writing live

what do we have to trade
wherever we import ourselves
the memories slowly fade
what was once upon the shelves
all that went to the shade
like dwarves, giants, elves
a legend forgotten, I'm afraid.
So, aliens, huh? by the twelfth
generation a native clade.
 
a theory about 'why?'

The world's eye turned
from Ukraine to Israel
in a blink

Oct. 7th
a black
red day

and despite the horror
it's easier for the mind to grasp
as a terrible thing
as a world-changing event
its terrors parceled in bloody numbers
hard to imagine but understood for what it was
wrapped within a darkened date
and so the outpourings of grief
rage
revenge
are understandable
as totally human

but when voices rise to query
where's the sorrow for the children of Palestine?
there's confusion
disjointed reactions
a lack of focus
because it's only human
easier
to grasp and respond to one enormous
terrible event
mass murder on a shocking scale
than to address the countless years
of dead children scattered
piecemeal across time
bloody debris across burned-out barren lands
labeled Palestine by foreign voices

so many dates, so many names, so many places

the blood is just as precious
innocence as true
fragility of flesh and bone
the same as Israel's own
all mourned
families torn asunder
blown to bits as final
as brutal as beheading
death is death
and there aren't enough tears to cry them back alive
whichever side of the line they lived
and the hate
the rage
the human lust for revenge
is fed and fed
 
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there are days
such as this
when poetry has buried itself
too deep, map unmarked
or taken wing to fly south
with chattier companions
and it's too much trouble
to go hunt for it
when brain's nagging me to nap
despite only having been awake 5 hours
and all i have are these pale words
tedious and humdrum
to a backscore of buzzing in my ears

mea culpa
mea culpa
oh phooey
 
the blind potter

clay sings to him
guides his touch
a shared pleasure
as slick fingers coax
a softly swollen curve
a slender neck
a shoulder, lip or foot
sighs beneath his hands
as he feels his way
reads each ripple
deftly directs
each anomaly
to perfection

his muscled legs
ease the wheel
to still

temporarily sated
he breathes
a timeless moment
neither knowing nor caring
he's confused
his decorative glazes

-----o-----o-----o------

Phoenix Valley Times

Renowned local blind artist wows ceramic world with his new phase, ripping up the rule books to produce brave, genre-shattering, colour-clash co-ordinations and finishes to inspire and delight even the most jaded amongst us. Fabuloso!
 
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modified species deemed invasive, useless, and undesirable


twinned bradfords, 40-years old or so
stand quiet in the top front yard
toes dug deep in its gentle slope
the start of a sharper descent

their fellow trees naked
but for the odd tattered leaf
though evergreens boast silently
of countless verdant needles

it rained last night
not heavy, just enough
to lay the dust—temporary respite
grey skies blue to a peek-a-boo sun

greens are greener for the watering
and the bradfords sport
cherry reds and amber-fire
flimsier than their summer garb

in spring their pale fresh sprouts
prelude snowy, bridal whites
short-lived, frothy abundance
delicately brash show-stoppers

when winter's precipitation sits
on bare, generously spreading limbs
they only enhance the moonlight
and glisten frosty as stars

invasive aliens? we've still only two
undesirable? i can't agree
useless? living art can't name a price
but bring priceless joy, regardless
had to look up Bradfords
 
Happy Valentine’s Day

Start 0235 – ended 0316 <-- edited or added the “pot” in at 0326 during proofread -2-14-24
actual -> 0343

Haley’s Experience

Her first real orgasm I’m just sayin’
filled a chasm now with some playin’
a void riveted in place there for years
but give it some time and you’ll sometimes (replaced “always”) find
no sex may be (replaced “is”) better than tears (because “is” is too absolute)

gone was her ex
but what came up next
was memories from yesterday’s nights
now some thinks it is
while some thinks it aint
but majorities don’t make things so right ← (replaced “all” @ 0335)

facing that girl in the mirror near daily
turns observations into some consternation
looking older but wiser is Haley now
and ain’t nothin’ wrong in masturbation

First time with ‘ol Frank I'm no liar
she sucked his crank down by the fire
‘neath Day-Glow posters lava lamps and black lights
pot cranked up her first time desire (“pot” was edited in at 0326 to further amplify the 60’s)

and no matter the scheme that you’re on
gone were all Bohemian
ways to live out her (replaced “one’s) life (since this is her experience)
everything changed
it seemed so arranged
after she was a wife

now Frank’s all long gone
and now she’s with John
or with Bella and it kinda depends
on just how the mood hits her
and nobody bullshits her
or misconstrues words she doth sends ← (replaced “mishears all the”) @ 0343
 
Your voice has always soothed
the savage me

It doesn't reduce or excuse
the treachery
just helps mute some of the noise
so I can sort
the jangle of voices
arguing in my own head

I've spent some time flipping
through images of those
you've dressed in my clothes
though you told me they were locked
away in a closet
because it hurt so much
to see them

