writing live

[butters]

So here and shiver;
cold not the least of my chills,
nor temperature a worry,
for the fire is hot and contextual wood
abundant.

Here so many logarithms stacked
close to hand, perhaps that's the problem,
log jam, looking for that constant e
that makes me a natural man.

the saw mill buzzes
pitch pine mixes with redwood
waters slide despite the tangled choke of surface weight
a man with a pencil in his hand
makes marks
chews on problems
drinks coffee
a natural man in a hard hat

 

[HarryHill]

the saw mill buzzes
pitch pine mixes with redwood
waters slide despite the tangled choke of surface weight
a man with a pencil in his hand
makes marks
chews on problems
drinks coffee
a natural man in a hard hat

.. 1:32 of an Afternoon
Still,
that paw's
moggy(1) whiskers, creep
close, cat sniff
concentered on scent
cat kiss, head bump
Moo baby, moo.
1:43 just about now

 

[butters]

misbegotten beast lies coiled in secrets
at the base of the tree whose only fruit is bitter
pass on by
do not disturb the sleeping eye
unless you wish
by and by
to be weighed
judged
as the language of fallen leaves
slides the damp space of your mind
in a template of scales
smooth friction that leaves behind its whispered
trust me

 

[greenmountaineer]

Adam, 900, Dreams of Eve

You and I were naked, I said,
so what would you expect?

He's all upset, fig leaves first,
followed with hides I had to sew.

Anyhow, I figured it out:
They wouldn't let girls read or write.

It's tempting then to write I'm a slut
and every woman the same.

Ever wonder who wrote this stuff
and if they ever got laid?

 

[SinInMe]

and then she clicked
Mark Forums Read
but, what if
it's a lie

 

[todski28]

and then she clicked
Mark Forums Read
but, what if
it's a lie

in reply he asks
"what if it's truth
gravitational
inexorable
invisible truth:

 

[SinInMe]

the unread lies
in the reycle bin
in truth, unfulfilled
still can be recovered
from the grave

 

[HarryHill]

A knot of cats twisted 'round
a tank of climbing fish
teeming teeth n sharpened claws...
Ohh! football
never mind.

 

[HarryHill]

Getting wet

Not such a chore normally
step out the door on a cloudy day
let it pour, hopefully
the climate's temperate
step down to the creek, take a drink
sweet water goes down so easy

 

[butters]

the perfect house

would not spring sharply from the land
nor appear as a dropped box
confrontational and paying homage to
geometry
ironic art

instead it would feel
as one with the stone
the trees, the flow of the
land and sweetly dreaming stream
no gaudy splash
no jarring slash across sight-line
a welcome dusk and dawn
cat in the herbs
dog nodding by the bumbled flowers
birdsong, baking, and woodsmoke

a four poster bed in which to nest
and sunken bath
in which to steep
that touch of purrfect luxury

 

[Tsotha]

how much do we reveal in the bleedout, how much do we hide? sounds like a poem you need to write!

On request:

14:45

There is a thought she carries
around like an inappropriate gift
she must give.

Every day she seeks to let it rest,
or let it lie somewhere, abandoned,
but she cannot.

Words will come spilling out,
things she doesn't want to say;
but she says them anyway,
Because she can? Because she must.

She fumbles a thought, fizzles the intention.
Lets it sizzle to the surface,
these shards of hope, become knives,
become hurt.

She says without saying, a spectacle in obscuring;
within a lake, profound, the rarest animal
you'll never see again. It moves sideways,
you reach for it, it bleeds ink, it flows away.
Like water. Catch it and it dies.

Truth has a way of undoing mysteries,
fantasies, dreams long broken,
a million shards of hope undone.
Tread softly.

15:03

 

[butters]

read this three times, once in silence, twice aloud. great job! love love love it.

 

[Tsotha]

15:10

Everything said is a cliché
of something once said, or yet to be said.

With luck, you'll write down thoughts
Plato had, but didn't note down
because he was in a hurry.

Or maybe you'll have thoughts of your own,
a treasure unknown, never as so noticed,
never as so written, and finally discovered
by someone else, in the future.

Invert time, and we sit at the beginning,
creators of ourselves, of our words,
no longer impostors.

Suddenly all we say and think and feel is
once again fine and mysterious.

There are only so many emotions,
so many different thoughts and words.
These thoughts, mine and yours, are only natural;
we do as we do, say as we say,
following a path of stones long laid.

A machine, it writes down all permutations,
it creates everything,
the greatest poet the world will ever know,
yet it does not bleed.

