A Picture of the SeaIt's the gaze of the June sunA Picture of the Sea4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
your misted skin an ember hue-
a hand across your brow.
It's the breath of the warm air
when first light cotton slides;
it's the lap of the cold sea
against your toes.
You feel it higher than your knees and so
you let the next soft something go
from the place that the close heart knows;
it's entry gained by heat and sigh
till nothing's left to cast aside-
old skin for new, wet wings untried,
chrysalis and butterfly.
1908119084 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The room is dark and the walls make love in technicolor. It's belief when she dances these frequencies.
Pollution: there are no windows to corrupt with News and we're doused electric in radiation green.
There's Ad hoc prophecy in Arkansas. Mass suicide in Portugal. 400 birds fall dead on Point Coupee Parish. They announce the end of depression with classified documents and the interference subsides for 10 minutes between Janis and George Harrison.
The soundtrack for the war in Afghanistan is Extra Texture.
(It's Two Thousand eleven, none of this has happened yet)
After a half pack of Marlboro reds, mouth scorched like an ocean or confusing metallic atmosphere for anything other than God she stares into the glass and falls in love with people from other countries.
While reading dates it's important to imagine the last day you were together, to forget tense or context and get left behind by things that have already happened and people you watched breath through machines.
The last day w
impuritythe moon, rusty and fattened for slaughter,impurity5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
lapses grim and full in the empty night.
I wait for the harrowing obstructions to fade,
but they do not die and do not die.
forgetful Autumn has stained her hems
Painter's WifeThe Painter's WifePainter's Wife3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Whenever she sees the virgin's face,
her mind smoothes itself into a blank.
Her husband thinks it's grief. Rather it is grave recognition.
She hears the hiss
and scratch of angel wings. When she sleeps,
the angels curl up against her like fevered damp children.
They never console her for the dead child
that floats in her belly. Whenever she forces it
out into rough being, it swims back
into her huddled emptiness again and again.
Her husband has painted a multitude of virgins
as though by painting a woman with a living child,
he can give her a living child.
But she knows better. The virgin bore a child
for those who want never to die. She bears the messiah
for those who want never to be born.
A Promise of No ReleaseI will not go outA Promise of No Release4 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
Hard or bloody
As so many I know
I will not wake up
On the inside
To open my eyes
I will not stand still
I will experience life
As my grandparents did
The last I knew
To have done it right
Around a table
With Grandbabies at their feet
So this is a promise
I make to myself
I sincerely hope
To be the glue
That holds us together
Of no release
Moon CratersMoon Craters4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in the smoke hut
that is melting
by the bulb,
I am this
of fragile-ware and crocheted filaments
that vein out in disparate quests
from the patterns of your
God, I have some
Spaniard lust for those pearly little drop-
chorales of your twin diviners
clotted up like amber marbles
and left to summer
in the charity heap.
Damn their colours, they're all mania degrees
awash in recollected prayers,
that bare your dark coal
and purpled burn stone
of the Goddess
made (on top) of you
finger through me
How you de-gleamed in reverse, a light-ascetic
black (pin)holes in a mime;
when I thought to thresh
you out of boots
to a craterous
Piss ArtistPollock threw pigments at the world,Piss Artist4 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
drenching his canvasses with the paints he hurled
When not an abstract expressionist,
he was not infrequently pissed.
made from killing sleepmade from killing sleep4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
has murdered you;
poppies and feathers and gray impressions
are all that's left
Fluid DynamicsI would kiss you 37 times.Fluid Dynamics4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
You would approach like restless weather,
your taste against my tongue like heavy air,
warm and dense, a coming late-day rain.
There would be low cloud and rising wind.
Just before the downpour,
we would go inside.
Glass workWearing a stain one lessGlass work4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
signing in unison
under sheets of observance
in poorly dreamt nights.
The kettle song, just listen
Mama's words let smitten;
But conditional vows as such
you may sneeze endearingly
and watch 'em
like lilting fear get
tinted with the sketchiness.
