writing live

If The Girl Was Mine
All Words And Music By Kenne Silva (copyright 1999)

I see her every morning, as the new day’s dawning;
I see her pass by, a single tear in her eye.
She says she’s got a man, but that he just don’t understand;
I can tell that she’s lonely-it ain’t something that she’s gotta say.
That man’s gotta be a fool, to treat his woman so cruel.

Such a vision of lovliness, her breath sweet as a soft caress;
Long hair flowing in the noonday breeze, she makes me weak in the knees.
A prettier girl you’ll never see, I can’t believe she’d even talk to me;
Her smile turns me into mush, her inner beauty’d make an angel blush.
That man’s gotta be a fool, to treat his woman so cruel.

Now if the girl was mine, I’d make love to her all the time;
I’d make her feel so safe at night, wrapped in my arms so tight.
Now if the girl was mine, I’d buy her roses and cherry wine;
I’d make her know how much she means to me-
And by her side is where I’d always be...

I’d make her happy-if I could be so bold;
Heart to heart-soul to soul;
I’d give her what she’s looking for-she won’t be lonely no more...

Now when her day is done, and she longs for her special one;
He don’t give her a second look, so she finds her romance in a book.
In the pages of her fantasy world, she longs to be somebody’s girl;
She knows what she misses so much-a real man with a tender touch.
That man’s gotta be a fool, to treat this woman so cruel.

The midnight hour is coming down, she cries when no one’s around;
Her regrets turn into fears, as she wets her pillow with her tears.
She prays for sleep to come, to forget what she’s become;
‘Cause in her dreams she can run free-dare I hope that she dreams of me.
That man must be a fool, to treat this woman so cruel.

But if the girl was mine, I'd make love to her al the time;
I'd make her feel so safe at night, wrapped in my arms so tight.
Now if the girl was mine, I'd buy her roses and cherry wine;
I'd make her know how much she means to me-
And by her side is where I'd always be...
 
Before the all of a sudden passion suddenly thread, we had smithpeter's writing live thread from September 2002.
~no cheating allowed~
take all the time you want but start and finish your piece without leaving.
Don't edit either. Seeing your typos is like seeing your underwear when you did not want it to show. All the more delightful.
It must be erotic. Need not be disgusting, but what the hell, why not if that is your cup of tea or coffee.

rules: Don't pull it in from someplace else. Write now and spontaneously combust.

Don't be afraid to be a fool. I know about that stuff.
Excerpt from a September 23, 2002 email: "the reminders are important hoping to keep people knowing it is like improvisation."

So, if you need a place to put your uncooked, unedited, totally spontaneous words, toss them in here or the passion thread.
 
there are moments,
cavernous,
when i breathe small.
and dark,
(that pitch blackness)
falls somewhere
between ease and dread.

and i am naked--air
caught on wings--
here in the night.

there are moments,
cavernous, and it should be
that way
sometimes.
 
how do you do it

just like you
baby tell yourself

there uin tha gutted rowhome lined side to side
recycled mattress she brawls edge to edge to find the one
soft padded quilted featherbed does not belong
with the springs exposed, mold and cigarerte burned


we stack the brick with mud for mortar
embed polished stone, transparent, colored

we do not ask where they came from
we do not question the Belgin fountains that appear in the square
surrounded by sidewalk still hot under feet from the night of fires
they have ,elted the tar
they have shattered windows

we do not move when they warn us
train track two
we know it is magic
we know not to doubt

dont ask me how I do it
you say

we do not question sunrise or springtime
prize at the bottom of the box
shake it
 
my passion twists
and goes with the breeze
wrapping and tugging
at my breath
around my fingers and toes
in my mouth mostly
where it settles
in my head
its heavy and thick
full of fuck because
everything that settles in my head
always is
its comfortable
makes me feel gooey
that is a good thing because
pleasentries of this place
are hard to come by
even harder to believe
soo do stuff is
whats making me tickticktick
needy maybe but he don't mind
do you baby, not this time
good
good
i'd hate it if you did cause
all i think about is next time
and last time and those
times before that made me say
wowza
 
