Here a start all loving, soft, sighing, the reed of a dying saxophone...
take up to the alto and we become sensual, the sight blinded and touch supernatural
sexual, a letting go, a release, a fervent and vehement moment
lost in the radiant heat of the sun as it escapes from the sheets it warmed throughout the day.
what may we grasp this transcendence with? with what mind, comprehension?
dim the lights as traffic passes beneath the windowsill
allow the public their way
keep the private in the showers, beneath the sheets, searing the mind
sending home your thoughts in a basket, watching them overflow and silently slip to the earth, running wild through the night
If your neon eve is yet undiscovered, brick your 15th story window and watch the stars as they tumble
and shatter ever so slowly, so sharp
taste the blood as a keepsake, a remnant of the radiant heat now fading to an infra-red murmur
listen to the whisper of the sheets as one of you makes your way down the corrugated hallway to the back stairwell out into the moonlight, barely a whistle on the tongue or a song on the lips
the sound and feel of the cracks beneath making their way ever so slowly further behind moment by
moment
the chlorophylled ether stuttering through the lungs, each breath, a melodrama
the pretense of progress truly a last gasping glance behind
until the winds whip one around again
and the saxophone cries its withering wailing call
the asphalt itself will carry a soul on its way to the pier and the long swim home
and the albatross will follow
thanks for reading
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
It was a dream, not a nightmare. A beautiful dream I could never imagined in a thousand nods. I saw this girl next to me, she wasn't beautiful until she smiled. And I felt that smile come at me in heat waves following. Soaking through my body and out my finger tips in shafts of color. And I knew somewhere in the world, somewhere, that there was love for me.
Originally posted by yield670 OMFG ITS SETA!!!!!!!!!!!
WHERE?!?!?!?
give me an email sometime man.i'm back.did you miss me?of course not you democrat.
listen up you R.P.O.S. If I wasn't so glad to see you alive in one piece I'd fly down to Alabama (a shudderingly HUGE waste of money) and kick your sorry ass myself. And it would be done all out of love.
later dude.
later yourSELF.
can't you even stop to read? bah. it's a POETRY FORUM for god's sakes. You'd think that all we do around here is sarcasm and irony.
yeesh. as if.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
Hope things are getting better in the mire, Seta. You are missed, dear.
I've finally caught up on reading your poetry, and now I want a new poem
...being selfish. I'm considering contacting your
muse by oiija board, or appealing to Morpheus, if it would help.
btw, I work all the time/would do anything for the DSL as well. Just today I found myself
'dining' at McDonalds (a real drag for me as a vegitarian) with a friend. Dashed off some
impulsive & bad "napkin poetry", sans muse, definately not my 'style' but I'll share it because I hope it makes you
smile...or something. Definately hope it doen't warrant heartburn:)
They say God is in the details.
She unwraps her mcsandwich,
scatters fries with abandon,
takes a deep breath.
Ketchup drools as stigmata
from her resurrected food;
I close my eyes,
she takes the first bite.
I say
eating here is paying
to be fucked without permission.
Does it taste just like chicken?
In details of her her ‘food’,TM,
the corporate savior is revealed:
Jesus with a side order of french fries---
Rex Tremendae.
Ok, reading it typed out, maybe it's not so funny, but worth a shot just the same.
Anyway, wishing some starshine in the mists for you....
Things die that are best left unremembered. So walk away, forget, and this thread will be dead to thee...
Savannah the poem was not just inspiring but jaw droppingly funny. Having shift managed a mcdonald's and having had many a conversation concerning the metaphysical consequences of working such a shift driven commune... the karma of fast food supposedly delivered fresh (it is really best that people don't know) and the ungodly amounts of profit that are made off the masses. That large coke you bought for 1.89 costs approx 2.5 cents or so, including cup, lid and straw...
That's a lot of money folks.
and since the lovely and graceful savannah has blessed us we shall honor her in return. I believe the top hat, cane, and bow may look familiar to you madam. So. A new piece. I hope it turns out for the best.
