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not sure how many words

eagleyez said:
the dogs eye view
pheremones on a 4 by 4, willow tree.
those cats down the block,
uppity them cats,
but i got my eye on them ubangees,
tree climbers.

;)
Click to expand...

the kits and cats skitter
and scat under abandoned chevy
over by the apartments,
gravel scratch we sniff and circle

sacks and wives
open and scold
men with dark vests and long poles
we run all the way home
to our st. ives
 
cell phone

I think it was the one
About the time I threw the ten speed
Thru the front window
In the blackout night,
Chasing the viper down
Limerock roads of our middle youth,

And we used the word luck,
As if we had understood some
Fabric that shrouded our
Daylight, all
Bright and pain and loss and memory

All iluminato.

The sound out over the wires
Laughing,
Crying,
The tradition of men
Giving up.
 
Dream Bringer

Down from starnight he comes
stick for fire, snake for remembering.
We will almost wake,
get up, turn dials, settle children.
The heat kicks on
before the waking dream melts
into sleep again.

Down from starnight he comes
stretched and somber
sliver moon in one hand
lever in the other, he pries us loose
from desire's mortar before stitching
himself back into the woven jute sky.
 
annaswirls said:
Dream Bringer

Down from starnight he comes
stick for fire, snake for remembering.
We will almost wake,
get up, turn dials, settle children.
The heat kicks on
before the waking dream melts
into sleep again.

Down from starnight he comes
stretched and somber
sliver moon in one hand
lever in the other, he pries us loose
from desire's mortar before stitching
himself back into the woven jute sky.
Click to expand...

'stitching
himself back into the woven jute sky.' ........ love that
 
susan

desperately searching for...

is susan my salvation?
or is she waiting for me for her own salvation?
i longed for her to come into my life
each and everyday
i have searched everywhere,
so far gotten nowhere


------------------------------------
home schooling catalog
 
studio NYC

Whiskey decanter/table lamp
double futon sofa, sheets tucked underneath
We count the square inches not feet.

Urban boot cut jeans, woolen cap
I can almost see your breath
as you walk away,
surely it is cold enough to break dew point
but always I catch you in the inhale
always saving molecules and moments
and counter space centimeters moving moving
moving out: single bag over shoulder, bed in a bag
moving on down East Side West Side
which side did you trip your boots on down?

Searching street signs: navigation bleak
unmarked white van gives me no answers
you left why where go you now how do you do it
hold it in so long, unblinking and snow melt soft
what to do with all these things you could not carry
away from my square inches
lucky stone on window lucky stone on radiant heat
lucky stone in the bottom of glass.

Kathy never liked that turquoise money clip.
We lie drawn and quartered, we stretch into four states
all at once.
 
Andromache comforts Hector

Lovingly she peals away
battle crusted linen, palming his chest
as he rises to her.
Her lips graze the scars and marks
of past carnage now healed.
In the silence her breath is a sigh,
his a groan as he lies back,
weary of the fight, eager for love.
She takes him inside her
kneeling astride his muscled thighs,
his knotted strength is heat on her.
Leaning she sweeps her hair aside,
her breasts yearn
towards his and his hands
cover her hips as he deepens
their bond. Outside the walls
Achilles waits but, for now,
he is hers and her lips find his.
 
TheRainMan said:
.

She needs her anxieties the way a fat woman
needs sweets. One goes and she helps herself
to another. She awaits dawn’s
bright calamity with today’s first, on the rocks.
Any minute a zoom lens
will begin violating her, spying on her
little pink secrets. Any time now, she’ll locate
the lump, her portfolio will plummet, the icecap
will melt, some personal
or global catastrophe will walk off the page
she’s reading and onto her living
room carpet. From outside the window, her breath
is taken by the sudden recognition of a fear
she can not name. She draws the curtain,
so slowly it could be an invitation—
Every minute of every day she is hiding,
something is trying to find her. She could
rattle off the hideouts like roll call—
the spots in low drawers, under floorboards,
behind the panels of walls. The brown bottle
stuck in her mouth like a thumb, the anarchy
of ivy at a grave she hasn’t visited in years—
those tangled, drowned places. The deep
fog, each step a guess forward.
Moving ghostly among it,
like the prop girl in a theatre as the play
goes on. Removing this, shifting
that, while everyone pretends she isn’t there.

