Setaside2's Poetry... if you like

okay boys.. now this was all nice and sweet until someone (ahem) suggested I write for an automobile name brand manufactured by some other autombile name brand. I tell you that smacks of poisonous treason and treachery, the thought.

And Radar, I'd like you to keep your opinions to yourself about my yang. As for the yin, it's not my fault it was cheaper last year and you only picked one up last week.

Off to apartment hunt.

seta


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quote:

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Originally posted by setaside2
Do you really like me?

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Okay, Sally Field, upon receiving her second Academy Award for Places in the Heart, "You like me!! Right now! You like me!!!"

Sorry you're feeling poorly. No doubt you're delirious from fever for asking such an "actressy" question. As Obi-Wan said to Luke: "Rest easy, son. You've had a busy day. You're lucky to be all in one piece."

Hope you weren't assaulted by Tusken Raiders, by the way.

I marvel at your written elocution
I marvel at your inviting openness
I marvel at comics (get it?)

Now shut up and go to sleep.

Obi-Wan is a Bad Ass MutherFucker.

Who was this someone ELSE? Were you trying to make KS envious by loving someone else so she would run up, bitchslap your new love, and say, "Take me NOW you sexual seta God!"?

Seven, I'm more messed up than most. LOL
Here's one more and then I really gotta go. Thanks for reading all this stuff guys, I realize this thread is getting a little overlong. I hope you'll all keep bearing with me. Or at least letting me bare my soul.
Seta

REDSAND/marmalade

The sun burned orange marmalade in my hair
She sat astride
A stride
A ride
She sat away on a park bench
Contemplating white caps that weren’t to be
Or used to be
On a grassy and somewhat speckled knoll
I remembered this
Or did once
Twice
A fore or a score
Before my hair was clouded grey
And misty
By the stormy seas of memory
She sang a song to me back
When my head was filled with
Moths and butterflies
When restrictions went unlimited
Limits had no restrictions
And the world was somewhat newer
She was the happy princess
A statuette crying a jewel
For the little brown bird and I
And now my eyes
They shine silverintriplicate in
The pale and frosty stare that only
A winter bay window can provide
Double pained glass and I
Watch my eyes watching I
Tragedy:
For all those years on a park bench,
“The Uncaring,”
And we became acquainted in a book;
When my head was still moths and butterflies
And grassy knolls rolled like sinking ships off in the
coastal bay
I had understood the meaning of the word
Avoidance
What could I say
What can I say
Sometimes the pale green carpet of this world
Plush as it may seem
Still burns as redsand underfeet
Perhaps only because I prefer remaining shoeless in the sun
While in the midday elsewhere
There lies a park bench
Setting astride
Riding a ride going nowhere
For it is moored in concrete
God rest its weathered metal soul
God heal your orange marmalade heart
And help me change my eyes from the silverintriplicate
Of my reflection
Or of my reflection upon you
They used to be gold.


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Here's a piece that has taken me like 5 years to finish, LOL and I am not entirely sure that I am happy with it yet. I have spread it around some and a lot of people have said they like it, and a few have said that they don't. I never know who's being honest! Help me out here...



THE DAY AFTER/the day before (tom sawyer come again)

Tomorrow appeared on my doorstep yesterday
Shaken
Drunk
Confused
I stood naked and caught off guard
Tomorrow
Is never supposed to come
With her hair ragged
And dress shattered
Pieces of which still flutter and dance
In the wind sailing between
The whitewashed and fading
Pine slats of my front gate
Her litter affronts me
I asked her to leave
In frustration
She placed her head against my shoulder
Cheek upon my battered breast
The sun dipped for a moment
Stars flickered
The day began anew
And she cried because she still misunderstood
Her meaning of well-being
“Never have sex with Destiny,”
She said,
Making love as it was.
“He leaves you in the morning
Looking for brother Fate.”
I apologized for being rude
Perhaps humility is rare and
I’d been looking for her elusive
And ethereal beauty
She and I date now
A casual affair at a glance
And a kiss when necessary
As an insomniac I offer naught but support
And she
Nothing but her time
Occasionally her hands tremble
Wrought with the constant apprehension she shares so willingly…
As the sun sets
Tom Sawyer redoes my fence for an apple and
She sits on the front porch swing
Swaying as she is brought ever closer to her element
She’s brilliant after midnight
Tranquil before dawn
And she never sleeps
And she never sleeps.


