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not sure how many words

eagleyez said:
The Rain Man has that effect on people. Welcome to this wideopen thread. Write, write-then write some more.

:rose:
Click to expand...

Thank you, really. :kiss: I've dropped something in here from the last time I was writing, too long ago, until this afternoon. I'll be sure to be here often reading (and posting if I can whip anything into shape).

You Reach Me
You bring a cloak of white to my world,
iridescent and blazing with truth.
No one opens my smile the way that you do.
You free my uncertainty from its prison of logic
then leave me standing with your easy words and manner.
I'm on my knees
I'm walking on air
I can look at the fear and dismiss it,
a world of pain would be worth it.
One night at the centre of your world
you touch me
you move me
you reach me
 
Fencecrawlers
Upland dry creek
Rockinghorse
Saddle sore
Covered wagon
Wood stove
Alight-

Letters from home
Lefty swangs the ten pin
Auburn hair
Alleys torn down

Rock roads
Amish wagons weave past
Alluvial uplift in
Wilderness
All night
Hitch past red rust tailings
Idaho into Spokane
South into truckstop
3 bucks for gas
And nonstop Camel straights

Fly by coneshapes
Sparks and tinmetal
Could be Louisiana
Clearer sound Minnesota

Heart at seventy two
Glisten just to talk to you
Ride with mexicans and
Talks of Somalian drought

Dropped off at dawn,
Walk lonesome hills
Fishing pole as prop
Beats the telltale suitcase
Anyday.
 
bent like the wind
of womanhood, the pole
a youngster's delight -
bamboo and string twisted
together. a weapon
to yield
a thousand meals
from pond to plate
to mouth,
to gut
to ground,
to seep to the pond.
a ring of decimation
dangled from the barbed
fence by the bucket.
 
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She dreams
Quiky twitch
Sleep talks
Dialogue
Unbeknownst
Translated like braile
Breasts and perks
My eyes
Poke my chest
Swing low sweet chariots

Whilst feet walk floors
Listening to snowtires
Bristle over wet roads
I reach midnight mounds

Why she loves me I dont comprehend
Sleep talks I rattle bones
She recognizes the grimace
The past passe now,

I pray that God listens
Crows dance instead
The slow bleeting Santa
Chained to the Eastern pine
His glued on smile
Janus snows deep and
I stuggle for sleep.
 
Settle down son
water in the well
electrifed
lightninged
Well diggers mining
for words getting around
many roads into town

Wide swing silver tremolo
Jersey cooks
24 meathooks
Country gentleman
stewed and headed for
The atmosphere

Dim be the stars tonight
under January's thaw
Bristle car tires
but I will settle down
and make it work
She makes my desire
Shake rattle and roll

On beaches I have a hard time
getting sand off the towel
waves and drifting shirt-
floods and pier crashers
I can swim like a motherfucker...
 
Little boy in a kiddie car,
wild glee abandons all
but moments, sunshine
on fingers knit to a Louisville
Slugger or tipped languid
on the edge of an inner tube
afloat on the Russian River
grandfather's arms, grandfather's
smile married with determination,
tongue tipped in resolve still
unprepared for the crash
that ended childyears fallen
from the roof of belief, heart
stilled melting sweat, tears
tracked down bottles swallowed
like broken glass and who
is that boy huddled in a tangled cage
of bones, tossed motherless
in a forgotten heap, whose treasure
reduced to a fractional smile,
a tarnished shadow curled
in the corner of expectation?

He asks why when he says
it's like finding a diamond
in a mudpuddle. He thinks
we're talking about me.
 
Being Estragon

The cold at dusk comes hard as nightsticks.
I can’t wait any longer for a sun
that keeps a higher angle in the sky,
for days when warmth
is not its deepest secret, when I
could stand on any corner
not wrapped in rags,
reach out a hand and call my city

home. I don’t know what I would’ve done
had I not had its hand to hold.
I don’t know what I should
be doing now. Was I sleeping

while the others suffered,

while a town that had rocked me
in its arms became a stranger?

