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Old 02-25-2018, 06:58 PM   #251
JCSTREET
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ohhhhhhhh - VERY arousing
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STORIES AND POEMS

“Men are afraid that women will laugh at them and women are afraid that men will kill them.” — Margaret Atwood

Doe maar normaal, dan ben je al gek genoeg’
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Old 02-25-2018, 06:59 PM   #252
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tungsten
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STORIES AND POEMS

“Men are afraid that women will laugh at them and women are afraid that men will kill them.” — Margaret Atwood

Doe maar normaal, dan ben je al gek genoeg’
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Old 02-25-2018, 07:00 PM   #253
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"The first time we spoke I told you that I,
May have been sent you as God's own reply,
To a prayer you had made him, though you never knew.
The want you were feeling, drew me to you.


this is tasty
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STORIES AND POEMS

“Men are afraid that women will laugh at them and women are afraid that men will kill them.” — Margaret Atwood

Doe maar normaal, dan ben je al gek genoeg’
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Old 02-27-2018, 07:31 PM   #254
champagne1982
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Quote:
Originally Posted by JCSTREET View Post
Gemini Lost

first verse - very good

"where Zues' son makes play.

I take it you mean Zeus
Thank you

Most of those older ones likely need much editing
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Old 03-11-2018, 12:25 PM   #255
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Found a couple of verses of a way back poem of yours, C, while doing a trip dwn memory lane

I'd rather be a vivid
puddle of wax
clear, finished
and ready for a new
form

sculpt me into curves
and hollows with secret
textures waiting
to be discovered

What can I say? it is quite beautiful - simple and lilting
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STORIES AND POEMS

“Men are afraid that women will laugh at them and women are afraid that men will kill them.” — Margaret Atwood

Doe maar normaal, dan ben je al gek genoeg’
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Old 04-22-2018, 11:29 PM   #256
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The Leaves Are Late

This year snow has been the featured terrain
on every front lawn far longer than green grass
I imagine the dandeloins are eager to unfurl from rest
and feed the bees those first precious sips of nectar

How can we save a planet when winter refuses
to let go? Does doing "our part" mean wearing
that well worn sweater another day? I can't find
the answers from history since this spring is unique

Cities south of here have experienced this weather,
this broken pattern of the record number of days
at sub-freezing temperatures and now are just barely
slipping from winter's icy grip to skid and spiral free

The soil lies dry and dusty beneath the ice as every drop
of snow melt and rain runs down into the rivers, swollen
from late spring accumulation and persistent cloud
that the fields reflect back the heat, staying dormant

Chill and brisk are words for March, not April. Instead
I think I'll be saying that about the wind in May. It's cold,
I'm cranky and my budget doesn't want to stretch to buy
another month of winter fuel at summer prices.

Why didn't we do something 48 years ago when activism
was fresh and demonstration was productive. How
did these intervening decades manage to pull the teeth
out of the EPA's and Clean Air Act's mouths?

What would Senator Gaylord Nelson say?
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Old 05-04-2018, 11:41 PM   #257
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You Could Have Done Much Better

There you were, a holo
of helplessness pleading
an aging hero to rise
into a role set aside
to watch over the male.

Ahh, the male, the man,
I'd have thought women
would have progressed
beyond the constraints
of the nonsense spouted
here, in a galaxy
far, far away from Alderan

You, Leia, were a senator;
a ruler of a World!
And yet you yield
to a "space pirate". Really!?

I mean what-the-hell, Princess?
Some free-booter smuggler
steals the heart of a leader
in a galactic rebellion
and you let him sweep
you away and out of authority.

He will never be a politician,
he will never understand
that you are more than a womb
for his children to incubate
within. Be careful, Leia,

they'll make you give
your crown to that blue-
glowing phallic symbol waving
twin of yours and then mute
your style with motherhood.

