Heather Larsen is back again

[arienette]

I am writing this just to inform all the poets that Heather Larsen, who was plagiarizing poems of many of the poets here not too long ago and who removed her accounts on many websites where "her" stolen poetry was residing, is back again. I was contacted a few nights ago about my poem, The Seventh Wave, being on a bio page of hers and have just sent an email to the AMR website. Lets hope something happens with that.

The site is here: http://www.amrsightandsound.com/html/heather_larsen.html

Guess I'm good enough to be plagiarized now... Heh.

 

[BluePoet]

Do you have your poem posted at literotica?

 

[jomar]

That's worse than what happens with Lit stories. Apparently, there are porn websites housing stories and pics, where some type of bot searches and grabs stories and places it on the porn site. They may be stealing, but somehow plagiarism seems worse. I hope you shut her down.

 

[annaswirls]

so this is new? unbelievable. I do not understand why she is up at that site, Brian Jackson has her listed as "resigned" from the project on his site.

I wonder if the Shriners know that these folks are soliciting money for them.

 

[LeBroz]

so this is new? unbelievable. I do not understand why she is up at that site, Brian Jackson has her listed as "resigned" from the project on his site.

I wonder if the Shriners know that these folks are soliciting money for them.

Brian stood by Heather all through the uproar. He only accepted her withdrawal from another project with reluctance because of the 'unfair' way she was treated. He always refused to believe the charges against her. Now that's your true believer!

Unfortunately for arienette, she recently pulled her poems from Lit. If they're not posted elsewhere, she may have some difficulty proving copyright ownership.

.
.
.

 

[WickedEve]

Brian stood by Heather all through the uproar. He only accepted her withdrawal from another project with reluctance because of the 'unfair' way she was treated. He always refused to believe the charges against her. Now that's your true believer!

Unfortunately for arienette, she recently pulled her poems from Lit. If they're not posted elsewhere, she may have some difficulty proving copyright ownership.

.
.
.

Unfortunately, I had a few email exchanges with him, once I found out that heather the heathen stole my poem. He was willing to listen. He seemed reasonable, then he got all worked up and swore his allegiance to heather.

 

[unapologetic]

Interesting

Did you all catch this on her page:

"Her debut novel, Unlikely Muse is undergoing the final stages of editing, and will be ready for publication soon."

All I can do is wonder from whom that was stolen.

 

[LeBroz]

.
.
.

Heather Larsen is the consummate plagiarist.

Fire and A Poem to Explain are yet other poems she's lifted from August 2002 and September 2003, respectively. She's got cut-and-paste, font, and text color selection down good; now all she needs is to learn how to write.

.
.
.

 

[annaswirls]

so where are Laurel and Manu in all of this? as individual poets, it is difficult to fight copyright laws. Will they take some of their proceedes from the site and use it to at least threaten to fight copyright infringement? Just curious, I do not know what part they would play as owners of the board from which the work is stolen.

 

[Guest]

Did you all catch this on her page:

"Her debut novel, Unlikely Muse is undergoing the final stages of editing, and will be ready for publication soon."

All I can do is wonder from whom that was stolen.

Every poet that she stole from before will be in her book. She will be published and earn royalties for our poems.

 

[LeBroz]

Every poet that she stole from before will be in her book. She will be published and earn royalties for our poems.

Maybe this is why it's being called a novel?

.
.
.

 

[annaswirls]

Unfortunately, I had a few email exchanges with him, once I found out that heather the heathen stole my poem. He was willing to listen. He seemed reasonable, then he got all worked up and swore his allegiance to heather.

For some reason I rememberd him cutting her loose, but I could not find that.

Brian Jackson:

"I’ve spent a lifetime getting into trouble because I’ve always felt that rules were made to be broken. This was my chance to live that philosophy, and help a lot of Artists make their dreams come true at the same time. So, instead of simply breaking the rules, I set about changing them."

http://www.amrsightandsound.com/html/about_amr.html

hmmm makes me wonder

 

[Eluard]

For some reason I rememberd him cutting her loose, but I could not find that.


hmmm makes me wonder

Perhaps he was sleeping with her. (Well, it's an explanation of unconscionable behaviour.)

 

[Maria2394]

I got a message from Jim D. at Myspace where Heather did her damage before. He wanted me to pass it o, and I recognized at least 2 of the poems, this time she has Solstice and Tangled Flourescence.

