You Can Go Your Own WayThere was the ancient record-playerYou Can Go Your Own Way6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
that hunched majestically in the corner
of the living room, its feet tangled
in the mustard-colored shag rug
that deadened the songs of
Ralph McTell, Gordon Lightfoot,
and Fleetwood Mac.
My parents were true Brits then,
missing home, wishing it was raining,
astounded by their overly friendly neighbours.
We smashed those songs
on the winterpavement outside
on our way to California,
my parents, no longer flowerdressed
and bearded, said records were obsolete.
Then came the pearl-colored boombox,
to play my fathers smuggled Beatles CDs,
between snatches and crackles of pop music,
the aerial forever in movement,
friend to coat hangers and duct tape.
the first time I heard Simon and Garfunkel
their CDs I hid on the bus ride to school,
and filled its silver mouth with
Third Eye Blind and Savage Garden instead,
laughed along as someone used it to play
Sir Mix-a-Lot through speakers
in the backseat.
Lake WindermereWe are sometime tourists,Lake Windermere6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in open topped buses
tie-dyed amongst Mercedes.
smelling of campfire smoke,
our pockets filled with menthol cigarettes,
and skipping stones.
We find ourselves
basking in the glow of laughter
under the dripdrip
of cave music.
Beers and sticky chocolate bars
fill our tattered canvas bags,
alongside leather flip flops,
discarded for bare footed expeditions
and daisy chains.
DianeI want to curl myself around you fetus-likeDiane7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a sad approximation of your lost child
Ill lead him from the turtle depths
to show you his eyes his ears hes healthy
living, grooving somewhere
Ill pull him from the bloody deep
hold him in your palms your womb
Ill try to show you its alright to live
(though you know well enough yourself)
take you to the difference where the heart beats
our woman hands entangled I will try to hold you
knot us together with faerie strings
of cerise gold hair
Youve forgotten him but I remember
Im waiting for you to speak.
The Season CycleI - PyreThe Season Cycle8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
It is getting cold
these days. The limbs
are running shy on leaves.
Late dawn unveils a crisp world.
Curling shreds of trees mound
on the earth, shattering under our feet.
I should be in a sweater, or
inside, warm in fleece folds,
or outside, raking up the
So many incarnate flames
pool around my stoop, then fade
to brown, or dust, or both.
II - Ashes
Everything that lived
is worn from a year
The colors are whispers
under powdered remains.
They are all we have of fire now.
All crystallizes, congeals,
evaporates into grey.
It owns a certain timbre
that sounds like the tenor bells
of eternity. They sing only one note,
and this is it.
III - Kindling
Watery sepia has
owned nature for too long now.
Hard angles melt into organic
shapes, arcs and swirls.
Tremulous petals yawn to life
and crumble into a bed
where seeds fall, quivering,
for the first and last time.
Newborn designs press their noses
through the loam.&
Day 10tryst (a secret romantic rendezvous at twilight in Paris on a hill)Day 107 years ago in Other More Like This
two small suns
burning on the hill
pear dribbling on the grass
ow. mind my hair
1930's Haiku1930s Haiku1930's Haiku7 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
After Wall street crash'd
Poetry was forc'd to be
In case of emergencyI saw the roots of prairie grassesIn case of emergency6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Like carrion beetles in their yellowing shells
Nibbling angrily, at the concrete beneath my feet,
At wood sheared to fence posts near the road.
The very earth they rejected, drawing what peace they could.
When did stained glass become the standard?
I have forged narrow mountain paths and stumbled over
Bottle caps secreted between the mica flakes and quartz.
In this city, in the sectors most pregnant with age,
Trees testify shamelessly into the sky.
Clandestine, one coils his reach toward
A flimsy cable, twisted and strung precariously
From corpse to shabby corpse, on and on.
Graceful and altogether stoic, another refuses to wince
As the merciless force of a school bus violates its skirts.
All the monstrous lizards reduced to macabre exhibits,
I fault them for dying. With cold blooded savages
Of the biological nature, the world was better off.
Save the best for last is never the real philosophy.