Cheeks of High Color
The high city plains no longer swept with wheat
They weep
Buildings do not sway with the lost tempo of a colored age
That dance perchance lost to a storm chaser's will
Never was such violent fury in nature's temper tantrum
Her skinned knee a-bleeding in the dirt and the dust bowl of temporal gate
She has no love given
No gravelly hands with which to uplift her in the air and sky
No kisses blown upon the tempest
Forged alone: a weapon, a midwife, a thief, a medicinal witch
The wheat, which bows rhythmically beneath its station, carries the ever shifting footsteps of a fractious child; such ribbons streaming behind in the carrying slipstream, our wendigo singing songs of ever gold and sunsets that fade slowly on the battered road to midnight, wearied and faded by crawling sands ever so curious and alive. The walking stick and the zen garden.
It is rumored that the sun, before dawn, has found a way to dab its brow with morning dew. It is the steam that arises from this union that brings us our early mists that dim the rise and heighten the fantasy of the new cycle.
Would that our lungs could drink and that our eyes may taste:
Such photographic pulmonarial culinary joy...
Breathe deep that which may make us whole, sending visions to those across the sea;
dreams of hawk's doves and winged percussion.
The wheat falls flat in abashed grace, submission,
And our halos shall be hewn from the remaining tatters of both sunset and sash.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
our early mystical,
fantastical
evictional
devotionals
hail from downsideup sunshine
smiling salt... ha ha ha... on my brow... ha ha...
one one thousand mile an hour soul yo yo
snaps and comes right back
and the hydrogen laughs
my god, how it laughs
Originally posted by tenaciousA our early mystical,
fantastical
evictional
devotionals
hail from downsideup sunshine
smiling salt... ha ha ha... on my brow... ha ha...
one one thousand mile an hour soul yo yo
snaps and comes right back
and the hydrogen laughs
my god, how it laughs
Originally posted by setaside2 The wheat, which bows rhythmically beneath its station, carries the ever shifting footsteps of a fractious child; such ribbons streaming behind in the carrying slipstream, our wendigo singing songs of ever gold and sunsets that fade slowly on the battered road to midnight, wearied and faded by crawling sands ever so curious and alive. The walking stick and the zen garden.
It is rumored that the sun, before dawn, has found a way to dab its brow with morning dew. It is the steam that arises from this union that brings us our early mists that dim the rise and heighten the fantasy of the new cycle.
sigh...
"And our halos shall be hewn from the remaining tatters of both sunset and sash"
seta, you have a magical gift for weaving musical words into the divine. The circle of life, the layers of myth and purpose, the stuttering finality of city life masking our longing for our true place: the earth and sky, sunshine and starlight, and joy in mysticism versus the cold realities of reason and knowledge.
The high city plains no longer swept with wheat
They weep
Buildings do not sway with the lost tempo of a colored age
That dance perchance lost to a storm chaser's will
Never was such violent fury in nature's temper tantrum
Her skinned knee a-bleeding in the dirt and the dust bowl of temporal gate
She has no love given
No gravelly hands with which to uplift her in the air and sky
No kisses blown upon the tempest
Forged alone: a weapon, a midwife, a thief, a medicinal witch
this first part is rather elusive, no? perhaps some lost child with no one to raise her? or perhaps left to raise herself? and what of the wheat? the wheat that gives life and trade to the city, gone and they weep?...
The wheat, which bows rhythmically beneath its station, carries the ever shifting footsteps of a fractious child; such ribbons streaming behind in the carrying slipstream, our wendigo singing songs of ever gold and sunsets that fade slowly on the battered road to midnight, wearied and faded by crawling sands ever so curious and alive. The walking stick and the zen garden.
and this... this is why i like your writing so much... it just GOES everywhere... that which is gone guides the path of this unwatched child? windigo??? evil??? so... the evil songs fade as the unkept child moves toward the end... AND the path to the end is wearied by curious sands???
