AmphiprionAmphiprion9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I have been a bloodless fish tossed about
with wild blank eyes -- whiter than the foam that smashed me
into rocks that flaked my scales and sent them scattering
gold vermillion flashing at the knees of stinking fishermen
that bent to taste me,
one hand in the folds of their trousers where they started to stiffen
and the edges of their boots all caked with guts.
With salt crust forming in the corners of their lips they turned
to face each other, to shake hands or
compare rod size -- I made this community!
A limp queen rotting into water where I lay with seagull shit and algae scum
that floated and coated the mouths of babes and still I heard
carried in the wind to sluice my innards from cliff faces
and flavour all the oceans with part of me.
I have been a wailing cadaver, slinging hooks to ships
and several first mates drunk recalled a mermaid, though they can't
stand the stink of the sediment under their fingernails at night.
With the lack of light and of cou
Jacelyn Who Never SmilesJacelyn who never smilesJacelyn Who Never Smiles4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Suffers through the endless trials
Of a rotting candyland
Crumbling to collapse like sand.
Jacelyn with skin so pale,
Never slips the slightest wail
As she watches dreams so bright
Mottle, rust, and lose their light.
Jacelyn with eyes so dim,
Who did cause your world to spin?
Who brought down their mighty hand:
A father, mother, or a friend?
Jacelyn who sheds no tears,
Why don't you vocalize your fears?
Anything just to forget
The wailing echo of regret.
Jacelyn with heart so bruised,
It hurts to know that you've been used,
Beaten, thrown upon the floor,
Broken, down into the core.
Jacelyn no soul could save,
Now is lying in the grave
Her magic shining dreams of light
Fading lost into the night.
NegativesI trace the edges,Negatives5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Attempting to delay the rapid color-development
Of tangible memories
Sold in tens or twenty-sevens.
I wont smudge
To ruin is to sin.
For with the winter,
This dies too.
For my sake,
I hope heaven is a darkroom.
a fitting Deatha fitting Death8 years ago in Scraps More Like This
Having observed the pressures existent
in every advance of ground and grime, my thoughts
have run persistent: the gathering petals do spoil
to humus and born
is black-bellied fetus mud:
goes itself to slabbing mass
sunshine bluessunshine blues9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Been seein Jackie Onassis,
stalking a million ruts
into the floorboards of
a tired motel room,
that faithless smile comin on,
like velvet angels wailin
The salesman on the bed stretches, looks on with ruthless cool.
& she, that darling little Imposition-
all predator's eyes
just hollering that
hungry look my way-
So you think you're a fucking star?
Then why don't you follow that thing
all the way East, baby, & let
the kid in the manger see you shine
New OrleansNew Orleans9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
So maybe there are too many flowers here
on the ground, and in the cotton;
weaving like lace through red dirt flesh.
Sun threatens necks and marinates eyes;
as balsa-spun bones tell laconic tales of age,
creaking and groaning like old southern mansions.
Mint juleps and almonds and peaches doze here,
and Eve has her fingers stuck down Eden's throat,
splashing sin and decadent fruits all over the city.
Our voices are slow and warping in the heat,
rising like egg steam off the sidewalks.
Honeysuckle flowers bloom with tarot cards
and suffocate the air with a drowsy nectar.
Stars are made to be read
nights are made to be wakened-
our cars are old and half-filled with gasoline,
half-kissed by rust and baptized in mud,
remembering those adrenaline worships
of croaks and crocs and gunshot rocks
exploding like fireworks in the bayou cradle.
Shrimp nets catch crosses and condoms floating in silt water,
bobbing arcs over catfish living in mud.
DangerousDangerous10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I wish for
words that leap
like poison frogs,
words that creep
words as colourful
BirdcageNothing ever happens the way you read in the history books. In war there are never two armies, there is only a field of men. Never a number of dead; but individual lives snuffed out. That is what the subject of history is, years shelved and decimalized. Birth and death, graphed to the simplicity of lines. Great wars a footnote to the next great war. The achievements of men and women plotted out against the bookmark of day, month and year.Birdcage4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
And somewhere amongst this, my mother breathed. Somewhere danced in now long-closed nightclubs, laughed at jokes told by a younger version of my Father. And then the unpin-able moment she fell in love with him, after which she would have sworn there was no moment, that she'd always loved him.
I try to place things, to tell the story to myself, but you cannot know the story of a life; you can only tell a new story from theirs, as one cannot speak with another's tongue.
Whilst other children would be given sweets, I would have to excavate them. Taught t
TuesdayYou write the words so no one will understand, it isTuesday4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Tuesday again, always Tuesday, even when it
is Friday and the school across the street shrieks with excitement, the
walls have ears and you say it is Tuesday and carefully write a list
of what you have and have not allowed yourself, because
it is always Tuesday and the walls shake their heads,
and trace the lines of your notes, shorter every week, but not
every day because it is not Tuesday and you can write what you
need, the walls do not have ears.