Ahhh, Princess Leia, meant
to be more yet content
in a timeless routine,
an important duty,
a relentless responsibility.
It becomes you but really,
you should have been the Queen.
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Old 05-07-2018, 04:07 AM   #258
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I seem to find your writing evocative. I find I want to write something after reading your poetry
I like the line to 'mute your style with motherhood', says alot. I suppose that motherhood would also bring wisdom???
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Old 05-07-2018, 10:49 PM   #259
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Quote:
Originally Posted by williamesquire View Post
I seem to find your writing evocative. I find I want to write something after reading your poetry
I like the line to 'mute your style with motherhood', says alot. I suppose that motherhood would also bring wisdom???
I suspect wisdom comes with menopause. When we no longer need to be bothered with the whole impregnation thing then we can afford to be wise and say, "I told you so."

I wrote this poem just after the release of The Phantom Menace. I wasn't impressed with Princess Amidala and her wishy-washy neediness, and I think even though the next movies tried to say differently, the sexualization of Leia squished any hopes of a strong feminine ruler rocking the Empire. FFS, even though Leia had the same blood and genes as her brother, it seems that that whole hysteria of woman still kept the light sabre out of her hands. Thank goodness Rey has given me cause for hope that the powerful feminine is a paladin warrior when needed.

And that is a very nice compliment to my writing, I am glad it gives you pause and makes you itchy to put words out.
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Old 07-03-2018, 11:30 PM   #260
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Crows Of Winter

The far side of autumn is drawn in notes of gray.
Morning seems to close the drapes on the colours
of the dawn. Flannel sheets of sky, pulled up, over
the reluctant day, settle close against its skin.

Bright songs of springtime mating have drifed south
with flower's bloom, to leave the tired year dying.
Dressed in somber suits of muted light and winter's
clucking worry, now caws the black murder of crows.

The mourners gather round the hearth to recollect
that summer day when those shuttered eyes filled
with the colours of the sails that slid across
the lake, now stilled and reflecting darker sights.

Autumn passes slowly and sheds her bright cloak
as death throes shake her limbs. Each moan of wind
heard through the walls brings another chill
and she draws the flannel up beneath her chin.

She turns to slip away to a dreamland of summer,
far away from the crows of winter and the pain
brought with the cold of night and frost, that waits
over the lake beneath the colours of the sails.

October 17, 2006
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Old 07-03-2018, 11:32 PM   #261
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Inside This Shadow

Look beyond the the horizon
to a shadowed window. Fly
through and rest a while,
beside my pillowed head.

Dark bird, fly to me
and calm my beleaguered
heart. These dreams
do not refresh my soul.

Summer land and honeyed
scent of warm skin; sun
against my cheeks. Whisper
me no more, I cannot go.

What would we leave behind,
dark bird? That call, once
answered, would lead over
winter fields. What then?

What then if there is no
more to dream? Summer land
would fade to autumn
and darken to winter snow.

We've only dreams. Dark bird,
fly to me as I sleep and rest
with me inside this shadowed
room next to my pillowed head.

February 5, 2006
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Old 07-03-2018, 11:34 PM   #262
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Waiting For The Crows

I watch the clownish swagger as they approach;
only the foolish leave their dregs in soft bags
waiting for the crows.

They hop upon the green-black carcasses and pick
at one home's leavings as the winter frost rest on it,
waiting for the crows.

The tall streetlamp on the corner glimmers as a beacon
in the winter early morning, somehow, a perfect throne
waiting for the crows.

I find myself in mid-October, watching on those Tuesday mornings
as the garbage goes to the curb, in overstuffed soft bags
waiting for the crows.

November 18, 2005
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Old 01-07-2019, 03:14 PM   #263
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Appalachian Synesthesia

The french horn shakes my sides and climbs
my arms to my shoulders in a palm glide
over my skin.

A flute, with it's haunting hollow
whistle, shakes my flesh and then the ring
of a triangle strike taps my nipple
and lifts those minuscule follicles
into a bumpy exclamation of joy.

Then you tease every inch of my breast
with strings.

The bass note of drum and cello
disturbs the stability of my bones
and when you introduce violin
and viola, I must close my eyes
against the tears welling free
around the orbs of my sight,
and beg silence from the visual
cortex blinding me to sensation.