Am I sleeping now?

Even in a dream, I never felt
this distracted nature in people. I
like to think, as they hurry past,
that I am there among them,
touching as we walk in our tight shoes.
I don’t want to believe this farce

is where we have fallen to, where
we can’t sense a churning
in each other’s blood, where
the motors in our chests
never tell us to dance. I
don’t want to believe there are
uncertain moments like this
in their lives as well, when they sigh

and must be content with loneliness,
with a coffee and the imagining of cakes
that pair it on a checkered tablecloth
somewhere. When they glance up
from chicken bones to see
if rope is dangling from a solitary tree.
When we all ask ourselves at once,

Shall I go?
And answer
yes
and then not move

toward a place where there’s no need
to think about vagaries
like weather or the blindness
of crowds. Or lost children.
 
Sweet potatoe
The color of earth
Belies the color of grey
The early night and the
Disappeared center line.

She takes her turn-
Soup full of greens and oranges
Im more of a chicken man
Clucking and competing with
The Raven haired circle dancers

My town
Our home
Overlooking hay barns and
Crooked crab apples
All naked and femme

The Sundays wain
Picture windows
Easterly.
 
What else can I give you
but my generations, stir the pot
with grandmother's hand, recede
to a kitchen visible only in mind's eye.

I'm still at her table, sitting
on phone books to see the map
of flour etched in snow along her hands,
the rolling pin and her clumsy dance
that sprinkled walnuts, cinnamon:
the Strudel Waltz and the yeasty smell
of dishtowel-covered babkah
rising on the heat register. Oh
her warm apron, her warm voice
off-tune sings Oh You Beautiful Doll

to me no more. So long ago I was
safe, and she said to tell you I am
again and to cook you this soup.
 
edited . . . I know this is not the thread to be editing. . . but I like it here. :)


The Geography of Cobblestones

There is so much buried here.
Each inch is marked with an x.
Time and death were no reason

to shroud our birthright,
the map of treasured streets
that we should own.

I kneel on the grave, ear to the tar—

charabancs and carriage wheels
and hooves. Boys
sail their ships in rivers of rain,

old women’s sturdy shoes
click low with bags
of milk and melons, and men

in shirtsleeves stretch their suspenders,
philosophize on
Joltin’ Joe’s heel spurs,

ball fields and better days.

A fruit peddler overhears and wipes
the sweat of Dodgers
from his forehead and the red cheek

of an apple, to coil and fire
a high hard one
off the dusty mound at Ebbets.

The streetlights are on. I think
I’ll sing a lullaby
so they’ll forget the bulldozers,

forgive the weight of my knees.
I think I’ll say a prayer
they do not dream like me,

of jackhammers.
 
TheRainMan said:
edited . . . I know this is not the thread to be editing. . . but I like it here. :)


The Geography of Cobblestones

There is so much buried here.
Each inch is marked with an x.
Time and death were no reason

to shroud our birthright,
the map of treasured streets
that we should own.

I kneel on the grave, ear to the tar—

charabancs and carriage wheels
and hooves. Boys
sail their ships in rivers of rain,

old women’s sturdy shoes
click low with bags
of milk and melons, and men

in shirtsleeves stretch their suspenders,
philosophize on
Joltin’ Joe’s heel spurs,

ball fields and better days.

A fruit peddler overhears and wipes
the sweat of Dodgers
from his forehead and the red cheek

of an apple, to coil and fire
a high hard one
off the dusty mound at Ebbets.

The streetlights are on. I think
I’ll sing a lullaby
so they’ll forget the bulldozers,

forgive the weight of my knees.
I think I’ll say a prayer
they do not dream like me,

of jackhammers.
Click to expand...


No worries Rainy. I don't think this is a rules kinda thread. ;)
 
TheRainMan said:
That's what I figured. :)

Morning, teacher. :rose:
Click to expand...

Hi yourself, teach.

