My dear twink... thanks for reading it, I am glad it moved you at least a little to the left.
And the name setaside came from a long and useless story that has nothing to do with my poetry. LOL however it has a lot to do with my sarcasm.
Here's one last one for a bit for you all...
KLEENEX & BUCKSHOT/midnight oil
New York City was,
Shall we say,
Stellar
That night.
Frozen
But stellar.
And I,
With my glittering gun,
Home at last...
They’ll never miss
The things they didn’t appreciate anyway.
The gift is non-refundable.
The life is non-returnable,
But by God
It can be taken away.
There are many,
Many,
Types of love affairs.
Some are casual,
Some twenty-four hours,
Some at a glance.
Perhaps a girl with similar eyes
Similar smile…
Charm
Is a deadly gift.
I consider it a disease really.
Charm is for luck:
You hang it on a necklace,
Give it your younger sister and tell her,
“Here. It’ll keep them away.”
Charm is a tool,
Passionate,
And it is used with a sculptor’s grace and
Accuracy
To construct an outward appearance
All too appealing.
And she was surreal
This divinely new figurine...
The clarity of déjà vu is unmistakable.
The reaction sadly unavoidable,
And it hurt to see her bleed;
But my silver partner and I
Had already noticed the full moon.
The werewolves on the prowl,
I the hunter once trapped:
Memories do not die as fast as the triggerhappy.
After all,
Though silver was once liquefied to cure
The common cold,
The acid in my veins runs deeper
And with more resolve.
How ironic that we have constructed
The
Urban
Lifestyle
The garden is the target,
The flowers wilted,
The natural colors faded and bleached...
The heat of the fresh asphalt burnt out
In the cold of concrete
And the city at night...
One doesn’t look for the moon.
Your stars are made of neon glass.
Fluorescent lights point north.
To be homeward bound
Costs $2.50 a mile,
And to fall in love can cost you
Fifty
Dollars
An hour.
For most people it’s a fair deal.
But an affair
Is an affair,
And perhaps I take it personally.
I say, “Have a nice day”
I mean it
By God.
Obsessively I mean it.
I play a role dammit.
I refuse to give up my station,
My pillar,
My sleeping hollow,
To some bitch in a Lexus,
To some guy in a trenchcoat
Opened,
Naked...
Why must I repeat the material?
Love is subjective.
It waxes.
It wanes.
It pulls the tide.
An entity, sister to desire,
With a life and death
Either by Kleenex or buckshot.
In love the pen and the sword
Are equals.
And that kills me.
And for that she dies.
For the fact that I still bleed
She dies.
Tragic, sick and serial
True,
But I sort it out on this plane
Perhaps a cup of coffee in the next.
It could’ve been someone else,
A story I’ll never know...
For love,
Or for whatever ideals of such
I possess,
You can die believing or
Kill getting it across;
I am not the only
Nor the last,
A sensual sight surround
That neither hides nor displays
True motive,
Charm,
A thought that still captivates me,
Still the prey.
I love them all but it seems to no avail.
If this game of interstellar cat and mouse
Continues
I may be forced to admit
That my chrome plated friend here
Has become my best friend and my savior.
Perhaps he shall retire
And in his death he shall save me
From mine own…
The blood is at my feet.
The neon flickers a dull red...
And apology is the only weapon with which
I can aim.
Back me up if I end up firing blanks.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
Originally posted by savannah66 "And apology is the only weapon with which
I can aim."
I LOVE that.
I am enjoying your 'voice'.
thank you. That line is in my head an awful lot when something happens that I have no control over.
as for mi voz, milady, come closer and I shalt sing to thee softly a new song...
there once was a lad from birmingham
sat on the grass cross legged
bit the wheat straw in the sun so fine
played his guitar as it got late
oh the evening poured in to the sound
the whipporwill voicing his stress
the moon observed as the feet hit the ground
our bird taking flight under duress
round and round the chase went on
through thorns and misty thrush
the thistles did grasp and cut
the face on the lam, full flush
for flight is not of fancy
and the fervency not contrived
But the boy had better grow wings
If his hope is to remain alive
oh the moon sets slowly
and the stars doth turn
as he hides out in the night
as the pursuit persuaded thunders by
he hides silently in fright
for to be a free man is tragic
and to be caged is called humane
if the stars fallen are magic
Then the sun risen is mundane
Thank god for the washing rain
Thank cloud for the washing rain
His footprints now hidden he rides
Atop the winded train
A trail of clothing the only remind
Of the path whence he came
Oh Today's gone cotton
And tomorrow's gone steel
The future the prize to steal
And it appears that to be forgotten
Is merely a blind turn of the wheel
Yes a fortunate turn of the wheel.