.
Click to expand...

Is this a first draft? It's really good, really insightful and cohesive.
 
Angeline said:
Is this a first draft? It's really good, really insightful and cohesive.
Click to expand...

no, not a first draft (I put those in the 5/5 or 30/30 or passion threads).

I'm putting together a chap about . . . I don't know . . . 'existential dread,' perhaps. :) -- gathering appropriate poems, editing, etc. etc.

I always liked E.E.'s thread here, the atmosphere of ease and comfort, the lack of rules. right up my alley. ;)
 
TheRainMan said:
no, not a first draft (I put those in the 5/5 or 30/30 or passion threads).

I'm putting together a chap about . . . I don't know . . . 'existential dread,' perhaps. :) -- gathering appropriate poems, editing, etc. etc.

I always liked E.E.'s thread here, the atmosphere of ease and comfort, the lack of rules. right up my alley. ;)
Click to expand...

It always makes me happy when I see this thread bumped because I know this is just what he intended it for--working on one's writing in whatever way suits you best. And the poem is one of my favorites by you, I think. Maybe it's the existential dread; I have a fair amount of that myself. :D
 
Angeline said:
It always makes me happy when I see this thread bumped because I know this is just what he intended it for--working on one's writing in whatever way suits you best. And the poem is one of my favorites by you, I think. Maybe it's the existential dread; I have a fair amount of that myself. :D
Click to expand...

who doesn't? :)

'Existential Dread' is a sign of the times, I think.

kind of makes me nostalgic for the time when the biggest thing we had to worry about was our president getting skull from a teenage intern in the Oval Office.

ah, the good old days. ;)
 
A funeral of sorts today,
My hometown paper, The Chronicle,
has covered up the last homeless cat
down in the tenerloin, south of Mission
and beyond, into Hunters Point and all the way to Candlestick.

Good night Herb Caen, who prowled the city in the forties thru music halls and
Martini rooms with wavy green plush wallpaper, when Lenny Bruce bummed a light and Ginsberg wore sandals to formals, while Neal slept levitated at the southbound Mexican railyard and Jack puffed up like a blowfish, drinkin his way to Memere and the drear of life with her in Florida. They all read the Chronicle and Herb Caen, Tom Donahue and Joel Selvin.

In the 50's and 60's we got the Giants and Mays and Marichal and McCovey, and the seekers and the peaceniks and the bored and curious filled the Haight, and music, such street level music where the wail of Prez moulted into many birds upon which we still take flight, Joy of Cooking with Sons of Champlin and the Diga Rythm bands and Coltrane and Eric Dolpy n New Rider of the Purple Sage, Public Enemy and Lil Wayne.....Shostakovitch, Ravel and Copeland.

So I tip my hot cup of coffee to the the Chron baby, hell I used to dash naked on certain dark mornings to retrieve her smack dab in the middle of the driveway.

Check the box score, see who's playin in the city, who shot who, who bought who, tides and weather in case we fish today, yeah, it aint the same sittin at my desk reading this shit online. And Im in Maine.


I wreckon I will get used to it right quick however. Happy Monday, poets and ner-do wells from roung here.:cool:
and Paul Klee and rainy day mondays just like today, nuthin to do but the job,
keepin some things secret but pretty much lettin the rest go out where it should be.
 
reaching for the note

rubbing shoulders, both crosslegged on a big enough bed,
You cue up the cinema, an unfolding of your youth and your city.
I drink down the history- blacked and whited, where out on the streets
Mid town whistled and the city trees stike me as prisoners, but Im still in the tree Im afraid, and they are landlocked with grates and concrete barriers.

His work with Copeland, his time in Vienna, his West Side Story,
Lenny like a wraithe fought for art in it all, in group compositions and
Alone in his work area, he fought the loss of child in us all and demanded
That the movement and the singing and the playing traced his own history and thus that of the larger audience and the reverberating caverns served well for "Appalachian Spring."

