Setaside2's Poetry... if you like

24

Comments

  • coleen
    coleen Posts: 938
    9/03/03
    ******************

    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.


    __________________
  • coleen
    coleen Posts: 938
    9/03/03
    ************************
    quote:
    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.


    __________________
  • coleen
    coleen Posts: 938
    9/04/03
    ******************

    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.


    __________________
  • coleen
    coleen Posts: 938
    9/05/04
    **********************

    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.


    __________________
  • coleen
    coleen Posts: 938
    9/09/03
    *******************


    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….
  • coleen
    coleen Posts: 938
    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.


    __________________
  • coleen
    coleen Posts: 938
    A new one for everyone... inspiration was a conversation about dreams I was having with someone once. She couldn't remember what the heck she had been looking at and said "maybe it was a hand..." It set me off. Let me know if you like.



    maybe it was just a hand
    or a secret or a mission or a kiss in an envelope…
    a poison inkwell, a letter, a missive, the story of a life unborn or unshared or unknown, it makes no difference...
    the direction of the next spring thaw, the flow of a leaf from branch to mud...
    spring to fall..
    the path love may take as it barrels through the halls of time uncontrollable and dangerous
    a handshake, a breath, the last word of the last fairy godmother on the last planet earth
    the feather plucked from an angel's wing
    the mission of god
    the lyrics to the song of youth
    the answer to immortality
    The last petal to fall from the wilted lily
    The tip of an unused crayon
    Was it the whisper of a ancient friend lost in time, ages past, lives ago
    The secret feeling a children’s novel gives
    The satisfaction of a sleeping feline
    Curdled cream
    The milk gone sour
    Pages turning on the hour
    A clock to measure the beats of the heart
    A device to trap the better mouse
    Or the hot air in any given water balloon…
    The key, steam, the hot mineral spring
    A ribbon on air, the footprint left bare, snow
    Falling in cotton silence stuffy and simple
    Arrowheads, sandstone, hieroglyphs, dreams long dead
    The pavement expands in the sun, cracking to reveal the hidden homes that we have built upon and up and on in order to prove our superiority
    The mud: it dries in the sun, the evaporation a last rebellion the wind carries away
    The clock ticks its memento, the only thing it remembers, the previous second wiped by the next
    A tread, the step, the fall
    Ah damn the ignorant thread so graceless and passion free
    Even with wings unfurled the angel smokes a Kamel
    Wherein lies the loss? The thought? The cab fare home?
    The hole in the pocket is only somewhat to blame as the sprinklers fade the brick wall
    The fence cracked and burned, the sitters all fled,
    On roam, the bats cry sonar in search of sustenance
    Who shall teach to read the echo? When will friction kill the snowman?
    Perhaps it WAS just the hand, nails sharp and intimate
    Maybe it was the nighttime sigh, a dream left hanging from a lampshade
    The sheets crumpled to the floor, the trial at an end, the curtains in the breeze
    Was it together then? Or was the hand held previously owned?
    I’ve left my breath at the last stop, torn loose at the one before
    The ticket is unclear and the directions only indicate the color of the car in which I am to sleep.
    God help the conductor.
    I hear the busboy has a gun.
  • coleen
    coleen Posts: 938
    Okay, I'm going to post 2 more today... I'm running out of good stuff so I am going to have to pace myself. hee hee, as if anything I've posted here is actually good. Oh what an arrogant bastard I be. This one's called...

    TRENDY

    I have the R-control in the palm of my hand,
    The power of the world at a push of a button,
    And they say I had forgotten the old war.
    I’m a caffeine junky,
    Shaking and red-lined…
    I hate talk shows and
    “Reality” programming
    (it’s an oxymoron).
    In the early hours of the evening
    Commercials seem nothing
    But leftovers;
    Soundbites of ignorable
    Deplorable
    Hyper-exotic induced paraphernalia.
    Propaganda they call it, at teatime.
    Well isn’t everything.
    Love my country…
    I was BORN a fruit roll-up
    Weren’t you?
    Take care of your own dreams.
    The new cold war is coming.