15:22

 

[Tsotha]

read this three times, once in silence, twice aloud. great job! love love love it.

Thank you, butters. I'm glad you like it.

 

[butters]

roses again, for no other reason that their rich perfume. and the thorn.

he led her, blindfold,
hands bound gently
and bid her "smell,
tell me what it is you scent"

so she did
and her heart was filled with roses
ripe as velvet wine
enough to make her head spin

she didn't see
the single thorn
spur dipped in silver
hid in filigreed words upon his page

 

[Helen46]

Her dark pubic curls glistening;
My tongue lapping, searching, probing;
Her thighs begin to quiver;
As my nostrils are filled with the sweet scent of her arousal;
Breathing into her I sing "cum for me darling, cum"

[A Failed Poet]

 

[Tsotha]

An ant follows the trail,
pheromones lead the way,
attract inexorably, compelling
a limited brain.

Released from the oppression of
chemistry, it wanders alone, with
limited perception, away from home,
from its purpose, from meaning.

*crush* stepped on.

The miserable, born in the desert
of civilization, breaks rocks at his
master's property. Never saw a contract,
couldn't read it anyway — never learned how —
his only contract is slavery.

By human act made human,
given rights, given a piece of paper
with his name, becomes a true worker,
now free to come and go.
Away from his world, without education,
without prospects.

*crush* stepped on.

A madman screams; the walls, the ceiling!
Rails, scratches, rolls, kicks.
Finally released,
as an experiment, just for fun,
walks two steps and sits on the sidewalk,
sucking his thumb.

Walls, ceilings! Just beyond our view!

*crush* stepped on.

----

Bah. Looked like a much better idea before I wrote it down.

 

[Tsotha]

Wake up to torrential waves
of heat, the cooling hum
of machinery amiss per the spell
of an evil Ifrit.

Long day, short night.
Wakeful cooking,
Restless stumbling.
Sun's reign, no cloud in sight.

...yet the air is thick.
Silly hidden water
makes it hard to breath.

Water heats, hotter
than skin, highly unusual
lack of chill.
Walls radiate, pulse
in synch, an echo of my
boiling blood.

Night approaches, yet refracted fire
sets the sky aflame. The world is
uniformly yellow. The void shines,
even shadows are bright.
Water-bearers arrive,
cover the sky, a big entrance
for ungrateful carriers
unwilling to share.

Do not expect me to clap.

No, I have no idea what this is. But in time: North Pole, you've had your fun. Now, would you kindly share the cold air? Thank you in advance.

 

[todski28]

long wrappers stream
along in the airwaves
shimmer and writhe
alive with abstraction
it all burns

spread from horizon to horizon
to dance away the night
little men fight in vain
the pain of the loss
the north wind blows
it tastes of ash

 

[Tsotha]

The winds of Thor are blowing warm;
Isn't that wrong? North wind, methinks,
should be cold.
A stork went the wrong way,
that dork; and now it's on me to pay
the price for hot blood.
Delight in a delicate hand during winter,
soft awed sighs, asking "how can your hands
be warm?"
Endure summer, burning within and without,
no amount of water sufficient to douse
the furnace in your core.

 

[Tsotha]

Things have the meaning
we give them.
Yet only when you give
me meaning,
Do my meanings matter
to myself.


Read a poem earlier which left me thinking about the nature of reassurance and need. Is love pain? Or perhaps a self-imposed weakness?

 

[Tsotha]

Ding-a-ling she enters
all curves and swell,
plush red smeared lipstick
and I honestly thought
she had legs to kill for.
So BAM! goes my smoking gun.
When she left me,
I was left with a stiff.
No small matter to handle.

Egads. I wonder how many people had this same idea already. Not that it kept me from writing it anyway.

 

[Tsotha]

Contrary to common belief,
Communication breakdown
isn't always the same.
Sometimes breakdown
comes with resonance,
growth unrestrained,
not with decay.
Thus silence becomes relief,
a reprieve to the end
of the game.

Alright, the next 30 in 30 I join I'll use songs as an inspiration.

 

[butters]

this thread feeds every emotion a poet could wish to feast upon and then some...

 

[todski28]

Nourish my poetic soul
with the words that hurl
fourth from live writes
on the plight of something
the yearning for anything
lust sails and soars
the flames that roar

seek and find a way to say
what you meant
to be interpreted as they will
seek to fill the poetic needs
that take root and bleed out,
in black droplets shaped
by centuries