I might be wrong anyway, here is the message I received, unchanged.

~~~~~~



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----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Jim D.
Date: Mar 28, 2007 1:05 PM


Hello.

Some of the poets here on myspace are concerned that Heather larson has set up a new profile and may be engaging in her pattern of theft.

I'm forwarding some of the poetry on the blog in question. Do you recognize any of it?

The profile is locked and private- friends only, but we were able to get the following:


address is: www.myspace.com/labyrinthinelocation

Deliquescence By The Sea
Current mood: tired

we all walk down that path
sometimes
and let attention wander
in tangent to the latest bend
wondering
what lay ahead
in forward motion
when circumstance
forged a new curve
into the binding
smooth walked trail

as if we could go on
off road for long
enough to make an impact
anyway

we all stand by that pond
sometimes
to sense real life
elusive out of reach
and patiently wait
for nonexistent currents
a gust of impotent wind
to bring promises
drifting
into our open hands

as if chaos theory fractals
were beneficial fairies
heeding to our wish
and curving logic
to please whims

we all dream
for something larger
than a tepid trifle's
twin edged kiss
something more
than this

for midwinter bloom
angels on pins
and elephants
though the needle's eye
we all dream of this
but do we know why?



Barely Waking


In that moment
When awareness collided
With recollection -
The thunderous sound of dust
Burst into and through
The overwhelming, silent pause
That followed
And I swear I heard
A song dancing across
The breathless sky

My mind raced
Like wild lightning through
A forgotten time
When the stars were all blind
Locked as they were
Behind those reticent doors
Of nighttime
And I sensed awakening
As a dream was freed
In infinite sighs

I could believe
In the near impossibilities
Tangled up in truth
Escaping the pain of gravity
On invisible wings
Sprouted from the everything
Of before
And I knew then why
The world just seems to
Stop sometimes…

At sunrise



Some Short Poems.......
Current mood: mellow

Precipice

The troubled chasm waits
in weary vigil,
coaxing vaulted thoughts
to peer
within
its vengeful depths.
It takes what is not offered,
jealous of virtues
ever guarded
by hollow praise


Intoxication

Unperceived incantation
coercing its victim
with the utmost
appeal.
The real meaning
of satisfied subjugation
is losing oneself to the
pull
of subliminal
intoxication.


Contemplate

Minds travel
along,
myriad threads spun,
the mortal query tattered

Webs, troubled
sleep coils
around intent:
suspends
unintentional truths.

Time wears its mantle,
a beggar
cloaked in rags:
defying the immaterial,
even unto death.


Sunset Sonata

Crimson canvas standing stark
amid black and blue.
Sailing song of tempered lark
adding yellow hue.
Painted scales listing brush
filling pink tip.
Orange note sounding hush
rushes golden slip.
Concerto trace of claret wine
washing in new shades.
Tinted color loses shine
symphony fades.


Who Me?

The window's glass eye watches
with a pane all its own.
It carries an inert pretense
but shows a distorted clone.

The clear stare distracts
hiding what has passed.
Catch a savvy glimpse
beyond the translucent cast.

Held in a tenuous mien
of casual gravity.
The reflection of selfhood
trapped in endless apogee.


Windy Day

The wind blows
Through red leaves
Reaching over
The blue of the lake
The view is ever changing
As branches sway
Words of description
Catch in my throat
For fear that to voice them
Will spoil the magic
Chase away the perfection
Of a moment
When nothing else
Is as important
As the motion
Of red branches
Dancing in the wind



Solstice

I

Luminous
the forewarning days
when midday bends
the shadows of the columns
and the blue of heaven
takes onto itself the earth
appeased in the murmurs of winds
and of gods.



II

Up till then eternally
the earth was desolation and cold
the same frost of deincarnated dread
the same lonesomeness in the streets.



III

Shadow and light still
on the last branches
of trees frozen in slopes
in vertiginous vertices
of quartz feldspar mica
in almost barren landscapes

almost moving
in a pace almost stirring
the silence skirting
the design of the letters
drifts amidst stone ridges
floats from word to word
mica
feldspar
quartz
further along
with each movement
light contains

reaches
the vertiginous vertices
wanes from the last branches
with the sun and the syllables
cut loose from this page
where only winter's trail
remains.



Of Poets and Fire


We were never meant to be monotone
Never intended for shapelessness, obscurity
We are mirror watchers, birds of prey
Raging, the way a river will after a storm
Rambling down the very same path that they did
With a carelessness that was born of need
Seeking to capture a wisdom that can be ours alone
No, we were never meant to be monotone!

We will set the world aflame with our words
And watch as mundane matters fall to ash
We'll see ourselves in one another's eyes, wild
And wanting, scared and knowing, and - free
We were intended, birthed, to be as lightning
Brave and erratic, dangerous in our own simplicity
As we split the sky and personify the thunder, heard
Yes, as we set the world aflame with our words!

We'll dance with wild abandon through the night
Moving to the rhythm of the fire as it flickers
Crying out, bleeding out, sending ourselves out
Into the unforgiving world that we've hidden from
Soaring into the vast purple blue of our twilight
Rejoicing then in the freedom of near insanity
And showing glimpses of ourselves as the sky alights
Oh! how wildly we will dance through the night!

Yes, we were meant... for this.

6:31 AM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment


Of Poets and Pain


Perhaps only the truest of poets can understand
Beauty inevitably engenders pain
When the spectrum of one's reality shifts
Your heart is full of what may not exist
-and yet, so undeniably, does this

Silent song that is somehow heard, or
The magnificent flight of a wingless bird;
Vulnerable where strength is unearthed
When from the abyss, a star is birthed
- beneath the rise of the distant moon

As night falls, before dawn breaks
Impassioned souls, stir in the wake
A myriad of moment that never came,
Though precious memories of them remain
-for reality's an indisputable lie and sin

And the truth is: never will it be the same
For poets that learn to embrace the pain,
Their hearts so tragically and gloriously marred
Hung like a dream from that beautiful star
- to dance indefinitely in the light

A thousand words then redefined,
Fate is trapped in the hands of Time;
And "normal" will never be normal again
This, the gift, with unforeseeable end
-as ever brighter becomes your night