Savannah66 inspired... spontaneous poetry. I thank you madam. I haven't done one on the spot like that in a long time.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
Sorry I haven't responded before now. I read some of them a few days ago!
I think you're writing is well thought out,and It's great you can express yourself that way. Nice work:D
Keep them coming.
“Life beats down and crushes the soul and art reminds you that you have one.” -Stella Adler
Originally posted by savannah66 ... to be a free man IS tragic, I agree.
Freedom brings the ability to choose
...choice causes misery.
bad choices cause misery if made for the wrong reason...
bad choices made for the right reasons are just mistakes...
or to quote mr. FLEA - "better to regret something you did, than something you didn't do"
i could go on and on about freedom... and so could anyone who knows what it's like to live in someone else's cage... the real dumbass is someone who lives in their own cage and blames the world for its existence
it's like... duh! um.... it's not even locked... hello....
duh....
we were haging with this chick too high on A one night
put her in the car
told her it was locked
she stayed in there till we opened the door
Since high school I have struggled to learn how to play guitar... and I'm still not very good at it at all. This piece started as a song written after my girlfriend of over a year and I broke up. Those things are never pretty... But one day I'll remember how I wrote the song and I'll sing it again.
LOL and it's a short one for all of you tired of mucking your way through my marshes.
EARTH’S SHADOW/debate
Your voice could shatter glass
You’d rage about the room
You’d say
“I’m tired of this black eye
I’m tired of all the shame,”
You’d say:
That you might bend the rules
You might tie the noose
But it would be love.
If it’s clean
If it’s dirty
It’s me
With all this black and white around
The logic and restraint
Fade away…
Your voice could shatter glass
The eclipse fell from the night
You’d say:
“This collar’s a little loose
Too much freedom hurts,”
You’d say
That I can’t let you go
You had dreamed I’d stay
And it would be love.
If it’s clean
If it’s dirty
It’s me
With all this black and white around
The scissors have gone dull
The rope begins to fray…
Your screams they shattered glass
My heart fell to the floor
You said:
“that eclipse last night was mine
I stole it from the sun,”
You said
That the light had made you blind
The fire burned you up
And it had been love.
With all this black and white around
My logic and restraint
Fade away…
My voice:
It shattered glass.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
Originally posted by setaside2 I'll try to be a good boy and let you know when that happens, sharon, but you know me, I'll probably just fuck the whole thing up....
I'm not sure how much I have left to post on this thread! LOL
oh psh! you'll fuck nothing up. it'll sound lovely, and i look forward to it...as well as "hey jude"
Alright, I'm going to post one last one and let this thread follow it's course, until the muse takes me again... Watch it drop now....
This poem was written, as a great many poems are, for a girl. Now, I realize that the inspiration is nothing short of yawn inducing but let it suffice to say that she was a remarkable woman who deserved what little ragged prose I was able to squeeze out of my bleeding Bic Rollerball. She deserved far more, of course, but my writing can only hope to reach certain ethereal heights, and while such hope takes it far.... it still appears to be more than a little acrophobic. Like most love poems it is raw and emotive but a tad juvenile as love occasionally makes us feel less than adult, to say the least; Kids in the rain who know for a FACT that if they jump in the puddles they'll get dirty, nasty, wet... but the SPLASH, oh my, the JOY...
I used to go downtown with Kate every night, to our favorite cafe... I'd read her my poetry, she'd make me laugh, we'd teach everyone there how to create wonderful Italian sodas from the oddist flavoring concoctions.. We had the occasion to meet Poe, among other folk who frequented this place, and never had a loss for conversation. I was madly in love with her, and she with me, though we never had the guts to put it out into the air... instead it was hints, ennui, insinuation thrown about like glow-in-the-dark paint only to be revealed in the afterglow at the end of the day. We never even kissed.
Still one of the single most effectual and luminescent human beings I have yet to come in contact with, I miss her to this day.
So if you ever meet a young and effervescent Jazz singer named Kate Shoup... the woman with the voice of silk and hair that does as it pleases... let her know that "that one guy" still thinks of her often... and that i still cannot live without her, though now it is her memory that haunts and comforts me.