It is rumored that the sun, before dawn, has found a way to dab its brow with morning dew. It is the steam that arises from this union that brings us our early mists that dim the rise and heighten the fantasy of the new cycle.
delightful to think of the sun at the bathroom sink each morning... and this steam... and the early mists dimming the rise and heightening fantasy??? this, imo, is the most provoking part of the whole piece... the word "fantasy" cuts like an insult.... denies the reality in possibilities (jmo...)
Would that our lungs could drink and that our eyes may taste:
Such photographic pulmonarial culinary joy...
Breathe deep that which may make us whole, sending visions to those across the sea;
dreams of hawk's doves and winged percussion.
The wheat falls flat in abashed grace, submission,
And our halos shall be hewn from the remaining tatters of both sunset and sash.
these are just like puzzles with no picture by which to put them together... and all the empy parts left to the imagination to fill and make sense of...
S trange how most nights are starry nights
and how often they begin with a grain of sand
that shark's tooth in your hand a cut till it bleeds reminder of whether or not one can
it was a starry night and the earth and moon gazed upon one another in a questioning manner
said silicon sliver slides and slips shimmering in the slight silvering luminescence
shapeshifting as the waves from around the globe reach the reef in time to turn back again and again.
a handful glistens and chunks, post mindless sifting, drifts in slow motion crumble to the tide;
the forgetfulness of fascination, shark's teeth and shells and remanants pattering to the sand
men were throwing themselves at the moon
planets swung around watching enthralled,
astounded.
certainly an exit made to appear stellar and perhaps divine
an explosion of fire and thrust and push and shout and jump and swim and pull and fight
the invention of flame never truly theirs
the struggle of self has finally carried beyond the terran rock and into the boundaries of god
the moon sits silently. Man's feet tickle ever so and it is difficult to behave;
she wonders at action and curiosity and celebrates quietly to herself; it is a rare joy.
they have come for the sand in the hand that proves that man
his dreams limited by sight and sight alone
perhaps finally exists beyond the creation that bore him in all its infallible simplicity
the moon and the beach, unblinking in the glow and reflection of one another, borrow time.
moon grabs the tides as a comfort, a holding of earth's liquidity, a grasping of the hand.
beach borrows the silver only moon can provide and threads her worldly weave as the rolling waves change the swatch of brush she applies.
the men examine their handful of god, their fiery fancy of flight finally at an end; a watery downing, a wave and a cushioned floatation...
their fingertips sift and sieve through a bucket of dream and they gape, incredulous, at one another for it has gone drab and grey in the medical glare of fluorescent lights.
a quick step outside reveals the silver that remains hanging in the night sky:
a dollar coin minted, a hematite mantra.
The men smoke silently,
beach secretly molding herself to feet and stealing a feel when she can,
filling in as they leave.
Shark's teeth, well polished by years of travel, a small comfort to those who have touched otherwhere
Realizing at the they last: they were sent for... they had been called.
The moon is a lonely girl wished upon, granting lovers and grace with ne'er a retainer for herself
she, vying for the attentions of glitter beach so long,
the waves her only sensuality...
they looked upon one another, the original romance the worst sort of charade;
kept apart by magnetism and gravity, a love no science could save
and no spirit could connect
how does one throw a kiss across the deepening room, the void spanning lifetimes..?
send the men with their dreams and their star spanning machines and their footprints may sign a love letter long since written and left to drift the tide and on the tide alone
there was once merely one ocean to span and it was of blue and amethyst and of blood red skies.
it was a lonely journey for those who dared, the stars being perceived as cold company.
sailors searched for better sand as a world reached out within itself to reconnect, the foreign land an imaginary charade as it was really all a part of one
self knowledge the hardest and most picaresque of adventures
and so man sets sail again with moon, sea and lover's beach smiling knowing smiles
preparing for the union that only those they have created may bring.