6:30 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment


Of Poets and Dreams

Perhaps I seem complacent
for my immobility;
standing fixed upon the shore
of inconsistency.
Yet I witness the horizon
when I'm looking to the sky;
which never seems quite clear, yet
I know, for certain, why.

The stillness of the water
is simply illusion;
its surface a conundrum,
leading then to confusion.
I reside with others
in the deep, dark underneath:
thoughts forever bubble up
but secrets always keep.

There, echoes are distorted
and sounds intensify;
everything gets tossed about
when ships go sailing by.
And we, the keepers of the deep,
know this fact all too well:
what's resting there upon the shore
Are empty, outer shells.

In truth, we are segmented
for some benefit;
our eyes eternally on the sky,
with dreams we can't admit.
Our feet linger there in the sand,
our souls drift into blue:
our hearts, just below the surface,
well hidden from your view.

Perhaps, from your perspective
it doesn't make much sense;
but this, a poet's inclination,
is our one defense.
Against a world that does not know
the enormity of dreams;
and those that cannot understand,
we are always more than we may seem.



Inspiration

Flat ocean titillates,
flows, hot white sand
gently caressed by deep azure
wetness.

Tumescent outcropping stands,
just beyond the break point,
waiting for moisture,
hard, hot, waiting…

Fluffy clouds form on the
horizon, first patchy then
strong and wanton, drawing
energy from the sun.

Sighs as first trace of wind
reaches the outcropping,
a silent hot breath, the
rock seems harder, taller.

Spit of wind captures
growing swells, bringing fullness,
desire to the parched beach,
groping threads of seaweed.

Seatongues move and swallow
the base of the rock,
retreat, and return again,
deeper yet.

Drops of rain proclaim victory,
lashing the outcropping
as waves overcome inhibitions
and sea foam merges in blissed release.



Not Today

Oh, to translate,
decipher, unfold
this state of abstraction
and diligent distraction,
to caress ideas,
clarify ideals,
construct and convert
into human tongue.

Oh, to wield a pen,
to chisel, carve, curve
letters into words
into lines, spines, hearts
and open minds
so unrefined,
unguarded
from the impact
that only language
welded into weapons
can muster.

Oh, to script
the storm inside
into black and white
so beautiful, precise
perfect linguistic
power tripping,
to turn the fire
inside out
and let them read
my electricity.

But here I sit
numb, tongue tied
and all I can wield
is my wish
to break the dam
and flood the universe
with this...

This!

This raging whatever
that can not will not
take form and be written
nor heard.
Hiding, taunting, teasing
just out of reach.

Today
I'm not a poet,
so this will have to do.



To Be An Envelope
Current mood: creative

To be an envelope,
contain an ethereal message,
purple connotations,
cinquains linked, metonyms
like red leaves piled
by silk thread narration's
slanting script.

Ever so slightly intriguing imperfection
in the ink sunk to papyrus inside.

An ideal illusion of seal.
A destination,
destined to be torn.

But now a strange container,
paper thin wall enigma.
Shielding hope and hunger
side by side, letter by letter.

Sealed with a kiss, with a prayer;
Godspeed, dear Hermes.
Be my wings, speak for me,
watch those eyes follow
where I can't see.

To be a promise,
a courier on archaic wings, a song
between four eyes
and one pen glowing.



Limelight Blinded
Current mood: contemplative

dedicated to She Screams Ambulance.....keep rocking guys, your music is fabulous....the world is your stage....

Tungsten brilliance reflected
on chalk dulled masterpieces
grinning godlike in domes
of suspended disbelief.

This is a stage.

This
is a Colosseum, every night,
gladiators groveling for approval
or demigods challenging fear and death,
depending on the keeper of records
and reviews...

And while hearts beat staccato,
anxious to ache full throttle
in full display,
out there, without sanctuary
or safety nets,

others ache in darkness.

Savoring the moment,
soaking up perspective.

A love less arbitrary,
a life less obtained,
but gained in battle
for holy grails
less ordinary.

This is a stage,

a porthole through the looking glass
a page turned
a different way.

This is limelight
and a holy line never crossed.

So flaunt,
flash your vertigo on the edge of the abyss,
your dichotomy right over Occam's razor
and sing.

Sing the perception of every face turned your way
into staring, soaring, meeting you half way there
on the edge of their homely zones.

Drag them kicking and screaming,
chanting in delirium
into the holy circle of light
where you
and you alone
reign.

This is a stage,
so play.



Lunar Pearl
Current mood: artistic


mere dust cast
in the muscle of space
rotating over and over, aged
creating its polished appeal
as it adorns the night sky

Lustrous murky swirls
from a radiant lunar lamp
in the depths of the darkness
moonbeams softly caress

illuminating our lives
a gem laid upon black velvet
enlightenment
in a dark world
under the sparkling stars back drop

alluring oval of brilliant white
mystical and ancient light
high in the night sky rides
the lunar pearl



Enlightenment

Desolation
Endless miles of air
Compact and suffocating
With invisible beings
Of light or illusion

An electric kiss;
Heavy breathing
On my sweat-soaked neck
A blissful burning sensation

Fire!
Inside, between
Atoms yearning to reach another
In a deadly combination
But it was the only time we ever fought

The water is soothing here
Souls healing like pagan potions
They can fly, you know
Weighing heavily in guilt
And light in truth

I contemplated once
The value of a word
Honesty? In its absence
Always selfish
Lies are no more real than dreams

Desire
But alas!
Even I have felt the cold touch
Of a dead lover
Just the same
Do you not consume flesh?

Where is morality?
Or better, what?
Society is only half of life
And the other?

I am reminded
Somehow of the snow
Purity in all of its bitterness
Snapping hungry jaws
At tender scars, pink
The beauty of it all
Is not in the innocence
But in fact, the pain
Meaningless
Bricks fallen in dirt

You claim knowledge
Of spirit, of divinity
Feelings, you say
And answered prayers

It's all self-induced
Comfort or poison
Depending on your
Point of view

My faith is like yours
Based on ignorance
My philosophy unlike
Any eye I've touched

Precious metals
In all states of
Radioactive decay
Jewels sparkling
In a hundred
Shades of gray

I search desperately
For eyes of such value
With shimmering beauty
And blind seeing faith
And honest morality
And time-shattering
Asphyxiations of passion

I wondered once
If such a thing could exist
In more than my
Ancestral pagan lore

I am resigned to fate
Bound rather, by limitations
