View Full Version : Calling Card Thread (Poems by AWers)

William Haskins
12-06-2005, 06:07 AM
hi all:

this might be a bust, but i hope that's not the case.

i thought it would be nice to have a thread where each contributor to the poetry forum, whether a one-timer or a regular, could post an original poem that in some way conveys their style, their level in the craft, or just an emotion or philosophical musing that in some way represents them.

so, consider it an open invitation. my only request is that we use this thread for the poems only (with an explanatory note, if you'd like), rather than breaking the flow with comments or crits. such responses are, of course, welcome in a separate thread.

UPDATE: i've opened a separate thread for discussion (http://absolutewrite.com/forums/showthread.php?p=412848#post412848) of any of the poems posted. please post comments, questions, etc. there.

so there you go. i'm going to look through my stuff and see what i can come up with, and i hope some of you will do the same.

it would be nice to have a place that illustrates the range of poets who visit here.


12-06-2005, 06:15 AM
Great idea Haskins. What do you think about having a poll for each poem to rate it?

12-06-2005, 06:41 AM
Yey! I get to go first!

Mud Song

I' ve been preaching to a stump
and one green frog who blinks in rhythm with my pulse
about the vanity of mud;
the clarity of guilt;
the sanctity of the sunrise bending above the willow.

A dying cloud is descending into the lake, slowly drowning, silently
while a fish flips his tail in a thump of disdain.
The cicadias begin a wheezing chorus of hallelujahs,
and the frog hops one indifferent leap.

Yellow speckled oaks, stunted and thin, cast their limbs about;
spread freckles of shadows upon the grey wet ground.
I hear a mourning dove call, an ageless, sorrowful sound
and nod my head, hand against my mouth, to fight the doubt.

The bluejays descend to peck black ants
and shriek at the wind that carries their cries.
I sink my hand into the mud,
make one print, sloppy and vague,
then hold the dirt cold in my palm
and ponder how the day could pass.

12-06-2005, 06:59 AM
I'm going to send "The Streets" poem out for publication.

12-06-2005, 08:09 AM
1. my hands
are clean,
I washed them,
the media, a basin;
and I washed them every day.
(OUT damn spot!)

while your richtor gasps
shook my bathroom floor,
I attempted to paint
my face
to feign a blush
and I washed my hands
during the morning news
(OUT damn spot!)

the business of my nothing
caught up
to the speed
of your eyes
and I found myself caught,
so I washed my hands again
in the afternoon lull
(OUT damn spot!)

we saw the evil-man
with our insect eyes
and we licked
the guilt off groping antennae,
we knew
in our collective conscience
your earth-rattling breath
would soon stop
and we would be free
to go about our business
of nothing
(OUT damn spot!)

the ball wasn't ours,
the game in another's court.
besides, you weren't mine-
and it only hurts
when it hits home.

the wheeze,
a death moan,
heard 'round the world-
not yours-
but ours, as you listened
to us
washing in the six o'clock news
(OUT damn spot!)

2. the pope he ain't
no more,
John Paul
we buried your love
but, hey, thanks;
we're glad you had some time,
and a little help,
you did it without a hitch.
the ceremonies were great
your clothes looked cool
your exit was full of grace.
may you rest in peace
and be remembered well,
history knows your name.

I know you ate,
and drank a bit,
comfort was never spared.
you, the pope,
a sacred life,
desereved the care
and dignity.

the church couldn't
afford the shame
(OUT damn spot!)

12-06-2005, 11:03 AM
Styrofoam bitter coffee
going cold but
There's a Gas-n-Go ahead

A broken line and static
through the windshield glare

The note just says
I'll try not to do this to you
too terribly often.

12-06-2005, 11:10 AM
The Moment

The woman turned closer,a
smile already formed on her
lips, and my desire to touch
them became my will, so I leaned
into her breath and so quick
was the wetness that I felt
it was my own.
Then I found her will
and teased it, until she gave me
her desire, and her confusion,
allowing us to breath for one
another, and the sounds that
escaped could not be identified
as hers or mine, but only as
something that had been held
for too long

12-06-2005, 03:38 PM

Tracing I love yous on your shoulder
So as to make it a challenge
Letting one letter spill into the next
Like it might just be a pattern
And not a word etching
When your only thought
Is the breath of near-sleep
Hoping against hope
That you’ll notice
And trace back to me
My execution is timed and planned
To feel careless
To know
If you are paying attention
To my stubby fingers
Even as sleep beckons
If you can sense
My eight-letter
Grand proclamation
Again and again
Like when I said,
“I love the way you look at this angle”
And you said,
“I love you from all angles”
So I’d have to decide for myself
If you were talking about my looks
Or me
One week after we met
But I knew you meant me
And now I trace letters
To return the volley
To see if four years later
The hypervigilance of love
Still makes you want to know
If every meandering stroke
Is for you


12-06-2005, 05:48 PM

Time will tell if my wanderings here on this
Grand ball of dust were of great value,
Or completely in vain. More likely it is a
Combination of the two?

Grand towers and palaces will one day fall
To the strength of weeds and rust. If I have given
My time to the edifices built by my hands,
The winds and rains will prevail,
And the sands of time will blast away until they
Become a haunt for jackals.

I question my contributions, the weight of my
Words uttered and thoughts written, and the impact they will leave,
And yet, some times I still speak as a fool with both lips and pen, and
Prattle on about worthless things.

Yet, I comprehend a single well-place hello, a smile,
Or act of kindness mixed with merciful words,
May impart such grace to the hearer that their lives are enriched,
And they are forever changed, and good things are set in motion;
And these trickle down for many generations.

My name will not long be remembered when I am parted, but
Perhaps my legacy will be? Gracious words or towers of rust,
I think I have chosen my course.

12-06-2005, 06:29 PM
Caution: The Blues

The blues, slow-dancin in my soul.
Eyes-closed blues.
Head-shakin blues.
Keep your ears glued
to my jazz.

This ain't light stuff
nor silly fluff.

These are the sounds of Harlem.

and of the Deep South.

So be careful where you step, friend,
because in the end
you'll get stuck.
Stuck in slow thickness of the blues.
And those blues,

Those blues, they'll stick to you.

12-06-2005, 07:06 PM

12-06-2005, 07:14 PM
The creation of my haibun poem, Break Away (published on Flashquake)
was nothing short of a huge "breaking point" in my writing. I had been jockeying back and forth between poetry and short fiction for years, always sensing there was a middle ground to explore.

The haibun form often involves a visual element, so it was the perfect marriage for my academic art background as well. Ultimately, my serendipitous exploration of the haibun form turned out to be much more than a cross training exercise for my creative energy---it was the beginning of what has become a sustained period of my published pieces and contest wins.

The moral of my story---don't be afraid to step out of your "comfort zone" when it comes to writing poetry.

12-06-2005, 07:40 PM
I don't write much poetry, but I enjoy doing it when my mind is muddled. Nice to make something of the tangle.

First Kiss

It ended when your lips left mine
Drawn from me on your slow smile
One long look
Mischief sparkled
Sparkling tingled on my tongue
Tingling glittered down my spine
Glittering glowed within my core
Glowing blushed bright on my skin
Circle turned - I looked away
Blushing caught breath in your throat
Catching trapped my heart as trinket
Trapping held your hand in mine
Until you thought to let it go

12-06-2005, 10:25 PM
I feel my last two poems - A Memory That Stays - Sisters
represent some growth -


Here is a work in progress...It started as an exploration of my love/hate relationship with Autumn... not sure where it will end up.

A Change of Heart

Spring meandered down my lane.
He offered warmth and rings of gold.
A yellow rose was in his hand,
But flowers lie and wither old.

With promises of sweet amour,
The summer sun reached out his rays.
I blocked his hands with tinted panes,
And yearned for sentimental days.

Soon autumn ran into my arms,
A sailor back from other ports.
I thought I'd sing contented then,
But heart and soul sighed out of sorts.

The words he spoke were far too grand.
One touch awakened fragile cries.
His cashmere hues, they stoked a fire,
Too beautiful for human eyes.

I slammed the shutters, locked the door,
And stilled the ballads in my soul.
I waited hard and hid inside,
My love, I pledged to ice and coal.

12-07-2005, 02:34 AM
Great thread. :D Most of the time I end up writing comic verse, but I'm making a conscious effort to 'grow up' in my poetry at least, so here's a one-verse Sapphic ode (yes I swallowed a poetry dictionary...)

Without you even noticing,
I watch you touch a coin or key
or pen and how I wish the thing
you touched was me.

Not quite up there with Wendy Cope, but...well...:Shrug:

12-07-2005, 04:21 AM
He Took A Shot Too

It's about as stifled
as it can get
It's about as straight
as you can let it
be -
it's just noise
(in the form of specks)
and it's just time
(wasted so carefully).
Mediocrity pays the way
and mediocrity makes my day,
he says it's the poor lighting in here
but it's more than that.
Oh hail, hail
to the outside world...

12-07-2005, 05:52 AM
The following poem is very typical of what I write. I usually just write what I know and in Free Fall. I go into my memories to write a lot of my poetry. Otherwise, I write a lot of off the cuff stuff, too.

(The following was published in Quills Canadian Poetry Magazine, Spring 2004-I think?)

A Douglastown Summer

Blueberries pregnant in adjacent fields,
A hillside away from a tumultuous flowing river
Now brown from the efforts of industry’s birth.
Hot sun strikes the rolling hills,
Reflecting blue the summer haze,
As we lay tracing pictures within the cumulus clouds…
Thoughts rising above the passage of time,
Resting here in memory’s heart.

Beside the field,
Northumberland, a mall.
A park of steel birds,
Mobile homes and broken dreams.

The span that crosses into Chatham,
Green and vast, the steel
Climbing out from shore to shore,
Concrete roads with yellow lines.
Solid, yet moving within the breeze.

We throw apples from graveyard trees,
Into the broken headlight’s glow,
And wander recklessly,
Along winding dirt bike trails,
Speeding through the muck of yesterday’s rain.