FatalitiesFew can successfully negotiateFatalities4 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
with the furies, or with their engine, fate.
In youthful vigour, see, they grow tall and proud,
ignorant that the robust body must yet become a shroud.
On the seas of fortune, the storms of passion drive
fragile vessels on to fearsome rocks. Some will not survive.
Even those who navigate a steady course
must fail at last, overwhelmed by the pitiless force
of circumstance. At last the ragdoll body is bereft.
Of passion and vigour, nothing is left.
GardeningYou wished I was sun-swept sky;Gardening4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I am a corrugated sea.
You wanted a t-shirt and
a poem that wasn't there-
I gave you petals and thorns.
Yesterday I cut the rosebush down;
you drank coffee, and
you watched tv.
Roam FreeLove her like a foreign capitolRoam Free5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
because she is overbearing and sharply lit.
Admire from afar,
she is known to excite and exhaust.
She will lead you through her festive gardens and palatial estates,
past her grand clock tower and her lively market square.
Handinhand and burgling brief breaths,
you will find yourselves down a shadow-rampant alley.
everything you want.
Lights tempt and deceive.
She should have known you would have to leave.
You should have known she would have to leave.
Let's love like foreign capitols,
separately, desperately and overbearingly
Borderline PersonalityBorderline Personality4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I suppose I'm not the man that was promised (you)
demystified from between the ankles, and mothered
in a ritual plot, (still disentangling out of old supplications.)
I guess it's possible that I've no true colour, no hue essential,
and that I've turned to mirror transparencies,
waiting like a guilty prayer for the world to define my golem;
(I had hoped for a pilaster, a nuclear suit to match your aproning).
How do you draw my obsessor from your water glass? Did you file for abuse
or a pedestal? (A glimpse of my father's beard was like this personal Atlas,
the knight in search of famine, quick to martyr, proffering stability like the
drug of Christ, so I know I can go on unchanging for years, answering in rote
and fossilizing gestures.) Are you a bride for the vulnerable? I am an infantile
lobotomist, all I need is a scalpel and a cue! And so, just who is this embellisher
that limns my sadist from blind, atomic lead?
Whatever is out there, needing co
Matchstickirreplaceable yet unnecessaryMatchstick5 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
leave me in your retrospect
where you found me, unwanted & with a question mark over my head
or a Matchstick, maybe
I'm the fire you started &
couldn't put out
the one you doused &
the One you'll freeze without.
BluesMorning comes in widow's weedsBlues4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
settles to the bottom of my cup,
begging to be stirred,
wondering why my chin
has fallen over the rim
and how come my feet
take forever to shuffle
over floorboards and dust.
I am vacant, worn down -
just this mud-bare rug,
heels bleeding gray,
and so tired
I forgot how to say your name
or the color of the walls
when I turn out the lights.
It is just the pain of you
settling in again
with leftover Sunday evening.
RecessionA man on fire walked calmly out of the building, through glass doors that were maybe there, maybe not. Hit the bricks, pound the pavement, skin a cat or two. I saw what he was thinking, it formed a black cloud above his head.Recession4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
He thought of old photographs and wicker furniture, of how dark it was inside for all of those plants to thrive. He thought of chances taken and opportunities missed. The monologue in his burning head was a constant buzzing fly, a death rattle.
Old TV shows, bad poetry, seasons, songs and metalworks; nothing could shut out the memories or calm the storm inside. Treading water, he wished that he could fly again. Over the horizon he walked, never seeing the starving child scuffling along behind.
