Originally posted by setaside2 There but for the grace of seam
I have read your travels from afar
These pages musty and tea stained
Witnessing Saturn's waxing from Titan
Sipping liquid nitrogen in the acid rain
Venus mysterion, the thick and heavy pull of home
The swirling mass of clouds that mention no idea of parting
The static hisses and crackles
A synaptic highway, a road in tone
Your storm, Jupiter, three earth giants wide:
Enough of this tantrum and of proving your worth
Drop the charade, the bitterness, the hate
Give us Io's gifts and Europa's chlorophyllic tide
We circle infinity with enough dark matter to spare
We settle our questions by pointing one way, the distraction,
While the answers remain neon, krypton, helium
A breath upon Neptune's air
Pluto, Mercury, balls of rock
Moons with egos to big to share
One, ages slow of ice and cometous turn;
The other at one moment flared by the sun, cracked and scarred,
Cryogenic before the day is learned,
The both daring to plow their own paths through the celestial cairn
Tempting the fates to be torn asunder by meteoric burn
Mars the small red hope, so like home
The dust storms 30 days fierce seem romantic from afar
The ice belts and evaporation beckoning, enticing, a man's dream of future
One day perhaps a second home for a wayward and lost race of minds
Seeking the healing and sleep provided by the untouched rose and rust blanketed landscape
Away from noise and pride in a land devoid of time
Such a small part of infinity this celestial roam
Such a small part of anything this place that we call home
The sapphire and emeralds of our planetary jewel
Not good enough as we look to the diamonds above and reach to the silver moon
Will we fail, this dream, this travel upon gods highway?
Will we grasp the tail of the comet, lost this sunlit day?
Must we seek so far, are we so lonely
That the love we create at home pales in comparison
To Orion's nebulous cay?
Nay but other galaxies discovered drive man's nomadic needs wild
And he would flee his homes, his lives
Because of his fascinations and dreams as a child
Pray for the six year old in space flight demanding the opened eye
Pray for the sixty year old in space flight and demand the open mind
For every launch and flaming pathway from this planet to the next
I shall fly with them, shouting for joy as the atmosphere gives way
MY dream of weightlessness and flight, so grounded in gravitied sway
Shall be theirs, star upon star, inside the mouth of Ursa Major's cave
With my eyes closed...
I shall wish upon the falling light
And wish a wish with all my might
To take these trappings, this material man
And throw him into the night
And if should die before I waken
My soul so shiveringly and previously taken
Keep it peace
In the ruby gaze and opalescent haze
And the thunderous silence
Of the heaven's darkwaters breaking
i came on here to see exactly how long it's been since you last wrote... not too long, i suppose, but i daresay it is nearly time you did so? yes yes... so anyway... i consecuted 100 posts of chitta chatta (lovely stuff) and came back to this....
for the grace of seam, eh? (where's that dag-on dinosaurus of mine???)
anyway... this soooooooo nice ...it really speaks to me... i tried to pick out one particular part i liked best... and couldn't...
things move a pace unseen
cannot discern
watch the fire leave steam
the patched and molded key
unlocking in exacting precision the moments we burn
the high silence we emote
insurrection and rebellion to the exclusion of all
there are words left unspoken and hung
the touch is poison, the lips, the tongue
the gift of self in a state of venomous cremation
the asp on fire
spinning
spitting
writhing in an opal joy
the coldblooded warmed
the coy's last ploy
this saltwater so available for drink and evaporation
soaks the wounds in secondary refinement
pain a clarification and a clouding
such concision of surgical strength
eyes open wide
black holes and dark matter from which light can't escape
pain a clarification and a clouding
the feel of the constant waking never awake
settle the self in ash and urn
the antivenin a successful return
no more a twisted, scaled and scurvied sailor in citrus fast
our dragon returns to myth and light
its bite of renewal trailing behind
the flame so dire
so earned
the body left behind pale and shelled
sooner or later molds to the rocks upon which it was broken
and becomes slowly upheld
as the tide gently lifts and carries in reverence
the undertow its deepening well
watch me float to sea, the dying island
nothing but the solution of ash and salt
the intimate situation of evermore
as for the first time i ride currents with no resistance and no tiresome diatribe
this life
as ash
through death's door I explore
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
"unlocking in exacting precision the moments we burn"
Lovely work (as usual:)), Seta.
Bubble and flow over sable slopes, burn;
collapse under your own weight, to be churned anew
and slip into the sand, surf, sea.
Untold millenia will pass, and you
may start to see your life as glass on the shoreline,
sparkling shards of sanity spilled on the sand
like so many broken beer bottles.
This is not your fate.
A harbor reaching for distant waters,
you know the cycle will again push to sea----
wait for your blood to rise,
the moment:
Phoenix from the ashes,
you will oxidize, scorch, sear,
soar
to be born anew, on the waves of some foreign ocean.
Wishing you starshine in the dark waters,
Be well, Seta.