I can't deny it stings
to see the things you've lent out
or just given away
but the real pain that will stay
with me
the kind that twinges
and never really leaves
is knowing the parts of you
that you crumpled like paper
and threw away
 
Sitting on my bike
looking at the stars
wondering how
you are going;
knowing one day
I will join you
 
Ever since I learned that
Birdsong is bad language
I sing along

Dawn and dusk I belt out
My wordless heartfelt disgust
But it is beautiful to someone

It's a numbers game
A biological imperative
For symmetry and meaning

You have to cut out the words
They only get in the way
When you really have something to say
 
You know what I want
Only you know
Your handson my ass
My hands on your shoulders
Yiur lips on my lips
Your hips on my hips
Spin me
 
the prompt, a phrase by another writer on here:

"I won't stop being the only serious writer here.
I won't stop being the only accomplished poet here."


ego is a monstrous tower
constructed out of weakened glass
and rusting iron
corrosion of the soul

those tears that drip from heights
we others can never ascend to
are nothing more than daily rain
polluted... bitter

so sit atop your shaky monument
it cants and rattles in the wind
proclaim your fame
demand others bear witness

name-drop worn horse-shoes
upon our heads—in borrowed credence
to support your thirst for relevance
for respect, for reverence

but don't be surprised
when you finally look down
and see no crowds
only pale weeds and broken asphalt
 
In an interesting turn of events
the keyboard player shares your name
and it was his birthday
born the same year as you
oh what fun!

And so the crowd was led in a chant
of your name
over and over and over again
while I wondered anew
if there really are jokesters
behind the scenes
of the universe
who find it most amusing
to taunt me for sport

Then I wondered why
my only real reaction
was a WTF expression
and a small shake of the head

Am I finally just over it all?
Or is there soething waiting under cover
primed for a time when I can process
and feel
the chef's-kiss level of fuckery
that was your parting gift
 
Why bother wondering anymore
it's clear that there are pranksters
somewhere in the ether
another day, another show
and the bass player....
comes from your hometown
which I'm nowhere near

I briefly thought
that it's just not safe
to leave my house

Then I just laughed
flipped the bird at the sky
and kept dancing

It was another beautful night
 
I wish I coulda known you
For more than just a minute
But you were something good that I chased away

A lonesome heart is bleeding
Calling sharks in for a feeding
But all I ever fed you was a price to pay

I blink and watch a year pass
I put it on the tall stack
Of all the years that came and went on my own

Time knows how to tell time
It disappeared with mankind
Every time I listen to
Mother Love Bone
 
Wordless

there's a vacuum left
where fingers poked thin fabric
sixty-nine years of teenage drama
didn't he said, she said, emotion-bled

then, everything was alright
when feet dangled in thick air
sixty-nine to go, love's unfolding
a yet unsad look said, can we wed?

vapor leaked from every angle
whenever limbs became untangled
sixty-nines bring you close, by far
stripped, unclad, but no words to add

(live writing in Undead Poets Society)
 
Unclinged

Escaping your happy, safe place
the best decision I made
it's add-on wings only
but I learned to work
their ups and downs
from the abyss I walked
to new heights of breath
liberty in my lungs
your tight embrace pales
beside the dawn of new
 
Pincushions,
freaking,
blood-soaked
pincushions,
wielding a million stainless steel pins
and a roll of band-aid
I clearly can see
on any romance author's desk

you think a happy end's close
just another corner away
but it's just another sting

by now, I'm a medical miracle
all the heartbreaks should have
Diagnosis: Internal Bleeding
been fatal

but no

because those literate surgeons
so know how to cord you together
for the next emotional breakdown

some demon, please, take 'em all
by the darkest hour
to the 42nd ring of hell!











and bring them back at five past
I want that sequel to my daily death
and new tissue box.
 
I miss you so much
The ache tears at my guts
When I remember you
You knew, you knew
I couldn't not cry
But you didn't get tired
And I'm so damn sorry
A million times I'm sorry
I promised you, and then I held you down
I'll never forgive myself
 
the things we tell ourselves

creations born of vacuums
imagination
the burn to understand
all we don't
or cannot—yet

tales that evolve
as knowledge grows
and lightning's relabeled
as more than Iškur's rage
Zeus' tantrums
Raijin, Indra, Perun or Thor
being froggy

and how total solar eclipses
are a matter of mathematics
yet still cosmic to experience
silencing birds and raising hairs on our necks

we seek understanding
and understand the power of naming
the power of words
how they can soothe
and, sometimes, absolve us
from blame

how we need to be the authors
of our own stories
to continue writing our existence
beyond 'The End' assigned
by life's biographer
the vastness of un-being too much
for simian brains such as ours




edit explanation: i couldn't leave that T of 'The End' not itallicised when the rest was. just couldn't :eek!
 
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