Walls of doubt
And shrouded in a mist
Of uncertainty
No longer do I fight
For a made up freedom
In far-away lands
Or sit alone
Locked in artificial memories

Instead I drag my feet
On concrete
Heated by the summer sun
The realization of reality
Is the most painful part
Because the only thing one can do
Is walk on.



The Practical Application of What We Forgot
Current mood: satisfied


For better or worse
We become accustomed
To our lives.

Witnesses to our
Own lifelong experiment,
We unconsciously
Go about the business of
Defining our norm,
Our 'average day', through
The passing of years.

Until,
Falling to foolishness,
We begin to expect
Nothing more
Than more of the same
And call a day 'good'
Merely for lack of change.

By then,
We have long since
Set down the magic sword,
Said goodbye to the invisible friend,
Escaped from the secret kingdom
And been told
That only birds can fly.

We…have, then, begun to end.

But, sometimes
Someone somewhere,
Somehow
Manages, in some way,
To pause for a moment
And consider
What it would be
To refuse
Another average day.

And if
Some small part of them
Still believes
That life is nothing more
Than what we dream
It to be
Maybe, just maybe,
Fate will intervene.

Life, perhaps,
Will be somehow
Transformed, changed -
Whether quickly or slowly
Dramatically or quietly,
Some certain something
Will be
Irreversibly altered.

And someone… can begin, again.



Tangled Fluorescence
Current mood: content

Rain tries to dilute
the progression of shadows
an exercise rendered useless
by the passage of time

a dark substance
contrasts neon signs
delivers them fully legible
to the night

moss grows without the support
of walls like budding
on a bath of vapor
a permeable mist
where light flows
condensed within

the glass and the water
multiplies it

numberless crystal
(re)flexing colors on the air

breaks
drop by drop

always the percussion
of an obsessive hum
rushes a fabricated winter
until the fractured letters
spill through the windows

scintillate through our sleep
foam spills off the screen
soap, or sea
but for now it's only time
and rain
trying to dilute
the progression of shadows

the progression of time
builds a rainbow
above the haze
where we can light

a single jet of fluoride

flames out of winter
from heaven to heaven
to same cloud forgetting
all horizon references
make familiar strange places

the light the day

we imagine different times
relearning how to breathe
the ephemeral air of each room
when neon fog fights the rain
illuminates us without diluting
the weight of the crepuscule
and our tangled fluorescence.



Journeying
Current mood: groggy

It was instinct, previously…
Chasing some distant shadow of myself
Through darkened corridors and
Squeezing myself through the spaces
In between the words left on the page
By long passed, neurotic poets.

Their voices, my echoes –
Leading me through the night
And anchoring my soul
When a storm of confused thought
Threatened to carry me off.

My muted words, reverberating
As their voices fuse dark and light,
Sometimes in foreign tongues
Or with words I don't yet know,
To shatter the silent storm.

It is necessity now, as breathing is…
A returning to the place where I keep
Some essential part of myself.
An addiction, this need, to explore
The myriad of unspeakable things
I simply cannot face alone.


My sanctuary
Has never been an earthly place…

And my solitude,
Never my own.



The Seventh Wave
Current mood: contemplative

She loses herself in waves.
The very tip of the water, white
and the foam lingers on her bare feet
even after the tide slides back
and gains momentum for another lash
at the people who still think this is
a typical American vacation spot.

They don't know that this could be
the very place where rocks can
find themselves buried deep inside of pockets.
The very place where broken people
can find themselves walking,
their heads tilted down and their eyes
focused on toe nails and she can think
of all the time she wasted on making sure
every nail was perfectly polished.

And how no one really cares
to pay attention to the little things.

But the salty air, now chilled
due to the decline of climate cannot
be found outside her window, and so --

She loses herself
in midnight cups of coffee
that promise her a few more hours
of being awake and mingling with the ghosts
that plague minds when the sun sets.

She loses herself
in paper napkin poetry and
wondering how she could have forgotten
to slide a notebook in between the layers
of books and cigarettes, cards and lighters.

She wonders if tonight could be the night
she pens something worth reading,
Something worth paying attention to;
but never to the person guiding the pen.



Sheltering Storm
Current mood: busy

a Shakespearean Sonnet, written in Iambic Pentameter by moi

The plink of raindrops drip upon the roof,
corrugated tin shines in washed moonlight,
as if the falling darkness needed proof
of seasons measured turning dark to bright

while Mozart's Divertimento sings soft,
hums through evening new as lullabies
to dark shapes of books and your face aloft
murmurs mouth whispers to lips, lashes, eyes

closed caught or lost in drifts of rain or skin,
tender pressed in prelude to building thrash
as limbs collide like worlds heated within
the spark of lightning and the thunder's crash.

Then storm's allayed in black blanketed deep.
The music plays and voices fade to sleep.



Queens of Silent Suffering
Current mood: artistic

All of the greats
visited those places -
the white places where they were all forced
to perform patience and learn peacefulness.
The sterile view reflects the smell and
the stench coming from our dear, beloved greats
is that of an old shoe box
stuck to the back of the closet.

White walls. White bed. White hands,
neck, and face - propped up by
white pillows and their mouths gaping open
for their annual doses.
They bring numbness.

But didn't they know they were great?
Not disturbed, but tragically beautiful.
Their deaths, as picturesque
as the descriptions they thought out.
Words you wouldn't think to use when
telling someone what you saw
on a late Saturday afternoon.
Or how you saw the world after a hurricane.

They outlived more than a weather forecast
could bring.
They lived, their minds taking bizarre,
edgy left and right turns.
They lived through chaos turned beauty.

But not I.

I shall suffer silently,
like all women are taught to do.

The white places,
the sterile spaces
are not for me.

I am not patient,
I speed life up with heart racing
horse pills
when the house looks disheveled.
Hallucinogens when the boredom of
a this mock life kicks in.
Downers when that time of night
comes around and I am forced
to lie my head on the cushion.

Peacefulness comes to those who
have learned to stay still.
To those who's minds can be put at ease.
