Gemma: Favorites

Aug 2010 Gemma

Leonard Cohen

I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm,
your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm,
yes, many loved before us, I know that we are not new,
in city and in forest they smiled like me and you,
but now it's come to distances and both of us must try,
your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye.
I'm not looking for another as I wander in my time,
walk me to the corner, our steps will always rhyme
you know my love goes with you as your love stays with me,
it's just the way it changes, like the shoreline and the sea,

but let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't
untie,
your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye.
I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm,
your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm,
yes many loved before us, I know that we are not new,
in city and in forest they smiled like me and you,
but let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't
untie,
your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye.

Aug 2010 Gemma

Overflow of words

Aug 2010 Gemma

heidi

Overflow of words

I am sick of words
that flow and tumble
randomly from my mind
Not making the right sound
or having the correct flow
My instinct is to **** them,
chop them up and discard them
Leave them
-like rare orchards
in the desert never to be seen
The man with the Hoover
will come tomorrow,
he' l put the tube through my ear
and **** the words out one by one.
Ill hear them swishing past as they go.
ill replace them with better words,
bigger words,
college words
with little connecting words in between
Ill make a chain of words
and use them up
before the Hoover man comes again
Ill be their savoir-
I may even become a poet

copyrite Heidi

Jul 2010 Gemma

Silence

Jul 2010 Gemma

Ashley Lynn LeBlanc

Silence

All I can remember...
Was trying not to cry
My face was hot, and my eyes felt like grapes
about to burst from my head.
Hands gripped my throat, and still,
my body, unconvinced,
was shaking for air.

I don't remember scratching as much as I remember
Trying to move my legs.
All I know is that suddenly the wall was slamming into my back,
and my eyes could only focus on
the thin red lines on his bare arms.
I was pinned to the wall by my throat,
like a butterfly...
trying to fly away...
trying to get away...
Look, how pretty.
I thought if only God would show up,
I would never catch a butterfly again,
Promise.

I remember thinking,
"Please. Please. Please. Please."
More like a mantra than a prayer.
As if I was willing him to be finished with me,
my shell;
willing him to be pleased enough to just let me sleep.
Or die.
Or live.
But I couldn't really think of anything
without the oxygen pumping my ideas through me.

I didn't even realize when I stopped struggling,
I was just suddenly still and he said,
"Can't have you passing out."
And he let go.
And God let go.
And I let go.
And I started to cry
as he threw me over his shoulder.

I could see so many beautiful spots in my eyes.
There was Red. There was Blue.
Some of them were dancing.
Fading in and out.
It was like they were twinkling.
My own beautiful endless night sky.
Van Gogh, where are you?

Then I suddenly became aware of myself;
My shorts gone, my skin bare to the coldness.
I was lying with my hands pinned between my back and the floor.
I started taking stock of myself
And tasted blood on my lips.
I suddenly thought of pennies;
lots of pennies floating in front of my eyes.
No wonder they were twinkling.

I heard more than felt
him laboring above me.
He was silent and wouldn't look at my face.
And I was aware of my eyes burning
as salt water seeped out on
a quest for the ocean.
I was going with them.
My tears.
I would be a sea captain.
Far from this.
Call me Ishmael.

But it was the most quiet I've ever cried
as if I didn't want the weeping to disturb him.

"God, please. please. please."

And I was taken back to another form
hovering above my young body,
whispering things into my ear about playing house,
and staying quiet;
"Shhh. Mommies have to be quiet."
I wanted to go back to playing with my dollhouse.
Please, let me go play with my dollhouse.

I am breathing on my own again.
I am back in the room, staring up in horror,
at a boy I thought I knew.
I was trained for this,
I was taught to be silent
from childhood.
I was shown how to react to this
so long ago;
in silence.

But I was not born for this.
I couldn't have been born for this.
I was born to give life, I was born to create,
I was born to bring hope.
I am a divine creation,
Aren't I?
I feel like I'm floating.

He is finished with me.
He lets me go.
But for some reason I don't know how to sit up anymore.
He walks out to have a cigarette.
My throat is sore,
My eyes are burning,
and I feel bruised under my skin,
all the way to the middle.
To a soft part in the center
that I suddenly see
as a tender nimbus,
floating over my chest.
Forcing me to rise
and walk again.
Up, up, and away.