I can feel the heat
15 feet away

that imaginary comfort zone
isn't ultraviolet or opaque

it keeps me easy
for now
maybe you too

but it can't block invisible rays
they go beyond the red
still penetrate however far we are

you are in me
as much as I am in you
 
in and through
out the window with
thoughts of old
open me wide to
your new path
melding with mine
so fucking nice
down with it baby
waitin' there by
the backdoor for you
bringing me sweets
ribbon wrapped and
signed in big black
letters...listen as i
sing it to you over
again.
and again.
 
you beautiful blue bastards,
roll and slopin' round me.
just let me spin like a crazy girl
while kudzu eats old elms, and poles,
even our hillsides slopin' over some papa's bones.

talkin' 'bout mountains
coursin' blue through my shenandoah veins.

you go ahead!
gather and hold each other
in a round crush of beautiful blue
that stomps this southerner right into the dirt.

when i hear those banjos
i'll shake it off
i'll shake it off
and dance like the moutain girl i am
dancing blue and all kudzu green
 
sun rises
on this chair by the door.
coffee flows

warm from his mug
to my mouth, and i will
sip some part of him--a taste,
the chill and fever, an afterthought
lost halfway toward the bottom
of muted blue ceramic.
my lover is buried hot

beneath nana's quilt, unaware
of life-squares too bygone
to soothe his shiver.
i pull fifty years of memories

up to his chin, letting him rest
on off-white weddings
and papa's soft flannel pockets.

our coffee goes down cold
as he falls into easy slumber.
what else is there now
but sun and chair. once more,
i'm at the door.
 
Your Eyes Are On Me

Your eyes are on me.
I can feel them through my blouse.
They look and search with radar's stealth
But terminally, I act cool on guarded watch.
Look, but don't touch.

Across the room, they sweep the hills,
Roll over my curves
To search the crannies.
Your hair glints through smoke-filled haze
Near the bar, by the door - third stool from the end.

A chill, was it?
I reacted just the same.
Your eyes are on me.
Shivering up my spine.
The cool grows cold, then hot.

A want of silver liquid desire
Flushes me, engulfs me, I know not why.
Why you? Why me? Why now? Why talk?
When palms over knuckles let me know
I'm not paying.

Your eyes are on me,
And I carry them home.
 
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silver slashed the sky
like bolting lightening
dipping, diving down
vanished against rooftop silhouettes
exploded kisses on an ebony darkness
 
At night
the moonlight all invades
invites to surrender

I hear a Cuban song that says:
give me lo que te pido!
But I, what do I want?
What can I ask of you?
 
Lauren Hynde said:
At night
the moonlight all invades
invites to surrender

I hear a Cuban song that says:
give me lo que te pido!
But I, what do I want?
What can I ask of you?

Tomorrow
the sun will dip its red face
into the cold Atlantic, dolphins
will pull its rays deep
into the unfathomable blue,
whales will whistle tuneless
sonar songs and all manner
of seabird, puffins and egrets,
will perform an airial quality control
of nature

swallowed by the ocean
when night lifts the moon up
on its shoulders. This is why
the moon smiles, delighted
at the spectacle of its mirror image
draped over the water.
 
................................
 
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Free Thoughts

i fly high with you
on the immortal plateau
of heavens gates

whispered
words of love
spring forth
with a sigh
each moan i hear
makes my knees
buckle
my heart
trembles
with each thought

that slow
sweet
naughty
smile
makes me
quiver

throaty
raspy
voice sends
shivers
throughout
my hot lil body

when i take my bath
thinking
its your fingers
slowly soaping
gliding
diving
so low
my breath catches
moans of pleasure
come growling out

pink toes curl
hands grab
for the towel rack
spasms ricochet
driving their hardness
curving around my clit
360s taking me
through the tunnel
and out the other side

the room goes dark
deep ragged breathing
heartbeats thundering
glitter floats upon the air

all this babe
just one thought
one look
one word
one
you...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

def needs some work.
i did stay within the guidelines.
just came out, so there it is.
*grins*

RhymeFairy~ :rose:
 
Do you really spell flaccid with a double C?

*



“Ready Fingers?”

“What we typing today?”

“Poetry baby.”

“Lay some stanzas down.”