Originally posted by setaside2 Breath of Flame/last
things move a pace unseen
cannot discern
watch the fire leave steam
the patched and molded key
unlocking in exacting precision the moments we burn
the high silence we emote
insurrection and rebellion to the exclusion of all
there are words left unspoken and hung
the touch is poison, the lips, the tongue
the gift of self in a state of venomous cremation
the asp on fire
spinning
spitting
writhing in an opal joy
the coldblooded warmed
the coy's last ploy
this saltwater so available for drink and evaporation
soaks the wounds in secondary refinement
pain a clarification and a clouding
such concision of surgical strength
eyes open wide
black holes and dark matter from which light can't escape
pain a clarification and a clouding
the feel of the constant waking never awake
settle the self in ash and urn
the antivenin a successful return
no more a twisted, scaled and scurvied sailor in citrus fast
our dragon returns to myth and light
its bite of renewal trailing behind
the flame so dire
so earned
the body left behind pale and shelled
sooner or later molds to the rocks upon which it was broken
and becomes slowly upheld
as the tide gently lifts and carries in reverence
the undertow its deepening well
watch me float to sea, the dying island
nothing but the solution of ash and salt
the intimate situation of evermore
as for the first time i ride currents with no resistance and no tiresome diatribe
this life
as ash
through death's door I explore
I'm speechless!
Forget your perfect offering, there is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in. - Leonard Cohen
Thanks for reading that one... it is a particularly dark and painful piece and perhaps needs refinement but, really, who wants to refine pain.
Good to see you all this morn.
Have days worthwhile and be well yourselves.
Savannah: thank you.
Yellow: kevlar
Alli: (only for you)
john girl: if you have been reading through this thread then I definitely have words of thanks for you. Let me know if you like any of them. I drool for that sort of thing LOL. Thanks much for reading. It means a lot.
love to all
seta
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
Read her poem first. It says a great deal and should be seriously considered. Cry and then go forward.
all those things as people say...
this is one of the many reasons why kids are adults so early these days. And why parents are so scared of their children anymore, these hulking monsters of raving indecision and unknowing naivetee. innocence may be shattered and lessons may be learned but at such velocity as to lock the child deep within the adult mind, rammed and crammed and stuffed into the mental box, never to come out and play except at the most intensely emotional moments where it is the mature adult that is supposed to take command.
and at that point the child, blinded by the sunlight and the anger, will inflict pain upon all who stand near in an uncontrollable explosion of caustic acid and vitriol.
we are all to blame. This community of mind-your-own-fucking-business and not-in-my-backyard. We MUST put our privacy ahead of all else. we don't want to know you we don't HAVE to know you and well I heard the rumour and isn't that too fucking bad and its just HORRIBLE we'll say and SOMEbody should do something about that but not me oh no sir not me because that might imply that I'm a narc a nosy bitch a homewrecker but isn't it a shame and gosh while people are whispering about the possibilities another child dies under the throbbing gun while alone without the bodyguard of daylight and other people another child gets stolen off the sidewalk because mommy wanted to sleep in and not drive her to school another child gets torn apart on the playground because the other children can't resolve their own internal issues and need empowerment and can only empower themselves as mirrors of those who brought them up and those social disorders they learned from jerry springer and oh isn't it that funny joke about fathers day in the ghetto ha ha all the kids come out with presents but they're not entirely sure who their fathers really are ha ha but isn't it strange how that joke gets reversed in modern sick suburbia where each and every birthday the parents retreat further and further within themselves as they realize that they have no idea who their children are or who they are becoming and it COULDN'T be THEIR fault oh NO children have minds of their own unless they are being told what to do and didn't we do our very best and daddy says I tried my best on thursday you can bet your ass on it as a matter of fact so did our little girl and they go cry together in little groups of PTA and PTO and wonder where the world is coming to when the kids just don't respect their parents anymore and wouldn't THEIR parents have torn them a new one for doing THIS and doing THAT and all of a sudden GASP of all GASPS two children now adults walk in to murderdeathkill their peers and associates and friends and better their enemies of which they had so many and the parents sit back SHOCKED in utter disbelief how this could have happened in a town so "preppy and perfect" so dripping with intolerance and social decay at the youth level as status runs it all and underneath the ones who were dying inside whose parents had turned them out or destroyed them by raping their minds and their bodies and whose peers ostracized to the degree that allowed them to consider solitude as the only existence yes underneath it all they silently cheer as the first strike in the war against those who commanded pain and commandeered their lives goes successful and they all shall pay one day as they grow in the hate and the dark and given that they might survive their own self effacing and self defacing habits and rituals the nails the razors the knives the flame the match the fire the absinthe on saturday nights the forgotten laudenum the meth the x the blue the heroin and to be a heroine it takes the shining eyes as one by one they throw themselves in front of lifes train wreck or off the highly flown bridge and their parents swear what a good boy what a bright girl what an extraordinary child of innocence they were and how its just impossible to understand and how they gape at this town so preppy and perfect as it sweeps the deaths under the rug and the rapes never existed and the father so heavily into the church and so obviously a devout man so obviously IN TO his children in fact into them as much as he can muster finally gets caught and how quickly the church denies his existence and his religious faith because no man under god would ever do such deeds. No parent in good faith would ever harm their children. And the experts toil expertly in their offices far removed from the pain the situation the locale and proclaim ritalin and thorazine are the answers that therapy is the key how can therapy be a key when the child has locked their doors and the combination is far far far from simple enough for some mindfucker to come in and undo and they are proclaimed antisocial sociopathic ADD ADHD and again the parents say well thank GOD it wasn't us it was a chemical imbalance and these drugs well thank GOD for modern western medicine and thank GOD this is all it takes to make our children behave and become human again here's your 100 to 400 dollars an hour thank you for saving our family o doctor of mental sciences sir thank you no wonder you are an expert in your field and no wonder the child told you exactly what you wanted to hear and no wonder we can now sleep less fitfully under the guilty moon because our child is finally sedated and controllable and fit for social consumption. Death of vitality notwithstanding. God forbid they be vital ha ha wink wink did you say we had dinner at eight oh shit well we have to run pay the babysitter on the way out dear.