With blood singing through my carotid
arteries and heating up my skull,
the hair stirs on my nape and releases
waves of endorphin and oxytocin.

Too soon, the pleasure of the melody
woven by an orchestra makes me smile
and cry, beyond conscious control
such that I can barely restrain
my voice from lifting in song.

So here I sit in the forests that shade
the feet of the ancient slopes the majesty
of youth faded smooth. Time has gentled
high spires into rounded and treed rises.
Now I am content to know and feel the sound
of fresh water flowing; satisfying my thirst
with the beauty of an Appalachian Spring.

(Inspired while listening to the Boston Symphony conducted by composer Aaron Copeland play his Appalachian Spring)
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Old 01-10-2019, 07:25 PM   #264
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Quote:
Originally Posted by champagne1982 View Post
Appalachian Synesthesia

The french horn shakes my sides and climbs
my arms to my shoulders in a palm glide
over my skin.

A flute, with it's haunting hollow
whistle, shakes my flesh and then the ring
of a triangle strike taps my nipple
and lifts those miniscule follicles
into a bumpy exclamation of joy.

Then you tease every inch of my breast
with strings.

The bass note of drum and cello
disturbs the stability of my bones
and when you introduce violin
and viola, I must close my eyes
against the tears welling free
around the orbs of my sight,
and beg silence from the visual
cortex blinding me to sensation.

With blood singing through my carotid
arteries and heating up my skull,
the hair stirs on my nape and releases
waves of endorphin and oxytocin.

Too soon, the pleasure of the melody
woven by an orchestra makes me smile
and cry, beyond concious control
such that I can barely restrain
my voice from lifting in song.

So here I sit in the forests that shade
the feet of the ancient slopes the majesty
of youth faded smooth. Time has gentled
high spires into rounded and treed rises.
Now I am content to know and feel the sound
of fresh water flowing; satisfying my thirst
with the beauty of an Appalachian Spring.

(Inspired while listening to the Boston Symphony conducted by composer Aaron Copeland play his Appalachian Spring)
I don't even need the music to feel the ripple of flesh, as goose bumps raise the flesh and awe is found in the intonations of balance and harmony.
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Old 01-15-2019, 10:29 AM   #265
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Quote:
Originally Posted by todski28 View Post
I don't even need the music to feel the ripple of flesh, as goose bumps raise the flesh and awe is found in the intonations of balance and harmony.
Oh thank you! Do have a listen though. The entire piece is beautiful but the allegra portion is what sent me poetry
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Old 01-20-2019, 10:17 PM   #266
champagne1982
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Summer Children

You stood in the door yard
and yelled our names chronologically,
eldest to youngest. The chickens,
scratching in the pen, the hard packed dirt
path to the stable and the geese hissing
a warning to the unwary, who come
empty-handed to check for eggs.

These colour my youth like the brilliant
reds of geraniums and the sugary scent
of lilac bushes all planted strategically.
to thwart the breeze from dropping
the stink of pig pen and outhouse
on the window sill looking out over
the back pasture. An acre of freedom
for the calf, the ponies and the dogs.

We ran freely out there, too!
Unimpeded by adult disapproval,
our shirts tied around our heads
to keep the blackflies from tangling
in our hair, sticks carried like javelins
as we beat a path through the nettles
and finally hid from the sun inside
the shade of the hazelnut bushes
beside the deep, cool spring well.

We were like what our whitewashed
lives painted our aboriginal neighbours
to be. Riding appaloosa ponies, raiding
trading posts and stealing guns, women
and whiskey. Why? We didn't know,
but that's how it's done in movies.

The excitement of going to the lake
without adult supervision, the burden
of responsibility falling on the oldest
sibling and the big Alsatian dog
to shepherd us and keep us safe.

The terror of not getting home
in time when we heard the car horn
blasting the same pattern as the party
line phone ring; one long, two short.
A switch across the back of bare thigh
was the burning impetus to arrive
breathless, damp from our swim,
and hungry for garden vegetables,
fresh bread, cow's milk and ham.