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Oh, where
oh, where
can my baby be . . .

Certainly easier to follow than your others and very visual. I almost wanted it to be a short story. Continue it with her wandering through the woods until Jason Voorhees comes up and butchers her . . . yes, with a lightsaber.

okay... another one... and I'll let this lie for a day or so...

words of a man walking slowly past

......my father once told me never to give of myself to anyone who offers the cursory handshake, the bit conversation or the obligatory wink of an eye no matter how forthright, nor daring, nor intriguing the individual may be. Now, it may seem that writing in and of itself is the barest of bare souls and may, therefore, be determined as a sign of vulnerability; at the very least it opposes my fathers advice. However, I have also heard it said that words were the devil’s greatest invention for they are the key notes in what symphony of lies we may chorus a part in. Henceforth, in your local library you shall most indubitably find a Fiction section amongst many of your Non-Fiction items (and, as of yet, a great many “Non”-Fictitious books are only based on an “honest” man’s opinion and may therefore be subject to bitter discussion concerning the percentage of truth involved). So perhaps it is giving much of oneself even to whisper a name or acknowledge that handshake with one of your own. After all, whose game are you playing?

My daughter is too young to have to deal with such things. She gives herself sweetly enough to anyone that offers the hand, the wave, or the smile. It may be that the wink is still too subtle a gesture for her to comprehend; also it may be too complex considering all a wink may imply.

My son is just old enough to know that a person (who may or may not know him well) can be manipulated by physical disposition. Beginning with a facial barrage of such horrible tragedy laced with wit and enough post-toddler cynic irony (for he knows when the goat’s gotten), and ending with any number of well choreographed and rehearsed psychological frequencies emitted, it seems, from the walls themselves.
Little does he know that I understand his plans (for I recall contriving them my self at his saintly age) and am determined to deviate from his propaganda.

I have found that many people use conversation as a power piece in an almost chess-esque struggle for continuing supremacy over others. Law and Debate are other matters entirely. However, everyone has the friend that must get above another in a game of conversational one-ups-man-ship that defies historical and logistical boundaries. The most serious issue of this dilemma to be pondered is that side B of this two part discussion will (almost always) allow themselves to get swept away by the hubris; and the fevered passion with which they deliver their colorful rebuttals is fit for a king before parliament.

Nay I write because I write and because I write soon truths will be forthcoming that my subconscious does not willingly let go (most certainly not in broad daylight lest these truths turn to ash and dirty the carpet). These vampires of the soul are generally petty creatures, self- absorbed and they hang around mostly due to their own ignorance of other issues only knowing when it’s their time to rise and when it is their time to have a seat and let someone else take over.
As they rise, they become all consuming. Psychiatrists call these anxieties or obsessions or (or) compulsions. It’s context sensitive. I care not. However, we all have them and sooner or later they must be dealt with, and when they are dealt with we must ask ourselves:

Have I lied?

Discovery brings questions. Ask any religious scholar fighting to believe. Or any scientist struggling for proof. And even they must ask:

Have I been lied to?

Truth is a colorful perspective and like those fabled issues of love, happiness, etc… I suspect that adding the word “true”(adj.) to such nouns causes them to become hypothetical gestures; things only attainable by degrees or measured by degrees, much like burning paper (urban fires are also rated by the amount of destruction they cause, as are tornadoes, but that is a whole other ball of wax)......


