Posted on 11/24/2003 9:52:48 AM PST by January24th
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Lovely poem, J24.
Chain link
Today I must repair the fence
a simple task, requiring wires
cutters, and pliers, to pull and snug
twist and crimp, secure the place
where it bows. It will always
Bow and need fixing in the same
place and in the same way, this line
we erected between in here and
out there, tried and bested by children
neighbours, dogs, strange attractors
designing the willing wire into
a reticulated curve of impending
failure of form, limit of function.
which you in your carefulness anticipated
and measured and cut the wires
And explained as if I needed it
how this simple thing could be done,
and I remember you doubled over in the sun
that rolled in gold along your back
and drew darkness upon your shirt,
cascaded from your cheeks to fall
into the shape of you that darkened
on the ground and beneath which I sheltered,
so we shared the lie that it was this for which
I needed you. Because now I must bend double
In the sun and pick up the implements of repair
absently bending the wire double between
my weak woman’s fingers noticing
how easily it is accomplished
and without pliers.
And explained as if I needed it
how this simple thing could be done,
and I remember you doubled over in the sun
that rolled in gold along your back
and drew darkness upon your shirt,
cascaded from your cheeks to fall
into the shape of you that darkened
on the ground and beneath which I sheltered,
so we shared the lie that it was this for which
I needed you.
Oh beautiful!!!!!
Damn. The tension and beauty of that is something! Thanks.
Proud island
in the stream of my consciousness
you resist
the current situation
of my agitated,
elevated tides
refusing to be diminished
by my constant desire
to devour...
you remain.
I may rage at the
seeming indifference,
or move on downstream,
or surround you
with sweet waters of repose.
Either way, I come...I go...
and you remain.
he gulped
wine
fine
with its dry
indifference
to his loss
After all this time, I still don't learn. Sorry....
he gulped
white wine
fine
with its dry
indifference
to his loss
i sleep
and dream
the fears and tears
of a drunk
dreading tomorrow
and an empty
brown paper bag
angry
she shaved
her legs
in the sibilance
of a hot shower
plotting
Floribunda
Loves me, loves me not
tension that destroys daisies
in resolution
Cosmetic solutions
All day makeup
doesn’t.
regret's a dull
edge for those
that got
the point.
each touch
shapes the
stone
Post Modern (bustrip journal)
Take a situation(loving someone, leaving somewhere),
place the movement in an exotic location(train, bus, despair)
name it with appropriate detail, mentioning streets,
that mean nothing to anyone, which makes the scene
seem true, mark the stops along the way and
Pick a colour, (watered milk, dusty roses, café com leite )
which demonstrates the separation that elevates your narration
above the pilgrims that journey with cackling hens and
squalling children, each contained in the proper way
and note
The sensation of (stop or go) and choose (you have no choice)
inertia, put everyone on the same antiquated form of transportation
that suggests a time when change was merely the speed attained
by a tipsy driver, and mistrust the idea of (in control,
under the influence) circle your answer
in strange stations that refresh, remind us which
beggar gets the best refuse from those that brought but
lost their appetite, lunches wrapped and disposed to the gain,
of those who wait for the treasure that is sure to come from weary
voyagers that (know where they’re headed, or don’t quite get it)
place yourself in the seat next to a dry contador
cologned, shaved and serged carrying bread from
home, or perhaps the exuberant tide of an ohmy!woman
loosely blessed but whose waves of flesh engulf and press
you into your own corner with each hairpin curve, like grace
wearing the clothes of a many-day odyssey, going home
or seeking a new one, remark the dark fingers
in your hair(long blond, neither extraordinary or beautiful
but just unusual for this place) as you sleep or wake
(either pretense, choose one) who touched you anyway?
There are dreamers (in front, beside, behind you be careful)
discoursing in the soft syllables of somewhere, a minha , o meu
ah, ah , ahhhh…. The lovers that take their pleasure in the night ride
and come together tschhhhhhhh, tschhhhhhhh, as the air brakes
engage (crossing the mountain and holding back on the downside)
the careening impetus to (salvation or destruction), tchauuuuuu
tchauuuuu the mutter of soft consonants that murmur
into vowels like air glides, smooths rides and sways
the easily shocked, which have no wish for you
to say,(don’t define it) lonely,
which means you are glad that all the seats are occupied
and the transgressions of rude travelers with coinciding
orbits crowds the responsibility of deciding
upon companions or choosing a destination and is all
about with whom we find ourselves and where we (embark, arrive)
between chaos
and order
we lie
finally
i remember
the poetry
of poverty
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