This was for her. Kathryn Shoup.
love, seta.
DOWNTOWN/a soliloquy
I
A visionary’s soliloquy
He thought
As they gestured smoothly down the sidewalk
Towards the dancers
Miracles in small doses
Like the music they carry in their minds
They discussed their wishes to be so
Capable
While each secretly observed just how capable
The other truly was
A dancer
She lived a sunshine existence
Painted as a smiling face
In bright pastel
As her reflection glanced in all directions
Betraying the shade that even she sits in
We all relax in
In time
He was a threaded song who made his way
In no particular fashion
With his walk-a-mile-or-so-with-me attitude
A thread at times discordant
With the song of self-deprecation
A song catching
Contagious and atonal
Together their shoes molded to the pavement
In discussion lies discovery
She lightly touched the ground
Taking small flight in every zephyred flurry
Of leaves across an intersection
He walked with purpose unidentified
Hair in his eyes
He played for her
Sang as only his fingers would let him
She danced above the balcony
A melody of metamorphosis
Arms over her head
Body a wave of motion
Eyes of platinum joy
Higher
He played on
Creating the stage
Upon which their lives stood
Their transient audience passing by
Ignorant
To what was being displayed
No longer trained in the eye of beauty
They travel directed and unhappy
Knowing somewhere inside
That it really isn’t their fault
The music heard raining from above
Though self-absorbed
Was meant to affect
She swayed in the breeze
An aspen leaf in the fall
A rising star in spring
He bled music
Committed to this suicidal beauty
He bled rivers
And everywhere there were people
Who looked upwards
Reflective
Questioning
Tasted something sweet
And saw the twinkle of her final twirl
As she became the stars that were her inspiration
The city swayed in the darkness
The wind singing secrets as it caressed its way
Through the skyscrapers
She saw all this and smiled
The boy and his guitar
Jumped from the 37th balcony
Flooding the oncoming street
With a flash of light
As he sank through the air
A Dying Saint
She sang with angelic vibrato
A star born
A star reborn
In the end the gods painted her green
And dressed her in fire
As his last note faded
Into the oncoming fog
He dissipated like cigarette smoke
Blown across the park lake
Leaving behind
The puddle that reflected her ascension
The city fell
Silently
Once again a visionary’s soliloquy
A song and dance
The evanescence of painted footsteps
Evaporating this dawn
As she echoes away into the sunshine
A spherical spiritual space
She resides on a sidewalk of light
And sings her prayer of union
II
It’s 5:00 on a Sunday morning downtown
The city’s windows
An overwhelming blue in reflection
Of growing dawn
Sprinklers
The mischief makers
Misty haze
In the city center
Agriculturalizing our fair
And industrialized giant
Still sleeping
Even God rested on Sundays
Lights flicker
Overhead
Or glance off random chrome
It’s the taxicab empire
And they’ll take you anywhere
Everywhere
At the right price
The sprinklers now dance
And surround me
As the cycle has changed
The wind blows through and I’m refreshed
I don’t care if it rains for eternity
Even God rested on Sundays.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
I'm wondering if anyone has liked or disliked the more recent stuff up there...
My mother, of all people, she of the "I'm kicking you out of the house at 18 because I religiously disagree with your poetry performances," is now REALLY into me getting published.
It intimidates the hell out of me and I was looking to see if you folks would give your opinions on that idea.
ALSO, now that it's up in the air, I think it would be a great idea to have a bunch of us go in on a publication of Pearl Jam poets... that would be a work of literary beauty.
Let me know what you all think
seta
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
setaside, i havent yet read all of your poems, but ive read some of the more recent ones youve put on (i'll go back and read the others later) and i have to say your writing is brilliant. it really is. good luck
Bambi girl... I cannot thank you enough for slogging your way through my verbosity. I believe that you (and anyone else who does so) deserve a medal.
Radar:
2 things.
1.) Love the name PJ Poetry Press. It's nothing short of brilliance. Shalt post a thread on it now to see what others think.
2.) Whilst I would love to help finance your Star Wars collection I cannot, in good faith, allow anyone who uses Leia's shallow (however brave) lie as their location to receive any proceeds. You realize that no matter how many times you tell them that the Rebels are stationed on Dantooine, Alderaan will still be destroyed. New plan is needed here. I blame you for the deaths of millions of innocent droids.