We are all to blame in our complacency and our fervency to prove. Our children are merely a part of our damage path, these tornadoes we've become.
I am not a religious man but I pray daily that i have learned from my parents mistakes and other parents mistakes and i know that I will make more than my share regardless of what i pray for and what i hope for but i will make damn sure that my children have opened eyes and can fight for their own freedom with the knowledge that they have a daddy who will back them up and be there when the freedom seems so jailed. I pray daily that we will learn from ourselves and that we watch our children with pride and with concern and with availability and that we will have the guts to put a stop to something when we see it. because the train is coming fast for those tied to the tracks and while those fucking bars and red lights mean we can't drive across it doesn't mean we can't get the hell out of the damn car, sprint over to the track under the bars and past the flashing red glare, and break out the goddam buckknife and do some fucking cutting. And if we die trying to save one so be it. If the train comes along and bears us under as well so be it. Better to have tried than to have watched the mess impassively while protected behind walls of glass and metal and of fiberglass.
life ain't no movie.
FUCK "Survivor."
assholes.
seta
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
There was a man two doors down
with one eye unstuck in its socket
an apparent mind of it's own?
Well, he had a son
who stayed with him each summer.
A rolly polly freckle faced eight year old named Ronald.
Ronald would ride a bicycle up and down the alley
while I tended our 30 green chili
twelve tomato
two hundred onion
loose leaf lettuce garden.
Ronald played with junk and dirt
and would stop by
from time to time
to eat cling peaches
and apricots from our trees.
He'd tell me stories.
Living with his mother
over the road.
Rolly Polly Truck Stop Ron
the semi-boy.
Freckle faced editing.
One day, my betterman came in
saying he heard the sound
from the house two doors down
of a child screaming
over a man yelling
and a large, dark, repetitive thudding.
He likened it to torture.
To being whipped
by two by fours.
I grabbed the cordless,
my thumb on the nine,
and went two doors down.
I stood under the bedroom window
and waited for audible confirmation.
It never came.
The original witness
unwilling to pursue justice.
Unwilling to step outside of
his two fingered life
to save another man's son.
And I wrestled with sending another child into
the system's stingy arms.
I called my sister and asked
how that was.
Because my assessment of
1/2 way living was bleak and dark,
but she said "imagine had I not gone?"
I hung up, vowing the next time,
no questions asked, I'm calling.
Originally posted by setaside2 ~ and originally plucked from one of gita's threads and plunked down here in seta's word nest
Kathryn Shoup...
re:1996
I fell in love with the perfect love, had it in my hands.
She fell in love with the same love, I had her in my hands.
But she ran scared and pretended to ignorance, though it shouted from the fucking SKY that we were one. I had it all and yet I had none.
I became impatient. It hurt to stay. My poetry had said all it had to say and she was in love with me not just on THAT day but on every other. It became apparent that I loved her. And it became apparent that her fear of loss and her fear of love and her fear of US one day splitting the dark, was bonding her to individuality, to her worries.
We never officially dated, no. People asked us when we were getting hitched, married, tying the knot, and we would laugh and tell them "Tomorrow. How did you know?" I wasn't strong enough to grab tomorrow by her jaunty pony tailed hair and pull her into today. So... I let her stray.
Oh we stayed friends and things were fine until I told her that someone ELSE was mine and that Tomorrow was on its way. Her big brown eyes grew wide and misty as she realized the the twine she had laid down in the cave to my heart had somehow vanished behind her, in her fear she had run so far and so fast that the thread had simply run out.
Yet I loved her still. How could I not? Jazz singin, she didn't walk by god she GLIDES, smoothest voice since Ella Fitzgerald and a piano to haunt the Monk. She was my muse, my goddess, and I am certain that somewhere out there or deep within me, she still maintains a certain... stock in that position; but only after Tomorrow came and went did she decide she loved me and wanted me and that she had LOST her little game of going tharn or running with fear at her heels.