Up through the woods…a speedway
And a school with jungle gyms,
Where endless summer nights are spent
Counting stars while hanging from limbs of trees.

The fair comes through in August,
Summer’s last hurrah,
Setting up in fields across the way,
Where blue tendrils disguise
The sticky cotton candy waste.

12-07-2005, 06:16 AM
Some of you have seen this one before. For better or worse, it's still one of my main calling cards.

Mother of All Addictions

Others came before you,
but you’ve lasted the longest.
And when I can’t have you,
I replace you with another.

I destabilize without you,
Like an atom without a nucleus
Its orbits out of control,
Until you re-enter my system.

We remain
Close enough to satisfy,
Distant enough to resist,
Too weak to break free.

You are both catalyst and parasite
Who seduces and satiates.

With you,
no equilibrium exists.

12-07-2005, 06:53 AM
I have a then and now. Stylistically, at least. The first is my all-time favorite poem from when I started writing, and probably my first success. The second is my style right now.

Look Deep

Look deep into these eyes
And tell me what you see.
I truly hope you will not glimpse
The creature that is me.

Who only comes in moondark,
When she cannot be seen.
Who bears the name of killer,
Who bears the name of Queen.

Sharp ears and sharper eyesight,
Quiet stalks and quiet kills.
Whose howling brings bleak terror,
And gentle night noise stills.

Look deep into these eyes,
And tell me what you see.
I fear that you already know
The creature that is me.

hell found me
for the first time
when i opened
a certain book

a hell of true evil
drawn in the red of blood
and pink of raw flesh
and black of night

a hell spelled out
in cursive writing
telling of abominations
that shouldn't be told

hell found me.
but i was the one
who opened the book
and showed it the way.

12-07-2005, 11:23 AM
The only poems I have written are part of mixed-media pieces. You may peruse some of those from long ago here: Archive (http://www.bunnywax.com/mary). I don't think any of them work out of context, but they are a representative snapshot of a point in time. I like to think I have a sense of humor now.

12-07-2005, 05:51 PM
An Apple's Life

Red and juicy when you’re ripe,
fresh picked, polished,
not a bruise in sight,
and so tasty,
with every bite.

Mushy, sheen-less
when you’re old,
bruised and sorry,
scarred with brown-skinned holes.
Rotten apple,
dried-up body,
lifeless soul.

12-07-2005, 11:58 PM
Ever write a poem that turns your whole style around? This one did it for me and I have written poetry like this ever after.



Clear glass
Tall windows
No problem

Cat scurries to
Languish in warmth
Purrs sweetly happy.

Color honors me now
Turn rich orange pink
End of day so soon.

I go to sleep perchance
Dream purple and blue hues
You will miss me sadly.

Huddle under your blankets
It will be cold without me
My yellow to keep you warm.

So see me sliding down the wall
Hurry turn on the lights
Puss moves with me. He knows.

I am most satisfied if I can relate one of my social issues into a poem:

Women of War

Women of war are waiting
Looking at photographs,
Nicely framed on the mantle.
Glass stained with worried fingers
Touching lips, eyes, and hair.
Waiting with anxious dreams, fears.

Women of war are leaving
Leaving crying children
Gritting their teeth, wrenching, weeping.
Spilling blood on crystal sand
Women warriors defending,
Belief of a better place.

Thank you William--good thread

12-08-2005, 12:04 AM
Everyone else's contributions makes me think I should retire.

12-08-2005, 10:32 AM
I don't write much poetry because quite frankly I suck at it. This, however, is one that I like.

But Who Should
Liesel Garmach

But who should speak of love and roses,
tell the tales, and tickle toeses,
whimsically we share our stories,
our pain, our joy, our sorrow, our glories

From whence the day is nearly done,
we've thought of friends, every one,
solidly we've dreamt our dreams,
and of ourselves, shared a gleam

But who should speak of sad moments,
make the most of tragic events,
laughingly we tell our lies,
smiling into each other's eyes

Each dawn, its brakes upon the night,
keeping preponderance upon the fights,
angrily we spit out our views,
hurtfully, we screamed our news

But who should speak of idle souls,
who water the plants and pound the nails,
barely keeping ourselves alive,
forgetting our wistful desire to thrive

At night the song is nearly complete,
we did it all, yet so discreet,
cheering our efforts to win the war,
knowing once done, we'll do no more

But who should speak of sparrow's songs,
silenced by talons so deep, so long,
warbling a verse with little meaning,
death - the ultimate soul deep cleaning.

William Haskins
12-08-2005, 10:21 PM
i opted for an older poem of mine. i don't know how representative it is of my work as a whole, but i think the minimalism of it and the imagist approach is fairly indicative of how i work most of the time. anyway...

Red River

What do you see in the flow of the river,
In its soft, red clay-soup crawling?
Time—like a vine—
Creeps green and slow,
And tomorrow,
That dream,
That broken song,
Is as far away as yesterday.

12-12-2005, 09:10 PM
I'm sharing 2, because I want to! (I couldn't pick one. I picked 5, to be honest.)

The World Conspires

I travel afar to forget,
to silence my raging thoughts.
Red is the dawn beneath cloud cover,
Love's flight ends with touch down
amidst greening meadows, rock and hill.
Cold wind rushes past chills my hands,
my heart aches, empty without you.


When breezes sweep by, I feel it
your fingers in my hair.
The suns heat radiates,
it's your body against mine.
Earth whispers your name in my ear,
the birds are talking about you.
All the world conspires against me.

Winter's Toll

Air, chill and fresh
Breath, white and visible
Clean and crisp is winter's night
white with snow, white with moon
Round, pure, he peers down
full of knowledge, full of unknown
mocking, taunting, he looks on
aware of winter's toll, aware of winter's toll

12-17-2005, 12:54 PM
I feel like I wasn't being current by posting such older content earlier in this thread, but I can't really post the poems that are within the context of my current novel. This is something that came to me while I was working on the book that doesn't yet have a home. I don't know how it stands up here, really, because my background isn't in poetry. But here it is:


Stark it was, the cooling night
Blowing past her pillow
And there we were, a bloodless sight
That stirred her from the shadows.

She watched me as I gazed upon
The moonlight from her window
And then did see, both me and thee,
So thinly drawn and sallow.

For we are dead, both you and I,
As ghosts we dance together.
And dream she does, asleep again,
Head drifting like a feather.

12-30-2005, 08:47 PM
I am such a newbie, green wouldn't begin to describe me. It's great to read all your work and absorb the enthusiasm. Here's my 2nd only poem ever:


Had not

Known of love

Until she came.


Uninvited, unannounced;

A thousand candles burning -

No, that was her smile just for me.

A thousand candles to warm my heart.

And a thousand lovers could not compare.

12-30-2005, 09:54 PM
Dear Yogurt King:

Beautiful...I am also a poet, new to the site. I just stumbled across it and am thinking about signing up.

There are many types of poetry, but the most incredible ones are those that stir the heart and change the cells in your being. Yours does just that.

Keep writing and posting!

Capri 383

12-31-2005, 01:28 AM
Hi Gang :)

Definitely not a poet but here's a fun one.


Barren shades of whiteness

Confined and unemployed

Reflective in translucence

An empty plaintive void.

Colorless infinity

Waveless skyless ground

Steady flow of nothingness

Echoes silent sound.

Vacant objectivity

Naked to the eye

Stripped of all humility

Left with questions - why?

Circuitous and spherical

Sheen like polished glass

Circumference that’s seamless

Borders none can pass.

Yet ever is there beauty

Unembellished yet so small

How else could thus describe

The midst a ping-pong ball.

12-31-2005, 01:29 AM
oops... sorry for taking up so much space... don't have this thread thing down yet :) Happy New Year All!

12-31-2005, 01:59 AM
Dear Yogurt King:

Beautiful...I am also a poet, new to the site. I just stumbled across it and am thinking about signing up.

There are many types of poetry, but the most incredible ones are those that stir the heart and change the cells in your being. Yours does just that.

Keep writing and posting!

Capri 383

Thank you so much for the encouragement, Capri. I would love to see what you have to write as well. There is such a maze of poetry sites out there - this is the first one I found where it seems there are some quality work and conversations going on, from my amateur eye at least.

September skies
12-31-2005, 02:17 AM
I don't write poetry (other than as class assignments)
so I can't really have one that represents my style. But about a year ago, in college, my instructor wrote several words on the overhead projector and then had the class write a poem (in class) using as many words as we could. I managed to get them all in. For extra credit, we could write a second one but it had to be totally unrelated (or different theme) than the first one. Since I keep all my assignments, I just went and dug out my binder.

These were the words: loud, slick, field, cloud, frog, bladed, steel, ache, horn, house, rain, gray, lamp, false and pure

I know - I suck at poetry - but it was a class assignment and I had no choice but to complete it.

This is what I came up with for poem No. 1

The Bottom of the 9th
The loud cracking of the bat
was heard across the slick field.
Skies cloud and a frog croaked as
he bladed acrosss bases.
With a steel ache on his side
he horned over the home plate.
Cheers raining down from the house
Graying the visitor's hope,
shattering their lamp as they
falsely claim pure injustice.

My instructor liked poem No. 2 better (that pervert)

Loud screams of pure fright heard
from the field beyond the house
of steel, as lightening rains upon
the slick roads beyond. With an
ache of false love and clouded
with lust, he horns her deep
over and over as a sharp blade.
No remorse of her fading lamp,
Finished and content, he ckicks a frog,
And as her skin grays, he leaves.

01-04-2006, 04:24 AM
This was written in the fall of 2002, after an October visit to Washington, D.C. and a viewing of the VietNam Veteran's Memorial and the Korean War Memorial.
Touch Me

Touch me
And feel my many hearts
Run your fingers across my names
And be reminded of what you'd rather forget.

Touch me
And feel my raindrop tears
See the fear and determination
That are etched eternally across my granite face.