Thanks all so much for reading through, Dantooine notwithstanding. hee hee.
seta
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
Originally posted by setaside2 firefairy, thanks for all your kind words... they certainly make me smile...
I love the poetry board hereabouts. I am hoping it becomes a habitual place for all the jammers to go to for inspiration...
Let me know, guys, what you think about that pj poet publication.. I like it more every day, actually.
I'll see you all around!
seta
Well, I do love your stuff. I use to write poems when I was a teenager. My sister stole my poem notebook and gave it to her boyfriend. I pretty much quit after that, except for my silly stuff.
But keep going. I'll drop by to read them!:D
“Life beats down and crushes the soul and art reminds you that you have one.” -Stella Adler
firefairy, that's a little ironic to me, since my ex-best friend use to steal my poetry book and try to get girls into bed with it, or used it to meet girls. My biggest problem? He always told them it was HIS work. Jerk.
Ah well.. that accounts for the EX portion of things... well, not really. There was certainly a whole lot more, but oh well.
Bring your silly stuff over here! I'd love to read it!
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
"He was a threaded song who made his way
In no particular fashion
With his walk-a-mile-or-so-with-me attitude
A thread at times discordant
With the song of self-deprecation
A song catching
Contagious and atonal
Together their shoes molded to the pavement"
My favorite part, although it was hard to choose...I enjoy your poetry, Seta. I always look forward to seeing your new postings.
a new one here... needed to keep stuff fresh, am I right? Can't let this stagnate....
This one's called THAT's Human. It's all about the tragic futility of character living.
The here and now that is the past… the entry, rebellion and the beginnings of self-awareness… the first crush, the first death of a loved one or a hero (or a god)… henceforth a new search for self that comprises 40% of a lifespan… the realization of ALONE and togetherness as separate entities (though twins they be)… rage at the unfairness of everything, EVERYTHING, around them… a quick distraction by yet another attempt at love however destined to fail, and yet another whiplash glance at the past now misted and glazed with nostalgia; they are, after all this time, able to put it all behind them and reflect without being wistful – remember without regret, and an understanding of HOPE is reached though little time has prevailed and as they are finally ready to face the future, the last thing they hear is a poet’s lament echoing in the silence that is heaven.
THAT’s human….
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
And one more, then I'll leave you all alone again.
seta
UPBRINGING/
dinnertime springtime
Anger.
It’s a bittersweet sickness
And it tastes like liquefied Milky Way bar
Rain fell like godspit on her parade
And she smiled
Shining persecution and love
The comparable pair
At nearly everyone who would accept
Her aluminum foil glance
Shattering light like a disco ball
She held my hand
And led me along
Gripping me
In her steady stare
And unsteady grip
She loved
She loved me
She said so
And I sang my song of belief
To all those that would strain to hear
At night she would tell me tales
Of long after I was born
Offended and insulted
That I didn’t recall the future
At least off hand
And during the day
She was non-existent
A ghost in her own present
Yet ever present in mine
Sometimes I embitter myself
With myself
Even others
With myself
And I paint my own picture of cynicism
In which I justify the poisons I drink
And in this knowledge…
I should say I take pride in this knowledge
Knowing the fine line that can kill or corrupt
Help and heal
I’m sure that at this point in time
If I were to choose a direction to go
I would spin in one place
Just to get a good look at the position in which
I am stuck
So as I prepared to leave
The dining table
Placing the food of existence off to the side
And decided to go for a walk
At least for a while
I drank my champagne with tolerance
And pushed the chair back on two legs
Relaxing a bit
I stood up
Taking slight notice to the way
Eyes shifted towards me in mid-converstion
The way words hung in
Mid air
The way my stride echoed across the hall
And the way whispers followed me like prayers
Wisps of fog I could only describe further as
Playing through my fingertips
And when I finally held the brass
Cool brass
Doorknob
Between my thumb and forefinger
I smiled
In my reflection
I smiled at my reflection
And accepted my choice
Dressed inappropriately
For it was windy that day
I opened the door
And as I stepped out into the green-grey haze
Of the afternoon thunderstorm
I hit the street like a crumpled candy wrapper
And blew away.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
setaside!
i really like your work.
just thought id say hi!
Some people have to have the sultry evenings Cocktails in the blue, red and grey But I like every minute of the day.
INTER-FUCKING-MISSION!!!
Newcastle-Riverside 02/22/92!!!
E.rutherford New Jersey 01/06/06
Athens -Greece.survived !barely-
Wembley 18/06/07- no words- just smiles!