Find me the soul that cares for what happens to its carca
Small Town LifeWe lived the clichésSmall Town Life7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Of football games on
Friday nights, Cougar
cheerleaders shivering in
exhilaration and the players'
steely concentration as we
huddled together beneath
blankets, sharing each
Of creeping to the drugstore
to buy condoms for the first time
with your then-boyfriend,
and meeting your neighbour
or psych teacher at the checkout.
Steamy cars on Mulholland Ridge,
evidence for gossips the next day.
It's true what they say about
everyone knowing your business.
Of Friday nights at
Nation's Diner, french
fry missiles and coca-
cola straw wrappers
wriggling on the table.
And Loard's ice cream
in the summer, peppermint
stickiness dripping on toes,
sugary grins shared
with the best.
Of dancing under the
at the Rheem,
blacktop slick with
rainwater and our
disco ball reflections
scattered in car mirrors.
Huddled hugs under the lights,
dizzy kisses exchanged.
Of fireworks from Tijuana,
set off in the JM parking
lot with only giggles
Poem to a New JournalI would like to tell you of the breeze at my windows,Poem to a New Journal7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and the taxis outside with their justshowing lights.
You should know about the chattering girls on my doorstep,
and the barbeque in the garden.
I might even write about the crane in the distance,
flirting with St. Giles' steeple.
Or perhaps my candles spitting hot wax
on their winebottle lovers.
I could describe your starchy pages
and scratched tan exterior.
Or explain the problem with my word leaking pen,
bought for 45p from the corner shop.
I would like to tell you many things,
but I am afraid.
You will spread your pages to too many
So I shall bind you tight in black elastic,
and hide you in a torn pillowcase in my bedroom,
where I will choose what ghosts
may find your words.
The Long Shot A flame licked at the end of a cigarette. The silver lighter clicked shut, and Old Man Morrison sat back in his chair. His hair was grey, his face lined with years and miles, his eyes wrinkled and keen. He took a drag from his cigarette, pulled it from his mouth with a deft motion of his fingers, blew the smoke out in a cloud before his face.The Long Shot5 years ago in Science Fiction More Like This
"So you're the deserter, then," he prompted. "How'd you get that name, huh? Run out on some of your friends in the war?"
The man across the table from him was younger but no smoother, his face pocked and pitted with scars, dressed in leather and steel with wiring running through his braided hair. A small crescent of glittering metal implants shone around his left eye. He was half-smiling, his booted feet kicked up onto the table, a cigarette held clamped between his lips, the smoke drifting from the other
the alarm clock paradox -colabyou stripped your sweater tothe alarm clock paradox -colab5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
show me your freckles,
and oh how i'd love to peel them off,
because you're no swan, lovely--
not with those small brown accidents
kissing your every inch of
when they should be
kissing every inch of mine.
formed a coalition
to sign a petition
to ban you from
the sky, but i
what else could i wish on?
when you're alone, you'll always
lust for the bedroom door
to lock you in forevermore,
to lock me out forevermore;
that way you're safe to be the
sweet nothing that you see--
the ghostling in the mirror.
you're still just one
of those dirty little things,
and it scares you to tears.
i promised not to be a
liar, when you
promised to make me love you
(remember how i said
i could never love you?
well, i was lying)
you should know, darling,
a liar always lies.
you should know, darling,
this is not a lie.
and you should know, darling,
there's no difference between
dishonesty and disinterest.
so just forget to remember me
dear.dear.dear.6 years ago in Other More Like This
i'd like to start by apologizing because i haven't been entirely truthful with you.
you see, there are so many things i wish i could tell you.
so many things i wish i could share with you; ideas i'd love to plant in your head and watch grow.
places i'd like to go with you, things i'd love to learn about you.
so many things i wish i could tell you, but can't.
i want to believe i can tell you.
more than you know i want to believe it.
i dream about telling you.
roll the idea around in my head.
fall asleep to it.
plan, right down to every last breath, exactly how i would tell you.
but i don't.
i never can, and i never will.
it's just one of those secrets i'll never get to tell.
sometimes it makes me sad.
sometimes i just think i'm crazy.
sometimes i think it's exactly what you'd want to hear.
and other times, i think it'd just frighten you.
sometimes i wonder if you'd even understand it.
i know there's a good reason i can never tell you any of this.