Touch me
And let your emotions take hold
Trace my words of inspiration
Let yourself feel the cold of my marble remembrance.

Touch me
And let me be your guide
Through friendships made and tragically lost
In the heat of war and chaos.

Touch me
And be completely aware of the moment
Feel all that you can, for me and my buddies
Allow our names to ring for eternity.

Let me
Touch you, and tug at the strings of your heart
Feel my joy and my fear, my love and my loss
The Veteran's spirit that lives on in this stone.

01-16-2006, 05:36 AM

The cowboy peered

At passing cars

His jaw tight

Searching for a

Familiar face

The girl he loved

His shoulders fell

As with a long last look

He boarded the bus west


It was his own fault

He had been restless

Now he was free

The tear in his eye

He willed it to be

Up ahead

He could already see

The colors of dawn

Streaking the sky

The sun was behind him

Where it belonged

And everything was right

With this picture

And nothing was wrong

Though the coyotes

Had quit

Their mournful howling

And by now

Were hunting a place to rest

He could almost hear the quail

Coming out of their nest

Calling to him

He'd go home

Back to the ranch

He was a good hand

During roundup

They'd need every man

He'd straighten his shoulders

Best he could in the seat

And wiped his eyes

"There were girls," he thought

"And then there are women"

He pulled his hat brim low

Over his eyes to sleep

Knowing there were neither

This cowboy would ever keep

© Paul Ferguson

01-16-2006, 05:53 AM
Redneck Happy Hour

Gussied myself up as fast as I could,

if I want a barstool, need to be there by four.

I wore my black Nazi stomping boots

Cause the place is usually swarming with whores.

The Starlight Lounge is where I hang out,

drawn to the ambience inside.

Two faced women stab each other in the back

and fugitives from the law find a safe place to hide.

I drink warm beer served in a can,

and listen to the same country songs,

of cheating hearts and long lost love,

and old worn out mutts who have died.

Like a fly to a **** pile,

a buzzard in a field,

Carl circles the room

while I’m dancing with Bill.

I preen as I guzzle,

laugh as I swill,

a shot of tequila

downed with a pill.

My home has soft comforts,

piles of good books,

offering sweet quiet bliss.

But who in their right mind

would want to stay home,

when they can come

to The Starlight

and partake of all this?

01-19-2006, 02:54 AM
To Mary

I remember the sorrow,
the regrets,
the anger.

Sorrow, remembering
the past.
A station wagon filled with grass
for our horse.
You pulling my hair —
it was YOUR rocking chair.

The past...
OUR past...
and now it is mine alone.

Regret, remembering
all we did not do together.
All I did not say.
I never told you
I love you.
I never told you
that your poetry ripped apart my soul.
We never talked
about anything important,
or what we could do
about the world’s pain...
and now it’s too late.

Anger, remembering
your last words.
You tried to live,
you tried to love,
but you gave up and killed yourself.

When you couldn’t understand the assignment,
you burnt the school down.

01-22-2006, 10:36 PM
To be honest the Water Cooler and its friendly resident gang have been the inspiration for me to come back to poetry ( and to move forward I feel) for the first time for a long time. So here are a couple inspired by the Poetry game.


How now genius?
Thou tantalizing specter of the half-light.
In waking moments I see you,
Clear, tangible, within my grasp and then -
A will o'the wisp, dancing reflections on the wall
Of my darkened room,
From some unseen illumination.
If I could but hold you,
Make you mine for an hour or two,
I could triumph, conquer all before me,
Cross the T's and dot the I's,
Fill in all the blanks -
I can almost feel it -
The veil of darkness flickers back and forth
In the breeze of possibilities,
But then it's gone -
A fleeting figmentary radiance,
Breaking through into the swirling mists of
The ordinary.

Bloody Women ( with apologies to Wendy Cope).

Bloody women are like bloody taxis
when you need one you just stand there in the rain,
when you don't, a score or more
surround you and complain

about every little thing you've done
that really don't deserve
the biting little comments
that eat into your reserve -

so what - you left the lid up
and forgot to pull the chain?
Who cares if the door's shut -
has the whole world gone insane?

Can't I take a pee
without incurring nature's wrath,
and when comes to that -
I may well take a bath!

I want to be the master
of this, my own domain -
but women seem to think it
a right and royal pain.

Still there are some compensations -
a women's gentle touch -
and I seem to find that with her -
I don't screw up as much.

So I suppose that bloody women
are like taxis in the rain -
you know that if you've got one
you're a winner in the game.

01-22-2006, 11:21 PM
I am a newbie to the board- wonderful, btw- and have been building up my courage to post here for too long now. I'm a lifelong poet- all of spent in the closet! So here goes, my calling cards to you all. . .


My white trash raising cateches up with me sometimes.
I forget my proper grammar, pretty speech,
lofty phrases, and college vocabulary.
You can only pretend for so long
before the past comes back
to chase you down.
I've got a little bit of my momma in me,
with a splash of Daddy thrown in for good measure.
And sometimes there's nothing better
than the sweet, sweet burn of rotgut tequila
streaming down your throat.
I try to avoid the christmas-light strung rooms,
where the smoke and music
wash over me
reminding of what
I was meant to be.
Occasionally I tumble
and allow myself to feel
the wicked pleasure
of being absolutely nothing.

My Childhood Park

Piles and piles of fallen leaves,
shades of autumn strewn about,
as if seen through a kaleidscope.
A playground swing hangs,
broken and half flapping in the wind.
Tires grace the land,
hanging from the bars,
stacked up like donuts wating to be eaten,
lined up perfectly for hopping.
Bicycle paths worn bare with use
encircle the park,
nearly hidden amonst
overgrown weeds and thistles.
Underneath the dilapidated picnic awning,
cushed beer cans scatter in the wind.
Glass crunches under my feet as I walk,
and no children play here anymore.

02-05-2006, 08:34 PM
I don't know if I have a style, unless maybe undisciplined is a style. In any case, I like how this one plays. Thanks to william for his help.

The Artist's Companion

I gaze amazed into truth
An image distorted, or not?
Bent bloated to thin
Chin over swollen lips
Is it I?

The matter echoed
‘Til rescue arrived

Saved, so brave, from inside
Torn from its mad grip
He cried...

It’s a ****ing spoon!

And, thwacked my sensitive mind.

02-06-2006, 03:42 AM
Interesting challenge to find something that's representative of my work. For the most part I write light, humorous verse, although lately I've been getting more into ballads. I love to tell a story in rhyme whether it's funny or sad. This piece is pretty recent and I actually wrote it with the intent to write music for it so it can be sung at Ren Faires and such.


My mother was a wise woman;
she gave me this advice:
If any man asks for your hand
you’d better not think twice.
Good men are few and far between
so don’t be hard to please.
You take what you can get, my dear
‘cause men don’t grow on trees."

"The men are always going to war
from paupers right to kings.
They get themselves done in that way
with swords and other things.
They bleed there on the battlefield
and lose their foolish life
when they could be quite safe at home
making whoopie with a wife."

"The ranks are thin when they return--
there’s not a lot to choose.
You take what you can get, my dear--
you hesitate, you lose."
And so I wed a highwayman
Whose riches, looks and charm
made any trouble worth the risk
that he might come to harm.

Yes, he was hunted by the law
but thought himself quite clever
I begged him to be careful
and he answered me, "Whatever."
The night he robbed the squire’s son
they caught him in the act,
took him to court, the judge pronounced:
"He’s guilty. That’s a fact."

My mother was a wise woman
And I took her advice
A highwayman asked for my hand
I didn’t dare think twice
Good men are few and far between
I wasn’t hard to please
I took what I could get, mama
Now he’s hanging from a tree.

02-12-2006, 07:32 PM
The more I read of my work, the more I am finding I do indeed have a style. :)

If I Were A Poet

If I were a poet
I would write in verse
And rhyme
Of long flowing silver
Night sky wanderings
Linking the moon
The soul and

If I were a poet
I would speak within
The heart
Of tiny goldfish
A glittering of hope
Beneath the endless
Grey drudge of

If I were a poet
I would sing the praises
Of beauty
Perfumed and powdered
With sweet auburn locks
Her milk white skin
Cascading gently across my

If I were a poet
I would piece together
My words
Waxed delicately and
Woven through
Reams of pulpy wood
Shuffled thoughts of injustices and

But alas, no poet am I
My muse instead
A colander
Filled with greenery and fluff
Unable to piece together
A single verse
The words, though eloquent in their escape
Through tiny vents they

I would write
I would, if only
I were a poet

03-18-2006, 02:27 PM
I wrote this piece specifically for this thread. I'm also posting it in the forum proper.


I. John Coltrane

He uncoils his hidden mood around you
conspires with you in plangent, aching peals
this is manhattan in the warm night rain
a dusky cloak of spotlight and smoke
he knows you never knew him
but he makes you feel
a love supreme
as he did

II. Miles Davis

He suspends light brassmute shafts around you
thrills you with a perfect, unplayed note
this is the calm, dark, rolling shifting ocean
a strange suggestion of absinthe and dreams
he changes colour's name
but he makes you see
kind of blue
as he did

III. Thelonious Monk

He fingerplinks out starlight sparks to wake you
teases you with cryptic, rightwrong chords
this is beatnik cafes in the afternoon
a glad note that your dreams are real somewhere
he defies evening's gravity
but he makes you cry
'round midnight
as he did

IV. Epilogue

They made their new, fantastic constellations
then showed us their exotic, brilliant truths
their temple is a cool, eternal universe
a vast kaleidoscopic jazz of sounds
they strode as living gods among us
and we were in that number
when these saints
came marching in

03-19-2006, 02:14 AM
It would be impossible for me to present a single poem that represents all my poetry as what I do is too varied. At times, I write strict rhythm and rhyme, while at other times I employ free verse, but often I'll write with a blend of the two. Most of my earlier poems were short to medium length, Most of my newer ones have been longer, (although, I have been writing a lot of Haiku and Senryu as well.