And yes, she tried, and I had my chance at last. The ability to take her home and make her mine was in my grasp and I trembled at the touch. I have never wanted anything in my life so much. But Tomorrow was past, the vote was cast, and I had to set her free on broken heart and shaking legs. My mind still reels from that night, as she drove off into the streetlight strewn roadways of suburbia.
It appears that I had been chasing a Jazz Singer in a Ford Escort for so long, I never noticed the sound of her silence and the depth of her absence. I did then.
Now, after 6 years into tomorrowmorrowland, I find myself splitting the dark with my current captor. She of high infidelity and broken trust, I was no better than three other boys and I find myself thinking what I may have done, where my karma set astray... and I often wonder if my karma followed my love home that day.
They say that it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all... this may be so but one must be prepared; for if you lose that, if you let it go in some faux heroic act of semi-nobility, be prepared for the search for the next one who could only fill that hole so deep in your mind, that addiction so intense in your soul. It's caffeine and viagra. It's honeycomb and cinnamon. It's the candle that lights the curtains on fire in the midst of heavenly throes.
You will search and you will not feel whole. She of my downtown soliloquy.
you tell one HELL of a story, setamarc.... dang...
The peach solidified so sweet and dripping
oh so sailing on this summer wind
the eyes-closed-flavor the sin the acidic sugar again
the gate closed behind so clackety clack the lock off track and the broken latch
no more can be given to this escape than the winged feet as they dust down the thatched and brambled pathway
limestone bricks your fort with sad fossils in its walls and cracked upon its fireplace spirits of space at millenium's pace
so be it: the fashion stead
the roaring fire so sorely controlled engulfs
its obsessive and oxygenated oratory silently snapping and subtle through three a.m.
these lives catscradled and entwined fingertip to fingertip
one may rock and creak and while away the hours
culling the past from some endless well of dream and depth and polished chrome
sipping from the pail that fine wine crystal clear
-strange how this tincture stains so carmine once spilled-
while a sun streaks double and tripled exposed across the sky
the whispers that come as the harbingers of one storm or another
argue and debate the blessings of the arcing moon
how fast is fleet
these details and ripples of the world ironed by high speed
is there a curve to flee; the horizon lines seem so straightened
the cheeks and shoulders scathed and sewn
passing branches carelessly wrought and reaching
hands flown
damn the rainbow
for it continues to move just slightly out of sight to the upper right
and this 30 mile trail has stretched to infinity
the abilities of light speed notwithstanding
time moves onward in its themes of utter disregard
as these footprints merely wear canyons in the crust
the glacial flow silently follows
buried
the peach pit left in dust
struggles desperate in this dry tundra
for the air
its thirst so divine
tinted red by a fading sun insinuating itself behind the foothills at the end of a breathless day
kneeling
the sapling is cradled away in velvet grace
to the side so much greener and the pasture so much sweeter
so small its sky 7 inches high and trembles at the slightest breath
it needs worry not: with love it will grow and provide the shade and sweet
children will carve hearts and initials into its pageless papyrus bark
its lifespan catscradled and penned in
oh silent verification as it drops again
the peach will tumble the canyon walls
and begin its life anew in the shifting sands and the footsteps at the river shore
the rain continues unabated though not so frigid and ruthless
as night falls the rainbow fervently sought fades and the mists roll in with permanence
the trail so changed in such gray, drab and humid comfort
ghosts sway in the gullies and sing of the lost souls upon the road
now not so alone as another has joined has showed
the infinite trek has had its summit peaked
and the only thing left to do
is take a step off the trail and soar
nothing more
the colors have haloed the moon
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
ok... let's see....
shall i take the direct approach, or try to wax poetic?
my first read happened at work, had to blast through it and what caught me then were phrases like,
"so sorely controlled"
"through three a.m."
"catscradled" - Niiiiiiiice word
"to the upper right"
"struggles desperate in this dry tundra... it's thirst so divine"
of course, the sapling as a setaphore for life and growth and all that... "transcendence"
and also, of course, the ending... the last 5 lines...
well, i printed it and read it while driving home...
and the first stanza caught me and brought on a "sheeyooo" and an "oh my god" and a smile to beat the band....
now i understand that my interpretation may be fueled by my own "whateva", you know? but... i'm just going to spit it out...
"the peach so solidified so sweet and dripping" to me? undeniably referent to a man's second head coming on to want... "so sailing on this summer wind... the eyes-closed flavor the sin the acidic sugar again"
*shakes head* I dunno, seta...
and well, that set up so much of the rest to be read for sensuality, so that "tinted red by a fading sun insinuating itself behind the foothills at the end of a breathless day"???
*ahem*
did somebody say "tinted red"? did somebody say "foothills"? *cough cough*... "breathless"????
no... seriously...
and well then... watch out...
"kneeling
the sapling is cradled away in velvet grace... 7 inches high it trembles at the slightest breath... with love it will grow... as it drops again...the peach will tumble the canyon walls"
i wont apologize for saying, that with the right edits this poem is poetic soft porn...
still, it has so much asexual depth... so much asleep hope
i am glad you are now not so alone, and that this infinite summit has peaked...