    __________________
  • coleen
    coleen Posts: 938
    Okay this one's a little older. Okay, a lot older- with a modern edit. I wrote it in 1996. My mother had kicked me out and I was homeless for a period of time, living on the streets of Littleton (a suburban bum, really, isn't that an oxymoron?), and Denver, usually sleeping at my job, sometimes on the job, or in a concrete piping section on a playground. LOL I'd break into my mom's house about 3 times a week to take a shower. I ended up auditioning to do some spoken word and musical performances with an acting troupe called the New Creatures and dated, for a very short while, the girl who actually auditioned me. Sarah is an amazing talent and she is now in Chicago producing plays and writing theatre like she always wanted and like I always knew she would. I hope she becomes wildly successful because she's damn good and she deserves it. She took me into her home and gave me a place to stay, even when we weren't dating any longer, which is still one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me and I will always be grateful to her for it. After being homeless for awhile, I thought about life a great deal, as you might think one would do. And I have no idea why but, as I stared up into the ceiling, this was what came out of it.
    If you folks are ever in the Chicago area, look into the theatre listings. If you see a play by Sarah McGuire... Go see it. I guarantee it'll be worth your while.

    This one is strangely named.. I've never come up with a better one...

    TEXTURED SANITY/fault

    Someone put this glitter
    In the paint in my ceiling
    Little tiny multi-colored
    Drops of light
    Suspended by an unknown
    Chemical compound
    Slaves to destiny
    They wink in and out
    With the power of a light switch
    The picture of interstellar fate
    “The stars are all burnt out, mommy”
    Because of an alternating current
    Provided by “Public Service”
    I lie here soaked with envy
    Too hot to hold
    Too distant to grasp
    I would turn to conventional imitation
    But
    I don’t smoke
    My flashlight’s dead
    And the matches I buy
    Don’t have the will to burn bright enough
    Though with a breath
    The flame there is gone
    With the stars in the ceiling
    The smiling eyes overhead
    There are days and nights
    When I feel that I’ve been out and
    Away for too long
    Overexposed
    I miss my roof-beam quarks
    Flickering there like firelight
    In the fading glare of the television
    And a madness seems to seep in
    I cover myself
    With paint
    Glitter
    And fake the naked in my eye
    I encircle the artistry of downtown
    Until arrested
    Happy and breathless
    Leaving my sideshow in the gutters
    With the oilslicked rainwash
    To reflect the nature of dawn that day
    The tears in my eyes get swept away
    By machinery and construction
    Lost in the dust and confusion of progress
    And I wander my way
    Elsewhere
    Home perhaps
    The lost clown
    Mad in the head and out of touch
    To the point of distraction
    As if perhaps I wasn’t
    As if perhaps I could prove otherwise
    And I have to face down my fears
    The glitter in the ceiling
    And I blame it on the hundred or so faces
    That stare back at me
    And look remarkably like someone I once knew
    I flicker like firelight
    In the fading residue of the television
    And it’s not my fault.


    __________________
  • coleen
    coleen Posts: 938
    I just realized that I comprise over HALF the posts on this thread.
    Don't you all think that smacks of arrogance? I don't mean it that way.

    As it is, here is another. Written this summer, though I do not remember the reason why... although i do believe it was written during a chat session with a friend of mine from the synergy board who goes by the name Pennyroyaltea...


    NEW PRAYER/for the honor of pennyroyal tea

    bring it down.. the house surround...
    angels wings the flight around
    acoustic tile the heart so loud
    the love the push the cry the crowd
    debris, the slats of a fence, life rushes by

    the arms of greatness the cry of the babe
    the king’s plush carpet begins to fade
    a dream
    make the ethereal way, make your ethereal way
    the song is your term

    spring explodes and autumn slides by
    winter undermines, its own melting tide
    the love the push the cry the crowd
    the hands, the ground,
    dirt the scent the rose the sound
    what the sensual takes the tactile will give
    the sigh itself will find a way to live
    again

    the cry the love the push of the crowd
    why, the guilty are bled and intensely bound
    the rose in bloom
    now
    the sigh in the ear
    the circle has come
    and the life is found.


    __________________
  • coleen
    coleen Posts: 938
    Re: I just realized that I comprise over HALF the posts on this thread.
    Originally posted by setaside2
    Don't you all think that smacks of arrogance? I don't mean it that way.

    I don't interpret arrogance; I interpret a genial post host who welcomes conversations and comments from other readers.

    If anything, you're guilty of loquaciousness You are hereby sentenced to no more than two syllables per word for six months. Court adjorned!

    As with everything you've written so far, I feel like I'm gently taken to familiar places . . . which I've never been.

    My favorite part, of course, is "the circle has come". . . .

    Vader: The circle is now complete. When I left you I was but the learner. Now I am the master.

    Obi-Wan: Only a master of evil, Darth.