I remember curling up like puppies
in the middle of a big double bed,
all the girls in one, all the boys
in the bunk beds, sleeping the rest
of the truly played out child
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Old 01-20-2019, 11:09 PM   #267
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Quote:
Originally Posted by champagne1982 View Post
Summer Children

You stood in the door yard
and yelled our names chronologically,
eldest to youngest. The chickens,
scratching in the pen, the hard packed dirt
path to the stable and the geese hissing
a warning to the unwary, who come
empty-handed to check for eggs.

These colour my youth like the brilliant
reds of geraniums and the sugary scent
of lilac bushes all planted strategically.
to thwart the breeze from dropping
the stink of pig pen and outhouse
on the window sill looking out over
the back pasture. An acre of freedom
for the calf, the ponies and the dogs.

We ran freely out there, too!
Unimpeded by adult disapproval,
our shirts tied around our heads
to keep the blackflies from tangling
in our hair, sticks carried like javelins
as we beat a path through the nettles
and finally hid from the sun inside
the shade of the hazelnut bushes
beside the deep, cool spring well.

We were like what our whitewashed
lives painted our aboriginal neighbours
to be. Riding appaloosa ponies, raiding
trading posts and stealing guns, women
and whiskey. Why? We didn't know,
but that's how it's done in movies.

The excitement of going to the lake
without adult supervision, the burden
of responsibility falling on the oldest
sibling and the big Alsatian dog
to shepherd us and keep us safe.

The terror of not getting home
in time when we heard the car horn
blasting the same pattern as the party
line phone ring; one long, two short.
A switch across the back of bare thigh
was the burning impetus to arrive
breathless, damp from our swim,
and hungry for garden vegetables,
fresh bread, cow's milk and ham.

I remember curling up like puppies
in the middle of a big double bed,
all the girls in one, all the boys
in the bunk beds, sleeping the rest
of the truly played out child
Oh my.
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Old 01-21-2019, 02:07 AM   #268
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Quote:
Originally Posted by champagne1982 View Post
Oh thank you! Do have a listen though. The entire piece is beautiful but the allegra portion is what sent me poetry
Im too working class ingrained for such beauty, i'll take some acdc a shot of tequila and a soft body to raise goosebumps

Allegra......are you swearing at me
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Old 01-21-2019, 02:07 AM   #269
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Quote:
Originally Posted by HarryHill View Post
Oh my.
Agreed
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Old 01-22-2019, 12:22 AM   #270
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Quote:
Originally Posted by HarryHill View Post
Oh my.
Thank you. True story and damn that switch was not applied lightly either. It's a mark of how tired and how worried our gran was I think. But it was always tempered with a bit of chocolate on shopping day.

Quote:
Originally Posted by todski28 View Post
Im too working class ingrained for such beauty, i'll take some acdc a shot of tequila and a soft body to raise goosebumps

Allegra......are you swearing at me
A pui a pui.. (see the poem sonate ad libitum for violin for more cuss words.)

Quote:
Originally Posted by todski28 View Post
Agreed
Thank you Harry and todski.
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Old 02-10-2019, 12:03 AM   #271
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Bespoken

What is it that tells that words spoken
aloud are more permanent,
more ponderous and meaningful
than a thought?

No matter how profound a notion
can be, or how deeply felt its affect
on all those listening and feeling,
every syllable of what is spoke,
of what is heard

can move a mountain, drain a sea,
flatten a forest.

Be sure, what is heard is as fleeting
as an echo but captured,
the noise can be prodded each
and every time the word
is said.

Being sung is, at times, more effective,
more long-lasting and stirring,
than even the richest
timber of speech, the melody

captures our imagination and carries
what is spoken outward from thought,
memory, and dream, to become
the universe.

The word has been spoke,
the voice heard, and has driven
a nail into the listening mind
every time it enters
into reality.

So it has been, will,
and onward,
driving; regardless how painful
realities, spoken honesty lives on.
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