| Fingerpainting
Posted: 6/1/2008 7:18:25 PM | at last
after twelve years
of white walls
feng shui anathema
I saturate myself
in spring green
katydid
the hue of
sunburst honeylocusts
dark wood now
makes strong contrast
all shades of green harmonizing
with aubergine, turquoise, coral
I sigh
modern
and repleted | |
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Posted: 6/1/2008 7:37:48 PM | Ah Wooby and Brizo...colours; they make the world visually stimulating and appetizing don't you think. I can't imagine a day without it. That would be like....prison wouldn't it? Grey on grey on grey. Blech! Great poem B!
a  for each of you | |
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Posted: 6/3/2008 12:22:43 PM | Sorry, same poem but edited at bit
_________________________
Storm Watcher
Would you understand if I said I love you
the way I love the hard rains that dress
naked streets in laughing children
with unfurled minds, free to sail the
rushing asphalt like vertical ponies
stampeding to the concrete sea.
Do you know what it means when I say
I love you the way I love gathering
thunderheads that unleash the
hurricane children in me? | |
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Posted: 6/3/2008 3:14:49 PM | 899. yes! thats telling it.
geeze, sophia, I love reading your poems! | |
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Posted: 6/4/2008 9:59:17 AM | ^^^^^^^^^^^
On critical workshop forums
The literati say
IF you Must write a love poem (ugh)
leave sentimentality out of it
Okay, here it goes...
Gee, for a big guy
you sure don't sweat much.
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| Fingerpainting
Posted: 6/4/2008 6:41:57 PM | A revised verion of this one
Storm Watcher
Would you understand if I said I love you
the way I love a tempest gathering black
ocean pearls in the distance, it culls
and I turn instinctively, a thirsting leaf.
The way its violent rain sheets naked streets
in laughing children. Minds unfurled,
vertical ponies stampeding asphalt rivers
to a concrete sea.
Do you know what it means when I say
I love you the way I love the thunderheads
that unleash hurricane children ,
that unleash me.
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and something completely different LOL
________________________________
Sunday
Idling in Bastion Square, the sun and I witnessed a squad of
would-be saints stumping up the stairs to the Basilica altar.
The salacious tongues of bent old men licking stones
where naïve girls drop pheromones in passing,
while their pigeon-breasted wives (with rotund asses),
peck the ovulating ground in anger.
They lurk and squabble and shit until the church bells
peal you are ignominious creatures - repent in orderly fashion.
Mumbling hallelujahs, they jockey to be the first
head anointed by the Bishop. A dubious-iconic bully
bludgeoning the frightened flock into submission.
I vomit a sun-stroked vision. A sanctimonious
epiphany affirming - even if, in twenty years, I despise
my bulging hips and sagging lips, I won’t be them. | |
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Posted: 6/4/2008 6:58:10 PM | | It was wonderful seeing the storm watcher through two versions Yokoh and your epiphany we all can relate too. Great writes!! | |
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Posted: 6/4/2008 7:01:54 PM | Sunday 
ok, I'm giving up poetry..:/ but can I be the sun?
imho, Brilliant,Yokoh! | |
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Posted: 6/4/2008 7:41:00 PM | Thanks AF (learning to revise from you know who) and
Ohm-air ....DON'T YOU DARE! (thanks). | |
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Posted: 6/4/2008 7:45:35 PM | | Hello, its nice to see you again. | |
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Posted: 6/4/2008 7:57:36 PM | | Hi eyes; nice to see you again too. | |
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Posted: 6/6/2008 4:22:00 PM | Love as an Alibi
Sorry, would you repeat that?
I was distracted…his landscape, the
geography of shells and other carvings.