You do not use the phone because the words have slipped from your grasp,
the subtle difference between careful and controlled, the words on the paper
say I had an English degree as if it has fallen between the crack in the night
between yesterday and today. You say, fine, a word that says exactly what
you did not want it to, but you fold your shirt against your body, soft as tissue
until only your hands grasp themselves, twisted like birds,
the likelihood of Losing sleepthe likelihood of Losing sleep9 years ago in Scraps More Like This
She has become one remarkable appendage.
Among the slop of barstools we were introduced;
had her pulse, perhaps, become any sadder
I'd have thought her a reptile.
"But this is about mammals,"
slunk from me, suppressed
by the stature of my sweating tumbler;
and I boiled to beat my extinction out the door,
then very swaggered, watched a swallowtail
swirl on the landing of an arid alleyway
to tatter its wings, so pasted
to a piece of warm gum.
"A correct assessment, butterfly."
"But this is about mammals."
Though I wish, I am not exempt from interaction.
I've been writing about her for months but
my nerves are that shape of a beaten cur.
So I bought one to keep me company,
to keep me remembered at night and
to dig holes for staying cool in this weather.
I put it on a leash and named it nothing.
The whimpering has become comfort,
and I feel much more pleasant about
never confronting her to comment on
just how the rafts of her skin
can bring me rapture;
Optimism, reviseHad the truth looked uglier,Optimism, revise9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I might have faced that inevitable
everybody else saw coming.
True, the word cancer's a terror,
but I'd seen so many survive,
so why not you?
You lost all your hair. You grew so thin
I could count your vertebrae when we hugged.
Without gray curls or bushy brows,
you had the charming face of a startled kewpie doll.
We were already used to it all;
operations, prescriptions, pills.
Arthritis-fused ankles, infected sinuses
were everyday pains.
What difference did another surgery make?
Just one more scar for your patchwork skin.
A kidney gone? There's one to spare.
The signs were there:
Your kidney and lungs were not all to be claimed.
I ignored each flare warning hazards ahead.
Faucets left running? The losing of keys? Trivial.
Who could blame you for not being all there,
when you had to wonder how long you would be here?
You bore it with your private brand of dignity,
the deadpan (and bedpan) jokes at the hospital,
the stoic shrug at the news
that the last tum
path to dublin or somewhereThe path to Dublin is a devout nomad, wandering this way and that under the feet of a season sprinting off into a little town to smolder in the field or in the sky, to end a life turned over on its colder side. The path to Dublin is covered in dust. Sometimes it is disturbed by hooves crested with uncertain horseshoes or feet guided by a mind too shy to ask faith for directions.path to dublin or somewhere5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Sometimes it remembers that the weight of the world once plodded above its head, curved its spine. Sometimes it just forgets and winds itself to the edge of a cliff where a lighthouse stands waving its yellow-sleeved arm in the distance, claiming to know where a road can finish its earthly sprawl into eternity.
Sometimes I think the path to Dublin is a river gone dry. The way autumn paddles desperately about as if it died drowning in another life leads me to believe this. The way the path wrinkles and scabs by simply running into a night's chill tells me that it spent its childhood on the leash of the sea, but
Tin CanTin canTin Can5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Silver and gleaming
A fleet of ships, rich and flaming
Little ones with tuna fish reeling
Silence, patience and the reluctant waiting.
Into the myriad, or will it be late
Awaiting the fate
(not) The passing of date
Ah, the irate.
Into the silver of the wheely lines
Waiting for the signs
The clatter, who dines.
Left all alone
Not a drop left, nothing to moan
Used till the last bone
Silver and gleaming, the poor clone.
Used and abused, forgotten
The many lines of lights, and men
Not on a count of ten
The solace, phrased with a pen.
''Please Crush After Use.''
Sumaiya Rahman (c) 2006.