:rose:

(PS The omlette was delish, and I am not teaching until 4:30. I have nothing to do but write poems) :D
 
ee please forgive me for doing this here.

excuse me for saying this patrick, but i think it still needs work. some parts i might not be reading quite right yet, as well.

mind if i fiddle with a few bits? too bad if you do, i'm gonna anyway - and probably put my own foot in my mouth at the same time. lol


The Geography of Cobblestones

There is so much buried here.(comma)
Each inch is(delete 'is') marked with an x.
Time and death were no reason

to shroud our birthright,
the map of treasured streets(i like 'treasured streets'. is it easy off the tongue? - maybe it's my accent. the two words together cause my tongue muscles to cramp ;) )
that we should own.

I kneel on the grave, ear to the tar—

charabancs and carriage wheels
and hooves. Boys
sail their ships in rivers of rain,(rivers of rain - cliche?)

old women’s sturdy shoes
click low with bags
of milk and melons, and men

in shirtsleeves stretch their suspenders,
philosophize on
Joltin’ Joe’s heel spurs,

ball fields and better days.(better days - cliche? - sentence seems almost too long.)

A fruit peddler overhears and wipes
the sweat of Dodgers
from his forehead and the red cheek

of an apple, to coil and fire(i think the line break is wrong here - not sure)
a high hard one
off the dusty mound at Ebbets.

The streetlights are on. I think
I’ll sing a lullaby
so they’ll forget the bulldozers, *

forgive the weight of my knees.
I think I’ll say a prayer
they do not dream like me,

of jackhammers.

*not sure the line break/stanza break is right here. i'm having to train my eyes to read faster than i'm ready for to be able to read correctly and include the comma pause or something... the next line seems to end too quickly. do you understand what i mean?

actually, i'm beginning to wonder if i'm picking up that the stanza breaks (the form!) simply don't feel right.

:rose:

on the other hand, maybe i just need to read this one a dozen more times until it's instilled in my head with all the pauses and breaks in the right place. ;)
 
Last edited:
Trust Me WSO and Mr. Rain- No apologies needed for ANYTHING said or done in this here thread. Well, downright meaness or vitriole isnt kosher anywhere, but that has not evidenced itself in any way, shape or form here, so just pull up a chair and give me something to read and Ruminate about.

Hey, whatever happened to Ruminator anyway? Anyone seen or heard from him? He was a good friend to both Ange and myself. Nice guy. Interesting writer too.

Anyway, all thoughts and ideas welcomed, I am continuously impressed and inspired by you all.

;) ;)

T.
 
:kiss: ee you're a sweetheart. thank you. :)


want something of mine to read? this is very new and i'm still fiddling with it. i have a son who is giving me much to think about in his teen years and so...


we watch them weave their way
through life, our sons. Watch
them as they are wrenched
into the world on a lusty bawl, fists
flaying on a demand to be fed
and changed.
And from that day we watch them leave,
little by little. We guide and direct,
conductors of perfect orchestration,
wincing occasionally at a lost melody,
fumbling too when their minds
become their own and their mates
become more important
than correct breathing.
They wander slow in baggy trousers, hags
of the street dragging
their rubbery soles, smoking
stuff that dims the edges of suicide
brothers, and torn cars and limbs, drinking
bottles of golden lights that lift
the spirits and redeem their wrongdoings
and enjoying the delights of opposition
no matter the stance or consequence.
And we know they’ll be the presidents,
the businessmen, the preachers and teachers,
the leaders or followers who will one day watch
their own sons wander the streets
on a whim.


like i said, it's very new and raw to me, and i'm still fiddling with it.
this feels like a safe place to share it. :rose:
 
wildsweetone said:
:kiss: ee you're a sweetheart. thank you. :)


want something of mine to read? this is very new and i'm still fiddling with it. i have a son who is giving me much to think about in his teen years and so...


