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

This one was written back in April and was the first to finally be squeezed from the muse after about 2 years of writer's block.


RETURN/of the left hand


I’m totally hated, and my Sumerian face is bruised.
She hit me as hard as she could,
The floodwaters rushing the gates,
And in supplication
I bowed out to the better movement.

With trepidation my tiptoed serenity is compromised;
The trembling of the earth the foreboding of yet another sunset unnamed.

The infallibility of the future and the waves of the new tide…
I have watched the moonrise
In awe,
The youngest of children revisited (and never fully understood).
The wonder and fear of it all
Bleached and smattered,
Dried like conch shells on a shelf,
Remnants of what was an evolution left upon the ears of the blind,
The last description a raspy voice lost the in the tempest finally arrived
And a postscript left alone.

I have always been taught by overzealous symbolists (of which I wholeheartedly subscribe to) that it isn't what's out so much as it is what's in.

What is anything made of if it is hollow? I once read a myth that essentially said that you couldn't know a man or a woman unless they were spread across the road. Interesting theory and, I guess, lol, biologically it's true.

All thoughts are subjects in their own right. I believe this.

As for being idignant, hmmm.... I don't mean to come across in that manner. I have always just hoped that any piece would be strong enough to last or stand on its own. I have no wish to come across as arrogant. And I REALLY apologize if you get that impression.

Depth may start as only one direction, but imagine the drill that plunges miles into the earth's crust and breaks into the unknown grotto... depth spreads quickly. Don't sell yourself short, regardless of the quality of any piece or conversation.

Cynicism, on the other hand, is also quite healthy. I say salt it with some irony and let it grow! LOL

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.

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.

Well obviously I do too, otherwise this rather pretentious thread wouldn't be here... sigh.

But I love when people read my poetry, for good or for ill, and they give their opinions on it and tell me what a freak I am...

or not.

LOL maybe ONE day I'll be at 1000, but certainly NOT today. You know, Leathermosquitoman must view you as a threat of some sort...

As it were, check back in here every so often and I'll be around with new stuff somewheres....

seta