Well HELLO to you. I really dig your name on the board hereabouts. I believe that last night, here in fabulous Littleton, Colorado, really qualified as a sultry evening.
Lightning and all.
Sigh.
Thanks for reading man, it does the heart good. At least, for me. lol.
seta
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
Originally posted by setaside2
1.) Love the name PJ Poetry Press. It's nothing short of brilliance. Shalt post a thread on it now to see what others think.
2.) Whilst I would love to help finance your Star Wars collection I cannot, in good faith, allow anyone who uses Leia's shallow (however brave) lie as their location to receive any proceeds. You realize that no matter how many times you tell them that the Rebels are stationed on Dantooine, Alderaan will still be destroyed. New plan is needed here. I blame you for the deaths of millions of innocent droids.
Thanks all so much for reading through, Dantooine notwithstanding. hee hee.
Comments
And the name setaside came from a long and useless story that has nothing to do with my poetry. LOL however it has a lot to do with my sarcasm.
Here's one last one for a bit for you all...
KLEENEX & BUCKSHOT/midnight oil
New York City was,
Shall we say,
Stellar
That night.
Frozen
But stellar.
And I,
With my glittering gun,
Home at last...
They’ll never miss
The things they didn’t appreciate anyway.
The gift is non-refundable.
The life is non-returnable,
But by God
It can be taken away.
There are many,
Many,
Types of love affairs.
Some are casual,
Some twenty-four hours,
Some at a glance.
Perhaps a girl with similar eyes
Similar smile…
Charm
Is a deadly gift.
I consider it a disease really.
Charm is for luck:
You hang it on a necklace,
Give it your younger sister and tell her,
“Here. It’ll keep them away.”
Charm is a tool,
Passionate,
And it is used with a sculptor’s grace and
Accuracy
To construct an outward appearance
All too appealing.
And she was surreal
This divinely new figurine...
The clarity of déjà vu is unmistakable.
The reaction sadly unavoidable,
And it hurt to see her bleed;
But my silver partner and I
Had already noticed the full moon.
The werewolves on the prowl,
I the hunter once trapped:
Memories do not die as fast as the triggerhappy.
After all,
Though silver was once liquefied to cure
The common cold,
The acid in my veins runs deeper
And with more resolve.
How ironic that we have constructed
The
Urban
Lifestyle
The garden is the target,
The flowers wilted,
The natural colors faded and bleached...
The heat of the fresh asphalt burnt out
In the cold of concrete
And the city at night...
One doesn’t look for the moon.
Your stars are made of neon glass.
Fluorescent lights point north.
To be homeward bound
Costs $2.50 a mile,
And to fall in love can cost you
Fifty
Dollars
An hour.
For most people it’s a fair deal.
But an affair
Is an affair,
And perhaps I take it personally.
I say, “Have a nice day”
I mean it
By God.
Obsessively I mean it.
I play a role dammit.
I refuse to give up my station,
My pillar,
My sleeping hollow,
To some bitch in a Lexus,
To some guy in a trenchcoat
Opened,
Naked...
Why must I repeat the material?
Love is subjective.
It waxes.
It wanes.
It pulls the tide.
An entity, sister to desire,
With a life and death
Either by Kleenex or buckshot.
In love the pen and the sword
Are equals.
And that kills me.
And for that she dies.
For the fact that I still bleed
She dies.
Tragic, sick and serial
True,
But I sort it out on this plane
Perhaps a cup of coffee in the next.
It could’ve been someone else,
A story I’ll never know...
For love,
Or for whatever ideals of such
I possess,
You can die believing or
Kill getting it across;
I am not the only
Nor the last,
A sensual sight surround
That neither hides nor displays
True motive,
Charm,
A thought that still captivates me,
Still the prey.
I love them all but it seems to no avail.
If this game of interstellar cat and mouse
Continues
I may be forced to admit
That my chrome plated friend here
Has become my best friend and my savior.
Perhaps he shall retire
And in his death he shall save me
From mine own…
The blood is at my feet.
The neon flickers a dull red...
And apology is the only weapon with which
I can aim.
Back me up if I end up firing blanks.
I can aim."
I LOVE that.