Shark's tooth and abalone shell
iron, nickel, hematite...
a traceless passage of footsteps and fire.
as man reaches deeply without for the self within
two worlds, days apart, unite
and continue their dance-watch of love-oblivion.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
Comments
Fescineeeteeeen fecccccts.......
LOL as are the Flaming Lips, if I recall correctly.
and fins, good point... but while I often borrow a feeling from a song, I try desperately not to borrow montage.
ah well. Something may yet present itself wrapped all in ribbons and in bows....
lol for those of you who catch that.
did I mention that I love you people?
Here a start all loving, soft, sighing, the reed of a dying saxophone...
take up to the alto and we become sensual, the sight blinded and touch supernatural
sexual, a letting go, a release, a fervent and vehement moment
lost in the radiant heat of the sun as it escapes from the sheets it warmed throughout the day.
what may we grasp this transcendence with? with what mind, comprehension?
dim the lights as traffic passes beneath the windowsill
allow the public their way
keep the private in the showers, beneath the sheets, searing the mind
sending home your thoughts in a basket, watching them overflow and silently slip to the earth, running wild through the night
If your neon eve is yet undiscovered, brick your 15th story window and watch the stars as they tumble
and shatter ever so slowly, so sharp
taste the blood as a keepsake, a remnant of the radiant heat now fading to an infra-red murmur
listen to the whisper of the sheets as one of you makes your way down the corrugated hallway to the back stairwell out into the moonlight, barely a whistle on the tongue or a song on the lips
the sound and feel of the cracks beneath making their way ever so slowly further behind moment by
moment
the chlorophylled ether stuttering through the lungs, each breath, a melodrama
the pretense of progress truly a last gasping glance behind
until the winds whip one around again
and the saxophone cries its withering wailing call
the asphalt itself will carry a soul on its way to the pier and the long swim home
and the albatross will follow
thanks for reading
Hope you're doing well, my friend!
Jim Carrol
seta
seta
seta
seta
seta
yeah yeah...
it was
it was
bah. you loved it. LOL
and gita, it takes one to know one... although your vision may be slightly skewed today...
give me an email sometime man.i'm back.did you miss me?of course not you democrat.
later dude.
later yourSELF.
can't you even stop to read? bah. it's a POETRY FORUM for god's sakes. You'd think that all we do around here is sarcasm and irony.
yeesh. as if.
o'course i did
ah well.
I am glad that you did.
and good morning to you.
off to work I go
oh and that poem up there? yeah, it's called
Chlorophyllian Ether
ick!
be well seta
and I know you know.
sheeeeyooooot
Hope things are getting better in the mire, Seta. You are missed, dear.
I've finally caught up on reading your poetry, and now I want a new poem
...being selfish. I'm considering contacting your
muse by oiija board, or appealing to Morpheus, if it would help.
btw, I work all the time/would do anything for the DSL as well. Just today I found myself
'dining' at McDonalds (a real drag for me as a vegitarian) with a friend. Dashed off some
impulsive & bad "napkin poetry", sans muse, definately not my 'style' but I'll share it because I hope it makes you
smile...or something. Definately hope it doen't warrant heartburn:)
They say God is in the details.
She unwraps her mcsandwich,
scatters fries with abandon,
takes a deep breath.
Ketchup drools as stigmata
from her resurrected food;
I close my eyes,
she takes the first bite.
I say
eating here is paying
to be fucked without permission.
Does it taste just like chicken?
In details of her her ‘food’,TM,
the corporate savior is revealed:
Jesus with a side order of french fries---
Rex Tremendae.
Ok, reading it typed out, maybe it's not so funny, but worth a shot just the same.
Anyway, wishing some starshine in the mists for you....
