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Posted: 9/14/2007 2:21:31 PM | Erik's Book of "Not So Well Known Quotes" shares;
L.A. Gangbanger after two houses fell on him during the 97 quake. "Get off me homes!"
- Erik -   | |
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Posted: 9/14/2007 2:53:44 PM | Erik's Book of "Not So Well Known Quotes" shares;
From Magnus regarding facing a smaller army without any spear or pikemen: "Their resistance is pointless!"
- Erik -   | |
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Posted: 9/14/2007 3:46:36 PM | index finger red
pinky finger blue
thought I'd finger paint a painting
...just for you
my toaster broke
what the fvck am I gonna use to wipe up the egg yolk?
I guess that we'll just have to cut up this cantelope
you need to get your ass on a boat
I might have colored fingers
and I may or may not own a bonger (two)
but, my fingernails are surgeon brilliant
look like I cleaned them with iodine, I tell ya
Esher's brain sliced in 1/2 by his own pondering
you know who I mean, the acid head that twisted his face into a reflection thing
I really liked the way he didn't care...
hope you don't mind that I put that here | |
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Posted: 9/14/2007 6:02:39 PM | Erik ...Webster's nemisis come true....
BD...brail speak sparks the imagination...doesn't it? LOL | |
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Posted: 9/14/2007 6:06:58 PM | Tele-pathically UnHallmark (for a sparrow)
Your voice moving
my fingers like
an Ouija Board pointer
I swallow the receiver
touching body Verbs
connecting nerve
to aching nerve
Keep talking…
…………….
…………….
! | |
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Posted: 9/14/2007 6:20:23 PM |  
Your voice within the hollow
sends a desperate sound of solid
Something like a family tradition
please don't make me scream redemption!
Do you think I love this life?
So much full of hurt and strife?
Let me tell you I am full....
and so damn sick of the bull!
Grab yur hat...get it on..........
we will sing the happy song!
Love is not just of a man!
You left us all....here..
not the plan!
Come on sparrow...
get chur wings....
before the fat lady sings!
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Posted: 9/14/2007 8:22:56 PM | | Jules...you have the biggest heart! | |
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Posted: 9/14/2007 8:23:40 PM | Not big like Montana
Just five small acres, still
The dreaming eye projects
your gentle footprint
walking border pines;
willowy meadow grasses
anticipate your will
Seasons transform
the Waiting
building future memories
Legends stacked like
firefly colonies
paying homage
to the source
The moonfinger shadow
stretches into the night
penetrating downy
architecture
and the forest
wakes | |
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Posted: 9/14/2007 10:35:38 PM |  L., you are a real friend! Hugs and may I call in another friend? C. , you need to come and read....know we love ya...and yes...we all bleed!
Torturous winds fall upon
one whoms heart cannot recall
For all the life..and love we live
many more to their souls give
another place
another day....
This is what we try to display
for without hope...
there is no end
without love........
nothing real to send!
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Posted: 9/15/2007 2:04:47 AM | Erik's Book of "Not So Well Known Quotes" shares;
Ricardo Montebal as Mr. Roarke while taking over a neighboring Island to Fantasy Island: "Hey everybody,... I wan' you to meet my little friend!"
- Erik - | |
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Posted: 9/15/2007 5:06:11 AM | I love your poems. What's the name of this one?
Terri | |
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Posted: 9/16/2007 7:29:43 PM | irony
promises
you dont
forget
forever love
you promised
me
promise
still we keep
separately
living flames
remembering
we
LS 9/8/07
first, last & Om's Palms | |
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Posted: 9/16/2007 8:16:42 PM | re: Not Big Like Montana
Hey you!
This is Nice!
Talent shines in many forms. some of us are writers, some are singers, some are musicians.
You write with a violin. Thats talent!
-m- | |
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Posted: 9/16/2007 8:25:02 PM | Jey Sari
I close my eyes,
so that I may see...
We begin anew;
visions ribbon reality.
I smell your hair,
it takes me home.
Nothing else
brings sanctuary.
