writing live

[WickedEve]

Their secret:
Fairies in the backyard —
brown wings, turquoise,
sky blue.

"Am I your favorite Autism kid?" Katy gasps
from repetition. Then little girl beads roll
down Hawthorn hill. The center R
is lost. Katy broke the string; she breaks
into screams.

"Our secret," comes low
from Mama, wiggles into Katy's ear,
like a shh, don't tell worm.

Katy grabs the wren's house from Mama's hand,
remembers to search leaves,
within the pear blossoms,
beneath flat stones.

Fairies are elusive this Spring
but not bees that burst
forth from the bird hole.

 

[RhymeFairy]

Their secret:
Fairies in the backyard —
brown wings, turquoise,
sky blue.

"Am I your favorite Autism kid?" Katy gasps
from repetition. Then little girl beads roll
down Hawthorn hill. The center R
is lost. Katy broke the string; she breaks
into screams.

"Our secret," comes low
from Mama, wiggles into Katy's ear,
like a shh, don't tell worm.

Katy grabs the wren's house from Mama's hand,
remembers to search leaves,
within the pear blossoms,
beneath flat stones.

Fairies are elusive this Spring
but not bees that burst
forth from the bird hole.

Speaking of children ...


I was supposed to go to the beach this last Thursday and return this am ... Sometimes life seems to throw things at us. Testing our armor, I suppose. But as of late I have had boulders and fifty ton trucks thrown.

......


I really should take a bath,
while the baby swings, he really does not swing
often but when he does, he is
out. Outta my mind from
the TV sounds
blurred vision and ears aching
please will you cut that

down. Down south we speak in slurs
we move in slow motion
while everything seems a
blur. The nights bring
the sidewalks rolling up
not a sound
not a peep. But the swing still swings and I still
feel overwhelmed just needing
a moment
a pause button, to stop time

breathe and relax
instead,
instead
I rush the mornings in with
cold coffee, moaning boys
who wish to do anything,

anything

but get ready for school. And a prom queen
daughter who
thinks she is forty, telling me
what SHE is going to do - With life and boys
with school and all the toys of life
she does not have.

Yes, I am a mom, only one at that
and it seems that life, has given me a flat
tire on the way to when do I get
a break .....


.....

 

[WickedEve]

uh, this needs work, but...



Bird Dog

Free fall,
a cloud-bursting wing,
freedom is a needful thing. Masters lock it
in cages, and Misters hide flight

on top shelves. She is small
dog, with climb-lacking legs, buried
canines that cut her gums. Some Monday,

after brunch,
before rain and letters,
she will snap,
pass beneath the net,
lead them in high seach.

 

[WickedEve]

black speck, march
your toasted molecules to far counter
corner, where grim fingers wait.

squish

famished army,
thumbs come,
pads lower.

squish

ten reapers ride
on handy death machines.

 

[MickNasty]

tendrils of thought
wrap into my mind
following your road
leads me to myselff
inside me are your words
your thoughts make me
what I am to be

 

[WickedEve]

i know the bones
of you, and come one sultry night,
we will arch the sky's
back, rake it
all silver slits. and come one sultry night,

you must let me
be dirt, a mote
of lichen, bead of sweat. allow me
to be a blade crawler, crushed

underneath your heel. rain
on me; leave me golden
and low. i will be your bit of porcelain.
please tell me,
will i then be less than the worm?

come one sultry night, i will be blissful
beneath your bones and muddy
shameful before creeping gods.

 

[triara]

Why the facade?

The lovely you
is buried inside
all the things
you hang onto yourself
like sad Christmas decorations
to tell people you are
what you want them
to think you are.

It is tattered and torn
by reality
everyone can see you
inside, huddled
in a cardboard box
because you
never built a house
just hung misdirection signs.

So
who are you hiding from?
others or yourself?
the person in the cardboard box
would be beautiful
if they took a bath
combed their hair
smiled.......
Yet you were too busy
hanging misdirection signs

Who would you be
if you were no one's anything
undefined by anything not you
just you?
I am, and no more.
That is who is huddled
in the box

When are you going to let them out?

 

[butters]

each silvered drop
shines me
hydrates this shabby soul
cools and moistens
breathes me in
absorbs me
till i'm clean as rain
stretching up my hands to touch
the pristine skies again

 

[DeepAsleep]

(the darker end of boyhood - two pieces)

A hunting pellet travels
at over 600 whispers per second
through even a cheap airgun.
Even in our ignorance,
waiting for the killing made us still.

Jeff is the best shot,
but he never shoots to kill,
he just likes to tear holes in the ears,
or bloody the haunches.

His brother Les is too scared to really shoot straight.
I have never seen anything die and it feels important
that i should, like i feel important
when I hear the sound of the pumphandle
and feel the cold stock against my cheek.

