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 Jul 2012 Hallie Bear
CharlesC
generous and expanding
white's brilliant reflection..
many shaded towers
edges enclose with
high definition..
sometimes
a precursor to unwelcome
beauty..
hailstones
waterspouts
tornados..
we too
accumulate faces...
poem starts with undifferentiated whiteness, following with edges and definition, then the
beautiful but dangerous aspects...culminating in the similarity with our own
various faces...poem with photo at:  http:// polarity in play.blogspot.com
 Jul 2012 Hallie Bear
Tilly
Tiptoes
 Jul 2012 Hallie Bear
Tilly
"Always my love", she was saying,

as the breeze whipped up her hair.

Hearing her name on it's whisper,

she flits & drifts  

to where?
like the flap of butterfly wings,
and softer, smaller, thinner things.
golden shimmer blackened rings,
the tips of your limbs fluttering,
landed weightlessly on my skin.

tickling to my bone glowing hot,
you whispered in my ear, the *****,
hairs at end by winds collapse,
revealing secrets, treasure maps,
weak rubberband encircling snaps.

the spot was marked by sweat to graze
the endless fields of goosebumps raise
an image of a butterfly, it plays,
and whisked into my range of hair.

when i can smell the sound it makes,
and feel its taste in stomach aches.
the butterfly of the body shakes.
into its home, my heart, it takes.
and wraps in black my golden shimmer veins.

your breath the breeze that brought the butterfly's
wings to form to speckles of your eyes.
and lashes batting winked into the skies,
and kissing cheeks and spaces between thighs,
to make goosebump mountains to scale.


when you feel the flap of butterfly wings,
in your bones valley, in blood springs,
into your ear a hush, whisper, the insect sings,
and pulls you in by golden harp strings,
wrapped in black in ropes and rings.
a melody in passion, it begins.
Dear Oysters,
Today there came a moment
when your succulence caused
tears of joy to suddenly burst out exploding.
They shot out, streaming down thirsty cheeks,
drunk and drinking salt water
... reminiscent of you.
Silly I know, but I went to one of my favorite restaurants on the planet today...it is a 4 hour car ride, then a 2 hour ferry ride away, therefore I don't much get there, consequently tears of joy!
older than I look
you don’t think I know beauty?
you don’t even know

how many hours
spent alone contemplating
dead flowers I kept

I watch the sun sleep
and the clouds bleed dull colors
before I lay down

you say you have one
but the young girls you see now
were always mothers

they don’t need children
or irresponsible pasts
to smile to your face

I touched a white rose
walking home today, covered
in rain from the clouds

water was falling
from my bitten fingernails
and fell to concrete

sometimes it hurts to
show you how happy I am
honestly, don’t look

eyes are receding
and faster than you can see
deep into my skull

I pretend that the
light storm blowing me away
isn’t a window

that the saliva
are waves crashing over the
cove and onto sheets

I almost feel bad
for what I’m about to do
and stepping on you

But me and her know
that we light the fuse here, soon
and unexpected

To celebrate she
will take off her clothes and close
her eyes to white fur

To watch you all wash
away like sand on shorelines
farewell, fair weathered
Down, you mongrel, Death!
  Back into your kennel!
I have stolen breath
  In a stalk of fennel!
You shall scratch and you shall whine
  Many a night, and you shall worry
  Many a bone, before you bury
One sweet bone of mine!

When shall I be dead?
  When my flesh is withered,
And above my head
  Yellow pollen gathered
All the empty afternoon?
  When sweet lovers pause and wonder
  Who am I that lie thereunder,
Hidden from the moon?

This my personal death?—
  That lungs be failing
To inhale the breath
  Others are exhaling?
This my subtle spirit’s end?—
  Ah, when the thawed winter splashes
  Over these chance dust and ashes,
Weep not me, my friend!