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Oh Radar, don't you know that all that matters to me is that we met? I no longer need to lure you in with my linguistic charms...

Oh who the hell..?

Ah. No, my dear MASHed droid, I don't have any medals to give. And you know, it's probably not very good anyway, perhaps I'm running out of new material...

You never have to read anything you don't want to, Radar dear. Remember that.

As it were, thanks for giving it a SHOT.


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Henrik Ibsen is incredible. the Doll House is one of my favorite plays ever.

what am I judging? I could be honest and say that I'm judging everything, myself, the ethereal... I could be just as honest and tell you that I don't know.

No, my father never gave me that advice, it popped into my head.

I often wonder if my writing is really the result of me acting as some sort of medium as the spirits who wish so desperately to write and express once again take hold. I have a funny dream from time to time that they are lined up, jostling one another as if they are at the opening of some expansive life altering cinematic preview saying, ME! It's MY turn, I'm Next! and then literary fights break out and someone steals Tiny Tim's crutch and uses it to beat the shit out of Longfellow who was trying to bribe his way up the line with dandelion wine stolen from Chaucer. It all plays into it nicely. I wish I was so honored.

I judge myself constantly. I am guilty of not being innocent. I realize that we all are but I take the offense and the pride and the love and the atrocity of being human very personally.

I judge.

I am told by many folks on here that they admire my openness... well I have learned to be no other way. My life is open to those who wish to see it for the bland acid tested piece of sidewalk that it is... oh I've lived plenty between the cracks, because I have ever feared the cracks themselves and I have usually just been trying to protect myself from the blinding snowglare of sunshine off the concrete. I don't know what's ignorance and what's just hidden from me. I have a fair intuition for people and places... I think it comes to those of us in here who have such vivid imaginations. Avenues that appear obvious and mundane to us appear colorful and abstract to so many others. My dreams are so important to me that if I fail to dream for more than 4 nights in a row, I panic.

I now come to this board to share my dreams and visions with strangers who have had no previous knowledge of this wild mind in Colorado. perhaps the altitude finally got him, they'll say. He has to be stoned, others will shout.

Never did the green, I'm weird enough, don't you think? I tried it, I don't enjoy having my paranoia HEIGHTENED for me, HA, thanks. I don't need THAT, no sir. And the altitude only works in my favor.

I don't know radar, jeremy, all of you. I don't know. My heart aches these days. I have had dreams of a massive world war since I was 12. I had dreams of planes crashing into skyscrapers for 5 years before the WTC incident. I have dreams of Denver being leveled by tornadoes sometime in the next 10 - 20 years. I have dreams of the aftermath of the largest nuclear holocaust in existence.

I have dreamed that God has talked to me in a rainforest. I have dreamed that my head has been bitten off by a dragon and sewn back on by some faceless angel with a vast library and the fruit of youth and vibrance upon a silver platter. I have dreamed that I have drowned and that the same faceless angelica saved me again and dried me to softness in front of a gathering fire in the largest library hearth I've ever seen.. he had the throne chair in front of it you know...

And perhaps I've dreamed of you. I have met many people there. I often wonder who they were and why they were chosen to share with me or why I was chosen for their dreams. And I wish to know.

I don't know what I judge, Radar. I do know that we all need to live again. Because this life that humans have chosen for themselves, this epoch, is merely a shadowland.

Have you ever woken up in the middle of the night with your heart quickened as if someone long lost was calling your name and some quiet, subtle attraction made you turn to the window as a if you were a human compass? have you felt that attraction grow stronger and wane and grow in strength again? Do you ever look at a passing individual and find yourself smitten with them, no explanation needed? You must follow them home, you must know their life, you must... but of course you do not. The insane are locked up just as easily as the criminal. I feel these things constantly, every day, every quaking minute.

I am insane, I love, I judge, I dream. I am kind. Humankind. I suppose that's all I really should have said to answer your questions, but then that wouldn't be me, now would it?

love,

seta