We've spent hours scaring off all the rabbits.
I won't think til much later how Les never laughed,
but Jeff showed his teeth
at every ribbon of blood, how he would go
try to find some so he could touch it.

At my turn holding the gun
I am neither stomach knots or Jeff's red fingers
that he was too scared to taste, anyway. *
I am only deliberate and curious.

Les is all exaggerated hush noises as a rabbit hops slow
into their yard. I miss my first shot,
because Jeff calls me a cunt.
I don't know what it means, so I laugh
right as I pull the trigger.
The rabbit doesn't move and Les, his voice is a rabbit,
high pitched and tangled.
He's making little fists, saying,
"Come on," and he is not talking to me,
while I pump air clack-clack into the rifle.
I tell them both to shut up and immediately fire.
It's more miracle than aim that it tears
holes through the warm body.

The rabbit leaps straight up into the air
twisting and stretched out against all that green
fieldgrass, lands on its back and screaming.
Les and jeff are both excited and Les is scared, saying

"Make it stop make it stop" and Jeff is laughing,
running to catch it. I am frantic trying to air up the gun
for another shot, as if that will help,
but it is the only answer
that I have immediately in my hand.

Jeff gets the rabbit when it sticks in the fence.
I want to shoot him instead of the bunny,
because it is squealing harder and none of this is fair, at all.