I seldom write anything directly personal as I consider that the province of "Verse" but often draw from personal experience to build poems on classic themes or Love, War, History, Philosophy and Social Criticism.

Here is a poem that encompases most but not all of those elements.


The Final Cycle

Cycles turn in an endless gyre,
As life renews like a phoenix's fire,
Always the same,
But always changing.

Am I in need of new images, then,
To express the changes that I see,
And if I am, What might they be?

How about, the "Horsemen" smirking
Above the spinning Earth.
In truth, they're flourishing more today,
Then in their prime.....

Or could it be that now's their time.

War is rampant.
New Diseases abound.
Famine is everywhere.
Death follows them around.

Not images I'd choose to embrace,
Yet, this might be their time and place.

Could the END actually be coming?

Prophesies of many kinds
Have said so for a long long time.
Revelations, Nostradamus, Edgar Cayce, and more,
The time lines on the Pyramids, the legends of folklore.

And the signs are there......

Depleted forests produce NO air.

Polluted seas CANNOT maintain
The bounty that they once sustained.

War never ceases,
Only moves around,
As men find new reasons
To cut each other down.

(Not to mention new ways to kill.....everyone)

Diseases are surfacing
For which we have no cures.
Medicines we trusted once
Are no longer sure,

And finding new solutions is
Much harder than before.

Icebergs melt., and oceans rise,
Crops die and famine starts.
New tectonics threaten
To tear the world apart.

If this be the final cycle,
Then, let it end in style,
Whether with bang or whimper,
For this ending's for all time.

Copyright (c) Fall 2003 James R. Hoye


Anya Smith
03-19-2006, 02:53 AM
This is my latest poem. It appears in one of my science fiction stories. I know the meter is not perfect, none of my poems are, but see what you all make of it.

Silent Voice

Worship not my splendid visage but my creations,

My astral tapestries, woven from bright strings and threads,

Jewels strung with love and care from my imagination,

Upon the worlds, I sow them to spread.


Worship not my name but that of my offsprings,

Their transient glory and lasting love, ephemeral sorrows and toils,

Sparks of perceptions in the celestial winds tossing,

Until they connect with the Silent Voice.


Fear not my Furies that shepherd you towards wisdom,

Tremble not beneath the echoes from the dawn of creation,

My blessing will grace you with a molecular Kingdom,

Yet the Silent Voice needs no adulation.

Norman D Gutter
11-20-2006, 08:40 PM
contents deleted by author.

11-20-2006, 09:29 PM
I write very different types of poetry in terms of style; rhymed, un-rhymed, free and form. Mostly what I write though is serious, often a bit sad or angry, but with a note of hope as well. I do best with philosophical pieces and strong emotions.
I'm not sure what I'd show as characteristic both of my writing style and personal character, that I haven't already posted, but I think this will serve well enough...


If I Should Fall

If I should fall today
and crash down into the abyss
Let them remember me for who I was
and scatter my ashes with the wind
If my time is at its end
and the sands have run out
Let them remember how I lived life
and was not afraid of dying

At that time –when my eyes close
in peace for one final time
Or unseeing stare out into the universe
When my hand is stiff and cold
Let them remember the steely gaze
that was ever tempered with joy
Let them remember the love that I had
for the simple pleasures of life

If my journey has ended
and I have nowhere left to go
Let them remember the proud strides
and the path I trod before them
For the dead carry no regrets
and I lived my life as I learned
So if you see me on the day of my falling
cry not for I fell for my dream


11-20-2006, 09:44 PM
Just a little ditty about addiction and my fairy tale mind-the two often go together


I know about pots
and ends of things
like rainbow's glossy slippery wings
nocturnal damp surrounds the land
where elves and fairies sprinkle dust
that loads my head and runs my nose
and cramps my lungs
to fill my heart
with sprites and mites and tiger toes

Doctor Shifty
12-17-2006, 05:13 PM
Much of my poetry is a processing of the stuff surrounding my life. If I have a calling card poem in that, then this one is its foundation.

Standing in Front of the Dragon Lady

Poem deleted - A few days on air is enough for this one.

01-10-2007, 12:51 AM
The Blaze

Set fire to my pen,
ignite my words
until they’re seared
into your memory.
When emotions smolder
and paper turns to ash,
sift remnants for lyrics,
pull verse from remains,
until inspiration sparks
and my pen is lit again.

01-15-2007, 08:11 PM
I sometimes write poetry when I am deep in thought but never on a regular basis. I tend to put too many of my own feelings about things into my poetry and it usually depresses me to write them. I find lately that I don't have time to write much at all and sometimes when I do have the time, I cannot get words to form on paper. I also find that once my thoughts on any particular poem I'm writing end, so does the poem. This poem reflects a lost relationship of one who couldn't move forward in life because of being stuck in a continual time warp of life's past and one who tried every way possible to make them see differently.


I looked but could not find you,
Waiting only for you to say what was in your heart.
Thoughts that were there, that could not pass the outer rims of your mouth.
Time passing by without resolve, time gone by so quickly.
Still I waited to hear the sound of your voice, telling of things unspoken.
Echoes resounding off the walls of great canyons, lighting fire in eyes so deep.
Emotions running over, taking no time to think of resolution.
Only pounding through the mind like millions of tiny insects, each having their own direction.
Waited for moments in time to share, for times to resolve those things unmentioned.
For they were stuck within a hardened heart of ice, not to be spoken of again.
Waited for you to resolve from within those things you hold most debilitating.
Patiently waited for time to heal that which is so great on your shoulders.
Time having no end, no force by which to nurture this heart.
Only a needing of which no amount of time could quell.
A vision, either together or apart.
Time to stop waiting - waiting for that which cannot be without resolve.

01-15-2007, 08:49 PM
I'll post 2 poems, (which I've posted elsewhere on AW). Most of my poetry is devotional poetry, religious in nature, but some of it is whimsical/humorous, so I'll post one of each. :) Both of these poems are very reflective of me and my life experience; the first one attempts to illustrate the profound love I have for Jesus Christ. The second one was actually written just a couple days after the critique group experience.

(Luke 7)

I crept into the room where they reclined;
Alone I stood as all began to eat.
My weeping eyes were fixed upon His feet,
And kneeling as the men with Jesus dined,
My hair with tears of gratitude entwined
Those feet o’er which I poured my perfume sweet.
With such a gift my worship was complete.
Yet as I rose the Pharisee opined,
“If Jesus were a prophet, He would know
The depths of sin in one who dared to touch,
And He from her would all acquaintance cease.”
My Savior’s answer caused fresh tears to flow:
“She loveth much who’s been forgiven much—
Your faith has healed you, daughter, go in peace.”

©2006 by Patricia S. Baker
Publication pending, Live


i handed out ten copies,
then broke out in coldest sweat;
how could i let them read these words—
i was no poet yet.

i can’t remember what was said
as they critiqued my poem;
but i could’ve kissed that guy who asked
if he could take it home.

©2006 by Patricia S. Baker
First published in Writer’s Journal, (Vol. 27, No. 6, p. 42)

01-15-2007, 08:53 PM
Though I'm hardly an active poet, I have managed to discover a personal style. I seem to gravitate toward short pieces with the barest fragments of images or thoughts. I think a very recent post sums me up the best (the original story can be seen here (http://absolutewrite.com/forums/showpost.php?p=1051772&postcount=1)):

Depending where you are it may be a quiet night.
Iowa snow,
something like that, is amazing.
But its Sunday.

You still have power.

(My favorite is still the one I did for Blue Rock. :))

02-20-2007, 11:41 PM
I'm usually a haiku girl, but I wrote this poem in a blaze of inspiration and have always felt it represented what I like best about poetry: tapping those raw emotions, going into the dark place and blowing it wide open. That's not to say it's perfect - I'm sure it isn't - but I would still hold it up as my best poetic effort.

The White Garden

There is a white garden thriving here that frightens me.
It isn't white with lilies or crocus or snowstar tulips.
There is no heady scent of jasmine or violet wafting through the air;
there are no orchids.
This garden isn't fragrant at all, actually.
Neither is it knit with beauty, colorless from snowfall or moonbeams,
or anything rooted in nature or poetry.
What it is is corpse white,
nuclear-holocaust white,
whites-of-the-eyes white.
Bloodcurdlingly white.

You can walk in this garden, though it's overgrown
and people have gone missing in its ratty maze,
disappeared completely.
White knuckled weeds choke out all that once lived and bloomed,
leaching all goodness from the soil until it's white, too,
like dry, caking clay,
embalmed earth.
Still, people go, though the Why of that
becomes more a mystery as time passes.
Maybe they don't believe it's as bad as it looks or as they've heard.
Maybe they think there's still hope,
that they'll find a four-leaf clover
--something, anything green and rich and alive—
hidden beneath the unnatural blanket.
Then they'll hold it up and cheer
and everyone will nod and say, "See! See?"
I think maybe their retinas are burned out by the glare of it all;
a decent excuse for blindness.
What other defense is there for missing the point entirely?

The gardeners are fanged and greedy beasts.
Hang them, or put a stake through their hearts.
They rarely appear, having moved on
to better flowing arteries than this;
certainly, I've never seen them tending to their plot of despair,
though I've seen them in it from time to time,
gazing with potted cheerfulness at their surroundings for the masses,
ignoring the crunch-crackle of some formerly living matter
beneath their feet
--dry stalk or bone; no matter; inconsequential.
"Isn't it purdy," one might say to the rest
and pluck at a white smear and call it a bloom.
He'd breathe in its unfragrance and sigh,
the great puppeteered idiot,
even while the vast fiction disintegrates in his hand.
White ashes drift up and stipple his nose,
and still the others nod and call it beautiful.

02-20-2007, 11:55 PM
Good 'un, Therese.

hermit authoress
03-03-2007, 10:59 PM
Although I still turn out poetry, it's very seldom that I'm moved to do so, saved for the most moving moments. Anymore, I save them for my own greeting cards. I felt it appropriate to post my first and last, repesenting my movement from strictly poetry and my discovered love of fiction. (IMAGINATION has a secret...can anyone guess?)

