I used to read your poems but lately you don't write you're silent and aloof you know that isn't right. You can't close a door once opened you can't abolish all your dreams you're a poet of the heart mustn't fall apart at the seams. Say what you can in words they speak the message true spoken from the heart the poems will see you through. A hermit's not your style a recluse, you are not never give up writing of things that you've been taught. I used to read your poems I'd read them once again if you would send them out (this one's from a poet friend)
I love him I tell myself I know that We will be together forever I don’t believe that We could be separated My thoughts tell me that He’s the love of my life Sometimes my heart lies and says I could live an eternity Without him Like my friends say “We’re perfect for each other” And you can’t tell me He’s not the one.
It's a slippery *****, I hope you know. Said the Solipsist To The Fly.
Who was itself A somewhat suspicious Deliciously conspicuous, Most likely maleficent, Manifestation of a mind.
A specimen meant just to define, A shade that shall not live, A shadow that shall not fly. Designed to be a metaphor, To make its point and then to die.
Invested only to be digested By imagination and an eye. Where within it lingers lonely, Solely stoic for a while, For a time. A casualty of entropy Out of place, Left behind. Or maybe out in front, Depending on your point of view, However long thought takes to stew.
The Fly nodded sagely, Behaved as if it knew. Nonchalant with confidence, The epitome of cool. Giving all the right impressions These digressions were understood. As it landed ever closer To sit upon the madman's shoulder To show this silly, pseudo ****** How little he really knew.
That being said, If all that is lives only in your head. Could I trouble you for some of that stew?
It was in San Fran, a destination chosen for its variety of vicarious distractions, romance was in the ebb stage of ebb & flow, and there was a sufficiency of distraction there, that my mind could be there, in actuality, in the present, in the moment, accounted for, and the cancer of rooted sadness, that wastrel feeling, was temporal boxed, in my traveling attic.
On a cable car, of which the hills, insisted, when the lactic acid, persisted, be re~viewed as an actual conveyance methodology.
A-man got on, sitting near enough, but not invasively too near, and began a study of me; perhaps an exercise in memorization for a sculpture or a painting, that would be shown, in a gallery quaint, nearby in Benicia, and destined to be displayed (dis~splayed?) near a picture window in a big old home overlooking the North Bay, as the She~Muse mused amusedly.
Or it was just another inspection by “a man,” common enough that it was noticed and noted, but attended to with a practiced nonchalance, which is a French word, meaning nonchalance.
Ah! descending near the Wharf, He~too, as he was now labeled, stored and forgettably tabled, He~too descended as well.
A meandering into familiarity, of ancient memories of smells, of clam chowder, gulls and sea lions the inhabitants of Pier 39, all traced my face with a grimacing smile, for sometimes one lives in a state of duality.
But a voice from behind, gently inquired if permission was grantable to recite a poem, yes, directed to me, yes, from He~too, who, awkwardly shifted his stance from side to side, as if performing a pantomime dance routine, while waiting for my pithy or pissy, but always well considered R.S.V.P., which is four french words(!), meaning, “sure, why not, try me”).
Alas this Techi-he as he was subsequently re and de-nominated, recited a variant of roses are red etc,, but concluded with “your pleated skirt.”
(Roses are red, violets are blue, when I observed your pleated skirt, my heart pleaded with me, DO NOT! let this woman ever escape your purview)
Now this navy medium wooly weight (always chilled in SF) somewhat too short skirt, was a hand-me-down from my mother (mom!) who in a prior decade, dressed like everybody else, but with a panache, (yes, a French word meaning panache) that declaimed and declared, “I do it my way” and was in truth, a fav of mine when accented with dark tights and preppy but comfortable matching navy penny loafers (mais non! pas de béret ridicule).
By now, you know, I know, how to deal with men, whose onslaughts are like the beaches of Normandy, littered with death & destruction from my hot herbal tea, heated by rapid fire of my machine gun fire, my bullets of verbosity from an old, original ***, used by my grandfather.
But this reference to my pleated skirt, flattering me when accompanied with a beautiful French blouse, sunglasses, and my heart and hair openly parted down the middle in a nod to Haight~Ashbury hippie history, was off kilter, or as Techi-he would later joke that I was off-kilted (a pleated skirt), and taken prisoner, a POW, which under the rules of the Geneva Convention, would be guaranteed all the necessities of a good loving.
We are California Commuters, me in LA, he in SF, an unlikely combination, he and me, of milieux, personality, yet not dissimilar: harmonized when he writes code snippets on diner napkins, and I, snippets of poems on diner napkins,, he clears my laptop’s cache, I clear his heart and vision, a blending of
vive la différence!
and we see each other often, as in as often as we can, we vacation in the South, of France, where he learns of Impressionism, and a different sea coastal ocean environment.
I, learn from him, his remarkable human fondue, of intensity and concentration, which melts into gentility and a softness natural that steals my heart, accompanied by the ridiculous rhymes he passes me beneath the table, notes toujours, always perfect for that moment, like my pleated skirt
(which now resides in his closet, lest its magic work again, thus, kept safe by him, in a wardrobe, to which he has locked and keyed, and is worn upon request, my bequest, it, a whirling twirling dervish of a poem enshrined, a wearable honoring our commencement, our commitment, our pleated, plaited hearts.
For so many reasons. I will tell you the why. I think you know, Or perhaps, you think you know.
Men are always O.K., Even when not.
We expect the worse, Accept the worse, Nonetheless, We are forever unprepared.