“Eyeballs! Can you see the screen?
You look a little bloodshot.”

“Rough night, but the coffee helps.”

“Thesaurus?”

“Vocabulary loaded.
Go easy on the adverbs.
We’re running low.”

“Where’s Quality Control?”

“Asleep.”

“No problem.
Clean up the spelling later.”

“What kinda poetry, Boss?”

“Erotic.”

“Damn.
That means down
into the basal depths
to wake up
Libido.”

“After last night
he should be mellow”

“Wake up!
Frontal Lobe wants a little
blood rushing down”

“Huh?

Gimme a break.
After last night
could barely
summon up
the morning woody.
Where’s the object
of his affections?
Damned higher functions,
all talk-talk.
Why not just let Fingers
dial her up
and we’ll do it all again?
What we want
with an erection now
anyway?”

“Poetry baby,
erotic poetry:
hot moist
slip sliding
low moan
arched back
sweat beaded
breathless
poetry”

“Get Stomach
to call up
for lunch instead.
Don’t the bowels
need moving?”

“Sorry fellah.
We’re talking high art.
There’s more to life
than coital grunts
and moving bowels.”

“Shows what you know.
See, all you’ve done
is piss off Sphincter…

Looks to me/
Like it’s gonna be/
Really tight ass poetry/

… there’s your poem!
Type it, Fingers!"
*
 
Overheard at the laundromat.

He's started talking to his fingers now!
I know he's loosing it.

No, dear, I'm sure he's just
ya know - looking for -
whatchamacallit
inspiration.

Well, I'm worried. Up all hours
drinking our good coffee and
throwing books around.

Don't worry. He's a poet.
They're all a bit strange.

Yes but what I didn't tell you
is his fingers talked back to him
 
Jumbo big box 12 rings, fingers,
Chromatic in a pressure drop.
F# mixed with side by side D's,
The open harmonic chord
Chambered in belltowers
And sirened from above-
Stones built to heaven
Reaching the frail acceptance
That it is better to strike a mystic 4 story human
Chord as your Hair grows golden
From within,
Than to keep the mortar mixed
And ship in enough rubble to keep
Building.
 
the cobbled stones come rolling home
by two by two the red lights blink over the bridge

philadelphia freedom
chained to concrete down on front street

shipyard poets unpack ploughshares
swears he can smell the dirt of home

yes
we have no bananas

spending time down the shipyard
hobbled stones
pitted iron
 
Poison Ivy

There's a hollow ring
to their talk a false feeling
all over squeamish and wincing
I listen any way nodding
and smiling but I know
it's all fakery they know
I know which just
makes it worse
scratch the itch
and it spreads
like poison ivy.
 
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I shall shake this fever
Collect the chords and combinations of color.
The golden fleece for remembrance,
The last Lilac
And the wild Lupine again.

E minor
Drone

Hammer down
Naked Ring finger on A, second fret,
And slide the oversized hand up to D, open and dissonant.
Melody performed bythe cloud choir, yes

I shall shake this fever,
And sweat it clean,
Shake your hips
Gently straighten your back-
I breath deep enough
For the next dance.
 
a virginal attempt

connecting souls
unexpected cosmic energy
sharing poetry in the night

he borrows her words
she borrows some of his
and the fantasy is more real
than sensuous drops of rain
in a forest surreal
with lovers dancing naked in the twinkling dawn

with memories breath upon their necks
it is time to go
and they can only think of when they can reconnect again
exposing the nakedness of their souls across the cyber wires.
 
flowing right through
those mental crevaces
those rabid devices
my vices, my vice
unrelenting and driving
me deeper in to
those recconings
wrecking any and all
ability i never had
to stay away
i can't ever
you do this to me
and i can't never
ignore this thing
anymore, my
smoking gun
my hazard of the job
my hard left turn
right smack into
you.
 
Feeling the space between your breath and mine
where they intermingle with souls long passed
This place is sacred, but has no boundaries

I sense the delicate balance between
what is
and
what may be

So frail
So powerful
So perfect in
it's vagueness

Lovely in it's own piece of heaven
In every connection we have breathed
In every
dream

Our love holds the ancient hope
of eternity
 
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