© Ashley Quarterman 2010

For information on how you can help prevent and fight ****** abuse, visit: http://www.rainn.org/

Jul 2010 Gemma

this is the city

Jul 2010 Gemma

Jessica Drake-Thomas

this is the city

this is the city
that my daddy built
inside of me
between my guts
where my heart should be.
what isn’t rusted
or burnt out
or tired
is barbed-wire and wary.

this is the city
that my daddy built
with his anger.
it’s set up high
on a hill of scissors and blood oranges
and blood oranges with scissors
inside of them,
red juice stains
in sticky pools and dirt.

this is the city that my daddy built
in our house.
in our home.
where the people are shadows,
speaking in whispers
tiptoeing behind closed doors
so as not to rouse the beast.

this is the city
that my daddy built
here we pay tithes in blood oranges
to humor his desires
warding off uncalled for bloodshed
like the time that I
finally stood up for myself
and he broke the kitchen table
with his fists.
it was an antique
that traveled with my great-grandmother
from Sweden,
now just another broken thing
in the landslide
of scissors
and blood oranges
and dirt.

this is the city
that my daddy built,
scarring my skeleton,
following me everywhere
like a spilled bottle of India ink
blacking out the finely drawn sun,
like past transgressions
follow the guilty,
like the golden touch of Midas,
turning everything into
a mountain of scissors and
blood oranges and dirt.

this is the city that
my daddy built,
making my concept of home
a depiction of ruins;
the vestiges of what
could have been
if we hadn’t lived
too close to his minefield,
before causing my mother
to take my sisters and leave
like a snowbird at the arrival of spring,
at last realizing that her spine
consisted of wings.

this is the city
that my daddy built.
this is the city that
scarred and weary,
shadows of skeletons of birds, we
will move on, leaving behind
brick by ***** brick
until it’s nothing but a memory
of a pile
of blood oranges
and scissors
and dirt.

Jul 2010 Gemma

Answering Machine 7

Jul 2010 Gemma

Pen Lux

Answering Machine 7

Time smiled and killed our friendship
I think it was the day after
we discussed our body fabric.
It was because we needed the smell
of flowers to keep us sane,
but you were allergic
and I cut myself on too many thorns.
I swear I never meant to break your piano,
or ruin the carpet with my kool-aid drenched hair.

You said a lot of things would **** me,
now that I think about it,
you always used to get mad about my addiction to coffee,
and that untitled man that sat at our table.

I never understood why cats like it when you rub their necks,
I didn't like it when you used to rub mine,
I guess because it made me feel like a cat.
You know I never liked animals.

Life has gotten cold as time has worn on,
and my face has worn out,
because I have to wear it everyday,
and I've forgotten a lot of things,
so I use thinking as an alternate to dreams.

I've always thought I needed kisses to live,
but when I lie with my mouth open,
my cheeks break under the weight,
and I can't talk with my tongue in your mouth.

Jul 2010 Gemma

We Met Once (Barefooted and Baresouled)

Jul 2010 Gemma

Nygil McCune

We Met Once (Barefooted and Baresouled)

My words now float
up
to space
and then down to you
in a digital prayer, while
my flesh streaks
down
I-5 with grass seeds
in my hair
and paint on my face.
My soul isn't to be found though,
but of course
no ones' ever was
so i can't lodge any new complaints
into our ledger.

I think of you
and i think of whales
and a spider
braving a crawl space
in an attic that may only hold
starvation.
We're all insane;
there is no debate
on that,
but i fear i might be
growing saner
as i lose things to say,
so i have started
not to speak.

Instead
i try correspondence with the wind
but i only recieve changes
in air pressure
as a reply.

This drove Dostoevsky
under-
ground,
but it makes me want to run
to you:
yes to bare feet
and snow
and the prospect
that something was actually waiting
for us
on that blanket.

Now the sun begins
to rise
but the billboard lights are still on
despite the slumber
of the theme parks.

Soon they will wake
and lines
will spontaneously form
out of forged courtesy
and habit,
but i will wonder
when i can sleep
in your arms
under
a January snow
again.