Those who take classes teaching you
to be more centered.
I wouldn't know where to begin.

But I will be tragic. Beautiful.

On the outside, a bag of bones
just like any other who walks down the street
for a pack of cigarettes in the stale,
morning air.
Three dollars and fifty cents
inhaled directly down to my gut,
the rest exhaled into the
already polluted air.

The inside will be complicated,
much like any other;
but my thoughts, those demons
will come out and chill you
to the bone with my imperfect stanzas.

I am not like those greats;
my Sexton, Plath, Woolf, Dickinson -
the white places are not for me.
I cannot waste away.

And I would not look as picturesque
taking my own life;
no, I could not be that beautiful.

But I will suffer in silence,
like all good women learn to do
and when I go mad,
no one will have any clue.



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[vampiredust]

this woman is like a cockroach

wait, that was a compliment

even they have a moral code

she ought to come here and explain her actions

 

[unapologetic]

Some of those poems are really good. I wish I knew who'd written them so I could tell them so.

 

[WickedEve]

For some reason I rememberd him cutting her loose, but I could not find that.


hmmm makes me wonder

I just know that his last email to me was all about him sticking like glue to his friend. Maybe he changed his mind.

 

[TheRainMan]

i recognize one, for sure, as Liar's (To Be an Envelope).

and i recognize others in my head because i know i've read them before, so they're probably from here.

i feel more pity than anything else . . . especially if she posted these AFTER she already had been accused and caught . . . that really is indicative of someone with deep emotional problems.

the poems . . . well, if you wrote 'em, they're yours. if anyone ever needs to prove it, i don't think it would be hard -- but i doubt it will ever come to that.

i'm just sad when i see anyone with such deep psychological distress like this -- yes, she's a thief . . . she's also a tragic figure, and on a very small scale.

 

[WickedEve]

I got a message from Jim D. at Myspace where Heather did her damage before. He wanted me to pass it o, and I recognized at least 2 of the poems, this time she has Solstice and Tangled Flourescence.

I might be wrong anyway, here is the message I received, unchanged.

...


©2003-2007 MySpace.com. All Rights Reserved.

I recognize two poems:
To Be An Envelope
Tangled Fluorescence

Isn't the envelope poem Liar's?
And Tangled Fluorescence is from an old Same Title Challenge. There were a bunch of those. Not sure who wrote this one.

 

[WickedEve]

i recognize one, for sure, as Liar's (To Be an Envelope).

and i recognize others in my head because i know i've read them before, so they're probably from here.

i feel more pity than anything else . . . especially if she posted these AFTER she already had been accused and caught . . . that really is indicative of someone with deep emotional problems.

the poems . . . well, if you wrote 'em, they're yours. if anyone ever needs to prove it, i don't think it would be hard -- but i doubt it will ever come to that.

i'm just sad when i see anypne with such deep psychological distress like this -- yes, she's a thief . . . she's also a tragic figure, and on a very small scale.

After I found some of my stolen poems online (one was stolen by heather) I'm glad now that my Wicked Eve poems are gone from lit. I love lit, but it seems to be the easiest place for thieves to steal from. Now that heather is on the loose again, I'm going to take down the kittenishjane poems, too. Yeah, I'm feeling paranoid, like heather is stalking our poetry.

 

[TheRainMan]

After I found some of my stolen poems online (one was stolen by heather) I'm glad now that my Wicked Eve poems are gone from lit. I love lit, but it seems to be the easiest place for thieves to steal from. Now that heather is on the loose again, I'm going to take down the kittenishjane poems, too. Yeah, I'm feeling paranoid, like heather is stalking our poetry.

actually, if you're worried about your poems being stolen, the safest thing to do is not take them down, but leave them up -- their presence is proof you wrote them, and when.

plagiarism is a sad thing, but it is part of the world. there is no way to avoid it. if you write, you have to put the writing somewhere.

a poem is your intellectual property from the moment you put it on a hard drive or paper. it's automatic. you don't even have to register copyright any more, like in the old days . . . there's nothing to be paraniod about.

just write, and let people read it . . . the Heathers of the world make up a very small corner of it, and in that corner, everyone is crying.

 

[Angeline]

I'm with RM on this issue. There are thieves out there, there are people without ethic and Heather Larson is obviously one of them. Still, we know who we are here and what we are capable of writing, each of us. The world of poetry publishing is not so lucrative that anyone who would publish a poem (of their own) that she stole is going to pay off the mortgage.

Yeah it sucks, but would you stop writing or showing your poems because of the Heathers of the world? If you do, she wins. If you believe in karma, she loses.

 

[WickedEve]

I'm with RM on this issue. There are thieves out there, there are people without ethic and Heather Larson is obviously one of them. Still, we know who we are here and what we are capable of writing, each of us. The world of poetry publishing is not so lucrative that anyone who would publish a poem (of their own) that she stole is going to pay off the mortgage.

Yeah it sucks, but would you stop writing or showing your poems because of the Heathers of the world? If you do, she wins. If you believe in karma, she loses.

God, I love that av.

I know what you guys are saying is true, but when I found all those poems of mine scattered all over the place with other poets claiming them, it really stressed me out. I still have a couple of stolen ones out there, but I can't get in touch with the "poets." I don't want to share anything good anymore.

I removed WE's poems for other reasons, not because of the plagiarism. Even though I feel emotionally better than I did when I removed my WE poems, I still don't feel like sharing them anymore--except for the ones in print, which feels safer.

 

[Angeline]

God, I love that av.

Yeah, I wish I was in that time, place and had those legs.

 

[arienette]

I got a message from Jim D. at Myspace where Heather did her damage before. He wanted me to pass it o, and I recognized at least 2 of the poems, this time she has Solstice and Tangled Flourescence.

I might be wrong anyway, here is the message I received, unchanged.