Savannah
Savannah the poem was not just inspiring but jaw droppingly funny. Having shift managed a mcdonald's and having had many a conversation concerning the metaphysical consequences of working such a shift driven commune... the karma of fast food supposedly delivered fresh (it is really best that people don't know) and the ungodly amounts of profit that are made off the masses. That large coke you bought for 1.89 costs approx 2.5 cents or so, including cup, lid and straw...
That's a lot of money folks.
and since the lovely and graceful savannah has blessed us we shall honor her in return. I believe the top hat, cane, and bow may look familiar to you madam. So. A new piece. I hope it turns out for the best.
Cheeks of High Color
The high city plains no longer swept with wheat
They weep
Buildings do not sway with the lost tempo of a colored age
That dance perchance lost to a storm chaser's will
Never was such violent fury in nature's temper tantrum
Her skinned knee a-bleeding in the dirt and the dust bowl of temporal gate
She has no love given
No gravelly hands with which to uplift her in the air and sky
No kisses blown upon the tempest
Forged alone: a weapon, a midwife, a thief, a medicinal witch
The wheat, which bows rhythmically beneath its station, carries the ever shifting footsteps of a fractious child; such ribbons streaming behind in the carrying slipstream, our wendigo singing songs of ever gold and sunsets that fade slowly on the battered road to midnight, wearied and faded by crawling sands ever so curious and alive. The walking stick and the zen garden.
It is rumored that the sun, before dawn, has found a way to dab its brow with morning dew. It is the steam that arises from this union that brings us our early mists that dim the rise and heighten the fantasy of the new cycle.
Would that our lungs could drink and that our eyes may taste:
Such photographic pulmonarial culinary joy...
Breathe deep that which may make us whole, sending visions to those across the sea;
dreams of hawk's doves and winged percussion.
The wheat falls flat in abashed grace, submission,
And our halos shall be hewn from the remaining tatters of both sunset and sash.
fantastical
evictional
devotionals
hail from downsideup sunshine
smiling salt... ha ha ha... on my brow... ha ha...
one one thousand mile an hour soul yo yo
snaps and comes right back
and the hydrogen laughs
my god, how it laughs
Hey, Tenacious! Where've ya been???!!
you know, considering the distances involved...
sigh...
"And our halos shall be hewn from the remaining tatters of both sunset and sash"
seta, you have a magical gift for weaving musical words into the divine. The circle of life, the layers of myth and purpose, the stuttering finality of city life masking our longing for our true place: the earth and sky, sunshine and starlight, and joy in mysticism versus the cold realities of reason and knowledge.
I loved the poem, seta. Thank you for sharing it.
Elen sila lumenn omentielvo
Cheeks of High Color
The high city plains no longer swept with wheat
They weep
Buildings do not sway with the lost tempo of a colored age
That dance perchance lost to a storm chaser's will
Never was such violent fury in nature's temper tantrum
Her skinned knee a-bleeding in the dirt and the dust bowl of temporal gate
She has no love given
No gravelly hands with which to uplift her in the air and sky
No kisses blown upon the tempest
Forged alone: a weapon, a midwife, a thief, a medicinal witch
this first part is rather elusive, no? perhaps some lost child with no one to raise her? or perhaps left to raise herself? and what of the wheat? the wheat that gives life and trade to the city, gone and they weep?...
The wheat, which bows rhythmically beneath its station, carries the ever shifting footsteps of a fractious child; such ribbons streaming behind in the carrying slipstream, our wendigo singing songs of ever gold and sunsets that fade slowly on the battered road to midnight, wearied and faded by crawling sands ever so curious and alive. The walking stick and the zen garden.
and this... this is why i like your writing so much... it just GOES everywhere... that which is gone guides the path of this unwatched child? windigo??? evil??? so... the evil songs fade as the unkept child moves toward the end... AND the path to the end is wearied by curious sands???