Wearily, we cry, In the bathroom, in private, Lest sighs slip by, We be unmasked, Early warring, strife signs warning.
Copious, tho we weep Before the mirror confessor, It is relief untethered, Unbinding of the feet, An uncounting Of beaded rosaries, Of freshly fallen hail stones, Of night times terrors By dawn's early edition's light, and welcomed.
But look for the mute tear, The eye-cornered drop, *** tat, that never drops, But never ceases formation and Reforming, over and over again, In a state of perpetuity of reconstitution,
The tippy tear of an iceberg revealing, And I see you peeping, wondering, What is beneath
Look for: the torn worm-eaten edges of spirit, thrift shop bought, extra worn, grieving lines neath the eyes, where the salt has evaporated, discolored the skin. worry lines, under and above, browed mapped, furrowed boundaries. the laugh line saga, where better days are stored, recalled, as well as recanted, publicly, privately.
Why just men?
I don't know, Perhaps, it is all I know.
Jan 6, 2013
your effusive and lengthy comments are each a poem in their own right.
Tinkered with June 22, 2013 With a push from Bala, A serial peeper, thank God!
every other month, i fly. when my mind fills with worries and unease, my lungs expand with fear not air, my heart speeds, and with a single backpack i take a bus to the airport. long ride listening to my comfort songs is just a beginning to my little getaway. (i already feel calm writing about this moment)
quick 30 mins wait at the gate, then i fly. my reality you can wait for me at the airport right where i left you, because you deserve a break too.
see you in 5 days. i'll meet you back at the airport.
There are pauses in between musical notes and stops between an artist's strokes and periods in between a writer's sentences. We have come to an end. We have come to a stop. But sometimes the only way to continue is to halt. The only way to begin is to end.
I wonder if you love me I want to know if it’s true For I have been casted out of heaven And now are sent to the deepest pit onto the earth Will you fall for me still even when the fall is for eternity will you love me Forever
I created this to give the devil a little more a human personality. It’s quite interesting his story. Pride was his sin. Satan was the highest of all angels. he became envious or opinionated on his own ideas of free will using lies to tempt Adam and Eve. It’s hard to say if he’s truly evil. Yea he was the creator of where the beginning of sin started. but us humans have created more sin than anything living. so we can’t judge the devil. but forgive. god told us to forgive our enemies. and continue on to the right path. yes the devil has done wrong but god still gave his thanks to the dragon for if he did not sin. God would have never learned to forgive.
They said, "The most beautiful art is looking into someone's eyes when they talk about the things they love." And I said, "Or looking at someone you love. Or maybe, just maybe, by looking at the mirror is the most beautiful art anyone should appreciate."
Appreciation post for myself; for you and for everyone as well. You deserve more than the world has to offer.
I don’t want to be a princess. I prefer to be a wall or a shoulder that some one can lean on I don’t want to be spoiled I want to fight Get dirt on my clothes Clean them search more fail more know more see everything Try everything I want to share the road With some one Running not carried I want to look behind And see MY footprints.
Whether a comma, or colon: Punctuation slows my rolling I need no period. When I end no Capitalization when I begin Rulelessly I flow my art Not a single! Exclamation mark Are you not the one Who'll know? Where a question mark No longer goes
Warp the structure Bend the lines Put in repeat Let emotion unwind Make yourself Your poetry's the best Be your own ruler Pass your own test
Take your own road Where ever it leads Lover or hater It's all poetry!
Traveler Tim .
Hay No matter who you are You have my deepest respect!
Vanity All is vanity The meanings of passion The aesthetic expression The lines we draw and stay within Even love is beyond intent Vanity transcends Flowing from our pens And so we breathe again
Can we talk about the word trigger Because people are dumb Teenagers say they are triggered when They don’t want to write a paper They miss a goal in soccer They drop their phone That is called being annoyed or disappointed That is not triggered
A trigger is an emotional allergy Some that triggers distress or panic A trigger is loud noises cause a panic attack
he had fallen asleep reading and the book laid with the pages pressed to his chest he could still hear her voice narrating the story even as he snored now in his sleep even though she was only imaginary a small comfort of fiction to keep his heart warm through the winter of his bones
she rearranged the letters as she slipped off the page and slide out from under the book and laid beside him for a moment watching him breath watching his chest rise and fall watching his heart thump against his ribs she sighed a small sigh as she carefully lifted the book from his chest and closed it she kissed the tips of her fingers and then as soft as breeze touched them to his forehead she wanted to stay to fall asleep next to him to wake up in the same dream but she knew if she slept he would turn to smoke and disappear into the bathroom mirror she reluctantly stood and took quite footsteps towards the bookshelf placed the book back in its spot and ran her fingers along its spine the book purred and she smiled a sad smile and spoke without speaking and said “until next time my friend...”
she snuck out the window and climbed up and through the clouds she sauntered and wandered around the moon and waited patiently as her eyes hopped from star to star until she caught the glimpse of a comet and hitched a ride on its tail setting a course through an unknown time of an untold adventure
she fell asleep in the vast emptiness of space and dreamt of dreaming and somewhere in the dream she heard his voice telling a lie a harmless mess of obvious mischief
and they both smiled a smile bigger than any smile could be imagined
In dark times, I'll follow the stars from here to there, arriving at my center to trace my constellation. If tonight is all I have, I'll keep moving, one with my shadow, not knowing where this leads. I'll cover new ground when no one is watching as stars align to reveal a path through the darkness toward the bright spots ahead. I'll take in the view, under the stars returning the way I came.