Setaside's Poetry.... if you like...

I'll try to be a good boy and let you know when that happens, sharon, but you know me, I'll probably just fuck the whole thing up....

I'm not sure how much I have left to post on this thread! LOL

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.

Bambi girl... I cannot thank you enough for slogging your way through my verbosity. I believe that you (and anyone else who does so) deserve a medal.

Radar:

2 things.

1.) Love the name PJ Poetry Press. It's nothing short of brilliance. Shalt post a thread on it now to see what others think.

2.) Whilst I would love to help finance your Star Wars collection I cannot, in good faith, allow anyone who uses Leia's shallow (however brave) lie as their location to receive any proceeds. You realize that no matter how many times you tell them that the Rebels are stationed on Dantooine, Alderaan will still be destroyed. New plan is needed here. I blame you for the deaths of millions of innocent droids.

Thanks all so much for reading through, Dantooine notwithstanding. hee hee.

seta

firefairy, that's a little ironic to me, since my ex-best friend use to steal my poetry book and try to get girls into bed with it, or used it to meet girls. My biggest problem? He always told them it was HIS work. Jerk.

Ah well.. that accounts for the EX portion of things... well, not really. There was certainly a whole lot more, but oh well.

Bring your silly stuff over here! I'd love to read it!

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.

Well HELLO to you. I really dig your name on the board hereabouts. I believe that last night, here in fabulous Littleton, Colorado, really qualified as a sultry evening.

Lightning and all.

Sigh.

Thanks for reading man, it does the heart good. At least, for me. lol.

seta