~~~~~~



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----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Jim D.
Date: Mar 28, 2007 1:05 PM


Hello.

Some of the poets here on myspace are concerned that Heather larson has set up a new profile and may be engaging in her pattern of theft.

I'm forwarding some of the poetry on the blog in question. Do you recognize any of it?

The profile is locked and private- friends only, but we were able to get the following:


address is: www.myspace.com/labyrinthinelocation

Deliquescence By The Sea
Current mood: tired

we all walk down that path
sometimes
and let attention wander
in tangent to the latest bend
wondering
what lay ahead
in forward motion
when circumstance
forged a new curve
into the binding
smooth walked trail

as if we could go on
off road for long
enough to make an impact
anyway

we all stand by that pond
sometimes
to sense real life
elusive out of reach
and patiently wait
for nonexistent currents
a gust of impotent wind
to bring promises
drifting
into our open hands

as if chaos theory fractals
were beneficial fairies
heeding to our wish
and curving logic
to please whims

we all dream
for something larger
than a tepid trifle's
twin edged kiss
something more
than this

for midwinter bloom
angels on pins
and elephants
though the needle's eye
we all dream of this
but do we know why?



Barely Waking


In that moment
When awareness collided
With recollection -
The thunderous sound of dust
Burst into and through
The overwhelming, silent pause
That followed
And I swear I heard
A song dancing across
The breathless sky

My mind raced
Like wild lightning through
A forgotten time
When the stars were all blind
Locked as they were
Behind those reticent doors
Of nighttime
And I sensed awakening
As a dream was freed
In infinite sighs

I could believe
In the near impossibilities
Tangled up in truth
Escaping the pain of gravity
On invisible wings
Sprouted from the everything
Of before
And I knew then why
The world just seems to
Stop sometimes…

At sunrise



Some Short Poems.......
Current mood: mellow

Precipice

The troubled chasm waits
in weary vigil,
coaxing vaulted thoughts
to peer
within
its vengeful depths.
It takes what is not offered,
jealous of virtues
ever guarded
by hollow praise


Intoxication

Unperceived incantation
coercing its victim
with the utmost
appeal.
The real meaning
of satisfied subjugation
is losing oneself to the
pull
of subliminal
intoxication.


Contemplate

Minds travel
along,
myriad threads spun,
the mortal query tattered

Webs, troubled
sleep coils
around intent:
suspends
unintentional truths.

Time wears its mantle,
a beggar
cloaked in rags:
defying the immaterial,
even unto death.


Sunset Sonata

Crimson canvas standing stark
amid black and blue.
Sailing song of tempered lark
adding yellow hue.
Painted scales listing brush
filling pink tip.
Orange note sounding hush
rushes golden slip.
Concerto trace of claret wine
washing in new shades.
Tinted color loses shine
symphony fades.


Who Me?

The window's glass eye watches
with a pane all its own.
It carries an inert pretense
but shows a distorted clone.

The clear stare distracts
hiding what has passed.
Catch a savvy glimpse
beyond the translucent cast.

Held in a tenuous mien
of casual gravity.
The reflection of selfhood
trapped in endless apogee.


Windy Day

The wind blows
Through red leaves
Reaching over
The blue of the lake
The view is ever changing
As branches sway
Words of description
Catch in my throat
For fear that to voice them
Will spoil the magic
Chase away the perfection
Of a moment
When nothing else
Is as important
As the motion
Of red branches
Dancing in the wind



Solstice

I

Luminous
the forewarning days
when midday bends
the shadows of the columns
and the blue of heaven
takes onto itself the earth
appeased in the murmurs of winds
and of gods.



II

Up till then eternally
the earth was desolation and cold
the same frost of deincarnated dread
the same lonesomeness in the streets.



III

Shadow and light still
on the last branches
of trees frozen in slopes
in vertiginous vertices
of quartz feldspar mica
in almost barren landscapes

almost moving
in a pace almost stirring
the silence skirting
the design of the letters
drifts amidst stone ridges
floats from word to word
mica
feldspar
quartz
further along
with each movement
light contains

reaches
the vertiginous vertices
wanes from the last branches
with the sun and the syllables
cut loose from this page
where only winter's trail
remains.



Of Poets and Fire


We were never meant to be monotone
Never intended for shapelessness, obscurity
We are mirror watchers, birds of prey
Raging, the way a river will after a storm
Rambling down the very same path that they did
With a carelessness that was born of need
Seeking to capture a wisdom that can be ours alone
No, we were never meant to be monotone!

We will set the world aflame with our words
And watch as mundane matters fall to ash
We'll see ourselves in one another's eyes, wild
And wanting, scared and knowing, and - free
We were intended, birthed, to be as lightning
Brave and erratic, dangerous in our own simplicity
As we split the sky and personify the thunder, heard
Yes, as we set the world aflame with our words!

We'll dance with wild abandon through the night
Moving to the rhythm of the fire as it flickers
Crying out, bleeding out, sending ourselves out
Into the unforgiving world that we've hidden from
Soaring into the vast purple blue of our twilight
Rejoicing then in the freedom of near insanity
And showing glimpses of ourselves as the sky alights
Oh! how wildly we will dance through the night!

Yes, we were meant... for this.

6:31 AM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment


Of Poets and Pain


Perhaps only the truest of poets can understand
Beauty inevitably engenders pain
When the spectrum of one's reality shifts
Your heart is full of what may not exist
-and yet, so undeniably, does this

Silent song that is somehow heard, or
The magnificent flight of a wingless bird;
Vulnerable where strength is unearthed
When from the abyss, a star is birthed
- beneath the rise of the distant moon

As night falls, before dawn breaks
Impassioned souls, stir in the wake
A myriad of moment that never came,
Though precious memories of them remain
-for reality's an indisputable lie and sin

And the truth is: never will it be the same
For poets that learn to embrace the pain,
Their hearts so tragically and gloriously marred
Hung like a dream from that beautiful star
- to dance indefinitely in the light

A thousand words then redefined,
Fate is trapped in the hands of Time;
And "normal" will never be normal again
This, the gift, with unforeseeable end
-as ever brighter becomes your night

6:30 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment


Of Poets and Dreams

Perhaps I seem complacent
for my immobility;
standing fixed upon the shore
of inconsistency.
Yet I witness the horizon
when I'm looking to the sky;
which never seems quite clear, yet
I know, for certain, why.

The stillness of the water
is simply illusion;
its surface a conundrum,
leading then to confusion.
I reside with others
in the deep, dark underneath:
thoughts forever bubble up
but secrets always keep.

There, echoes are distorted
and sounds intensify;
everything gets tossed about
when ships go sailing by.
And we, the keepers of the deep,
know this fact all too well:
what's resting there upon the shore
Are empty, outer shells.

In truth, we are segmented
for some benefit;
our eyes eternally on the sky,
with dreams we can't admit.
Our feet linger there in the sand,
our souls drift into blue:
our hearts, just below the surface,
well hidden from your view.

Perhaps, from your perspective
it doesn't make much sense;
but this, a poet's inclination,
is our one defense.
Against a world that does not know
the enormity of dreams;
and those that cannot understand,
we are always more than we may seem.



Inspiration

Flat ocean titillates,
flows, hot white sand
gently caressed by deep azure
wetness.

Tumescent outcropping stands,
just beyond the break point,
waiting for moisture,
hard, hot, waiting…

Fluffy clouds form on the
horizon, first patchy then
strong and wanton, drawing
energy from the sun.