we watch them weave their way
through life, our sons. Watch
them as they are wrenched
into the world on a lusty bawl, fists
flaying on a demand to be fed
and changed.
And from that day we watch them leave,
little by little. We guide and direct,
conductors of perfect orchestration,
wincing occasionally at a lost melody,
fumbling too when their minds
become their own and their mates
become more important
than correct breathing.
They wander slow in baggy trousers, hags
of the street dragging
their rubbery soles, smoking
stuff that dims the edges of suicide
brothers, and torn cars and limbs, drinking
bottles of golden lights that lift
the spirits and redeem their wrongdoings
and enjoying the delights of opposition
no matter the stance or consequence.
And we know they’ll be the presidents,
the businessmen, the preachers and teachers,
the leaders or followers who will one day watch
their own sons wander the streets
on a whim.


like i said, it's very new and raw to me, and i'm still fiddling with it.
this feels like a safe place to share it. :rose:
Click to expand...

Im glad you feel that way. Im a father of 2 sons, and am the only boy in my family, with 2 sisters, one older and one 10 years younger. The mystery and happenstance of watching them grow up, and remembering my own formative time (some would argue that I am entrenched in adolescence ;) ) is one of the great joys of my life. The anguish and unbridled concern for them can be consuming, but I think back to when I was their ages, and I know I have to let them go at life on their own terms, be their friend above all else, and as you say in the end of your poem, realize that whimsy is the jet stream upon which we all ride.

:rose: :)
 
it's important to spend time thinking back, for understanding. thank you for that. :rose:

i've always felt that from birth, a parent is watching their child leave. tiny pieces at first as they become more independent and responsible. *smile* it is a wonderful thing to be a part of, in my opinion.

whimsey... i might have to write about that. ;)

:rose:
 
eagleyez said:
Trust Me WSO and Mr. Rain- No apologies needed for ANYTHING said or done in this here thread. Well, downright meaness or vitriole isnt kosher anywhere, but that has not evidenced itself in any way, shape or form here, so just pull up a chair and give me something to read and Ruminate about.

Hey, whatever happened to Ruminator anyway? Anyone seen or heard from him? He was a good friend to both Ange and myself. Nice guy. Interesting writer too.

Anyway, all thoughts and ideas welcomed, I am continuously impressed and inspired by you all.

;) ;)

T.
Click to expand...


Thanks, T.

No meanness to be found anywhere on this thread, that's for sure.

Ruminator did disappear, didn't he - wasn't he a general board guy? Maybe he went back there?
 
wildsweetone said:
ee please forgive me for doing this here.

excuse me for saying this patrick, but i think it still needs work. some parts i might not be reading quite right yet, as well.

mind if i fiddle with a few bits? too bad if you do, i'm gonna anyway - and probably put my own foot in my mouth at the same time. lol


The Geography of Cobblestones

There is so much buried here.(comma)
Each inch is(delete 'is') marked with an x.
Time and death were no reason

to shroud our birthright,
the map of treasured streets(i like 'treasured streets'. is it easy off the tongue? - maybe it's my accent. the two words together cause my tongue muscles to cramp ;) )
that we should own.

I kneel on the grave, ear to the tar—

charabancs and carriage wheels
and hooves. Boys
sail their ships in rivers of rain,(rivers of rain - cliche?)

old women’s sturdy shoes
click low with bags
of milk and melons, and men

in shirtsleeves stretch their suspenders,
philosophize on
Joltin’ Joe’s heel spurs,

ball fields and better days.(better days - cliche? - sentence seems almost too long.)

A fruit peddler overhears and wipes
the sweat of Dodgers
from his forehead and the red cheek

of an apple, to coil and fire(i think the line break is wrong here - not sure)
a high hard one
off the dusty mound at Ebbets.

The streetlights are on. I think
I’ll sing a lullaby
so they’ll forget the bulldozers, *

forgive the weight of my knees.
I think I’ll say a prayer
they do not dream like me,

of jackhammers.

*not sure the line break/stanza break is right here. i'm having to train my eyes to read faster than i'm ready for to be able to read correctly and include the comma pause or something... the next line seems to end too quickly. do you understand what i mean?

actually, i'm beginning to wonder if i'm picking up that the stanza breaks (the form!) simply don't feel right.