1983 - 13yrs

If I could love like poetry,
My words would never fall.
They’d bring to mind the beauty
And pain that’s worth it all.

If I could love like poetry,
In mists the sounds would echo
Far above the light year star,
To undersides of seas below.

If I could love like poetry,
No greater love, but God’s, there’d be.
My words would cover everything
From here to eternity.

When I can love like poetry,
I will have taken my last breath
For in this world it’s impossible
To explain those feelings in depth.

2006 - 36yrs

Without form or solid sound
In wind, flying around

Birds laughing, chairs spin
Box to brush - polka again

Shock, calm, or nothing at all
Holds only as long as its call

Do what you would, could, or might
Formula is out of sight

Sink in paint, blow rainbow sky
Unlock autumn to a spring dry

Crack hurt, all subsiding
Jump within joy inviting

Touching, holding, kissing - not stopping
Upon rain's pouring, dropping

Don a cloud or six atoms
As a crown, shining fathoms

Rid of ambition, catching flight
Vision onward throughout night

Drawing to a finish
Imagination hasn't limit

03-30-2007, 01:37 AM
I write. I love to write and do a good bit of poetry.
Here is one I wrote recently.......

A Wrong Turn
by carlylyn

I took the long way home today
not by design, but accident
although there wasn’t one, an accident, I mean.
I turned left instead of going straight,
something I have never done till this day,
but I am happy I deviated.

Though the road began well,
it soon became dirt packed; hardpan
smooth with large potholes
scattered about
like errant bolts of lightening had
struck in bygone days.

Driving slowly, with much attention
to the holes, (which looked big enough, at least some of them, to swallow my small vehicle)
I drove towards something, or away from something else.

The road narrowed and became less
like a road and more like
a cow path.
Which it was.

Encircled, surrounded;
bathed in a sea of black and white...
mesmerized by the lowing and groaning
crawling from large, smooth throats
the Order of the Udder,
heading to the barn for sweet relief.

The sea parted to my dismay;
I loved the helpless feeling…
swept away from the real world, I was
a sailor on an ocean of dipping and swaying
waves of potential cream and butter.

Quiet returned and I backed into a turnaround
heading out to my mistaken road and
turned left, once again
towards home.

Dogs barking and running,
children laughing in summer sun;
my family
my frolicking sea
my ocean of love
waves of potential poets and artists,
with perhaps a teacher thrown in for good measure.

08-11-2007, 08:13 AM
First time here. I write haiku sometimes.

you must forgive us
our endless scribbled crammed words
we abhor white space

08-31-2007, 10:26 PM
Of course my favorite poem is always the one that I have just written. Here is one from an exercise in the Poetry Games section "Fibonacci Turns". It says a lot about what I like and the games I like to play with poetry.


cools neck
combust fuse
pulse to finger tip
palpitating soul in union
flailed drum is me
flame heart she
flush we

09-29-2007, 12:42 AM
Disappointed dreams
broken like a looking glass
into seven years bad luck
and more
heartache heartbreak
pounding rhythmically
like the song

You came when he had gone
second glances
second chances
then puff
like the gasp of wind
that took my hat
silly, dusky straw hat
with a red paper sunflower
you left me standing
bare-hearted in the grass

Ali B
09-29-2007, 07:56 PM
Being in a military family means waiting for the phone to ring
It means changing friends with the seasons
And homes with the school year

Being in a military family means babies born without their daddy there
It means running to the mailbox
And finding a tattered letter postmarked three months ago.

Being in a military family also means pride
It means Independence Days that mean a little bit more
And Veteran’s Days that sadden and honor

A military family is strong.
A military family is durable.
A military family is resilient.

10-18-2007, 07:41 AM
October 17, 2007

Mostly enjoy doing poems for children, but I've done some literary poems.
Here's some poems for October and Halloween spirit.

Still learning the ropes.

Dracula's Tea

Count Dracula's fancy teapot

Is covered with bat wings and rot.

It bubbles and boils,

and gurgles like oil.

He serves his tea blood-red and hot!


Let's go to the skeleton dance,
where skeletons prattle and prance.

They dance the hip bone bump
where boney hip bones thump.

Their fingers, toes and ankles snap,
yakety-yak, their jaw bones flap.

Jingling and jangling bones
rattle so loud, they shake the stones.

When Rib-Cage Jones sings "Graveyard Rap",
tall black trees go tappity-tap-tap.

Giant brown bats whirl in the air.
Cats strut together by the pair.

Sliding, slithering, scaley snakes,
sway with the lyrics, beats, and breaks.

High pitched yowls ripple over the band,
from scraggy grey wolves who stalk with land.

Come one! Come all! Join in the bash.
Become part of the graveyard smash!

October Haiku

Yellow harvest moon

bountiful, plentiful shone

cornstalk amazement,

open meadows hum

lyrical melodies sing,

country lanes depart,

cool, eerie shivers

spin delicate moonlight webs,

mysticsm lives!

10-18-2007, 04:10 PM
Paralytic Paralipsis

I will not talk
of love caught up
when I can’t abide
expectation’s net

And never mind
my soul’s return
I think not of
its dividend set

I shan’t discuss
my fevered chills
but wrap my flanks
and expose them still

My mind won’t flip
around the noose
that tightens twice
around my will

I’ll plug my ears,
my nose, my mouth
but leave my heart
to detect your sigh

I’ll equivocate
but not confess
to a breast that feeds
my daily lie

10-18-2007, 04:24 PM
These were published in Rosebud Magazine in July. I can't call it my style, but it does contain my voice.

Haiku Literary Review:

Moby Dick

Whale sinks whaling ship

Captain and most of crew drown

A Greenpeace top pick.

The Iliad

An epic tale of

setbacks in naval custom:

Fleet follows the girl.

Gulliver’s Travels

Wee Lilliputians

and horse-like Houynhnms, yes,

but non-web Yahoos?


Flora and fauna

thrive for first couple. Tabooed

apple munched, snake wins.

Walden Pond

Man lives in cabin

Shuns quiet desperation.

Masses seek flush bowls.

For Whom the Bell Tolls

Tom blows up bridge and

makes earth move while making love.

Macho, macho man.


Being, not being

All major characters die

Fat chance of sequel.

Gone with the Wind

An uncivil belle

in a civil war is torn

between two rebels.

The Gift of the Magi

Lovely pair exchange

gifts. Go into hock before

birth of credit cards.

The Godfather

Flick-ready novel

Whacking-fest, but big roles saved

for mucho sequels.

A Christmas Carol

Miser cheats his help

Sees light and atones—unlike

Enron VIP’s.

The Purloined Letter

Sleuth finds swiped letter

without the assistance of

a Google dot com


Needs punctuation

Needs more familiar wording

Needs emoticons

The Great Gatsby

The Roaring Twenties.

Wealth, big bashes, mistresses

Few soccer moms here.

Catch 22

This is a great book

You’re crazy not to read it

“Why” you say? Don’t ask.

10-18-2007, 04:34 PM
Rich, I love all of these. Reading them was a nice start to my day.


10-30-2007, 10:14 PM
our smiles come easier
laughs last longer
kisses more passionate
our hearts beat quicker
bodies come closer
our hearts beat faster
love grows stronger
our hearts beat together.

Eliel Takavian
04-30-2008, 12:18 AM
I saw him then a boy
A blond leafed willow tree he grew
The apple of my eye

I saw him stand in strength
A wise man resolute
In justice rightly tempered
With grace and honor
Stamped upon his breast

The guardian I
And self appointed keeper of his soul
Would stay the hand of death
And give my life a sacrificial gift
But when the hour came to prove my worth
I shook with fear a thousand miles away

Then Heaven opened wide her yawning gates
And washed the beauty from the beautiful
The mighty arm of omnipotent God
Did rake and tear a furrow in my breast
Where once the fragrant willow blossoms bloomed
A weeping wound and ever-spreading stain

Curious then the freedom that I felt
When from the burning pit of grief I crawled
I found that death had straightly been deposed
The fear of death a childish afterthought
The memory of some near forgotten dream

And so with iron soul I hurry through
I throw life’s cautions to the rising wind
I laugh and cheer when day dawns into night
And Mother Black consoles me in her arms

I seek him now anew
Beyond the circles of this dying life
He waits in peace for me
The apple of my eye

04-30-2008, 01:49 AM
We Are

will bond us:
as this harmony
and melody flow together--
one sound from many--
one song: us.
we are

12-26-2008, 05:44 AM
Passing Life

Valiant hopes and noble dreams
Into youth the sunlight streams
Fervent passions, strength of earth
So distant is the day of death.

Hopes held high, the road ahead,
Consumes passions that were fed,
By wide-eyed, uncorrupted dreams
Confused, confounded by worldly schemes.

Fortune's frown, dreams slowly fade
Forgotten promises once made
Winds of time rage through strife
Winnowing the littered chaff from life.

Stand naked now, beyond the storm
See the past, the day you're born.
So long the journey that lay before
Now one last footstep - one last door.

Enter there and grateful find
Relief to the weary, stumbling mind
Forgive transgressions that were cast
And silence demons from the past.

Light-hearted youth that once had been,
Creeps silent behind the walls within,
Time the teacher - Life's struggle charity
Irreversible the slide - one goal - eternity.

In penance bow 'neath the weight of youthful indiscretions

And lament the passing innocence of dreams.

But new dreams will arise,

New visions of tomorrow

bnb © 2002

Fiat Lex
01-22-2009, 11:20 AM
I hope one day to have some sort of desk I can put this up on the wall behind, so people sitting on the other side of it can have something to read when not making eye contact with me.


bright metal melts away.
Attention is the hardest thing
to pay.

01-27-2009, 02:28 PM
The Good Ship Deek

No one looks at a ship
long at sea
and marvels at the gleam of its brass
or the snow-white purity
of its sails.
They see the strain
of a nor'eastern storm,
they see the brittle teeth marks
of cannon fire.
A man new to the sea may
tremble at such a sight.
The sailor of worth says
"She's been through it, and come back out.
Good sailing, mate,
Sail on."