I am enjoying your 'voice'.
thank you. That line is in my head an awful lot when something happens that I have no control over.
as for mi voz, milady, come closer and I shalt sing to thee softly a new song...
there once was a lad from birmingham
sat on the grass cross legged
bit the wheat straw in the sun so fine
played his guitar as it got late
oh the evening poured in to the sound
the whipporwill voicing his stress
the moon observed as the feet hit the ground
our bird taking flight under duress
round and round the chase went on
through thorns and misty thrush
the thistles did grasp and cut
the face on the lam, full flush
for flight is not of fancy
and the fervency not contrived
But the boy had better grow wings
If his hope is to remain alive
oh the moon sets slowly
and the stars doth turn
as he hides out in the night
as the pursuit persuaded thunders by
he hides silently in fright
for to be a free man is tragic
and to be caged is called humane
if the stars fallen are magic
Then the sun risen is mundane
Thank god for the washing rain
Thank cloud for the washing rain
His footprints now hidden he rides
Atop the winded train
A trail of clothing the only remind
Of the path whence he came
Oh Today's gone cotton
And tomorrow's gone steel
The future the prize to steal
And it appears that to be forgotten
Is merely a blind turn of the wheel
Yes a fortunate turn of the wheel.
Savannah66 inspired... spontaneous poetry. I thank you madam. I haven't done one on the spot like that in a long time.
Truly.
So much depends on chance, eh?
And to be a free man IS tragic, I agree.
Freedom brings the ability to choose, and choice causes misery.
Thank you, again.
I think you're writing is well thought out,and It's great you can express yourself that way. Nice work:D
Keep them coming.
Though it appears from your HOLY SHIT post count that you are far more prolific than I...
Let me know when you reach a thousand?
bad choices cause misery if made for the wrong reason...
bad choices made for the right reasons are just mistakes...
or to quote mr. FLEA - "better to regret something you did, than something you didn't do"
i could go on and on about freedom... and so could anyone who knows what it's like to live in someone else's cage... the real dumbass is someone who lives in their own cage and blames the world for its existence
it's like... duh! um.... it's not even locked... hello....
duh....
we were haging with this chick too high on A one night
put her in the car
told her it was locked
she stayed in there till we opened the door
duh!
Oh sorry I got a little carried away!:D
But I love when people read my poetry, for good or for ill, and they give their opinions on it and tell me what a freak I am...
or not.
LOL maybe ONE day I'll be at 1000, but certainly NOT today. You know, Leathermosquitoman must view you as a threat of some sort...
As it were, check back in here every so often and I'll be around with new stuff somewheres....
seta
LOL and it's a short one for all of you tired of mucking your way through my marshes.
EARTH’S SHADOW/debate
Your voice could shatter glass
You’d rage about the room
You’d say
“I’m tired of this black eye
I’m tired of all the shame,”
You’d say:
That you might bend the rules
You might tie the noose
But it would be love.
If it’s clean
If it’s dirty
It’s me
With all this black and white around
The logic and restraint
Fade away…
Your voice could shatter glass
The eclipse fell from the night
You’d say:
“This collar’s a little loose
Too much freedom hurts,”
You’d say
That I can’t let you go
You had dreamed I’d stay
And it would be love.
If it’s clean
If it’s dirty
It’s me
With all this black and white around
The scissors have gone dull
The rope begins to fray…
Your screams they shattered glass
My heart fell to the floor
You said:
“that eclipse last night was mine
I stole it from the sun,”
You said
That the light had made you blind
The fire burned you up
And it had been love.
With all this black and white around
My logic and restraint
Fade away…
My voice:
It shattered glass.
(Seta's got a wonderful voice, for any of you wondering).
I'm not sure how much I have left to post on this thread! LOL
oh psh! you'll fuck nothing up. it'll sound lovely, and i look forward to it...as well as "hey jude"
This poem was written, as a great many poems are, for a girl. Now, I realize that the inspiration is nothing short of yawn inducing but let it suffice to say that she was a remarkable woman who deserved what little ragged prose I was able to squeeze out of my bleeding Bic Rollerball. She deserved far more, of course, but my writing can only hope to reach certain ethereal heights, and while such hope takes it far.... it still appears to be more than a little acrophobic. Like most love poems it is raw and emotive but a tad juvenile as love occasionally makes us feel less than adult, to say the least; Kids in the rain who know for a FACT that if they jump in the puddles they'll get dirty, nasty, wet... but the SPLASH, oh my, the JOY...