It is rumored that the sun, before dawn, has found a way to dab its brow with morning dew. It is the steam that arises from this union that brings us our early mists that dim the rise and heighten the fantasy of the new cycle.
delightful to think of the sun at the bathroom sink each morning... and this steam... and the early mists dimming the rise and heightening fantasy??? this, imo, is the most provoking part of the whole piece... the word "fantasy" cuts like an insult.... denies the reality in possibilities (jmo...)
Would that our lungs could drink and that our eyes may taste:
Such photographic pulmonarial culinary joy...
Breathe deep that which may make us whole, sending visions to those across the sea;
dreams of hawk's doves and winged percussion.
The wheat falls flat in abashed grace, submission,
And our halos shall be hewn from the remaining tatters of both sunset and sash.
these are just like puzzles with no picture by which to put them together... and all the empy parts left to the imagination to fill and make sense of...
well done, seta
hmph
S trange how most nights are starry nights
and how often they begin with a grain of sand
that shark's tooth in your hand a cut till it bleeds reminder of whether or not one can
it was a starry night and the earth and moon gazed upon one another in a questioning manner
said silicon sliver slides and slips shimmering in the slight silvering luminescence
shapeshifting as the waves from around the globe reach the reef in time to turn back again and again.
a handful glistens and chunks, post mindless sifting, drifts in slow motion crumble to the tide;
the forgetfulness of fascination, shark's teeth and shells and remanants pattering to the sand
men were throwing themselves at the moon
planets swung around watching enthralled,
astounded.
certainly an exit made to appear stellar and perhaps divine
an explosion of fire and thrust and push and shout and jump and swim and pull and fight
the invention of flame never truly theirs
the struggle of self has finally carried beyond the terran rock and into the boundaries of god
the moon sits silently. Man's feet tickle ever so and it is difficult to behave;
she wonders at action and curiosity and celebrates quietly to herself; it is a rare joy.
they have come for the sand in the hand that proves that man
his dreams limited by sight and sight alone
perhaps finally exists beyond the creation that bore him in all its infallible simplicity
the moon and the beach, unblinking in the glow and reflection of one another, borrow time.
moon grabs the tides as a comfort, a holding of earth's liquidity, a grasping of the hand.
beach borrows the silver only moon can provide and threads her worldly weave as the rolling waves change the swatch of brush she applies.
the men examine their handful of god, their fiery fancy of flight finally at an end; a watery downing, a wave and a cushioned floatation...
their fingertips sift and sieve through a bucket of dream and they gape, incredulous, at one another for it has gone drab and grey in the medical glare of fluorescent lights.
a quick step outside reveals the silver that remains hanging in the night sky:
a dollar coin minted, a hematite mantra.
The men smoke silently,
beach secretly molding herself to feet and stealing a feel when she can,
filling in as they leave.
Shark's teeth, well polished by years of travel, a small comfort to those who have touched otherwhere
Realizing at the they last: they were sent for... they had been called.
The moon is a lonely girl wished upon, granting lovers and grace with ne'er a retainer for herself
she, vying for the attentions of glitter beach so long,
the waves her only sensuality...
they looked upon one another, the original romance the worst sort of charade;
kept apart by magnetism and gravity, a love no science could save
and no spirit could connect
how does one throw a kiss across the deepening room, the void spanning lifetimes..?
send the men with their dreams and their star spanning machines and their footprints may sign a love letter long since written and left to drift the tide and on the tide alone
there was once merely one ocean to span and it was of blue and amethyst and of blood red skies.
it was a lonely journey for those who dared, the stars being perceived as cold company.
sailors searched for better sand as a world reached out within itself to reconnect, the foreign land an imaginary charade as it was really all a part of one
self knowledge the hardest and most picaresque of adventures
and so man sets sail again with moon, sea and lover's beach smiling knowing smiles
preparing for the union that only those they have created may bring.
Shark's tooth and abalone shell
iron, nickel, hematite...
a traceless passage of footsteps and fire.
as man reaches deeply without for the self within
two worlds, days apart, unite
and continue their dance-watch of love-oblivion.