By the window; posed,
a sheet robes your body.
Robbing me of God's trophy.
But a shoulder, exposed;
enticing, embrace me.
My lips caress the offering.
-Misty evening,
the moon is blue.
Each man alone,
dreams of you.
Jey Sari,
Nude was meant for you.
All the rest, regress, into nakedness.
Closer now, my eyelashes paint
your body in blush.
I press my cheek to your beast.
The warmth, pulsing, rythmic and
trancelike, intoxicating.
I'm caught within the awe of you.
A touch, you spin, a swing;
my shadow's your canopy.
Teasing, moonlight veils your eyes.
My ballerina, gracelike across the floor.
The sounds of your night, sighing;
You possess us, me and the moon.
To the window;
to the moon I nod.
Carry on, solitude.
At least you glimpsed
what the rest only dream.
Then my eyes,
caught sparkling;
within the awe
of you.
* | |
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Posted: 9/16/2007 10:20:20 PM | Hi everyone! Was out flying birds all day and came home to see the forums back! Yeah!
Jules: Always sending good thoughts out to the universe...you are a celestial being.
Erik: Bozz Bozz...the plain???
818lynn: Welcome! Thanks for stopping in! Not sure who's poem you are referring to but if it's mine, the last one is called "Not Big As Montana".
Brizo: The best promises are...kept! Thanks for posting that here!! Hug.
Soulbane: Thanks M. I think your poetry is mellifluous too!
By the window; posed,
a sheet robes your body.
Robbing me of God's trophy.
But a shoulder, exposed;
enticing, embrace me
visually stunning! | |
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Posted: 9/17/2007 9:32:08 AM | Erik's Book of "Not So Well Known Quotes" shares;
( An actual quote this time ) King Diamond of the self named Heavy Metal band: "Dont do drugs,...... the music should do it all for you!"
- Erik - | |
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Posted: 9/17/2007 9:52:29 AM | Erik...good quote but, weird... I don't even take Tylenol for a headache... | |
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Posted: 9/17/2007 9:54:47 PM | Judge Dread
How much is too much
And who decides
someone else’s enough
is not even close
Is it greed when
the indifferent beg to see
If you’re hobbled is a cane
Just a crutch to lean on
Can you with absolute certainty
gauge the length of the noose
that hangs around anyone’s neck
Or assume the weight
of the cross they carry
is bearable
Is an accidental tragedy more
worthy of a sympathetic eulogy
than a gut wrenching death
from cat-scratch fever
When does adding one more
blood thirsty straw
to a fractured measure
tip the scale | |
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Posted: 9/18/2007 8:56:17 AM | In my perfect world
I’d take a hall pass on
institutional beige days
when barely a nod
is spoken
like an eighth grade dance
in an old gymnasium
Me on one wall, you
on the other
I’d rather inhabit the
orange sunset of
breakfast in bed days
we spoon feed
each other a laugh,
a new poem and
miss half the movie
when you lift me up so
I can scratch your back | |
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Posted: 9/18/2007 7:03:09 PM | - HUNTING HAWK -
Look to the sky and see the hawk
Dropping in stoop like hardened rock
Look to the hare that swift evades
Racing for broke to find the glades
Like a great fighter jet watch her fly
Talons extended, hare doomed to die
Look at the hunter so strong and fleet
Manteling prey beneath raptor feet
- Erik - | |
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Posted: 9/18/2007 7:55:17 PM | Thanks Erik, I love a good Hawk poem.
Hey, have you ever seen a hawk catch a tiny little piece of something mid air. We play that game at the centre. The hawk is usually sitting in a nearby tree and as we call him, we toss a thumbnail piece of meat high into the air. The hawk never misses. It's amazing fun only unlike playing fetch with a dog...we never get the meat back (and the audience really likes it ) | |
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Posted: 9/18/2007 8:41:59 PM | I really liked "In My Perfect World"!
Simple words structured into a solid standing personality of its own.
and, thorough!
Great job with that one!