Me, by no means dead
  In that hour, but surely
When this book, unread,
  Rots to earth obscurely,
And no more to any breast,
  Close against the clamorous swelling
  Of the thing there is no telling,
Are these pages pressed!

When this book is mould,
  And a book of many
Waiting to be sold
  For a casual penny,
In a little open case,
  In a street unclean and cluttered,
  Where a heavy mud is spattered
From the passing drays,

Stranger, pause and look;
  From the dust of ages
Lift this little book,
  Turn the tattered pages,
Read me, do not let me die!
  Search the fading letters, finding
  Steadfast in the broken binding
All that once was I!

When these veins are weeds,
  When these hollowed sockets
Watch the rooty seeds
  Bursting down like rockets,
And surmise the spring again,
  Or, remote in that black cupboard,
  Watch the pink worms writhing upward
At the smell of rain,

Boys and girls that lie
  Whispering in the hedges,
Do not let me die,
  Mix me with your pledges;
Boys and girls that slowly walk
  In the woods, and weep, and quarrel,
  Staring past the pink wild laurel,
Mix me with your talk,

Do not let me die!
  Farmers at your raking,
When the sun is high,
  While the hay is making,
When, along the stubble strewn,
  Withering on their stalks uneaten,
  Strawberries turn dark and sweeten
In the lapse of noon;

Shepherds on the hills,
  In the pastures, drowsing
To the tinkling bells
  Of the brown sheep browsing;
Sailors crying through the storm;
  Scholars at your study; hunters
  Lost amid the whirling winter’s
Whiteness uniform;

Men that long for sleep;
  Men that wake and revel;—
If an old song leap
  To your senses’ level
At such moments, may it be
  Sometimes, though a moment only,
  Some forgotten, quaint and homely
Vehicle of me!

Women at your toil,
  Women at your leisure
Till the kettle boil,
  ****** of me your pleasure,
Where the broom-straw marks the leaf;
  Women quiet with your weeping
  Lest you wake a workman sleeping,
Mix me with your grief!

Boys and girls that steal
  From the shocking laughter
Of the old, to kneel
  By a dripping rafter
Under the discolored eaves,
  Out of trunks with hingeless covers
  Lifting tales of saints and lovers,
Travelers, goblins, thieves,

Suns that shine by night,
  Mountains made from valleys,—
Bear me to the light,
  Flat upon your bellies
By the webby window lie,
  Where the little flies are crawling,—
  Read me, margin me with scrawling,
Do not let me die!

Sexton, ply your trade!
  In a shower of gravel
Stamp upon your *****!
  Many a rose shall ravel,
Many a metal wreath shall rust
  In the rain, and I go singing
  Through the lots where you are flinging
Yellow clay on dust!
My mother never appeared in public
without lipstick. If we were going out,
I’d have to wait by the door until
she painted her lips and turned
from the hallway mirror,
put on her gloves and picked up her purse,
opening the purse to see
if she’d remembered tissues.

After lunch in a restaurant
she might ask,
"Do I need lipstick?"
If I said yes,
she would discretely turn
and refresh her faded lips.
Opening the black and gold canister,
she’d peer in a round compact
as if she were looking into another world.
Then she’d touch her lips to a tissue.

Whenever I went searching
in her coat pocket or purse
for coins or candy
I’d find, crumpled,
those small white tissues
covered with bloodred kisses.
I’d slip them into to my pocket,
along with the stones and feathers
I thought, back then, I’d keep.
Mood swings

eratic pendulum...

knocking aside
            those closest
                             To Me.
When I was six I lost my dog.
Everybody went crazy looking for her.
Even the people that she had nipped at
and one guy she had chased over a fence.
She's little but she's tough.

After an hour of yelling her name all over the place
I heard my mother call from the bedroom.
I ran in to see Lizzie peak her head out from under the blanket
and let out a little doggie yawn.
Now whenever Lizzie is missing we always check under the blanket first.
Thanks to poetry watch for pointing out my grammer error.
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