliant alchemist, you slight yourself as sleight of hand
When combining the viscery of language, flesh and cables
As distraction from the secret ingredient being added
To this matter, both personal and profound

But it is your essence that is the catalyst
Like a new element coursing into the veins
Transforming its recipient existence into
Something forever more valuable and sentient

Conductor (#3--for Mike Lefty McGee The_Fool)

Thriving engineer of everything you know
Your love and livelihood is in the process
The thrumming pathways are the instruments
For you to design, refine and command

The sound of your living
Is an orchestra of information
A whisper of words leading
To a clattering of keys, that drive
Pulses into cables and veins, adding
Heat and vibration and vitalization to
This backwards, hackwords world

If every life is lived in present tense
Than each communication itself has life
Lasting only as long as its limbo
But that is the delicious part
For mystery and seduction only happen in-between
When everything the sender believes
And everything the recipient imagines
Hangs on a split-second cliff of silence

Their breath hovering while
Adrenaline turns hearts into hummingbirds
In anticipation of transmission and reaction
The rushing exhalation of each completion
Speeds into a panting duet

Such a symphony sounds so seductive
Addicts both performers and audience
Wantonly drowning in the ecstacy of possibilities
Fantasy always sings more arousingly than the finite
The monotone staleness of the mundane
Turning us deaf to the chorus

Infectious and ever increasing lust
For instant knowledge and gratification becomes
A cacophony of quest and conquest by the millions
Mentally melding with their machines, maestroes only
Of the whitenoise washing through our world

In this ocean of Asimovian orgy
The silicon and laser superstructure
Sings the siren song of our times
Yet I hear
Through the mass of living interference
Conducting with your hands the orchestra
Though they are ignorant and blind

Reverend (#4--for Mighty Mike McGee--slampoet)

That is part of your Calling
Being the shock-jock Apostle
Teaching the world Jesus real messages:
That we come to God as ourselves
No matter where we are, stay who we are
Keepers who are always changing everything
Not allowed to become stagnant ourselves
We bring others to God by law of attraction
Intended to live as vividly as we can
Always being proactive for our fellows

How hard is that?
How many times have you been slapped by Life
The white lightning in your eyes
A reminder that you should pay attention

How hard was it for Jesus?
He practiced His belief that we should go
Into the world, be in the people, any people
Touching them in many ways, knowing
That this means they will also touch us
Changing each other forever

How did that turn-out for Him?
He stayed Himself--that's the greatest miracle
Before and after, He said the same:
Not that we should go out and be judges and martyrs
But that we should be witnesses
That we should pay attention

And be the Keepers of the good
Rememberers of what's important
Continue to help change the world

That's when I realized
That I knew who you were
'Reverend' Michael McGee

Reverently:
You are the one that holds them

You hold their names in your heart
Hold their importance in your head
Hold the words in your mouth
That you add to the soundtrack of Existence

For you hold the music of their souls in your ears
That forms the song that we dance to
As we step, trying to keep up with you

Nuggets (#5--for Mighty Mike McGee, slampoet)

Slamming tonight on the coast
Podcasts carry into the heavens
As Father, Son and Holy Ghost
Behind loud voices, hear those hearts
so sweet and low

Mike is dreaming on Greyhound
His carcolepsy kicked in from a
Sister's singing lullaby sounds
Two seats back with baby
so sweet and low

Jesus stops by for Sunday dinner
Tells the hostess she looks like
She's getting noticeably thinner
He could use some coffee Mike
Could you pass Him a cup and
yo' Sweet & Low

LarryBug floating on a breeze
Man, Sunshine and Goodtimes
Smells the flowers and the trees
Whispering in the soft air
so sweet and low

Conversation (#6--for Zac G)

He presents a beautifully-put paradox
To be lost is also a place in the universe
What is unnamed is also unknown
Most people say they fear the unknown
But others are drawn to it
One to the flame of the candle
The other to the shadow of the flame
'Many are drawn to the flame', he says
'Many are also drawn to the shadow,
Yet very few are brave or strong enough
To withstand the candle's burning
In order to hold the flame steady.
Those who are most courageous
End in the flame, their souls floating
Like embers into the great above'

Which would you rather be:
The one who keeps the flame
Or the one who ignited it's first spark?
Zac would rather be the Keeper
To be the first does not mean to be the best
It only means there is no one to compare to
How much harder is the role the Keeper chooses
And in his commitment and sacrifice
So much more honor is found

1-2

1. Blues like a river
meander sluggish chug
but key deep in parts
unknowable because who
can know the heart?

2. Bass like a plinky plunk
walk on a street city
or dirt road but the roots
of rhythm dance a lively
attitude, say anywhere
is new and all the same.

3. Tenor speaks for you.
Low or cry, you can hear
those words plead then rip
apart a song and laugh
in your own voice.

The country flows up into your town driving
a black cadillac curtained and smoky music
rolls to the stage, shakes its hips, sits you down
and buys you a drink.