03-28-2009, 07:56 PM
I just noticed that I forgot to post on this thread. I hope it's okay if I do it now. :D I just wrote this moments ago.

A Robin

A robin
has just landed
on my deck.

I like it
when I see
fat creatures.

Lets me know
not everything
starves to death.

05-03-2009, 09:05 PM
To be a Whore

The truth is never so dismal nor unset’ling
As when I’m granted all I desire from you
By the hand of he whose touch mean’s nothing.

I feel the heat overload
As the incessant motion of his revolting body
Becomes more than mine can bare.

Pain is all I feel,
As again and again his body thrusts so mercilessly against my own.

Pain is all you feel,
In the knowledge that so priceless a beauty should be another’s commodity.

Pain is what keeps us a part,
Making a mockery of all that we feel.

Oh, that you were the source of this pain insufferable;
That this infliction were cast by the hands that heal
No longer would each chapter of reality force the fantasy.

I keep your image securely locked in my mind’s eye
That my body may yield to all it must endure,
As his becomes yours and we are at last as one.

05-05-2009, 08:53 PM
I'm depressed, today. Don't know why. Feel like posting my bad poetry.

there is a calm
between anguish and fear
when all hope is lost
and time stands still
and in that void
there is no shame
there is no panic
nor even pain
for nothing can
steal inside
the tranquil refuge
where I hide
in quiet defeat
each time
he raises
his fist

07-23-2009, 10:42 AM

the long journey

the silence
of graves

a voice there
my sorrow

when I questioned
the wind
it gave no answers

the deer
the grass

note- When I was a young boy, I was hurt several times in the head. And there was the depression of home life we sometimes had to deal with. I think it all hurt my memory recall so now it comes in bits and pieces rather than a whole story.

I just learned to write poems with the bits and pieces. It suites my memory.

12-21-2009, 06:57 AM
They say my future follows on your past,
Commanded not to love you by the wise:
They say he never truly lives who lies
A captive still, and by your charms held fast:
Your warmth was torn by chilly morning air,
through daytime heat your image in my eye
would ever grow, would wane, would never die,
and with the night, you’d once again be there.
You took my life, and took away my breath;
You took my world, and left your words untrue.
No dreams are left I haven’t left with you,
And still you keep reminding me of death.
I’ve abdicated kingdoms for your sake:
And yet, and yet… I wish myself awake.

01-05-2010, 03:55 AM
The metal roof created rhythm in the dark room

She undress with rain drop mirrored on her skin from the street light

They ran down her body, like a crude living portrait of another wasted night

Maybe I would please her this time, she was leaving anyway

They all did, she was only a week in the hole, get out while your ahead I always say

I failed

She stayed

We smoked the last cigarette and the scotch was low

I loved a woman who drank scotch, just a splash on the rocks

I loved a women who smoked, long cigarettes, always holding it in her fingers, never her mouth

I think I liked her

She was a bit older but striking in appearance and a wretched good time in bed

Maybe I will see her undress again, long legs on my shoulders

She went to pick up cigarettes and scotch

It’s been a week

They all leave

02-26-2010, 12:40 AM
When your phone range at 4 A.M.
You knew someone had died.

You called me later with the news,
I listened as you cried.

"I've gotta be strong for the kids, you said
There's just so much to do."

We made a pact:
You'd make the plans,
And I would cry for you.

It broke my heart to see your hurt
To see the pain, the stress.


You survived that awful mess
Because I cried for you.

08-11-2010, 08:17 PM
I thought I thought a hint of endless,
Nameless on a walk.
The ocean bound from this Abyss-
Was just a passing thought.

I'm really not that depressing a person in real life, but that's all that comes out in my writing.

10-04-2010, 04:14 AM
this is who i am, it is the legacy my mother left to me (i was her caregiver till she died)

A Cozy Little Room

deep within lies a place for my mother
a place where she is no longer a victim
alzheimers cant find her anymore
within my heart is a cozy little room

she is whole she is young she is happy
there she resides in peaceful bliss
no more pain no more fears to worry her
within my heart is a cozy little room

yes i have enshrined my human mother
accepted her human ways she tried her best
gave her a place of honor for all she wanted to be
within my heart is a cozy little room

she was not perfect she knew this to be true
but she gave it a shot her very best she knew
and for that i honor her for i inherited her ways
within my heart is a cozy little room

she was my mother and i love her still
felt her regrets at her mistakes
felt her pride when she knew she did well
within my heart is a cozy little room

she didnt know the legacy she left me
but i am proud to be her daughter
knowing she was only human doing her best
within my heart is a cozy little room

10-04-2010, 05:04 AM
when I find I have something to say,
there's a certain and lyrical way
my words tend to go;
I write them, you know,
to the beat of A-A-B-B-A.

10-20-2010, 07:01 PM
The Epileptic Rap

Blink I’m here, Blink I’m there,
Blink I wake up anywhere.

Highway wind, filled with trucks,
Midnight seizure, Blink you fucks.

Piss my leg, wet my pants,
Think me lost, childish rants.

Till I shake, start to drool,
Blink it’s over, not so cool.

Blink I’m back, what did I do?
Hope it didn’t involve my poo.

I’ll be around, the next few hours,
Blink, forgot, did I have superpowers?

Cop on my face, Cop on my back
Blink mid-evil, back on the rack.

IV’s in, IV’s out, red lights blink and flash,
Blink again, broke I am, finances rest in ash.

Take a pill, no just one more,
Blink, awaken, on the floor.

Blink your Honor, it wasn’t my fault,
Blink your Honor, let’s call a halt.

I wasn’t asleep, it wasn’t a nap,
Blink I drove, doing the epileptic rap.


10-20-2010, 07:04 PM

Off the trampled path of Main Street,
beyond a swollen mountain creek.
A warmed and sheltered cabin,
Greenwood is the peace I seek.

Tangled limbs, a lust-warmed bed,
tattered souls in a moment with a mission.
Bodies piled between scattered sheets,
Greenwood has no bad position.

The softest of her pleasured snores,
fill the gaps between locked fingers.
The radio plays a country tune,
Greenwood shows joy still lingers.

Forest greens, and mountain blues,
the palette of a gentle soul.
Pain and loss burden her heart,
Greenwood helps to hide the toll.

Within this stony mountain town,
ancient gold and modern speed.
Families ripe with ravaged demons,
Greenwood feeds their festering need.

The beauty of this mountain town,
across generations of true love.
From deep within these people,
Greenwood grows as heaven above.


10-20-2010, 07:07 PM

A winter wind upon us,
Crystal, chilled silk bones.
Lust, no lonely orphan,
In manufacture of our groans.

Joys of youth, sands of time,
Pass slowly through the crack.
Aged genie, trapped in a bottle,
Life’s set, fades gently to black.

Material gain, material loss,
Get George Foreman's grills.
Magnetized cards, late night orders,
storage lockers, filled to the gills.

Broken families, raised by a village,
perhaps, battered by a spouse.
Credit floats the whole generation,
everything riding on the house.

From the bottom of the barrel,
Looking up, from where one lay.
Rot dreams of glorious youth,
The price we were forced to pay.

The barrel may be home or den,
Hell takes any kind of shape.
Looking up, from the bottom,
It still feels mostly like a rape.

Everyone may think us done,
America remains, just a rumor.
Who pulled down those towers,
You’re nothing but a Boomer.


10-20-2010, 07:12 PM
This poem serves as a preface/introduction to my published memoir titled, Webster Groves. I hope you enjoy it.

Search the Darkness

Standing silent, on the edge of life,
Alone amongst the crowd.
As laughter lays against my soul,
And the terror screams out loud.

Ride the banshee of loss and despair,
Briskly into the cold, dark rain.
Let loose the reins of the beast of Hell,
Ride firmly into the pain.

Search the heavens quick and fast,
Uncover the depths of Hell.
Prepare to ride, accept the costs,
For it’s yourself you will have to tell.

Stories lost, old tales left behind,
From a record you’re afraid to start.
In a library mixed with pain and fear,
In a volume called your heart.

Your soul screams out, an endless cry,
From the quiet darkness it calls.
“Come to me, end this journey,
For in life you have seen it all.”

But in our journey of life on earth,
False prophets trade in soiled goods.
The pain and horrors of the journey we take,
Need merely to be understood.


11-03-2010, 03:16 PM
my poem the first one
dont wanna write
flying kite
wanna have fun enough for my diet
idea strike
goodnite goodnite.

01-13-2011, 02:34 AM
Sorry for the 'station break', William Haskins initially started this thread as a spot where contributing poets to the AW forums could post a selected piece, or pieces, that the poet represented their style. Thank you to all who have contributed.

I'm sad to admit that it took me FOREVER to discover there is a complimentary thread where discussion on these poems takes place, you can access that with the link William provided in the very first post of this thread.

Just saying. (I'm also on a mission to bump up every thread that I see that has sat for awhile and has been inactive.) :)

01-29-2011, 11:48 PM
This looks like a great spot to park a video I made of NeuroFizz's poem, "Shadow to Shadow." (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cbFu_GvCjRQ) Enjoy.

Thanks, Rich, for letting me play.

02-01-2011, 08:57 PM
Awesome piece of mixed media incorporating such a great poem. Thanks for sharing this piece....very exciting to see this kind of stuff!