it's not that what i have
my name.my name ismy name.6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
alyssa, and maybe it means
hold your breath or
chase the stars. maybe it is
that awkward shyness
of saying hello to someone
for the first time
or the warm feeling
from hugs and held hands.
maybe it means
maybe my wishes will come true,
someday or maybe
it is the sound of the wind
caressing leaves and the lullabies
of wind chimes, or maybe
it is the voice inside your head;
the shade of moonlight and
maybe 'alyssa' is a synonym
for hopeful and dreaming and
'full of life'. maybe it is the rush
in your ears while running,
the challenge of catching your breath again;
the music of wishing and the thrill
or maybe my name is just
and maybe it only means
Angel's GamesThey say that this city was made by Angels, and sometimes I am almost inclined to agree.Angel's Games4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The graveyard is filled with them, weeping stone tears from blank eyes, hands spread wide in supplication, or clasped in grief. They fill this city. Watching from rooftops and doorways. Clinging to the corners of old buildings or sitting silent in hidden courtyards, guarding the ruined tumbles of houses no-one ever bothered to rebuild.
Stone angels watching over a city of dust and ashes. Choked with the burning of a thousand fires, the soot still clinging to the church-towers that ring out with the mournful pealing of bells.
Many wars have passed through this place, and I have no doubt there are many more to come. I have seen my fair share of sorrow here. I have watched as piece by piece the city is rebuilt, the wreckage gathered, the wound mended. Its people are as old and dark as the place itself. Distrustful, generous, proud, a mess of contradictions, and yet you find yourself expecting nothing
For the Encounters I Never HadI released my regrets like a million balloonsFor the Encounters I Never Had5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
chasing the sky with their bright round bodies --
wingless martyrs caught each tiny breath of air
a moment of epiphany
when your rubbery skin punctures
and the soul escapes.
There is no element light enough to lift me away,
no instrument to sever the strings that earth
my tiny anklets --
I sway with the seasons
as if I am surrounded by an ocean,
unable to tread water fast enough to run,
nor find the reach to break the surface
where those regrets float momentarily,
winking in the sunlight before they coast away,
waiting for my realisation --
they pollute my conscience
until I am ready to let them leave.
I blow watery kisses as I watch them fly --
tiny polka dots dodging clouds,
out of sight.
Fragilei.Fragile6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i wrote this for you.
i wanted you to know
that i am always
i burned my mouth on my coffee
and remembered the scorch of your lips
burning, stinging, lingering.
and i finally lost those ten pounds
that you told me i didn't need to lose
but i felt the need to be underweight
and at night, i curled my little self up in a ball
and thought of every part of me that
you could never love.
i guess a part of me always wanted
to be fragile.
you will never know how many times i saw you
in the backs of other men,
and i ran to them, calling your name
and they'd turn, confused.
they'd say, "Can I help you, miss?"
and i looked into their unfamiliar eyes
and wished with everything in me
that i could say yes.
"could you promise a certain boy
will see me again? because i seem to have
and I'd walk away disappointed
because that was the day I'd decided I would tell you:
you are the sunlight
streaming through my window in the morning.
i spend h
tuesday.we were always spinning.tuesday.5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
something like the heroines in paperback novels, flooding my basement like the antarctic waves. and now, i can witness all the butterflies taped to my ceiling, all red-gemmed and paper-cut outs, flying 'side my hair in the movement of tuesday morning. and we would spin, alike a box-step fox-trot waltz that did not make sense, all old and dusted with feathered fabrics and shiny plastics. and i can hear your heart beat, beat, beat, like the storms of dust we know of in textbooks. i could always think about yellow ribbon tied to my hair in curls and Q's, fostering the notion of sliding down the spines of those paperback novels, but that would remind me too much of the texture of your tango-arms. and i can be consumed by the spindrifts of other daily formalities, though always such things form to a nightly memory; we are everywhere, i can hear your heart beat, beat, beat, and there are monotonic words in fingernails and butterfly sand, "tuesday"
because, we were al
I have loved you...---I have loved you...7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
In another time, I may have been your late night
confessionary, a Parisian whore to your
gentle hands and overwhelming needs. I could see us
loving each other without knowing names.
We are at times both romantic enough, and tragic
enough, for that.
