Calling Card Thread (Poems by AWers)

William Haskins

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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 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.

-william
 
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elisadasilva

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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.
 

Susie

Thanks, special friend for my avi!
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---

I'm going to send "The Streets" poem out for publication.
 
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kdnxdr

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The Indictment: Shievo in Two Parts

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.

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

MacAllister

'Twas but a dream of thee
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heh--Just cuz William asked so nicely

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
sorry,
I'll try not to do this to you
too terribly often.
 

A. Hamilton

here for a minute...catch me?
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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
 
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JennaGlatzer

wishes you happiness
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Requited

Tracing I love yous on your shoulder
Nonchalantly
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

9/3/03
 

Nateskate

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Somewhere in the mountains
Legacy

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.
 

zarch

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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.
 
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JAlpha

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The creation of my haibun poem, Break Away (published on Flashquake)
http://flashquake.org/archive/vol4iss2/nonfiction/breakaway.html
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.
 
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Perks

delicate #!&@*#! flower
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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
 

Cassie88

Make mine a double entendre
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I feel my last two poems - A Memory That Stays - Sisters
represent some growth -

Memory
http://absolutewrite.com/forums/showthread.php?p=357009#post357009
Sisters
http://absolutewrite.com/forums/showthread.php?p=378826#post378826

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.
 
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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:
 

unthoughtknown

practical experience, FTW
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Makes more sense to me than anyone else but anyway...


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 -
well,
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...
 
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KTC

Stand in the Place Where You Live
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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,
Aimlessly
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.
 

mommie4a

Mother of All Addictions
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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.
 

Eveningsdawn

Just Sing.
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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.



Untitled
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.
 

mkcbunny

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The only poems I have written are part of mixed-media pieces. You may peruse some of those from long ago here: Archive. 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.
 

rhymegirl

It's a New Year!
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An Apple's Life

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

Paint

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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.


Yellow

Yellow
Warm
Rays

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
Paint
 

LieselGarmach

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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

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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.
 
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