The time I caught winter in my mouth and
swallowing his tongue thawed
Of course I’m listening…the flash of
colored wings, migrating fingers, the
tangled wind prickling flesh, a rose
turned poppy turned rose, his arch
Go on, you were saying …
If I am the house, he is the window. One heart,
two bodies, four hands, museum dolls behind glass,
the infinite resurrections of an ancient sun...
you won the lotto? | |
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Posted: 6/6/2008 4:37:00 PM | lust as an alibi
poet who don't give a fck.. 2000 and somethin
lol
I tried to run my normal card that I keep above my visor
yanno, my usual numbers
I think three of them came up but I lost it
that make me a d1ckhead?
anyway, I was here
around seven thirty eastern time
lol | |
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Posted: 6/6/2008 4:42:21 PM | ^^^sorry, you were saying...LMAO (you a dickhead? ...never!) You've gotta buy another ticket to win.  | |
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Posted: 6/6/2008 4:44:43 PM | lol, didn't know you were watching
bet on the big brown horse this wknd
it's gonna win the triple crown
I don't know what the odd's are
lol.. but, that's a safe bet | |
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Posted: 6/7/2008 10:19:35 AM | I was thinking the same thing. I normally bet on the grey but my spider senses tell me, this time it will be the brown one. LMAO  | |
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Posted: 6/7/2008 11:26:38 AM | Better Homes & Gardens
She stitched a rosary
of pale orphans around her wrist,
each ave a lacerated moment
tied to the designer chair -
she sat in her dream kitchen,
staring out the perfect picture window
waiting for someone to pry open
the polymer eyes cemented to
her last diary entry
A tisket, a tasket
A green and yellow casket
I thought this was better living | |
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Posted: 6/7/2008 6:05:01 PM | Hey sweet woman, was wonderful to meet you, and you are just as beautiful as you seem. Big hugs, the voyage was amazing, what beauty in your province, wow. I spent 2 weeks in paradise, sad to have to fly back to Toxario tomorrow. waaaaaaa.
Here, where sun sets whole horizons
and soliloquy of mountain peak over ocean depths
is where solace lies.
Peace on white sands of ancient shell,
where shoals of history are told
in the timeless waves
that gleam in sudden sunlight....
Fury Cove,
Somebody’s got a sense of humour. | |
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Posted: 6/7/2008 6:09:33 PM | | Then Stay!!!!!!!!!!! You can have my house!!! Big hugs back at you. Talk about beautiful...your smile embarassed the sun. Glad you had a great trip! Can't wait to see you again some day. | |
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Posted: 6/7/2008 6:35:23 PM | Soon-to-be
Each day, my soon-to-be fills his backpack
with important things. Things that can’t be left
behind:
the black binder saturated in his scent; lined
paper for taking note; a snake shedding wet sun;
his mother’s voice taped to a hummingbird’s wings;
a deep rooted tree; an apple, a song for the sparrows;
a prayer, two cats and - my head.
Pockets lined with copper he follows the rickety
footsteps of haunted trains to a village that is
too poor to have a sky, too flat to pulse and
the river bled to death years ago. Seeing
this is no place for a picnic, he returns
- takes my head out of the backpack,
places it on the night stand and in the
contour of arcing wires we add details,
speak well of the dead, shift the reference
point, roll stones away from the mouth
of the tomb and orbit out of
the infected weather. | |
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Posted: 6/7/2008 6:41:03 PM | | awwww. Glad you got to meet my sweetie, and my daughter too! They both loved meeting you! Good thing, as I was dragging them along to meet my "weird poet friends" . Turns out, they like my weird poet friends! So do I! | |
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Posted: 6/8/2008 12:23:40 PM |
- takes my head out of the backpack,
places it on the night stand
Goddam, that sure would be handy.
lol hope you napped through betting yesterday
next time, we're going to poll Rory
I forgot to place my bet
and yet, somehow, feel smarter for that
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Posted: 6/8/2008 12:33:57 PM | Trust you to read that sexually instead of metaphorically!  | |
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Posted: 6/11/2008 1:59:01 AM | Chances are your thighs remember all
the ankles before mine
.........................the way they dug in
lingering horizontal afternoons,
effusive invasions
.........................scratched walls
the willful desertion of
fatigue, sleep
.........................and reason
chances are your inquisitive mouth
and curious hands were looking
.........................for me | |
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