Jeff twists its neck to dry branches
before anyone can tell him to leave it alone,
and we are suddenly quiet enough that the echo shivers
through us. Les, it's his turn, but his face is frantic
lilypetals stuck to the blood
on his brother's hands and he says we got one,
no more will come back,
they can smell the dead one.
This sounds reasonable and we leave to play football.
That night, all I think about is rabbits like brown
stones lined up at the fenceline silently standing watch.


~~~~~~~~

John-Paul is weak as ricecakes in a rainstorm,
cries every time the other team makes a touchdown.

We try to be nice because he is small,
but he whines like dying brakepads
and i hate his way, or how he gets it
in saltwater. How he looks so proud
when we give him the ball and let him
run. The touchdown dance grinding our faces in
dogshit we had wrapped up in bows
just for him. The privileged strut
after we had done him the favor of stepping back,
saying, "Run, JP, run, you can make it."

When he climbed the fence, hurrying home
to pajamas I knew were soft, to dinner
he would not have to eat cold, I hated his silhouette
riding the horizon, running towards a sunset
I would have to walk away from,
hated him so much that I could taste it,
all rusty bricks and copperchrome
spit in the corner of my jaw. I was right
there watching him struggle over the chainlink
when my hands played touchdown dance all over his back.
He hit the ground so fast, I didn't have time to feel guilty,
and I couldn't tell him I was sorry.
I was too angry that I'd let him win
that he'd made me do it,
too angry that tomorrow, he'd be bandaids
on his forehead and a new something,
waiting for us to give him everything he wanted.

 

[vrosej10]

Naked on the hillside,
chocolate is not food,
but a toy.

The grass shimmers tawny in the winter noonday light
and I lie in his embrace,
and he touches me deep again
and again
with the sweet delicious bar,
dipping in and out,
slow and fast,
pausing only to take bite
or to kiss my sweetness.

The ecstacy of memory is never beaten be the reality of the present day...

 

[butters]

everything's muffled
dis
connected
and the sun's too flat too hard too bright

late night

 

[butters]

a smile curves behind my eyes
but conscience warns
be polite, be polite

so I swallow a thought
rethink before hitting 'reply'

 

[vrosej10]

She hides beneath the purple wings,
But I am not God nor Goddess nor unearthly being,
I cannot know what she knows without her mind being opened before me,
I cannot go page to page even if I wish,
So I must just remain wondering why she is underground and dark and hidden and beautiful behind purple wings.

Best not to pry,
Maybe the underworld where she resides in full of daemons,
And if I opened her a crack,
She would spill like Pandoras box,
Bringing all the world miseries forth,
Or perhaps choirs angels instead?
But I may never know either way,
For she is locked and I have no key,
Nor even permission to knock.

 

[butters]

live writes bounce

like pebbles off the window
or hail reversing its long long fall in a sudden leap
exhibiting its need to be airborne moments longer
so as to delay the moment of its melt

we hit the plane and bounce in shock
attempting to engineer a reversal of thoughts committed to screen
but gravity sucks us in
and in

we melt
here
right before your eyes

 

[butters]

an apology to a poet

it was never my intention
to ride roughshod
never my intention
to burn
forget to think
before I 'spoke' -
your pain
a lesson learned

 

[drown]

t'is all live,
these mutterings. thus:

without



ah,
without

perhaps another


more live
more alive.

newborn tragedies
abandoned
at the fire station's doorstep

bric-a-brac
of better-use ephemera
discarded

with
a tinge
of

nascent hope?

t'is more than a twitter,
yes?


no.
less.


there's tits on aisle six!

 

[PandoraGlitters]

we melt
here
right before your eyes

newborn tragedies
abandoned
at the fire station's doorstep

 

[Serathi]

words rush like a
torrent and i'm swept
away gone past the
river bank with its
solemn oaks

i can scarcely breathe
gasping up and down like
some salmon desperate
to reach upstream

but the currents push and
the currents push and the
currents push

my fingers scrape the river
bed but i can't hold on and
off i go again towards
some ocean
somewhere

 

[arielsgoddess]

Asimovolution

To just sit down....takes willpower
In this nanotechnoworld where we
Are all lost in the information
Our true selves rejected as incomplete files
The memories and relationships we try to pull withus
Being deleted because others think the attachments are too large
As we are electronically converted to values of One or Zero
And still we choose to swim in this stream into that ocean
Frantically faster thanks to laser eyes and plasma bodies
That evolve our species not forward into silver gods
But back to single-minded slippery fish in motion
That do not stop swimming until it's time to die
Forgotten and replaced with newer drivers
Speeding us even faster to where the water falls
At the glimmering end of this universe.....
Today I take the time to prove my consciousnesss
And that I still have two legs, a pine and mind
By departing and wandering wantonly in the woods
But my reverie is made irreverent
By the sound of Darwin's laughter......

 

[butters]

^ really like what this does.

As we are electronically converted to values of One or Zero
And still we choose to swim in this stream into that ocean
Frantically faster thanks to laser eyes and plasma bodies
That evolve our species not forward into silver gods
But back to single-minded slippery fish in motion
That do not stop swimming until it's time to die

the silver gods v slippery fish imagery is very very cool!

 

[butters]

of all the possibilities
this page affords

i still don't know if i can bring
my schtick to sing
of such deep broads and rising tides
that swell to rush and suck back down
a whirpool of i
deas

when really all's set off by you
your underwater gruff and bloom
that shudders, shivers, shatters high glass rooms
until, exposed, my core shines silver
wet but pulsing yet with scarlet
flame that's free to ..

free to ...

testing testing this be-coming word
free

free
dom's still too new for me
to know quite what to do or be

so back to possibilities
i cannot voice
i cannot vice
i cannot thrice and twice and throw the dice
and roll a pair of deuces like a
maestro
no

that's music not
a metaphor to sloppy-drop
to gamble with a score or move like props upon the dim-lit stage
thank god this bastard thing can be
erased

quick
cover me
snuff me
dry me
stop me

re
think
the brink

and stumble back from
sounding like a freak peer
ing through the muddy chink and looking for the light to ride
away

so gonna regret this

 

[butters]

fogged

dense
cut off from a bright world of
coherent thought
drugged, dragged, my tidal pools
sleep pulls the corners of my mouth
crawls in my ears
weighs down these lids

 

[emma_tate]

contemplating Alzheimer's as I approach that certain age

memories can suck if you allow them
if you give them permission
to peel beck layers you have
spent decades toughening
and you had succeeded, so far
now there are times when a thing
as innocuous as a smell
can undo your decades of denial.

apple pies cooling on Granny's window sill
firewood, freshly cut...hickory
my feet recall the feel of nuts
and shells as I ran
from my brother, escaping
his onslaught of rotting Rome apples.
And the persimmons at the edge
of Miss Moore's drive, how they attracted
the yellow-jacketed bees.

Fried chicken dinner every Sunday
after church, potato salad, string beans
squash and sweet potatoes. That's how
Sunday will always smell to me, entrenched
like aromatic soldiers, they fight and let
those smells survive
and tagging along are images
of how it felt to be alive, nothing
to worry, fear or doubt.

I fear one scent may become extinct
the smell of a new book, when you
are the first to turn a page, the first
to breathe in the jacket and the ink
Even worse, the loss of those
of us who take the time to think
and enjoy the musky smell
of a tome consumed a thousand times.


I hope I don't forget to smell the verses

 

[butters]

exceptional verses, emma!

did you write these live too? If so, I am in awe
polished, aromatic, sensual verses. a delicious read.

 

[emma_tate]

exceptional verses, emma!

did you write these live too? If so, I am in awe
polished, aromatic, sensual verses. a delicious read.

Hi, chipbutty


I only edited to add the last line in pale blue. Everything else I sat and let it flow. I know it was wrong to ( edit) and I hope the spirit of sp will forgive me.

I'm glad you enjoyed my poem. I had not written anything in a very long time and I am grateful that it was effective.