I don't know who it's about necessarily but it really isn't me.
also, LOL I never meant it in a sexual manner. Not even close. But there it is in the right light and even I have to say... hmmm perhaps seta needs to find a release from his repression.
lol.
but this piece wasn't meant for the sexual, in fact far from it. but, as fins has often said and I agree with, it is always good to know that people are able to relate in so many different ways to the things we say or we write.
I like your take a lot tenA, it's just not me LOL.
<awkward moment>
i hope I'm not sounding like an asshole.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
i have this problem with assuming things written are from the writer's perspective? i wind up chewing a lot of shoe...
okay, so i am not not glad you are not so alone anymore :P
but i am glad that whoever it is has succeeded the climb
HOWEVER this is case in point for mr. fins' discussion about static poetry and how poems are not islands and how sometimes knowing the writer's intent makes a piece glow more dimmer and mean less than it did to a particular reader before coming upon such information
like E.E. Cummings
"would you believe the (I do) world began with roses & hellos"
i take that, duh... of course, to mean marriage? the "I do." and roses inherent?
but, he was just fucking around with punctuation... and i'm sorry i know that (because i so desparately wish the void would speak to me, that E.E. Cummings and I have something in E.E. Common)... he was actually just saying "would you believe? (i do.) the world began with roses & hellos?" and while the piece remains brilliant (the mug wrote his dad proud to be the first to use an ampersand in poetry), I
that is to say "I"
I prefer to define a poet's brilliance from my own egotistical point of view...
selfish?
yes...
do I care to be different?
no
not really
if any given poem shines more dimly because its true meaning is ascertained then let all poems be so open, cottony soft and accepting. Let my words mean as one wishes.
BUT...
Many a poem is created as an island in and unto itself because it is a world alone to explore with no outside influence other than what it gives.
funny thing is, when I read master Cummings' line there.. I took his I do to be that subtle aside. I didn't read an ounce of marriage. but then I love parenthetic statements and elliptical meanings. Heck I've even written a poem about an isle. LOL. And it is what it is. That's as static as it gets right there, without rubbing my socks on the carpet.
couldn't live otherwise.
and i suppose the question is one of success, for how can success be measured based upon the unknown. the flight from that peak of nevermore is one from which no one returns, I suspect, and hence we have no measurement or information which tells us that they succeeded at all. The moon is our only guide and allows us to assume that success was possible and that peace was likely.
but do the mists, crowded and formless with ghosts, do they indicate more?
do your thing as I do mine and it seems that somehow we'll all get along.
do i care to be different? Sometimes.... but if I stray from what I know and the words that flow, I risk being called a liar and a cheat, possibly a thief. I cannot have that and neither can my work.
and a poet's brilliance is always defined by other's points of view. if it were divined from any right to write, we'd all be geniuses. we have no choice but to be compared, contrasted, broken down and pieced out. All while reaching out for someone to grasp the literary hand.
hopefully, despite the science, a feeling emerges. and hopefully that feeling remains released and open and free.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
no MY apologies, tenacious, because while I still believe in what I wrote, I was in a odd and frustrated mood when I did so and I could have done it with a little more softness... I never meant to attack.
what a jerk.
sorry.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
Comments
Wasn't Kafka the ultimate bad guy in Final Fantasy III? Or was that Kefka?
what is it that makes that statement "existential"
to where saying "I decided to go for a walk" is inexistential...
would you help me understand?
i came on here to see exactly how long it's been since you last wrote... not too long, i suppose, but i daresay it is nearly time you did so? yes yes... so anyway... i consecuted 100 posts of chitta chatta (lovely stuff) and came back to this....
for the grace of seam, eh? (where's that dag-on dinosaurus of mine???)
anyway... this soooooooo nice
thanks
cockle, coil, crackle, crease, crimp, crimple, curl, fold, hiss, pucker, ruck, ruffle, rumple, rustle, scallop, screw, scrunch, seam, swish, twist, whisper, wind, wreathe, wrinkle
RETURN!
things move a pace unseen
cannot discern
watch the fire leave steam
the patched and molded key
unlocking in exacting precision the moments we burn
the high silence we emote
insurrection and rebellion to the exclusion of all
there are words left unspoken and hung
the touch is poison, the lips, the tongue
the gift of self in a state of venomous cremation
the asp on fire
spinning
spitting
writhing in an opal joy
the coldblooded warmed
the coy's last ploy
this saltwater so available for drink and evaporation
soaks the wounds in secondary refinement
pain a clarification and a clouding
such concision of surgical strength
eyes open wide
black holes and dark matter from which light can't escape
pain a clarification and a clouding
the feel of the constant waking never awake
settle the self in ash and urn
the antivenin a successful return
no more a twisted, scaled and scurvied sailor in citrus fast
our dragon returns to myth and light
its bite of renewal trailing behind
the flame so dire
so earned
the body left behind pale and shelled
sooner or later molds to the rocks upon which it was broken
and becomes slowly upheld
as the tide gently lifts and carries in reverence
the undertow its deepening well
watch me float to sea, the dying island
nothing but the solution of ash and salt
the intimate situation of evermore
as for the first time i ride currents with no resistance and no tiresome diatribe
this life
as ash
through death's door I explore
our joy's eye bored with one more day of sky
our roots rotting for a while
our hope sleeping
{{{{seta}}}}
Lovely work (as usual:)), Seta.