The magnificense of his narrative, the dance in his soul,
New York's talisman lasted decades
and now the rest is carrying on, carrying on,
As we sit and cleave beauty out of passing birdsongs and sunsets.
 
eagleyez said:
rubbing shoulders, both crosslegged on a big enough bed,
You cue up the cinema, an unfolding of your youth and your city.
I drink down the history- blacked and whited, where out on the streets
Mid town whistled and the city trees stike me as prisoners, but Im still in the tree Im afraid, and they are landlocked with grates and concrete barriers.

His work with Copeland, his time in Vienna, his West Side Story,
Lenny like a wraithe fought for art in it all, in group compositions and
Alone in his work area, he fought the loss of child in us all and demanded
That the movement and the singing and the playing traced his own history and thus that of the larger audience and the reverberating caverns served well for "Appalachian Spring."

The magnificense of his narrative, the dance in his soul,
New York's talisman lasted decades
and now the rest is carrying on, carrying on,
As we sit and cleave beauty out of passing birdsongs and sunsets.
Click to expand...

I love you.

Let's watch it again today. :kiss:
 
Yesterdays sun has given way to
A perfect Monday squall, with warblers and junkos and dangerbirds bathing-
As the sad apostles shake their boots --they move-
In mansized dreams bent and determined with ponchos dripping
Window wiper eyebrows,

A quest for fresh fruit perhaps,
Or to get the mixer repaired,
Inside a lost tune that plays the part
About this, the greys and the silver sky
Alit by smoldering clouds
A sun behind the blanket.

Free to change the key, the perccusioin, the jacket, sunglasses at will.
The coffee is strong and I fell rested
Saddle up the Palomino.
Head for water.
 
U Tube Surprise

Orange Crush
Live with bullhorn
Chopper Blades
Comin in fast over me,

Follow Me
Dont follow me,
Color me,
Dont color me.

Comin in fast over me.

Typewriter solo
Is John Cage on tamborine?

I got my spine
I had my fun
Comin in fast over me.
 
Last edited:
Ditchdigger

No thanks to the treadmill,
No thanks to the grindstone
There's plenty of descent
From these rungs below.

Carve an x on a tree
Carve one on a box
Blow "she loves me nots" and then
Blow "She loves me,"
Follow the wind and the sound
Across the shaky ground.

Never got to see the world,
He got a funeral
And he wrote a song,
On moonshine whiskey and beer,

the verses went by and by,
lemme eat when Im hungry,
lemme drink when Im dry.

Slide like a freightrain
Slippin in the rain.
 
Coffee like God

A big left hand
Lands on C major
Whisps of white smoke
Shadowdance
Now a cough
Now a puppet.

It must be that I made
Quite a scene,
Speaking like a man
On methedrine,
the radio is a beautiful place
The Witchita lineman
Is cleaning the hurricane
On Galveston beach,
Singing to the senorita
For tostadas and lettuce,
While her brother
Snorts the blow headed for
San Diego.

By the time I get to Barstow
I may opt for Bakersfield,
Tehachapee descending
Air brakes boiling
the radio is a beautiful place
Breaker Breaker imy frequency.

the left hand attack is joined by the right,
all hands on deck,
roads to drive
fuel to burn.
 
Last edited:
There was a cough in the water,
During black blizzard days
And the old Buffalo Springfielld
Seized up and stood like an ornament
Out there, out there, where the land
Rose up and blew the endless greys, and the blues
Got up in the dooryard
And cashed it in.

There's cream in the coffee
And a little sugar too,
Springtime survived
And the clammers and oystermen
Predict a good year.

Further out, beyond the barrier islands, out in international waters,
That's anybody's guess,
But here the orchard is alive and the
Rivers are iced out early,
And the magic silvers begin the big swim,
Up to birth again in the golden light
And then sleep forever under the bluest moon.

A rich man brings back what he has lost
When its time to get busy and ignore the cost.
 
Ive been clankin around the joint.

And you are too kind, but I already knew that ions ago.

:heart:
 
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