-m- | |
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Posted: 9/18/2007 8:47:35 PM | I haven't learned the art of brevity, yet.
With that said...........
Grey Woman
She sips ten dollar wine
orange-red, with its quiet fire
from an eighty dollar goblet.
One never soaped, just rinsed
and sat over the sink.
Too soon again, cold will force
her to come drink.
Her gown is old cotton.
Frail seams have begun their outward spiral.
One tear, over a thigh, where
she caught the corner
of the great oak table.
When running circles
from a mad lover-man
laughing, eyes wildly flashing brilliance.
Knowing the inner-workings
of a man, madly, working.
But that, that was when? Ago.
Tonight she sits, leaning towards the mirror
of the ancient night table.
She brushes her hair, watching her reflection
hand her the stray grey ones, that
refuse to follow the lay of the auburns.
She winces and frowns, pushing down each
crisp article, that reads her age, back to
her "show the public" face.
Framing the mirror are photos; lovers, sons, friends.
Tucked into corners not by favorite, but by chapter.
No order, but random happenings. No thought to precedence.
-Even two black and white; old days. When pictures
caught time at a standstill.
Where she goes back to wait, sometimes.
Liquid has no meaning. It lays
wrapped around the base of her glass.
Little rings of her loneliness.
Her marriage to the silence
of one-ness.
She runs her fingers through that circle,
rubs it between her fingers.
-Runs them through the grey strands
that now, sated with attention,
lay content with the red.
Quenched, patted down,
with knowledge of existence.
She lifts a minor bottle of perfume
and traces the valley of her breasts.
Wondering, no man kisses there
in so long. Is it still as heated
as it once could be.
-Could a fire ignite, suddenly,
from no more kindling than a simple wanting.
God, the power that she reigned,
just by being a woman.
Now, such failings; Winter takes its dues
upon those that sleep alone.
Cold creeps into the open seams,
Cracks the faucets, allows them to drop tears,
for those who are forced to listen, at three a.m.
-As Winter rocks the lonely, lulling them
into an ever-asleep.
Though the eyes open; Night pours grey-milk
over the eyes, clouding them
with the veils of old memories.
Haunting them, when they try to sleep.
She sits, unswayed. Places her wet fingertips
fresh with the aroma of "false hope" perfume,
down her creases; her neck, even her belly.
-Where true lovers stopped to say I love you,
between the two kisses, of love and sex.
The odor lifting, scents hinting, a gift
of a kiss; this mist, this drunkenness,
tucked into vapor packages. Ready to be unwrapped
if ever a man comes asking for a gift.
-Of a holiday spent ripping cotton gowns,
shooting corks at the ceiling,
and throwing glasses into the corner.
Where behind the dresser sits a fireplace
filled with ash and dust. Grey, like snow
in the cities. While inside, her fading garden
turns to colorless, ever-waning.
Come now, she finds herself staring
at herself. Grip the brush, rake it through
the damnation of age.
Take the mind away from this.
Sleep, facing the wall; the blankness.
The gown raises, a hip shows a slightly
broad shadow. As the moon caresses
where a man should've.
She raises her hand to the reflection.
Walks her fingers down the slope;
of an ivory dune, white sandstone
rained down to a solid softness.
She closes her eyes, lets this shadow-man
cross her vastness, to the oasis.
The one barely wrapped in thin cotton sheets
no matter the coolness.
She lays, watching the wall, as the
grey light washes across a blue mood.
She lifts her hand onto the background,
twirls her delicate dancers.
-And the middle one, with the silver belt
that catches the spotlight, as it reaches
for the string; lamplight pulled down,
breaks the scene, ending
the last act. Her eyes bow closed
as the curtain of dusk lowers onto
this soft stage.
And all that remains, is the haze;
Odors of perfume and smoke,
where a crowded room
kept her company.
* | |
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Posted: 9/18/2007 10:20:51 PM | Soulbane you really captured an atmosphere of romantic reminiscience with this one. There are also some great lines like:
Grip the brush, rake it through
the damnation of age.
nice job all around... | |
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