Bubble and flow over sable slopes, burn;
collapse under your own weight, to be churned anew
and slip into the sand, surf, sea.
Untold millenia will pass, and you
may start to see your life as glass on the shoreline,
sparkling shards of sanity spilled on the sand
like so many broken beer bottles.
This is not your fate.
A harbor reaching for distant waters,
you know the cycle will again push to sea----
wait for your blood to rise,
the moment:
Phoenix from the ashes,
you will oxidize, scorch, sear,
soar
to be born anew, on the waves of some foreign ocean.
Wishing you starshine in the dark waters,
Be well, Seta.
Savannah
I'm speechless!
Good to see you all this morn.
Have days worthwhile and be well yourselves.
Savannah: thank you.
Yellow: kevlar
Alli:
john girl: if you have been reading through this thread then I definitely have words of thanks for you. Let me know if you like any of them. I drool for that sort of thing LOL. Thanks much for reading. It means a lot.
love to all
seta
notice I did not say MALADY
quite different.
all those things as people say...
this is one of the many reasons why kids are adults so early these days. And why parents are so scared of their children anymore, these hulking monsters of raving indecision and unknowing naivetee. innocence may be shattered and lessons may be learned but at such velocity as to lock the child deep within the adult mind, rammed and crammed and stuffed into the mental box, never to come out and play except at the most intensely emotional moments where it is the mature adult that is supposed to take command.
and at that point the child, blinded by the sunlight and the anger, will inflict pain upon all who stand near in an uncontrollable explosion of caustic acid and vitriol.
we are all to blame. This community of mind-your-own-fucking-business and not-in-my-backyard. We MUST put our privacy ahead of all else. we don't want to know you we don't HAVE to know you and well I heard the rumour and isn't that too fucking bad and its just HORRIBLE we'll say and SOMEbody should do something about that but not me oh no sir not me because that might imply that I'm a narc a nosy bitch a homewrecker but isn't it a shame and gosh while people are whispering about the possibilities another child dies under the throbbing gun while alone without the bodyguard of daylight and other people another child gets stolen off the sidewalk because mommy wanted to sleep in and not drive her to school another child gets torn apart on the playground because the other children can't resolve their own internal issues and need empowerment and can only empower themselves as mirrors of those who brought them up and those social disorders they learned from jerry springer and oh isn't it that funny joke about fathers day in the ghetto ha ha all the kids come out with presents but they're not entirely sure who their fathers really are ha ha but isn't it strange how that joke gets reversed in modern sick suburbia where each and every birthday the parents retreat further and further within themselves as they realize that they have no idea who their children are or who they are becoming and it COULDN'T be THEIR fault oh NO children have minds of their own unless they are being told what to do and didn't we do our very best and daddy says I tried my best on thursday you can bet your ass on it as a matter of fact so did our little girl and they go cry together in little groups of PTA and PTO and wonder where the world is coming to when the kids just don't respect their parents anymore and wouldn't THEIR parents have torn them a new one for doing THIS and doing THAT and all of a sudden GASP of all GASPS two children now adults walk in to murderdeathkill their peers and associates and friends and better their enemies of which they had so many and the parents sit back SHOCKED in utter disbelief how this could have happened in a town so "preppy and perfect" so dripping with intolerance and social decay at the youth level as status runs it all and underneath the ones who were dying inside whose parents had turned them out or destroyed them by raping their minds and their bodies and whose peers ostracized to the degree that allowed them to consider solitude as the only existence yes underneath it all they silently cheer as the first strike in the war against those who commanded pain and commandeered their lives goes successful and they all shall pay one day as they grow in the hate and the dark and given that they might survive their own self effacing and self defacing habits and rituals the nails the razors the knives the flame the match the fire the absinthe on saturday nights the forgotten laudenum the meth the x the blue the heroin and to be a heroine it takes the shining eyes as one by one they throw themselves in front of lifes train wreck or off the highly flown bridge and their parents swear what a good boy what a bright girl what an extraordinary child of innocence they were and how its just impossible to understand and how they gape at this town so preppy and perfect as it sweeps the deaths under the rug and the rapes never existed and the father so heavily into the church and so obviously a devout man so obviously IN TO his children in fact into them as much as he can muster finally gets caught and how quickly the church denies his existence and his religious faith because no man under god would ever do such deeds. No parent in good faith would ever harm their children. And the experts toil expertly in their offices far removed from the pain the situation the locale and proclaim ritalin and thorazine are the answers that therapy is the key how can therapy be a key when the child has locked their doors and the combination is far far far from simple enough for some mindfucker to come in and undo and they are proclaimed antisocial sociopathic ADD ADHD and again the parents say well thank GOD it wasn't us it was a chemical imbalance and these drugs well thank GOD for modern western medicine and thank GOD this is all it takes to make our children behave and become human again here's your 100 to 400 dollars an hour thank you for saving our family o doctor of mental sciences sir thank you no wonder you are an expert in your field and no wonder the child told you exactly what you wanted to hear and no wonder we can now sleep less fitfully under the guilty moon because our child is finally sedated and controllable and fit for social consumption. Death of vitality notwithstanding. God forbid they be vital ha ha wink wink did you say we had dinner at eight oh shit well we have to run pay the babysitter on the way out dear.