Sighs as first trace of wind
reaches the outcropping,
a silent hot breath, the
rock seems harder, taller.

Spit of wind captures
growing swells, bringing fullness,
desire to the parched beach,
groping threads of seaweed.

Seatongues move and swallow
the base of the rock,
retreat, and return again,
deeper yet.

Drops of rain proclaim victory,
lashing the outcropping
as waves overcome inhibitions
and sea foam merges in blissed release.



Not Today

Oh, to translate,
decipher, unfold
this state of abstraction
and diligent distraction,
to caress ideas,
clarify ideals,
construct and convert
into human tongue.

Oh, to wield a pen,
to chisel, carve, curve
letters into words
into lines, spines, hearts
and open minds
so unrefined,
unguarded
from the impact
that only language
welded into weapons
can muster.

Oh, to script
the storm inside
into black and white
so beautiful, precise
perfect linguistic
power tripping,
to turn the fire
inside out
and let them read
my electricity.

But here I sit
numb, tongue tied
and all I can wield
is my wish
to break the dam
and flood the universe
with this...

This!

This raging whatever
that can not will not
take form and be written
nor heard.
Hiding, taunting, teasing
just out of reach.

Today
I'm not a poet,
so this will have to do.



To Be An Envelope
Current mood: creative

To be an envelope,
contain an ethereal message,
purple connotations,
cinquains linked, metonyms
like red leaves piled
by silk thread narration's
slanting script.

Ever so slightly intriguing imperfection
in the ink sunk to papyrus inside.

An ideal illusion of seal.
A destination,
destined to be torn.

But now a strange container,
paper thin wall enigma.
Shielding hope and hunger
side by side, letter by letter.

Sealed with a kiss, with a prayer;
Godspeed, dear Hermes.
Be my wings, speak for me,
watch those eyes follow
where I can't see.

To be a promise,
a courier on archaic wings, a song
between four eyes
and one pen glowing.



Limelight Blinded
Current mood: contemplative

dedicated to She Screams Ambulance.....keep rocking guys, your music is fabulous....the world is your stage....

Tungsten brilliance reflected
on chalk dulled masterpieces
grinning godlike in domes
of suspended disbelief.

This is a stage.

This
is a Colosseum, every night,
gladiators groveling for approval
or demigods challenging fear and death,
depending on the keeper of records
and reviews...

And while hearts beat staccato,
anxious to ache full throttle
in full display,
out there, without sanctuary
or safety nets,

others ache in darkness.

Savoring the moment,
soaking up perspective.

A love less arbitrary,
a life less obtained,
but gained in battle
for holy grails
less ordinary.

This is a stage,

a porthole through the looking glass
a page turned
a different way.

This is limelight
and a holy line never crossed.

So flaunt,
flash your vertigo on the edge of the abyss,
your dichotomy right over Occam's razor
and sing.

Sing the perception of every face turned your way
into staring, soaring, meeting you half way there
on the edge of their homely zones.

Drag them kicking and screaming,
chanting in delirium
into the holy circle of light
where you
and you alone
reign.

This is a stage,
so play.



Lunar Pearl
Current mood: artistic


mere dust cast
in the muscle of space
rotating over and over, aged
creating its polished appeal
as it adorns the night sky

Lustrous murky swirls
from a radiant lunar lamp
in the depths of the darkness
moonbeams softly caress

illuminating our lives
a gem laid upon black velvet
enlightenment
in a dark world
under the sparkling stars back drop

alluring oval of brilliant white
mystical and ancient light
high in the night sky rides
the lunar pearl



Enlightenment

Desolation
Endless miles of air
Compact and suffocating
With invisible beings
Of light or illusion

An electric kiss;
Heavy breathing
On my sweat-soaked neck
A blissful burning sensation

Fire!
Inside, between
Atoms yearning to reach another
In a deadly combination
But it was the only time we ever fought

The water is soothing here
Souls healing like pagan potions
They can fly, you know
Weighing heavily in guilt
And light in truth

I contemplated once
The value of a word
Honesty? In its absence
Always selfish
Lies are no more real than dreams

Desire
But alas!
Even I have felt the cold touch
Of a dead lover
Just the same
Do you not consume flesh?

Where is morality?
Or better, what?
Society is only half of life
And the other?

I am reminded
Somehow of the snow
Purity in all of its bitterness
Snapping hungry jaws
At tender scars, pink
The beauty of it all
Is not in the innocence
But in fact, the pain
Meaningless
Bricks fallen in dirt

You claim knowledge
Of spirit, of divinity
Feelings, you say
And answered prayers

It's all self-induced
Comfort or poison
Depending on your
Point of view

My faith is like yours
Based on ignorance
My philosophy unlike
Any eye I've touched

Precious metals
In all states of
Radioactive decay
Jewels sparkling
In a hundred
Shades of gray

I search desperately
For eyes of such value
With shimmering beauty
And blind seeing faith
And honest morality
And time-shattering
Asphyxiations of passion

I wondered once
If such a thing could exist
In more than my
Ancestral pagan lore

I am resigned to fate
Bound rather, by limitations
Walls of doubt
And shrouded in a mist
Of uncertainty
No longer do I fight
For a made up freedom
In far-away lands
Or sit alone
Locked in artificial memories

Instead I drag my feet
On concrete
Heated by the summer sun
The realization of reality
Is the most painful part
Because the only thing one can do
Is walk on.



The Practical Application of What We Forgot
Current mood: satisfied


For better or worse
We become accustomed
To our lives.

Witnesses to our
Own lifelong experiment,
We unconsciously
Go about the business of
Defining our norm,
Our 'average day', through
The passing of years.

Until,
Falling to foolishness,
We begin to expect
Nothing more
Than more of the same
And call a day 'good'
Merely for lack of change.

By then,
We have long since
Set down the magic sword,
Said goodbye to the invisible friend,
Escaped from the secret kingdom
And been told
That only birds can fly.

We…have, then, begun to end.

But, sometimes
Someone somewhere,
Somehow
Manages, in some way,
To pause for a moment
And consider
What it would be
To refuse
Another average day.