I used to go downtown with Kate every night, to our favorite cafe... I'd read her my poetry, she'd make me laugh, we'd teach everyone there how to create wonderful Italian sodas from the oddist flavoring concoctions.. We had the occasion to meet Poe, among other folk who frequented this place, and never had a loss for conversation. I was madly in love with her, and she with me, though we never had the guts to put it out into the air... instead it was hints, ennui, insinuation thrown about like glow-in-the-dark paint only to be revealed in the afterglow at the end of the day. We never even kissed.
Still one of the single most effectual and luminescent human beings I have yet to come in contact with, I miss her to this day.
So if you ever meet a young and effervescent Jazz singer named Kate Shoup... the woman with the voice of silk and hair that does as it pleases... let her know that "that one guy" still thinks of her often... and that i still cannot live without her, though now it is her memory that haunts and comforts me.
This was for her. Kathryn Shoup.
love, seta.
DOWNTOWN/a soliloquy
I
A visionary’s soliloquy
He thought
As they gestured smoothly down the sidewalk
Towards the dancers
Miracles in small doses
Like the music they carry in their minds
They discussed their wishes to be so
Capable
While each secretly observed just how capable
The other truly was
A dancer
She lived a sunshine existence
Painted as a smiling face
In bright pastel
As her reflection glanced in all directions
Betraying the shade that even she sits in
We all relax in
In time
He was a threaded song who made his way
In no particular fashion
With his walk-a-mile-or-so-with-me attitude
A thread at times discordant
With the song of self-deprecation
A song catching
Contagious and atonal
Together their shoes molded to the pavement
In discussion lies discovery
She lightly touched the ground
Taking small flight in every zephyred flurry
Of leaves across an intersection
He walked with purpose unidentified
Hair in his eyes
He played for her
Sang as only his fingers would let him
She danced above the balcony
A melody of metamorphosis
Arms over her head
Body a wave of motion
Eyes of platinum joy
Higher
He played on
Creating the stage
Upon which their lives stood
Their transient audience passing by
Ignorant
To what was being displayed
No longer trained in the eye of beauty
They travel directed and unhappy
Knowing somewhere inside
That it really isn’t their fault
The music heard raining from above
Though self-absorbed
Was meant to affect
She swayed in the breeze
An aspen leaf in the fall
A rising star in spring
He bled music
Committed to this suicidal beauty
He bled rivers
And everywhere there were people
Who looked upwards
Reflective
Questioning
Tasted something sweet
And saw the twinkle of her final twirl
As she became the stars that were her inspiration
The city swayed in the darkness
The wind singing secrets as it caressed its way
Through the skyscrapers
She saw all this and smiled
The boy and his guitar
Jumped from the 37th balcony
Flooding the oncoming street
With a flash of light
As he sank through the air
A Dying Saint
She sang with angelic vibrato
A star born
A star reborn
In the end the gods painted her green
And dressed her in fire
As his last note faded
Into the oncoming fog
He dissipated like cigarette smoke
Blown across the park lake
Leaving behind
The puddle that reflected her ascension
The city fell
Silently
Once again a visionary’s soliloquy
A song and dance
The evanescence of painted footsteps
Evaporating this dawn
As she echoes away into the sunshine
A spherical spiritual space
She resides on a sidewalk of light
And sings her prayer of union
II
It’s 5:00 on a Sunday morning downtown
The city’s windows
An overwhelming blue in reflection
Of growing dawn
Sprinklers
The mischief makers
Misty haze
In the city center
Agriculturalizing our fair
And industrialized giant
Still sleeping
Even God rested on Sundays
Lights flicker
Overhead
Or glance off random chrome
It’s the taxicab empire
And they’ll take you anywhere
Everywhere
At the right price
The sprinklers now dance
And surround me
As the cycle has changed
The wind blows through and I’m refreshed
I don’t care if it rains for eternity
Even God rested on Sundays.
I'm wondering if anyone has liked or disliked the more recent stuff up there...
My mother, of all people, she of the "I'm kicking you out of the house at 18 because I religiously disagree with your poetry performances," is now REALLY into me getting published.
It intimidates the hell out of me and I was looking to see if you folks would give your opinions on that idea.
ALSO, now that it's up in the air, I think it would be a great idea to have a bunch of us go in on a publication of Pearl Jam poets... that would be a work of literary beauty.
Let me know what you all think
seta
Let me know when it is. I'll buy a copy of it!:D
I love the poetry board hereabouts. I am hoping it becomes a habitual place for all the jammers to go to for inspiration...