We are all to blame in our complacency and our fervency to prove. Our children are merely a part of our damage path, these tornadoes we've become.
I am not a religious man but I pray daily that i have learned from my parents mistakes and other parents mistakes and i know that I will make more than my share regardless of what i pray for and what i hope for but i will make damn sure that my children have opened eyes and can fight for their own freedom with the knowledge that they have a daddy who will back them up and be there when the freedom seems so jailed. I pray daily that we will learn from ourselves and that we watch our children with pride and with concern and with availability and that we will have the guts to put a stop to something when we see it. because the train is coming fast for those tied to the tracks and while those fucking bars and red lights mean we can't drive across it doesn't mean we can't get the hell out of the damn car, sprint over to the track under the bars and past the flashing red glare, and break out the goddam buckknife and do some fucking cutting. And if we die trying to save one so be it. If the train comes along and bears us under as well so be it. Better to have tried than to have watched the mess impassively while protected behind walls of glass and metal and of fiberglass.
life ain't no movie.
FUCK "Survivor."
assholes.
seta
it's a good thing, too as you would have accumulated your needed ass kickin's to two.... 2
YELLOW
wuss
what ya gonna do huh?
HUH?
bring it on sister. You ain't got nuthin'.
cept perhaps for that GHETTO SHELF
LOL
you gonna read my stuff there mr. word???
with one eye unstuck in its socket
an apparent mind of it's own?
Well, he had a son
who stayed with him each summer.
A rolly polly freckle faced eight year old named Ronald.
Ronald would ride a bicycle up and down the alley
while I tended our 30 green chili
twelve tomato
two hundred onion
loose leaf lettuce garden.
Ronald played with junk and dirt
and would stop by
from time to time
to eat cling peaches
and apricots from our trees.
He'd tell me stories.
Living with his mother
over the road.
Rolly Polly Truck Stop Ron
the semi-boy.
Freckle faced editing.
One day, my betterman came in
saying he heard the sound
from the house two doors down
of a child screaming
over a man yelling
and a large, dark, repetitive thudding.
He likened it to torture.
To being whipped
by two by fours.
I grabbed the cordless,
my thumb on the nine,
and went two doors down.
I stood under the bedroom window
and waited for audible confirmation.
It never came.
The original witness
unwilling to pursue justice.
Unwilling to step outside of
his two fingered life
to save another man's son.
And I wrestled with sending another child into
the system's stingy arms.
I called my sister and asked
how that was.
Because my assessment of
1/2 way living was bleak and dark,
but she said "imagine had I not gone?"
I hung up, vowing the next time,
no questions asked, I'm calling.
you tell one HELL of a story, setamarc.... dang...
The peach solidified so sweet and dripping
oh so sailing on this summer wind
the eyes-closed-flavor the sin the acidic sugar again
the gate closed behind so clackety clack the lock off track and the broken latch
no more can be given to this escape than the winged feet as they dust down the thatched and brambled pathway
limestone bricks your fort with sad fossils in its walls and cracked upon its fireplace spirits of space at millenium's pace
so be it: the fashion stead
the roaring fire so sorely controlled engulfs
its obsessive and oxygenated oratory silently snapping and subtle through three a.m.
these lives catscradled and entwined fingertip to fingertip
one may rock and creak and while away the hours
culling the past from some endless well of dream and depth and polished chrome
sipping from the pail that fine wine crystal clear
-strange how this tincture stains so carmine once spilled-
while a sun streaks double and tripled exposed across the sky
the whispers that come as the harbingers of one storm or another
argue and debate the blessings of the arcing moon
how fast is fleet
these details and ripples of the world ironed by high speed
is there a curve to flee; the horizon lines seem so straightened
the cheeks and shoulders scathed and sewn
passing branches carelessly wrought and reaching
hands flown
damn the rainbow
for it continues to move just slightly out of sight to the upper right
and this 30 mile trail has stretched to infinity
the abilities of light speed notwithstanding
time moves onward in its themes of utter disregard
as these footprints merely wear canyons in the crust
the glacial flow silently follows
buried
the peach pit left in dust
struggles desperate in this dry tundra
for the air
its thirst so divine
tinted red by a fading sun insinuating itself behind the foothills at the end of a breathless day
kneeling
the sapling is cradled away in velvet grace
to the side so much greener and the pasture so much sweeter
so small its sky 7 inches high and trembles at the slightest breath
it needs worry not: with love it will grow and provide the shade and sweet
children will carve hearts and initials into its pageless papyrus bark
its lifespan catscradled and penned in
oh silent verification as it drops again
the peach will tumble the canyon walls
and begin its life anew in the shifting sands and the footsteps at the river shore
the rain continues unabated though not so frigid and ruthless
as night falls the rainbow fervently sought fades and the mists roll in with permanence
the trail so changed in such gray, drab and humid comfort
ghosts sway in the gullies and sing of the lost souls upon the road
now not so alone as another has joined has showed
the infinite trek has had its summit peaked
and the only thing left to do
is take a step off the trail and soar
nothing more
the colors have haloed the moon
shall i take the direct approach, or try to wax poetic?
my first read happened at work, had to blast through it and what caught me then were phrases like,
"so sorely controlled"
"through three a.m."