02-27-2011, 07:23 AM
Fire and ice surge through my veins
Breathe into me and feel my pain
Angst and anger, teeth and claws
Rake my body with velvety sharp paws

The temperature rises as we intertwine
Bite my ear, whisper “you’re mine”
Heaven is a place of light and fire
Burning passion and flaming desire

Melt the ice inside my soul
Hold my tightly, heal the cold
Be a master of the pain
Stare into my eyes and feel no shame

Gasp in agony, scream in fury
Pain is required to get the purity
Sink your teeth into my skin
Watch me scream with an unholy grin

Colors flash behind closed eyelids
Bodies move as the passion rises
Move together, hard to breathe
One in our striving to be complete

Danielle Notaro
03-05-2011, 02:31 AM
Hi Folks, newbie to this site. Been writing and acting a long long time. I resisted computers for a long time. Finally got one 2002 to submit a screenplay. The library ladies taught me the basics of computers. I haven't advanced much further. I did just get a Flip video camera and uploaded poems and vlogs on You Tube. If you want head over to see/hear them. If that's not cool. I'll post something here. Thanks, Danielle


03-23-2011, 09:28 PM

A world of form and function, bind
you take the time, you draw the lines
to toil at work in wearied bone,
immortalized in works of stone,
And yet the wind doth weave her way,
eroding that we wish to say,
our whispered prayers,
our last despair,
to face the end in hopes she cares,
And will she take our memory?
Of course! It is our eulogy.

04-01-2011, 02:05 AM
Hope this one's OK to post ...........

You Walk On By

I'm sat in my pen
With people all around
Wondering who to look at
I look at you
But you walk on by
Without a glance.

I'm sat here, lonely and afraid
Looking out at you
But you don't seem to notice me
And you walk on by.

I'm sat here wondering
If any of you will look at me
But no
You walk on by.

I'm still sat here waiting
For you to take me home
My old life was hard
But not as hard as watching you
Walk on by

I can't help my fear
I can't help my past
So I wish you would
Stop and look at me and
Not walk by

I've been here so long
Watching all of you people
But you don't notice me so
You walk on by

04-25-2011, 02:52 PM
First poem I ever wrote; never had no training either.

Randolf Hirst

I done a poo
It looked a little like you
I wrapped it up
In a muslin sack
And framed it in the Louvre

04-25-2011, 06:00 PM
I'm just starting out and learning the basics so perhaps I don't really have a style yet but here is a pair of Rubais I penned in the summer sun at Coventry train station on a topic close to my heart:

Through bottle’s mouths the gods in eddies twirl
In heavens glass the amber liquids swirl
Sweet vapours rise on heat the hands bestow
And into Bacchus’ cosy arms I curl

Its fear; the thing that feeds death to the heart
That makes a hope to halt before it starts
You never know from where the spectres come
But of the cure the demon drink is part

02-04-2012, 12:14 PM
The Contented Road

In every town you'll find me --

Sprawled, cluttered, empty, straight.

Way that ties the world,

uninvited guest beneath crusades and pilgrim's knees.

Bearer of the hearse and slow steps that follow.
Resting place of parting tears.

Escape and the way home,
I am the journey others take --

I am the road.

By Jaymee Bennett

Al Stevens
02-05-2012, 05:19 AM
This was a poem first, then I put music to it.

A Mockingbird Sings

A Mockingbird Sings from an old tall pine tree,
It seems that her songs are meant only for me,
She sings when I'm happy, she sings when I'm blue,
Why is it that she makes me think about you?

Like you she is distant, won't let me come near,
Flies away when I try to draw closer to hear,
But she'll sing all day long if I just stay away,
Like you her aloofness holds my heart at bay.

Why am I expected to stay in my place?
Why must you and she keep me out of your space?
Why can't I give back some of what you can do?
A song for her highness, another for you?

Each twilight she leaves the old tree by my dunes,
Goes somewhere to someone to sing some more tunes,
Perhaps she finds you and sings down from your tree,
I wonder if she makes you think about me.

Come morning she's back and she reclaims her site,
Not knowing or caring how I spent the night,
She measures my mood, picks a fitting refrain,
And raises my spirits and eases my pain.

Songs without number, each one just as nice,
As the other, and never does she sing one twice,
But her notes touch my soul, and her soul breaks my heart,
'Cause we've not been as one, yet we'll ne'er be apart.

A Mockingbird Sings from an old tall pine tree,
It seems that her songs are meant only for me,
She sings when I'm happy,
She sings when I'm blue,
Why is it that she makes me think about you?

02-12-2012, 06:53 AM
I'm not certain I'm particularly gifted when it comes to creativity on the fly--though I do have occasional flashes of inspiration. However, if you give me a bit of your yarn and a pattern I find I can usually knit up a clever bit of wit--a reflex, really, developed only after a few decades of reading and typing. I figure I've got at least a few decades left to develop this copyist reflex into something more original. In the meantime, you'll usually find me getting side-tracked in places like the triolet trail (http://www.absolutewrite.com/forums/showthread.php?t=221488).

Nymph on a Railing

See the nymph on the brink
feeling no trace of fear.
Looking cold in hot pink,
see the nymph on the brink.
Cars crash. Boys crack. Eyes wink.
Twirling strands of rock hair,
see the nymph on the brink
feeling no trace of fear.

Is it wrong to protest:
"Is your mother around?
Does her absence attest?
Is it wrong to protest
she did not do her best
carving into that crown?
Is it wrong to protest?
Is your mother around?"

See her stoic, hard look
scanning rooftops,
wristwatch, hand bag, that book.
See her stoic hard look
at that woman with hooks
hanging signs on thrift shops.
See her stoic hard look,
scanning rooftops:

"Mother minds her party--
not so much this railing
Daddy gilt so smartly.
Mother minds her party
favors for her gentry
come to bid her sailing."
Mother minds her party--
not so much this railing

constant nymph of concrete.
Seagulls, vultures, gargoyles,
lurk in darkness, discrete
constant. Nymph of concrete,
eye-lined, shadow-thick streets.
Daddy's rich ore hard-boils
constant, nymph of concrete
seagulls, vultures, gargoyles.

04-26-2012, 12:57 PM
Ours Poetica

Let us examine the scythe-toothed
poem, the maw on it: yellow, first of all
functional. If we speak of the poem, let us
pitch our voices low: that it might not overhear us.
Let us be reticent with our praise: let us note the poem’s
heft and lunge, the lumber and staggering
bulk of it. But climbing a spruce pine
to the thrall of bee-hymn, bowing
to morning, O, distant improbable flea
on a single Godhead hair:
let us remember the awe in it.

05-03-2012, 08:41 AM
Well this is
Recluse rehab for
Minds warped, cracked, twisted, scattered like
A city conquered,
Ready for repair

02-05-2013, 01:09 AM
This looks like a great spot to park a video I made of NeuroFizz's poem, "Shadow to Shadow." (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cbFu_GvCjRQ) Enjoy.

Thanks, Rich, for letting me play.

Oh this is lovely!

06-16-2013, 02:29 AM

He sat in the dark
Keeping warm over a fire of images
And no matter what colors
Flickered through the glow
His face stayed blue

Influential Ecstasy

I’ve built my life around chasing moments of influential ecstasy
The euphoria that springs from the pages of great books
The ache that follows a song whose lyrics you don’t even understand
Those epiphanies brought on by clouds of marijuana smoke

In the midst of these throes of the abstract


Everything falls into place

Or I resign myself to the chaos that reigns wild

William E. Harlan
06-16-2013, 07:28 AM

There is something in our words, when heard, that releases, increases meaning between us and opens our eyes upon the rhyme.

Words will say blood, lust, honor and love with truth thrust up fast past the last one for weight while measured close for beauty and time.

They are blind signs to bind minds with nothing but the least and most important thing, breath.

Bright lights of life to drive another's thoughts with their lines and touch them inside with what we've said.

Our words are our reflections in sound and reveal more than we intend. And though we may abuse and bend them we are bound to them and let ourselves be found.

10-28-2013, 02:18 PM
Hm... this is titled "Marionette"

I loathe time
Try to fall asleep
Count back from 1000
And end up at 2015
Never claimed to be good at math
Never asked to be a doormat

I'm tired of lying
And tired of hiding
The void inside of me
It shows no sign of dying
And this one ain't on me
No, this one's not from my lead
You each took what you needed
Till my heart barely beat
A thin, struggling melody

Lift your head, baby, you might just hear

Yet I'm still firmly standing
Isn't that's what's so shocking?
And you, you're still a-pulling
All of those thin little strings
But guess what, dearie?
This little marionette girl
Always saw those thin little strings
And one by one, she kept snipping
Snip snip snipping till she was free

Lift yourself up, girl, the world is within reach

But if the war is over
If this war was won
What's left of the survivor
But the personas she's worn
And is that why she looks so very lost
And is that why she seems so very torn
She just keeps saving everyone else
It's her nature now, all she has left
But this here now is the final test
Of if she can allow for help
Of if she will save herself

Oh, everyone, hold your breath

12-24-2014, 10:00 PM
This is my older style:

When the fae, fly away,
To the land of, nevermore,
Reaper’s words, have no sway,
Words one can’t, ignore,
In the land of, nevermore.

When the fields, turn to grey,
One listens to, a wolves bay,
As it howls to, nevermore,
Singing words, one can’t ignore,
In the land of, nevermore.

One longs
for the Sun’s
shining ...

light, it
glows only
in wake.

Heed these words, do take,
No more land of, nevermore.

Nevermore is a recurring setting in my work. Shepherdess Song is technically more current. But it's so experimental, I wasn't sure if it was worth showing.

08-23-2015, 04:45 PM
People of Australia

People of Australia, please stop, and try to understand
From fathers strong and brave we came, they pioneered this land,
Hang your heads in shame and weep at what we are today
Let us take a look at how life was before we became this way.

Our children once played outside with toys, had lots and lots of fun
No wires hanging from their ears, nor those of Dad or Mum,
A cardboard box, a piece of wood, a house built up in a tree
Their imagination made these things a pirate ship at sea.

Our mothers washed our clothes by hand, worked hard for me and you
Now we need a ‘Smart Machine’ that tells us just what to do,
And our steam irons have an IP address, now that’s a real must
Did we truly once use our hands, to sweep and clean and dust?

Once T.V sets (if owned at all), beamed proudly black and white
No choice of fifty channels, on which to waste our sight,
There was a time when mobile meant to walk and run around
Now all we hear everywhere, is the latest Ring tone sound.