And if
Some small part of them
Still believes
That life is nothing more
Than what we dream
It to be
Maybe, just maybe,
Fate will intervene.

Life, perhaps,
Will be somehow
Transformed, changed -
Whether quickly or slowly
Dramatically or quietly,
Some certain something
Will be
Irreversibly altered.

And someone… can begin, again.



Tangled Fluorescence
Current mood: content

Rain tries to dilute
the progression of shadows
an exercise rendered useless
by the passage of time

a dark substance
contrasts neon signs
delivers them fully legible
to the night

moss grows without the support
of walls like budding
on a bath of vapor
a permeable mist
where light flows
condensed within

the glass and the water
multiplies it

numberless crystal
(re)flexing colors on the air

breaks
drop by drop

always the percussion
of an obsessive hum
rushes a fabricated winter
until the fractured letters
spill through the windows

scintillate through our sleep
foam spills off the screen
soap, or sea
but for now it's only time
and rain
trying to dilute
the progression of shadows

the progression of time
builds a rainbow
above the haze
where we can light

a single jet of fluoride

flames out of winter
from heaven to heaven
to same cloud forgetting
all horizon references
make familiar strange places

the light the day

we imagine different times
relearning how to breathe
the ephemeral air of each room
when neon fog fights the rain
illuminates us without diluting
the weight of the crepuscule
and our tangled fluorescence.



Journeying
Current mood: groggy

It was instinct, previously…
Chasing some distant shadow of myself
Through darkened corridors and
Squeezing myself through the spaces
In between the words left on the page
By long passed, neurotic poets.

Their voices, my echoes –
Leading me through the night
And anchoring my soul
When a storm of confused thought
Threatened to carry me off.

My muted words, reverberating
As their voices fuse dark and light,
Sometimes in foreign tongues
Or with words I don't yet know,
To shatter the silent storm.

It is necessity now, as breathing is…
A returning to the place where I keep
Some essential part of myself.
An addiction, this need, to explore
The myriad of unspeakable things
I simply cannot face alone.


My sanctuary
Has never been an earthly place…

And my solitude,
Never my own.



The Seventh Wave
Current mood: contemplative

She loses herself in waves.
The very tip of the water, white
and the foam lingers on her bare feet
even after the tide slides back
and gains momentum for another lash
at the people who still think this is
a typical American vacation spot.

They don't know that this could be
the very place where rocks can
find themselves buried deep inside of pockets.
The very place where broken people
can find themselves walking,
their heads tilted down and their eyes
focused on toe nails and she can think
of all the time she wasted on making sure
every nail was perfectly polished.

And how no one really cares
to pay attention to the little things.

But the salty air, now chilled
due to the decline of climate cannot
be found outside her window, and so --

She loses herself
in midnight cups of coffee
that promise her a few more hours
of being awake and mingling with the ghosts
that plague minds when the sun sets.

She loses herself
in paper napkin poetry and
wondering how she could have forgotten
to slide a notebook in between the layers
of books and cigarettes, cards and lighters.

She wonders if tonight could be the night
she pens something worth reading,
Something worth paying attention to;
but never to the person guiding the pen.



Sheltering Storm
Current mood: busy

a Shakespearean Sonnet, written in Iambic Pentameter by moi

The plink of raindrops drip upon the roof,
corrugated tin shines in washed moonlight,
as if the falling darkness needed proof
of seasons measured turning dark to bright

while Mozart's Divertimento sings soft,
hums through evening new as lullabies
to dark shapes of books and your face aloft
murmurs mouth whispers to lips, lashes, eyes

closed caught or lost in drifts of rain or skin,
tender pressed in prelude to building thrash
as limbs collide like worlds heated within
the spark of lightning and the thunder's crash.

Then storm's allayed in black blanketed deep.
The music plays and voices fade to sleep.



Queens of Silent Suffering
Current mood: artistic

All of the greats
visited those places -
the white places where they were all forced
to perform patience and learn peacefulness.
The sterile view reflects the smell and
the stench coming from our dear, beloved greats
is that of an old shoe box
stuck to the back of the closet.

White walls. White bed. White hands,
neck, and face - propped up by
white pillows and their mouths gaping open
for their annual doses.
They bring numbness.

But didn't they know they were great?
Not disturbed, but tragically beautiful.
Their deaths, as picturesque
as the descriptions they thought out.
Words you wouldn't think to use when
telling someone what you saw
on a late Saturday afternoon.
Or how you saw the world after a hurricane.

They outlived more than a weather forecast
could bring.
They lived, their minds taking bizarre,
edgy left and right turns.
They lived through chaos turned beauty.

But not I.

I shall suffer silently,
like all women are taught to do.

The white places,
the sterile spaces
are not for me.

I am not patient,
I speed life up with heart racing
horse pills
when the house looks disheveled.
Hallucinogens when the boredom of
a this mock life kicks in.
Downers when that time of night
comes around and I am forced
to lie my head on the cushion.

Peacefulness comes to those who
have learned to stay still.
To those who's minds can be put at ease.
Those who take classes teaching you
to be more centered.
I wouldn't know where to begin.

But I will be tragic. Beautiful.

On the outside, a bag of bones
just like any other who walks down the street
for a pack of cigarettes in the stale,
morning air.
Three dollars and fifty cents
inhaled directly down to my gut,
the rest exhaled into the
already polluted air.

The inside will be complicated,
much like any other;
but my thoughts, those demons
will come out and chill you
to the bone with my imperfect stanzas.

I am not like those greats;
my Sexton, Plath, Woolf, Dickinson -
the white places are not for me.
I cannot waste away.

And I would not look as picturesque
taking my own life;
no, I could not be that beautiful.

But I will suffer in silence,
like all good women learn to do
and when I go mad,
no one will have any clue.



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Wow, she lifted Queens of Silent Suffering from me too...I also have that posted in the 30 Poems in 30 Days Thread here, I believe.

ETA: Yep, that is located here and I also have them both on my MySpace and my personal website. I sent out an email, of course I've received no response as of yet...I don't know what else to do.