A man on fire disappeared from the picture plane today, through glass doors that were maybe there, maybe not. Hit the road, Jack, make tracks, don't step on a crack. Leaving dust and ash, smoke-feathers and birthday candles, he receded.
silent sirenwomen, true, our gifted gender,silent siren4 years ago in Concrete Poetry More Like This
seeing further, nigh forever,
beguiling men to gibbous wonder -
asking, 'does she really know?'
his cratered dreams and jagged plans,
trespassed by hands of other men,
she fades from sight a later night,
leaves a luna'd afterglow.
more graceful is the distaff face,
appearance feminine as lace,
dawn and dusk her path shall trace;
mother's pull declares it so.
men, they moon o'er lack of touch,
'poetic waxing' not enough.
llp - jul2011 - dA
Watch Your StepDelicately placing light bulb in trashWatch Your Step5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Delicately climbing in through the window
Delicately cracking breakfast on the rim of the pan
Delicately planning future with the lawyer
Delicately pulling the skin off the foot
Delicately appraising the new music
Delicately allowing the thoughts to flow
Delicately closing eyes against the showerhead
Delicately accepting the pain inside
Like some respectable host
Like, pile it on the bed in the room no one uses
But the doors are urgent now
With the weight
A barn door kind of red
Like aliens arriving outside
To take away, but run without
And everything's bursting behind and now
Captured, kicking and thrusting, feet waving goodbye
Like new angels
Delicately watching the needle change hands
Delicately seeing through the passenger windshield
Delicately taking the steps back inside
BesiegedIf, while thinking of me,Besieged5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
you are overcome with noise -
Noise that causes
in your synapses,
disrupts the signals
Noise that hums
with electrical impulses;
Noise that stiffens your bones
by arresting your nerves
with interfering frequencies;
Noise that swallows your serotonin -
I release you.
If, while thinking of me,
you are overwhelmed with honey -
Honey that sickens your stomach
with sweetness and hardens there;
Honey that covers your hands
and works its way through your hair;
Honey that fills your mouth
the way you taste,
the way you smile,
the way you breathe;
Honey that leaks gold
out of the grey folds
of your brain -
I release you.
If, while thinking of me,
you have one memory
that incites you to movement,
that reminds you to breathe -
tu sangre es muy bonita.in the leaning vertebrae of august thetu sangre es muy bonita.4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
city and its shoreline
become their own ghosts;
the house was a lazy thing
its leaking drainpipes and creaking doors
while outside the ocean crashed and wailed
full of brine and fish and the froth
of each spent wave
groped after the next.
on nights i slept next to you our bodies
rested like cutlery: your
breathing hung in the air like ellipsis
cupped lamella of our adjacent scapula our
spines coiled like bicycle chains
motionless in the iron lung of each numbered night...
from far enough away it won't matter
if any of this is remembered or forgotten:
the twist of sandalwood smoke through tiled hallways and
the melismatic staccato of raindrops on tin roofs,
moments that swirl across the maxilla of night and morning and the
pink heat of summer skin, hungry, outstretched,
bitten raw in the dark.
Carry the MemoryI write in that dream state,Carry the Memory5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
where the sun shines black
and my eyes take in a darker shade.
I write of these hidden
parts of our lives,
when we die in our sleep,
and we continue towards
death in the morning.
Open the book
and enter a cave
with smoky carvings
on the walls.
Look beneath the soot
and you will see your life
carved with a sloppy hand.
The rock is yours
and the ink is found
in your blood;
the darkest shade of red,
that is black when it dries.
Watch your life unfold:
here is where you shed tears
for dead family, the water
stains the rock wall ink,
and brings a brilliant color
to the cave, setting in motion
the oldest tapestry in your mind.
The figures move
on skeletal joints,
to where you die,
in the dark corner
of the cave.
Most do not want to go there.
Take a light, for it is blackness,
and you will see in the rock your death.
You carry the memory on your hands,
as smeared smoke, and blood.
You will be reminded
when you hold
your first born child,
his blood from the womb
GlassGlassGlass3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Glass is dried light.
What we cannot touch
now holds our wine.
Yet once caught,
a nervous hand, brown grit will shatter it.
My words are dried perceptions.
What I cannot say
now fills the silence.
A strained image, a hesitation ...
What I give to you
is a thing alien to itself.