    CRASHING OF LIGHTSABERS
  • coleen
    coleen Posts: 938
    TWO SYLLABLES FOR SIX MONTHS?
    loquaciousness? Garrulousness? Verbose? Wordy? ME?!?

    Never, I say.

    LOL and while I love the original Star Wars flicks, my dear twisted Radar signal, my poetry is not exactly inspired by them . But I'll be damned if you couldn't find a Star Wars reference in Jello.

    Which would really be kind of cool.

    And YEAH I want conversations about this stuff (other than how neglected my friends feel). As with all symbolist poets, I have a truly low self-esteem and need constant justification for why I do anything. LOL only partially kidding there.

    But this is an intimate forum, so why not share that type of stuff? There always was a bit of philosophy in psychiatry, correct? And certainly both of those are present in any bit of written material longer than a three word sentence. Any human being is a poem in their own right. What's yours?

    Open forum to discuss what kind of freak I am. I'm used to that LOL.

    New poem later.

    seta

    PS, I promise that I'll be over this color fascination by the next post. I swear.


    __________________
  • coleen
    coleen Posts: 938
    LOL I know you all have just been slavering in your baited waiting... so here is my new one. I am, of course, kidding. Yeesh. But it's SHORT. And you all LIKE SHORT! And I realize that I promised to be over the color thing but that line there is typed in a different font on the real version and the only thing I could think of was color. Bold didn't work too well... sorry.



    PARA-FLUENT/rarity


    IT happens in this life that oddities do occur and that we might live, suffer
    or thrive through them as humans, as people, as gods and as monsters...

    a feather weight may only hold you still...
    it will never hold you down or keep you imprisoned… for long.

    These lives that we dare to call our own are prewritten in blood and
    stone, in languages only the very young understand.

    The ears are open, the sun is strong, and the song rings in the ears with
    such force that the rush is akin to a sonic conch shell at dawn. The nuclear
    bomb.

    the seashell shatters, the wind breathes on, god walks down the beach
    leaving the shoreline untouched.

    why the seagulls cry after such events I'll never know but I can say this:
    the vermillion sounds of their wings... I'll never forget.


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  • coleen
    coleen Posts: 938
    holy sweet mother of god!i have only read the first one, but is was on the edge of my seat. There was a build up that kept building and building to a climax that never came, just a new day. loved it.i will read the next tomorow, u better at least put these in the pj book.( if it happens)

    oh and read my i hope u all like it one and tell me whats wrong with it.


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  • coleen
    coleen Posts: 938
    One last new one for a bit and I'll let the thread make it's merry way for a couple days...

    LOL, maybe.
    I wrote this next piece as a direct response to a challenge issued by an old friend of mine asking me to write a piece specifically to torture the English classes of the future. I did so. And it's as stuffy and pretentious as it ought to be, while maintaining SOME semblance of beauty, but barely. LOL

    seta


    MOTHER OF PEARL/reception

    And yet another earthly patron
    Wears the gilded and bejeweled crown of time upon their head
    The cross of which is borne upon shoulders bronzed
    With glinted grace
    And a passing ecstasy
    She whispered lips visible
    Pale and plush
    “Greetings”
    The clap of a shoulder
    The receipt of a gift
    Flare
    Smoke
    Chat
    Farewells
    Time treated as crusted limestone
    A petrified wood rare and iridescent
    Opalescent
    A soapstone to be carved into destiny
    And worn away by the touch of thousands
    Into naught but the delta shores
    Teeming with the twilight of the new day
    Where one sees more than the smile
    And holds more than the grace
    Where time walks with cane and haunted expression
    And the world stands in place.


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  • coleen
    coleen Posts: 938
    seta-

    Mission accomplished: it is torture
    I'm jus' fuckin' witchya.

    Does have a Renaissancey spicey sintax lyricism thing a-happening.

    Suggestion though: maybe rework the last three lines into a rhyming triplet:

    Where one sees more than the smile
    And holds more than the grace.
    Where time walks with haunted face.
    And the world stands lonely in place.

    "Time walks with cane" is too easy for me, but I like the haunted expression impression . . . sans the word "expression." That violates your court mandated two syllable judgment anyway.
  • coleen
    coleen Posts: 938
    LOL

    DAMN YOU AND YOUR PROBATIONARY TERMS. You tell the magistrate that he can take his thesaurus and go straight to the fires of hell! THE FIRES of DAMNATION I TELL YOU.

