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Old 07-03-2018, 11:22 AM   #951
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Quote:
Originally Posted by greenmountaineer View Post
Lizzie
sight: pool table
touch: a shoulder
smell: popcorn
taste: Scotch whiskey
hear: Do-Wap
"Pool is merely an exercise in applied Newtonian physics and trigonometry." intoned the Professor to Lizzie as he unwound himself from the green table after sinking the eight ball. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, his face so close she could taste the Johnny Walkers on his breath, like him, an anomaly in the bar's atmosphere of Do-Wap, beer and popcorn.

No one knew his real name, some called him the Professor, because of his tweeds and erudite speech, others Icabod due to his tall lanky frame and then for some reason she thought of those long legged flies that appeared at her window each summer. Whatever, sighed Lizzie as she felt the triangle between her legs moisten in anticipation of another lesson in applied geometry.

sight: basement apartment
touch: worn leather
smell: mint
taste: morning after night before
hear: Doppler of passing sirens
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Old 07-03-2018, 04:43 PM   #952
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Foreplay

You asked that I wear that old sport coat
with the frayed suede elbow patches
while we listen to Beethoven’s moonlight
in your TriBeCa basement apartment.

Oh, we could see its reflection if need be
on the office windows across the street,
but sweet it is to imagine, eyes closed,
while holding hands here on the couch

amid the hurly burly of Manhattan
and dissipation of a siren uptown,
neither unsettling the harmony
of the sonata for us,

sipping our drams of peppermint schnapps;
discussing “The Second Coming”
by Yeats; Sunday will the Jets beat the Pats?;
and that schnauzer you loved as a little girl

before you tuck me in so to speak
on the couch with a good night kiss,
both knowing that tomorrow night
there’d be a fuller expression of lips.

Sight: two cats
Sound: radio
Taste: coffee
Smell: lilac through an open window
Touch: armrests on an easy chair

Last edited by greenmountaineer : 07-04-2018 at 04:47 PM.
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Old 07-08-2018, 06:12 PM   #953
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Quote:
Originally Posted by greenmountaineer View Post
Foreplay
<snip>
Sight: two cats
Sound: radio
Taste: coffee
Smell: lilac through an open window
Touch: armrests on an easy chair
Lookin' For A Fight

You see your reflection in the window
and wonder where that other
cat came from, nose twitching
to catch the foreigner's scent.
Rival or insignificant?

Instead of pheremones, all you
catch in your whiskers
is the perfume of those soft
purple flowers, standing tall
on sturdy stems brushing
against the screen.

I watch you and take a sip
of coffee, relishing the sweet
and bitter roast on my tongue,
the noise of setting the cup
back down disturbs your intensity.
The stare and yawning game
of intimidation now lost.

Not willing to congratulate
the winner, you stretch out
on the arm of my leather recliner,
and your tail seems to keep time
with The Stray Cat Strut on the radio.

Sight: corn silk
Sound: bubbling water
Taste: bbq smoke
Smell: vinegar
Touch: paper napkin
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Old 07-31-2018, 10:13 AM   #954
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Quote:
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Lookin' For A Fight
Sight: corn silk
Sound: bubbling water
Taste: bbq smoke
Smell: vinegar
Touch: paper napkin

Foothills Tritina


Fingers pluck last corn silk
then plop the ears in boiling water
Taber corn, it’s the best.

Low voice whispers, “You’re the best!”
fingers wiped on paper napkin caress hair like silk
in Calgary, city of clear running water.

Mélange of smoky ribs and vinegar swept away by cold water
then to the bench where the river view’s best
fingers seek portal past damp panties silk.

Silk parts, waters flow, Alberta’s best.

Sight: water bombers overhead
Sound: droning engines
Taste: fresh fish
Smell: distant smoke
Touch: canoe paddle
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Old 07-31-2018, 03:53 PM   #955
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Sight: water bombers overhead
Sound: droning engines
Taste: fresh fish
Smell: distant smoke
Touch: canoe paddle

Fire

There’s no buoyancy left the canoe,
tilted obliquely in the mud.
It’s paddle looks like a crutch.

Fish have ears that can hear water bombers
droning in the distance
that pulsates in the little water left

one beaver, too frightened to gnaw
the skunk maple on which one lone limb
stands a raccoon, nostrils flared,

facing smoke clouds sailing in the wind.
They know different because they are tired
of rainbows no longer fresh.

