Soon, Again

grooveamatic

Shame is a country
Run by evil little men
With money in their eyes
And babies in their bellies
Waiting in high offices
With guns and scripts to tease
And terrorize you with.
Shame is a big country
With leaders made of stone
And streets paved with face-skin
Where everything is exactly what it seems,
And everything seems to be burning, and have The Crabs.
Shame is such a big country
That there be unexplored corners of it
Where small animals and sentient little pebbles
Cower from the terror and tyrrany of the hugeness of the country.
Shame is such a bad country to live in
That I've seen expatriates walking down the street,
Shaking their heads at invisible nothings,
Talking to the radio stations playing in their brains,
Pushing shopping carts or prams
Full of aluminum cans and glass bottles
Which have been dug out of dumpsters and damp gutters.

grooveamatic

The next post is a newer poem that I would enjoy some feedback on. Is the action in the poem clear? Is the poem understandable? What kind of mood have I set? Thanks for any feedback you can give me!

grooveamatic

The dog doesn't know me
But he licks my face
When I cling to the wall
Of the swimming pool.
His breath is that of stamps and flour,
Not pleasant or unpleasant.
I submerge.
The world drops away.
Flowering then unflowering my legs,
I push off the wall,
Glide noiselessly over the chlorinated landscape
Until I encounter the other wall.
I surface.
Glancing toward the dog,
I see he has retreated from the pool's edge,
Is laying on his side in the sun.
He is having fun being a dog.
I submerge once again,
Flower then unflower my legs,
Go back the way I came.
I surface.
He is there, waiting for me.
He licks my face,
His breath not pleasant or unpleasant.

grooveamatic

bump



I feel kinda weird bumping my own thread....but I really wanted the advice on this one. I know people have read it!!

grooveamatic

Who wove Spring so wily
And delicious must firmly
Apologize; there is no requiem
For the solitude of snows
Such as your season sings,
Only hearty heaps of human
Gaiety and distrust.
This is not a complaint
But an observation.

grooveamatic

The wind is so strong today
The trees nearly topple.
It races across the field
In breaking waves
Bringing with it
The remnants of other places.
The wind is so sad.
It pushes things around
And gladly moves on.

Dark clouds glance down
To hurriedly nod their approval.

grooveamatic

When time rides me to dusk
And shadows follow,
Leaving no glowing stone upended
Then shall I--
Only then--
Leak what I have leased.

Whenupon the slumber stirs
My rested limbs to flail,
In this sunrise
And
In this twilight,
I shall nod, and not weep.

Death is but a pretty toy:
To be tinkered with
And consequently forgotten.
And life is bluntly
A balloon
Filled with molasses
Which just leaks, leaks.

grooveamatic

O girlfriend not my girlfriend
O car not my car
Life that is not my life
Remain exactly where you are

O crazy that belongs to me
O trouble that's my trouble
Problems, queries, bank accounts
Constructing windows from my rubble

I'm not Janet and I'm not Steve
And neither are you, neither are you.
I am going to take a walk now.
O! What will Steve's life do?

grooveamatic

Stems of hearts
Ebb

Within this

Solid flux,
This

Piano stool.

grooveamatic

When age stands triumphant and gawky
Over it's grave
(whosoever had the gall to look so
young in those photographs,
whosoever had the foolishness
to look so pure,
whosoever had the youth to mock
the old)
When jokes and rain are all that may hide tears,
When tears and television are all that may hide memories,
When memories and fingerprints are all that may hide identity
(whosoever howls at the pale moon
in the back of a speeding truck,
stumbing over wrinkles and nose hair
and lives untouched)
When caskets and dirt fail to frighten,
When colorful days turn angry,
When broiling and frothing you fly forth
With fists beating solid enigmas,
You may die.
These quiet houses and cars will follow.

grooveamatic

Upon a rising bird
I shall ascend;
Astride the backs of turtles
I will plod forever forward;
Within a beam of light
I'll race infinity;
Within one sharp moment
I will see it all undone.

Ali

Statement reminds me of reincarnation theory.

grooveamatic

Ali wrote:

Statement reminds me of reincarnation theory.

that is surely one way it could be looked at

Ali

It just made me think of that theory...I'm on spiritual planes right now,learning lessons while I write....!
BUT...I LIKE THE POEM!!!!It puts you somewhere..a different train of thought.

grooveamatic

Ali wrote:

It just made me think of that theory...I'm on spiritual planes right now,learning lessons while I write....!
BUT...I LIKE THE POEM!!!!It puts you somewhere..a different train of thought.

I really see no reason why it couldn't be about that...it's about that and anything or everything else...it's a state of mind, really.

Ali

grooveamatic wrote:

I really see no reason why it couldn't be about that...it's about that and anything or everything else...it's a state of mind, really.

Well..yes..there's this thing.Its like a communication theory:)
I presuaded you,I'm sorry...but..its like I can read into your subconcious...
I just keep seeing Indians!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!Reincarnation into the spirit world?

grooveamatic

What if this tree fell on me?
Holy shit!
It could! It could!
Then where would I be?
I'd be underneath a tree!
Holy shit! Holy shit!
That would not be good.
I'd be underneath a tree!
And what if animals like rabbits and groundhogs
Came to help me and move the tree for me?
Wow! What a thought!
But what if they came to eat me?
Most unfortunate indeed--

grooveamatic

Other people's kids

--and almost enough said--

but other people's kids
will be you,
so raise your offerings
and bow your tokens,
slop your swaddle

you dirty you.

Ali

You dirty you is somehow taken so many different ways...
more like...
"you dirty kid".

grooveamatic

Like water weeks
Slip through my fingers
Into buckets of past
And lives unnumbered.

Like Liquid days
Leak from my eyes,
Sauntering off the face
Of a man unproven.

Like rain minutes
Ricochet unnoticed each,
Soaking of anonymity
A wardrobe of fear.

Like brick months
Envelop the edifice,
In which all may tumble
By the lamplight.