    And it is even further more ironic that you should post that last verse because at one point it was like that, almost word for word, but it was decided that it would be tougher for the English student to figure out WHY I broke the iambic movement. Why did I decide to blow the tempo? Can you see it? The horror. And the english professor telling them exactly why I did it, when even THEY don't have a friggin' clue. LOVE it.

    Oh and it's not like I don't like this piece, I do. I like it a great deal, I think it has presence. There is an accompanying piece written about English Professors and their terrorist tactics that I'll post in here once I get it typed up. It's a powerhouse piece of multi-syllabic montage that will most certainly get me banned from this forum, if I haven't been already.

    seta

    ps fuck with me again, and I'll even revoke your CREED privileges, you'll be stuck listening to CHUMBAWUMBA for the remainder of your sentence. And that, my friend, is madness I tell you. Madness.


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  • coleen
    coleen Posts: 938
    new one for those who follow
    In irony we shall taste the bitter rustblood of life's defiance of our needs in favor of our wants.


    NEW PRAYER/for the honor of pennyroyal tea

    bring it down… the house surround...
    angels wings the flight around
    acoustic tile the heart so loud
    the love the push the cry the crowd
    debris, the slats of picketfence,
    the cyclone shudders, cowed

    the arms of greatness -the cry of the babe-
    the king’s plush carpet begins to fade,
    a myth:
    make the ethereal way, make your ethereal way
    the song is your term

    spring explodes and autumn slides by
    winter undermines, its own melting tide
    the love the push the cry the crowd
    the hands, the ground.
    dirt the scent, the rose, the sound…
    what the sensual takes the tactile will give
    the sigh itself will find a way to live
    again

    the cry the love the push of the crowd
    why, the guilty are bled and intensely bound
    the rose in bloom
    they arose, in bloom, now,
    the sigh in the ear
    the circle has come
    and the life is found.


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  • coleen
    coleen Posts: 938
    Most edited post in HISTORY for GOD's sake.
    BODICE/free

    watch it...

    when birds flock to destiny the pecking order diminishes to just one.

    and when they are full, and they are difficult to satiate, they stand around eyeing the remains of your freedom, suspicious of any sort of movement, awaiting the moment that life may return from it's fleeing flight. You are the bait in this modern world of mechanical sight and where man's imitations of nature are vinyl, polystyrene, and tupperware.

    the natural cozy is gone. the lightning captured in a cup. no force greater than the push of the air in a subway tunnel, cannonball ejection the only chance for survival.

    and if you hit the moon? what then?

    I don't blame you little astronaut, your breath was caught in the troposphere.
    These days the whirlwinds and dust devils are obligatory child's play as we rush to draw upon each other for the wisdom to predict whether our weather and which witch is which. I drew, I bled, and my needle, my pencil, they litter the sand.
    So careless of me.
    I had forgotten to allow for gravity in my life or death equation.
    Algebraic love. It's so formal, so dedicated.
    One is left to trust the one given solution in a multiple choice arena, nothing but twisted numerics and negatives. God bless the wicked blank page,
    the tempation of starting over,
    the newest of new car scents and the open road.

    It always smells as though someone discovered their soul or somesuch, which really doesn't make sense,
    you know, because you find yourself looking down at the odometer and it says like "23 miles."
    That car hasn't been anywhere but down the paths of your mind.
    But then, the idea sets you off about possibilities, man, the future intrinsic to any new purchase...
    Was it the excitement? The adrenaline or pheromone rush of owning something so powerful as even a 4 cylinder? The feeling of "I OWN this country by the THROAT. I'm throttling that bastard." You grip the keys and you are in love for the first time, the skies livid with whatever metaphor you would wish to place upon them, the wind in the hair... these things are so trite, you think, so unoriginal, but who can deny the feeling? Who can deny the pleasure and pain of being self and being human and being in love and just DRIVING THAT FUCKER DOWN THE ROAD not looking back once? It's amazing, the feel of things.
    It's the vibration, the jerk, the motion, the rerun, the replay. It's being reborn on a leather dashboard. There is beauty to the speed and an elegance in the way it is nigh impossible to tear your eyes from the sights:
    The ribbons! The ticker tape! A homecoming hero on his way to lunch. So ethereal, he practically fades in the backlit dust beyond the garden, if only bending to take in the slight, sweet fragrance of the ever-so-common dandelion. Living was never so enthralling. Liberation never so poignant.
    Can you breathe?

    Caution, carmine, cinnamon, cimarron...

    The birds are moving.



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  • coleen
    coleen Posts: 938
    You should write for Lexus.

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