Sight: high noon sun
Sound: delivery truck horn
Taste: any kind of ice cream cone
Smell: Hibachi meat
Touch: porch railing

Last edited by greenmountaineer : 08-01-2018 at 11:12 AM.
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Old 09-10-2018, 03:08 PM   #956
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Sight: high noon sun
Sound: delivery truck horn
Taste: any kind of ice cream cone
Smell: Hibachi meat
Touch: porch railing

An exercise to release writer’s block

Suddenly September reveals itself
steel grey clouds and dreary rain;
it’s twelve o'clock, but the sun is hidden.
I lean against the damp deck railing
a Brown truck’s backup horn pierces
the distant din of traffic, but at least
it's not one of those damned drones.

Too wet for the Hibachi but
the propane grill will work.
Chicken roasted on the rotisserie,
beans, late summer corn and
apple crisp with vanilla ice cream.
I can taste it now.

A feast for the return of
a non-prodigal son, briefly back
from the Arctic before he’s off again
this time to Berkley, leaving us alone
again but at least there won't be leftovers.


Sight: a paunch that won’t go away
Sound: labored breathing
Taste: tepid water with a hint of lemon
Smell: sweat
Touch: a puff of air from a rotating fan
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Old 09-10-2018, 08:12 PM   #957
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It certainly wasn't a martini, nor was it a g and t,
But after a night with him
A large tepid water with a hint of lemon
Tasted like heaven

His idea of foreplay
Was to please himself not me:
His self obsessed neurotic watch
a fat bastard with a paunch
That wouldn't go away
Was hardly an erotic watch.
His laboured breathing
Heralding a rank and sweat encrusted stain
Ejaculated into a kleenex
Discarded
Like some puff of air
From a rotated fan
Did not impress
Nor was it quite a Casablanca remake
On a budget

Sight: an alpine ski resort
Sound: parakeets
Taste: whisky sour
Smell:burning turf
Touch : molasses
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Old 10-07-2018, 12:00 PM   #958
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Sight: an alpine ski resort
Sound: parakeets
Taste: whisky sour
Smell:burning turf
Touch : molasses
Late fall and a few tourists
trickle in to ride the chair lift
to see the alpine larch, golden
against the first wisps of snow.
Some even hike down to the lodge
but most return they way they came
to the new Irish style pub and sip
a whisky mix which really isn’t sour
and inhale the smoke of imported peat.

Time’s passage feels like molasses
yet the glaciers are melting.
Soon enough our grandkids will rise to
mountain parakeets rather than chickadees
but at least they’ll be above sea level.

Sight: clouds of more than fifty shades of grey
Sound: an overhead airliner
Taste: pumpkin
Smell: fall woods
Touch : fingers
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Old 10-29-2018, 03:04 PM   #959
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Sight: clouds of more than fifty shades of grey
Sound: an overhead airliner
Taste: pumpkin
Smell: fall woods
Touch : fingers


Fifty-one Stars

There are fifty-one stars
half-hidden tonight,
one of which is the moon,

as if they were falderal above
a loosely woven gossamer shroud
darkening our universe.

On my back porch I count them
with fingers like a little child,
somehow fitting with the last

of Margaret’s pumpkin pie
before I open an IPA
while the buzz of an airplane flies by.

I smell the rotting leaves of birch
and maple in the woods,
presaging gestational birth

which comes full term in April
with as many billions of things
as there are stars in the universe.


Touch: concrete sidewalks
Sight: snow-capped mountain(or mountains)
Sound: car door opening or closing
Taste: gum
Smell: diesel

Last edited by greenmountaineer : 11-08-2018 at 05:58 PM.
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Old 11-06-2018, 09:50 PM   #960
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Touch: concrete sidewalks
Sight: snow-capped mountain(or mountains)
Sound: car door opening or closing
Taste: gum
Smell: diesel


Flowers bloom from the cracked sidewalk
sun bleached crumbling dust blows
across the surface
the way I imagine
snow capped mountains might look
in a place where heat doesn't sink into
your bones
burying you in a lethargy of too hot
to breathe

where spittle flecks the side of your mouth
the gum's flavour is now charred mush
And the creeping diesel fumes
smell of resignation
after the dull thud of the car door closing

it feels like floating

sight- melting ice
Sound- a song you hate
Scent- melted plastic
Touch-metal
Taste- tang
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