Haikuthon July 2009Haikuthon July 20095 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
gnarled tree roots
stretch down into the pond
resting for a spell
a thousand flags
whip in the wind
praying for profits
in the cool building shadow
in the distance
beyond the looming storm —
hint of orange dusk
a golden half-moon
hangs near distant streetlights
amid gentle rapids
an old tire
over waves of tall
Waking From the DaymaresEveryone's had that shell shocked feeling. Perhaps delayed or lightning quick, but it always makes an entrance. There was a call you should have ignored. An email that should have been trashed. A conversation best left in somebody's head. Another route you should have taken. Anything to keep from the inevitable sharp-object-to-skin contact. Shallow pain exists in beads, in flows, and in barely there cuts. We have assorted band aids, sutures, and medical tape. But a Hello Kitty band aid cannot be used on matters of the heart. Elmo can't bring back what you unjustly lost. The deeper end of the pool is a whole other can of worms.Waking From the Daymares4 years ago in Editorial More Like This
Even as a closet optimist, I tend to dwell on the what if's. You know something is bad if my paranoia of the worst case scenario is justified. All of a sudden those things experienced when sleeping-cold sweats and the like-are closer than the shadows that cling to our bodies. It's anything but fair and rarely like the cinema portrays. Nobody is watching us go int
Whales Made Us I paid and got on. A throatful of fumes followed me into my car, stapled with a tsunami of passengers. We sank in our seats and waited for the snack attendant. He came around with bags of emotion; 10 cents for Suspense, 20 cents for Laughter, 50 for Profound Melancholy. I took six packs of Nostalgia and sipped one when the train crawled forward.Whales Made Us3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The pace leaped into a frantic chase while the lights cut out and our bodies knocked around. The train rushed, our hearts rushed, we remained at ease. Eventually the tracks straightened so that we pressed forward hard like a tongue. At last, the moment.
Outside our windows, light spit images to the tunnel walls. The film was starting. Movie previews were substituted with commercials about suicide prevention. No actors, real masochists with real problems, gagging, injecting, and slashing themselves before our night's scheduled
You asked me...You asked me why I was brokenYou asked me...5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I asked you why you were not
You asked me where the scars came from
I asked you why you needed to know
You asked me if I was pure
I asked you if it was a sin not to be
You asked me why I was crying
I asked you if reality ever hurt you
You asked me why I wouldn't answer
I asked you why should I
You asked me if I loved you
I asked you for the meaning of love
You asked me why I wasn't cooperative
I asked you why didn't you just fade away like everything else does...
TommyI am five years oldTommy5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
And school is scarier than it looks.
And I cant believe Mommy and Daddy would leave me here
Because the kids are mean
And Tommy took my favorite crayon
And ran away
And I couldnt catch him.
I am twelve years old
And middle school is scarier than it looks.
And my parents still treat me like Im five
Even though Im practically grown.
And Tommy took my favorite book
And ran away,
But he gave it back
Even though I didnt chase him.
I am fourteen years old
And high school is scarier than it looks.
And my parents still treat me like Im twelve
Even though Im almost grown.
And Tommy took my heart
And he wont give it back
But thats okay,
Cause I let him have it.
I am eighteen years old
And college is scarier than it looks
And I wish my parents were still here for me
But theyre not, because Im grown.
And Tommy still has my heart,
But hes gone off to boot camp,
So Ill only get to see it occasiona
I noticed a ring on my fingerI noticed a ring on my finger5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Swallow bird feathers raw
like empty caricatures
of unfilled bodies. Watch
the swallows streak across
and gulls dip white wings
in oily waves.
Swallow the sea-salt
and riptide currents and bones.
The distance between the beach
and city-linoleum kitchen: five feet.
Magazine on counter, cabinet
against the knee, neck and head
strung from shoulders.
Steps from the door; your lilac lips.
You are my cat, my Schrödinger experiment,
my nihilistic vice and wry intoxication.
You hear me - a patter of words and a look.
memories, making glorious mudhis memories are making a glorious mudmemories, making glorious mud6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
it is a lumberjack's wife whose veins are budding twigs,
arms feeble as every dried branch to soak a shining star.
it is her who bares such troubled wrists for oven mitts,
so ardently delivers her hoggish assembly some hulking bird
whose body cavity is crammed tight to the sphincter
with a spiced bread. instinctively, she goes for the knife.
there is some raucous applause as she serrates
its oiled, peppered and flightless skin and on
into its succulent chest meat as every spectator
dreams of flying. her blade burrows farther in
and under enough to dredge up a pinkish marrow,
where she stops, lets the carver out
to start again from the beginning...
no lumberjack lives here,
no whiskered axe-man wakes to the rooster.
a daring cedar deadened him flat as toads who nap
beneath some winter stones. his brain was stapled to earth
with a mighty red branch and there have spread rumors.
the truth? his memories are making a glorious mud.
029.0299 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
peeling an orange, his voice calling from the porch to share the sunset
Bacon's "Three Figures"Those filthy little bastardsBacon's "Three Figures"5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
wouldnt let me go. I moulded
them with layer on layer
of thick, sticky paint.
At the start of each day I was near
to vomiting. By lunchtime
pining for a drink. After I set
the brushes aside my lover
opened the wine. He and I
with our Bacchanalia to
deaden the end of each day.
In misery, self-loathing and disgust
I completed my obsessive task.
I at last became a painter,
though I lost enthusiasm
when I decided the Three Figures
were completed. There was nothing
in me left for the cross.
Three Figures, then, without a Crucifixion.
A trio of faceless hominids
without a prayer.