Let me know, guys, what you think about that pj poet publication.. I like it more every day, actually.
I'll see you all around!
seta
All the proceeds can go to Kosovo refugees . . . or my Star Wars collection. Whichever
Radar:
2 things.
1.) Love the name PJ Poetry Press. It's nothing short of brilliance. Shalt post a thread on it now to see what others think.
2.) Whilst I would love to help finance your Star Wars collection I cannot, in good faith, allow anyone who uses Leia's shallow (however brave) lie as their location to receive any proceeds. You realize that no matter how many times you tell them that the Rebels are stationed on Dantooine, Alderaan will still be destroyed. New plan is needed here. I blame you for the deaths of millions of innocent droids.
Thanks all so much for reading through, Dantooine notwithstanding.
seta
But keep going. I'll drop by to read them!:D
Ah well.. that accounts for the EX portion of things... well, not really. There was certainly a whole lot more, but oh well.
Bring your silly stuff over here! I'd love to read it!
Did you see that one. I's real silly:)
In no particular fashion
With his walk-a-mile-or-so-with-me attitude
A thread at times discordant
With the song of self-deprecation
A song catching
Contagious and atonal
Together their shoes molded to the pavement"
My favorite part, although it was hard to choose...I enjoy your poetry, Seta. I always look forward to seeing your new postings.
This one's called THAT's Human. It's all about the tragic futility of character living.
The here and now that is the past… the entry, rebellion and the beginnings of self-awareness… the first crush, the first death of a loved one or a hero (or a god)… henceforth a new search for self that comprises 40% of a lifespan… the realization of ALONE and togetherness as separate entities (though twins they be)… rage at the unfairness of everything, EVERYTHING, around them… a quick distraction by yet another attempt at love however destined to fail, and yet another whiplash glance at the past now misted and glazed with nostalgia; they are, after all this time, able to put it all behind them and reflect without being wistful – remember without regret, and an understanding of HOPE is reached though little time has prevailed and as they are finally ready to face the future, the last thing they hear is a poet’s lament echoing in the silence that is heaven.
THAT’s human….
seta
UPBRINGING/
dinnertime springtime
Anger.
It’s a bittersweet sickness
And it tastes like liquefied Milky Way bar
Rain fell like godspit on her parade
And she smiled
Shining persecution and love
The comparable pair
At nearly everyone who would accept
Her aluminum foil glance
Shattering light like a disco ball
She held my hand
And led me along
Gripping me
In her steady stare
And unsteady grip
She loved
She loved me
She said so
And I sang my song of belief
To all those that would strain to hear
At night she would tell me tales
Of long after I was born
Offended and insulted
That I didn’t recall the future
At least off hand
And during the day
She was non-existent
A ghost in her own present
Yet ever present in mine
Sometimes I embitter myself
With myself
Even others
With myself
And I paint my own picture of cynicism
In which I justify the poisons I drink
And in this knowledge…
I should say I take pride in this knowledge
Knowing the fine line that can kill or corrupt
Help and heal
I’m sure that at this point in time
If I were to choose a direction to go
I would spin in one place
Just to get a good look at the position in which
I am stuck
So as I prepared to leave
The dining table
Placing the food of existence off to the side
And decided to go for a walk
At least for a while
I drank my champagne with tolerance
And pushed the chair back on two legs
Relaxing a bit
I stood up
Taking slight notice to the way
Eyes shifted towards me in mid-converstion
The way words hung in
Mid air
The way my stride echoed across the hall
And the way whispers followed me like prayers
Wisps of fog I could only describe further as
Playing through my fingertips
And when I finally held the brass
Cool brass
Doorknob
Between my thumb and forefinger
I smiled
In my reflection
I smiled at my reflection
And accepted my choice
Dressed inappropriately
For it was windy that day
I opened the door
And as I stepped out into the green-grey haze
Of the afternoon thunderstorm
I hit the street like a crumpled candy wrapper
And blew away.
i really like your work.
just thought id say hi!
INTER-FUCKING-MISSION!!!
Newcastle-Riverside 02/22/92!!!
E.rutherford New Jersey 01/06/06
Athens -Greece.survived !barely-
Wembley 18/06/07- no words- just smiles!
Lightning and all.
Sigh.
Thanks for reading man, it does the heart good. At least, for me. lol.
seta
Ahem.
I'm learning to fly, but I ain't got wings
Coming down is the hardest thing