And if I was not full of sin enough
to beckon your fingers to my skin, perhaps I
was only a girl you met for
un café au lait. You laid
your hand over mine beneath autumnal arbres, and we
made small talk about the world. Perhaps;
we are masters at making love with strangers. And you
peu importe. Je sais que je t'ai touché, dune
stop the clocka sea of houses comes rolling instop the clock5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
rusty roofs bending
shingles popping like fireworks
(expressing their independence, they die)
while you and I
(nothing more than genetic flotsam, now)
turn our eyes from a shattered-glass snowfall
and dream of the winters of our youth
this will be the end of days
this will be clouds folding into the earth
thunderstorms growling from foxholes
rain tumbling from rivers
as a clumsy conflagration stumbles into our skin
stealing our silhouettes
painting our ghosts on walls
(oh, had only we learned such passive resistance)
as you and I
(only numbers and figures, we know)
truly wear our hearts on our sleeves
when the world turns inside out
when sandcastles swirl into mountains
only to melt and flatten
until the rock has no wrinkles
when flowers shrink into their stems
like amateur stop-animation
when grass stalks and grandchildren
twist ever upward into smoke
and I no longer have any metaphors
for what the world made me love about yo
an honest day's businessI've been circlingan honest day's business5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
is a circle and
been busy with work
with its own trap-
on its own
always hard up
in the merging
of our company
A Ghost For Every SeasonIn the spring, amid the tall grass, the swamp grassA Ghost For Every Season4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
on the outskirts of a wood
he takes her paint smeared fingers,
sepia, crimson, vermilion branding
the ivory white palette of her hands,
and presses each one to the curl of his mouth;
sucking and biting and longing for sustenance from the
ochre, copper, violet streaking her blue-veined skin.
She smiles with eyes that match the sky
and gives him all her strength.
In the summer, under the green leafed canopy
she laces flowers in her hair,
dances across the umber of the
forest floor, braids and ribbons streaming.
He watches her with folded arms, flicking ash idly,
until she twirls to him collapsing against
his chest in a flurry of flesh and chiffon.
He blesses her graces
with kisses of wonder.
In the autumn by the dirt path on the leaf- strewn ground
he plucks the last of the deep indigo blackberries
from the brambles and brings them to her lips,
places them upon her expectant tongue.
And when the wind begins to blow too cold
he wraps her
School Nativity PlaySchool Nativity Play11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Miss Williams! Miss Williams!
You'd really best come quick!
The wise men keep on arguing,
And Joseph's just been sick!
The star somehow got broken,
We don't know yet who did it,
Some say that it was Lizzie -
I think it was Ned Pitt.
The girls were playing with Jesus,
And his head somehow came off…
And the boy that sings the solo,
Just got a nasty cough.
The wise men are still bickering,
Over which of them is most wise,
And one really seems to think,
That he's God in disguise.
The shepherds have just lost their sheep,
And don't know what to do –
I don't suppose that you'd know where
To find a random ewe?
Betsy says her tooth's come out,
And that she wants her mum;
And by now Joseph is looking
Really rather glum…
The audience are coming in,
But we're really in a state,
Do you think they'll mind too much
If we're about an hour late?
The scenery's fallen down again –
I just thought that you should know,
And, Miss Williams, you'll never guess…
Miss Williams? Where'd you go?
Trystlook:Tryst4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
your hands are bigger than mine
& i am constantly bemused by it
but your hands are busy now,
making big gestures and holding pretty girls
who wear lots of makeup
and mine hold pencils and cups of coffee
and can't reach that far.
i don't pretend to be anything special:
we are simply mundane people
who have found ways to bedazzle a crowd.
but your fingers dance down my back,
across my waist, and on my thighs
and for a little while, i am your piano
you strum me like a violin
and i am music for one person
i have been piously religious and i have been apathetic.
you have been sincerely empathetic and you have been tyrannical.
we're walking contradictions,
and our best talent is lying,
but to everyone else we are entertainers.
i could have made all of this up
but i didn't have to.
i love the boyish, almost sophomoric smile you wear
when i'm not wearing anything
the first time i undressed myself for you
and how unkempt my hair becomes
it was two sundays ago when i was
driving away from