It pounds and blares like a one-eyed jack
peepin in a seafood store that sound
is hidden under a shell game right there
for anyone to see.

Ariel, amazing run! I especially like the first poem. And Ange! Yay, I'm glad you're back.

Skippy (#7--U know who you are)

You're smooth like peanut butter
Goldenly appealing to the eye
Always smelling so sweet and earthy
You're the perfect companion for anything
Like with some honey, in mellow drunkenness
Or the favorite fruits and goodies from the garden
Naked stalks wrapped in and around you
When I think about you like that, I think
Damn! If I had you AND chocolate
I would never need anything else

But I know you can have other textures
Variety is a good thing, you know
So what if you get chunky?
Some people like the extra
Sometimes parts of you are rough and tough
That's because you are the product of nuts
Everybody knows that's to be expected
So you don't have to go back underground
If you come apart and lead a greasy life awhile
Or give-in to the goofyness, like other goobers
And become peter-pan on the weekends
Or reject everything and go all-natural
Don't worry if you hit the bottom of the jar
I'll still be there for you in a jif

Longing for the taste and feel of you
Even though your presence makes my
Tongue stick to the roof of my mouth for hours
Makes my voice so thick I'm choking on my words
Feeling like I need a drink of water
Just thinking about you

Even still I can't wait
To dig my fingers into you
To get a mouthful of you
And share in whatever you want to offer
Creamy or salty or stale or raw
I want to be roasted and turned into butter with you

Week 6, Poem 6

Belated Happy Birthday to Leonard Cohen

Leonard, I can't keep up with birthdays
not even my own slipping on moss
as it smothers the boulders we once
rolled in place after peeping like Toms
at Jesus, or was that doubting?

But brother here's a blessing of lemon
on a Red Needle. When the tequila
rolls to the back of your tongue
Montreal will kiss your name
then Manhattan
then Berlin.

Week 6, Poem 7

Why Breasts are Better than the Drawings of Da Vinci

To study the body is to know what it does
but it is not enough to know. Knowing
does not heal the bone or break the muscle;

any hands can sort parts of speech or turn
pages in a reference, but what is rare
lives in the tips of fingers, edges of teeth--
in the exact press of the vein.

The body he drew into sections
moves under the stethescope. He tried
to anticipate its orbits but missed its breathing,
reflexive and tremulous. Knowing is not
the same as loving.

1-3

Autumn is not meant for gentle
rebirth. Only the mums smile
gold and purple wealth. Green
crabapples grow hard as rocks,
and those that remain atree
transmogrify, etching themselves
to the stony branches.
The ground is cool and damp,
its mouths close, it shrinks
from late night sweet talk.
What can it say to patchy grass
and thinning trees?

In fact, everything shrinks
but the moon, that orange
gibbous ornament, waxing
to its full luminessence,
then inveitably the denoument
always with one eye closed
in dark and all quiet.

We say hello and goodbye
to snowdrifts, to murderous icicles,
frost heaves and the teeth
of these northern roads gritting,
spitting their pebbles and shards.
We say goodbye to this building
or that one, goodbye to the old Parsi
fellow who watches over apples
and celery, who wishes us
always ji, haa, kem nai.

We walk hand in hand, gladly
into the unknown, hopeful
with the promise of mountains
and daughters.

Angeline said:

Autumn is not meant for gentle
rebirth.

. . . The ground is cool and damp,
its mouths close, it shrinks
from late night sweet talk.
What can it say to patchy grass
and thinning trees?

. . . hopeful
with the promise of mountains
and daughters.

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Gorgeous, Angeline. I like the ideas about talking and the subtle personification. Rich images. Great start with this one.

PandoraGlitters said:

Gorgeous, Angeline. I like the ideas about talking and the subtle personification. Rich images. Great start with this one.

Click to expand...

Thank you. I need to photograph you, maybe do an illustrated thingy around it.

Angeline said:

Thank you. I need to photograph you, maybe do an illustrated thingy around it.

Click to expand...

I would LOVE that. The one in my profile now a "professional" sl photographer took. I'm positive you could do better.

PandoraGlitters said:

I would LOVE that. The one in my profile now a "professional" sl photographer took. I'm positive you could do better.

Click to expand...

Then we shall set a time. ~Nods.~ And indoor (studio) or mebbe outdoor. Or even in your natural habitat (BA).

1.1

Hands and Knees

I think of you as a metronome
or piston in a slow RPM engine or
as a pulse

throbbing in my neck.
My thighs are sore from your steady beat
against them, because machines

simply repeat
what their gears tell them to do and do.
It’s only when you slap my flank

I know you’re human,
know I am somehow better
than rubbing your cock against a tree.


.

Just the right blend of sex and pathos, Minervous. Good to see you.