Clothes were made to last and last, and then passed down the line
The quality was very good, and the workmanship was fine,
Lovely garments strongly made, we wore those clothes with pride
No three months of cheap imports, which soon get thrust aside.

There was a time when payday meant, our cash was paid out by hand
We loved to hold those notes and coins, now that was something grand,
And do you recall when women were so proud they worked at home?
Their incomes were not needed to pay out the mortgage loan.

Much is wrong in this land of ours, when you hear your neighbours say:
‘Your Christmas Tree offends me: just remove it right away!’
And the politicians they do forget those who placed them there
Too busy with their limousines and beauty parlour hair.

Now there’s Political Correctness, goodness, what a shocking term
But it has a very real tragedy; our children will not learn,
When books are changed in fear of any term that might offend
They no longer print the words that the original author penned.

If we give the vote to ID cards it will be the first step down the track
To our freedom gone and we won’t know until we want it back,
What fools of us the world wide that Millennium Bug did make
Panic all around the globe, we thought our lives at stake.

It has become a land of want, of rush and stress and greed
We have moved so far away from what we really need,
What would happen to us all, with one EMP burst from space?
Back to the stone-age life we’d go, and perhaps a state of grace?

So people of Australia, please stop and look back down the years
Our fathers pioneered this land for us, toiled with blood, sweat and tears,
Hang your heads in shame and weep at what we are today
Because people of Australia, we have surely lost our way.

09-04-2015, 07:42 PM
For Robert Kipniss

leaves limn

night falls

tones of
the solitude

ghost like
the quietude

10-21-2015, 11:26 PM
I posted this one in another thread, but I think it represents me.


in the cradle
of sturdy tired arms
your head

no longer baby, not yet child

legs draped over my thighs
touching ground

I sigh
kiss your hair

I cradle closer
though rocking is past
I miss you
even while you are still mine

02-09-2016, 11:51 AM
(Hope it's not too late too add on to this thread. This is a new piece for me. It's a little out of my typical style, but more suited to reading than my typical spoken word pieces.)

I am comprised of nursery rhymes
School photos with bobbed off hair
A thousand and one Christmas dresses in plaid and velour
Worn squirming with my polished patent soul.

My mother's voice drags me into the past
With half remembered quaitrains
From midnight storybooks and tattered tales.

If I have ever existed it is
Comfortably caged by childhood memories
Bedtime stories and
School Picture Day and
Christmases more ancient than my eyes.

Every day I fade in the mirror
Collapse into pieces of poetry like entropy.
The rhyme is all that remains when the reason disappears.

Poems are ghost stories
And if ghosts exist in these pentameter parameters
I am the spirit I would most like to meet.

02-10-2016, 02:44 AM
Now that this thread has been bumped, I might as well contribute. This one of mine probably comes closest to the spirit of the OP, as I understand it.


I bristled
when he came too near,
.....severed roses
...........in his hand,

he would
cut me down,
haul me to his parlor
.....pruned to fit,
.....shedding needles
...........bit by bit,
.....burdened with baubles
...........hung by children,
.....bowed beneath
...........his ceiling,
.....bound between
...........his walls.

That was not my plan.

I dug my toes into the soil,
sprawling wide
.....and reaching high.

I grew tall
.....and proud.

Years coiled round
.....and marked me,
.....thickening my skin.
One by one,
.....they passed me by.

I stand surrounded by sky
.....and barren ground

and I wonder,
when I fall
if I will make

.....a sound.

03-04-2016, 03:17 AM
This was written in room 587 of the Sandman Hotel in Kelowna, a few nights before Christmas; these were the last great memories and fun times with the woman who near-destroyed me. That I am able to look at them now is a marvel. I give no promise as to their worthiness amongst all your works here...but the image should be apparent. Hopefully.

Hidden Pieces

There are pieces of the night,
between the sheets a resonance.
A star hidden in the darkness of
our spent silence.
And in the heavy room
where light is trying double-hard
to gain our companionship,
to play awhile longer at some sort
of game that involves a deck of
cards and alcohol,
we'll let it follow far behind,
let it wait until we throw our cries
from five floors to a waiting lot
We are all children in our hunger,
in our expectation.
We are all nervous of what
is unwell,
and lies hidden weakly behind
the kindness
and the sweet word.

03-04-2016, 02:18 PM
Just realised I never posted in this thread. So here we go:

a grove, a wall, and an aeroplane

Raindrops sprinkled down from the pine tops,
painting the dirt track ahead, while the moon
guided us back to the old country road...
each forward step, an October undone—
our friended lips met—teen lovers again.

We stopped to sit on a crumbling wall
and played at spotting a shooting star,
but settled instead for an aeroplane
to grant that teen lovers could remain.

The grove behind, secreted away,
is where, as kids, we warmed our hearts with cider
and dared to dream of a world beyond
the trees—a world where you would hold my hand,
whisper our future: teen lovers always.

any other place

If I had known of any other place
(a woodland grove, or perhaps speckled cliffs)
to serve as a backdrop, and if I’d shared
that place, would you have stood in front of it?

If I had known the path that led toward,
or to a stretch nearby, could we now say,
‘forget such foolish ifs’, and live instead,
passing by the moss and rock of day-by-day?

Yet, just as the tides eat away the shore,
a remnant thought corrodes the path we took
while clambering vines struggle forth to adorn
the what-if place we never stood before—

and if you could believe in such a place
as where we are, would you still walk with me?

for Demi

To know that slumber could never take you
(that hushed words meant a single caress,
or one last second with you to my breast)
nor angels, smiling, could fold their wings,
I would submit to silence: psalm, spoken
between moments chained to culled breath—
augmented melody in recall, and yet
never allow my weary lids to shy.

There is no truth to find in peaceful rest,
no peace in pressing the day from my head,
but in darkness, I wait to hear—and long
for your disruption: nothingness in song.

For in the tune of your timid somethings,
I could surrender to a lullaby.

I often pretend to see her dancing

I often pretend to see her dancing
at twilight, between stars where light refuses
to lift — she twirls against the ether
while the cool evening patina resolves
to degage in blotted words on a page.
I misprint moments pooled in spilt ink,
and allow for ripples to plie —
the ephemeral ballet then seeps soft
behind the nocturnal eye as movements
that never were and never will be
again; tenderly, the veiled tendu
turns the final step, and the phrase is clear.

I often pretend to see her dancing
at twilight, pas de deux with sunken verse.

a dream of Mumbles

With our heels pointed toward the distance,
we watched the moon shatter across the pier
and promised we'd find each fallen fragment
no matter where the night would seek us.

Through December's familiar retention,
each turn saw shards lost beneath faded touch
and silence now steals us from the teenage cwtch
when the sky was ours for the keeping.

Yet, always recalled to the promenade
where age has altered memory's store-front —
we will never cash in our cosmic pieces
nor sandy heels for their distance covered.

We linger, embraced beyond sound's reach
in a dream of Mumbles on the horizon.


That should do.

04-30-2016, 06:37 PM
I write a lot of non-fiction poetry and historical poetry. I'm waiting on possible publication for this one. I have a Harriet Tubman poem I need advice on, which was my motivation for coming here :)

[INSERT Self Portrait Along the Borderline Between Mexico and the United States, 1932 by Frida Kahlo]

This is an early self-portrait by Frida Kahlo, three years after her marriage to famous Mexican painter Diego Rivera. Rivera achieved renown in Mexico and the United States, which brought the couple to the states so Rivera could create large commissioned murals in New York City and Detroit. Kahlo was relatively unknown as an artist in her lifetime. Rivera and the press referred to her as Carmen Rivera. She preferred Frieda, but the name evoked thoughts of Nazi Germany. She later removed the ‘e,’ calling herself ‘Frida’ so as to sound less German.

Frieda Kahlo, Standing Along the Borderline of Mexico and the United States

Covered in blood and cheese, purple,
I came into hot lights, black curly hair, brown arms,
screaming, writhing, fighting—
Two hemostats clamped and then between,
a doctor cut a pearly, blue cord.

My given name, Carmen,
Now born a Rivera,
I still scream, mierda, fight—
I cannot find myself.

I chose Frieda,
which extends from silver nostrils
like large, flat paint bristles
and burns like noxious gas,
crossing, sharp edges—
abrupt halt.

1925, there was a crash.
¡Ay! ¡Dios!
Shattered glass suspended midair,
One moment—
a grand chandelier sparkled brilliantly in the sunlight,
before turning to sand whipping over jagged, hard peaks—
arms and legs made right angles amidst screaming.
Then I felt it—
a hot, sharp metal piercing into my soul.

A fertility god lay broken at my feet,
dead as my womb, dead as calaveras
dancing before tamales, mole negro, pan de muerto.

I look to the Aztec sun,
rojo, blanco, verde.
The cacti flower and their roots
reach deeper into the earth
for water,
for life.

Plumes of black clouds
block the scorching heat as
steel and glass rise from the earth
like sequoias.

I cannot see myself.
I blow like a seed among rocks, thirsty,
I cannot see the sun.

05-21-2016, 10:51 PM
Britons Afire

Poison, a means to this so bitter end.
Stand defiant around death. No pikeman
Will your flesh and at last your spirit rend.

The first rape ichorous upon your tongue:
Virgin women, your nation, your daughters.
Too many and more final dirges sung.

War-painted faces, same daughters reclaim-
Ambush, metal and wood crack. Success.
Travel further. A rape for a rape. Flame.

Camulodunum burns. Reinforcements.
Escape, to the plain. More to take, to free.
More soldiers seen, call upon the ancients.

Phalanx finds Celt fury. Willing to die.
death for briton death for life death for rage
Slaughter- Retreats- Viscera- Fear cry.

O, Warrior Queen, drink the loss of Celt.
Poisonous hatred crashes through the veins
In your slowing heart: every crime felt.

Fall, Boadicea. Your fight is done, lost.
Roman and Celt in arms. Honor the cost.