:rose:

on the other hand, maybe i just need to read this one a dozen more times until it's instilled in my head with all the pauses and breaks in the right place. ;)
Click to expand...

I just saw this, WSO. :)

Yes, I do mind if you fiddle!!! ... :D

Oh, okay . . . I don't. You already knew that. :)

Thanks for the input -- I'll take a look.

:rose:
 
eagleyez said:
(hiya Boo, sweetheart)
Click to expand...


I just saw this this am. Hi there yourself, Toots! How are you and the Little Missus doin? Stayin warm? I hope so...
 
Ok, down under - this is still evolving.

Feel free to wrap your funny accent around this if you wish, WSO, here or in a PM. :rose:


The Geography of Cobblestones

There is so much buried here.
Each inch is marked
with an x. Death was no reason

to shroud our birthright,
the map of treasured streets
that we should own.

I kneel on the grave, ear to tar—

charabancs and carriage wheels
and hooves. Boys
sail their ships in rivers of rain,

old women’s sturdy shoes
click low with bags
of milk and melons, and men

in shirtsleeves stretch their suspenders,
philosophize on
Joltin’ Joe’s heel spurs,

battlefields and better days.

A fruit peddler hears, wipes the sweat
of soldiers and dodgers
from his forehead and the red cheek

of an apple, coils to fire a shell,
a high hard one
off the dusty mound at Ebbets.

The streetlights come on, and I’m
alone again. There must be
something here that satisfies

beyond my reckoning. I think
I’ll try a lullaby to lighten
their black blanket, so they know

the weight of my knees.
I think I’ll say a prayer
they do not dream like me,

of jackhammers.
 
TheRainMan said:
The Geography of Cobblestones

There is so much buried here.
Each inch is marked
with an x. Death was no reason

to shroud our birthright, (let me reiterate the nice paradox created by shroud/birthright)
the map of treasured streets
that we should own. (Not sure about this line. It feels like you're 'telling' instead of 'showing'. Back to that debate again, I guess) :D

I kneel on the grave, ear to tar—

charabancs and carriage wheels (brownie points for using 'charabancs' and managing to not sound like a horse's ass)
and hooves. Boys
sail their ships in rivers of rain,

old women’s sturdy shoes
click low with bags
of milk and melons, and men

in shirtsleeves stretch their suspenders, (you know how much I enjoy alliteration, but it almost feels like too much here, especially with the overall tone of your poem)
philosophize on
Joltin’ Joe’s heel spurs,

battlefields and better days.

A fruit peddler hears, wipes the sweat
of soldiers and dodgers (Sososo much better than the original 'sweat of life', and makes for a lovely tie-in with 'Ebbets' below, for us non-baseball folks)
from his forehead and the red cheek

of an apple, coils to fire a shell, (questioning the line break here...see below)
a high hard one
off the dusty mound at Ebbets. (a different adjective to replace 'dusty'?)

Would it be better as:

of an apple, coils to fire
a shell, a high hard one
off the dusty mound at Ebbets.

Or does that weaken things?

The streetlights come on, and I’m
alone again. There must be
something here that satisfies

beyond my reckoning. I think
I’ll try a lullaby to lighten
their black blanket, so they know

the weight of my knees.
I think I’ll say a prayer
they do not dream like me,

of jackhammers.
Click to expand...

This round feels much less cerebral, without losing any of its intelligence. Rather, it feels stronger for it. Lovely revision.

:rose:
 
duckiesmut said:
This round feels much less cerebral, without losing any of its intelligence. Rather, it feels stronger for it. Lovely revision.

:rose:
Click to expand...


Duckie,

Your thoughts were very helpful, paticularly the one with the new line break, which I think is a definite improvement. :) And you gave me other things to think about as well.

Thank you for the time you spent, and your honest criticism.

and WSO,

Same to you. You are always so thoughtful to everyone's writing here, and so free and willing to say what you feel. That is invaluable to this community.

Both of you are that.

:rose:
 
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