"catscradled" - Niiiiiiiice word
"to the upper right"
"struggles desperate in this dry tundra... it's thirst so divine"
of course, the sapling as a setaphore for life and growth and all that... "transcendence"
and also, of course, the ending... the last 5 lines...
well, i printed it and read it while driving home...
and the first stanza caught me and brought on a "sheeyooo" and an "oh my god" and a smile to beat the band....
now i understand that my interpretation may be fueled by my own "whateva", you know? but... i'm just going to spit it out...
"the peach so solidified so sweet and dripping" to me? undeniably referent to a man's second head coming on to want... "so sailing on this summer wind... the eyes-closed flavor the sin the acidic sugar again"
*shakes head* I dunno, seta...
and well, that set up so much of the rest to be read for sensuality, so that "tinted red by a fading sun insinuating itself behind the foothills at the end of a breathless day"???
*ahem*
did somebody say "tinted red"? did somebody say "foothills"? *cough cough*... "breathless"????
no... seriously...
and well then... watch out...
"kneeling
the sapling is cradled away in velvet grace... 7 inches high it trembles at the slightest breath... with love it will grow... as it drops again...the peach will tumble the canyon walls"
i wont apologize for saying, that with the right edits this poem is poetic soft porn...
still, it has so much asexual depth... so much asleep hope
i am glad you are now not so alone, and that this infinite summit has peaked...
lovely as always...
be well
I don't know who it's about necessarily but it really isn't me.
also, LOL I never meant it in a sexual manner. Not even close. But there it is in the right light and even I have to say... hmmm perhaps seta needs to find a release from his repression.
lol.
but this piece wasn't meant for the sexual, in fact far from it. but, as fins has often said and I agree with, it is always good to know that people are able to relate in so many different ways to the things we say or we write.
I like your take a lot tenA, it's just not me LOL.
<awkward moment>
i hope I'm not sounding like an asshole.
okay, so i am not not glad you are not so alone anymore :P
but i am glad that whoever it is has succeeded the climb
HOWEVER this is case in point for mr. fins' discussion about static poetry and how poems are not islands and how sometimes knowing the writer's intent makes a piece glow more dimmer and mean less than it did to a particular reader before coming upon such information
like E.E. Cummings
"would you believe the (I do) world began with roses & hellos"
i take that, duh... of course, to mean marriage? the "I do." and roses inherent?
but, he was just fucking around with punctuation... and i'm sorry i know that (because i so desparately wish the void would speak to me, that E.E. Cummings and I have something in E.E. Common)... he was actually just saying "would you believe? (i do.) the world began with roses & hellos?" and while the piece remains brilliant (the mug wrote his dad proud to be the first to use an ampersand in poetry), I
that is to say "I"
I prefer to define a poet's brilliance from my own egotistical point of view...
selfish?
yes...
do I care to be different?
no
not really
BUT...
Many a poem is created as an island in and unto itself because it is a world alone to explore with no outside influence other than what it gives.
funny thing is, when I read master Cummings' line there.. I took his I do to be that subtle aside. I didn't read an ounce of marriage. but then I love parenthetic statements and elliptical meanings. Heck I've even written a poem about an isle. LOL. And it is what it is. That's as static as it gets right there, without rubbing my socks on the carpet.
couldn't live otherwise.
and i suppose the question is one of success, for how can success be measured based upon the unknown. the flight from that peak of nevermore is one from which no one returns, I suspect, and hence we have no measurement or information which tells us that they succeeded at all. The moon is our only guide and allows us to assume that success was possible and that peace was likely.
but do the mists, crowded and formless with ghosts, do they indicate more?
do your thing as I do mine and it seems that somehow we'll all get along.
do i care to be different? Sometimes.... but if I stray from what I know and the words that flow, I risk being called a liar and a cheat, possibly a thief. I cannot have that and neither can my work.
and a poet's brilliance is always defined by other's points of view. if it were divined from any right to write, we'd all be geniuses. we have no choice but to be compared, contrasted, broken down and pieced out. All while reaching out for someone to grasp the literary hand.
hopefully, despite the science, a feeling emerges. and hopefully that feeling remains released and open and free.
my apologies
what a jerk.
sorry.
I will read them and comment soon
thanks. You are a patient woman to plow through 600 plus posts, if you should decide to do so.
When I started posting here I never expected it to flesh out the way things have done...
and here we are.
good luck and let me know.
seta