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1.1k · Feb 2016
Grace
Joel M Frye Feb 2016
She lives to love a man who once could sing
his way into the hearts of many crowds;
once strong enough to pick up anything
with either back or mind.  Her man had wowed
the critics with his skill with a guitar,
with songs that brought salt water to the eyes
and lyric laughter.  Could have been a star,
connections came and left, not realized.
The cracking voice now breaking hearts instead,
the left hand hanging, useless, by his side.
His back is bent, his heart is weak, his head
is filled with possibilities untried.
What's left of him can barely take her hand...
and yet...
                 and yet, she lives to love her man.
An unearned, divine gift.  Happy Valentine's Day, Mrs. Bear.
1.1k · Apr 2011
Let them eat...
Joel M Frye Apr 2011
Poets...writers...artists...musicians.
Those who eat their words,
bleed their colors,
breathe their notes.
Only dreamers
of no consequence.
Only lovers of life
who write, paint, sing to live.

Movers and shaker
laugh at the starving artists.
Few will make money,
fewer still reach fame.
Many reach the hearts
of other lovers of life,
resuscitating dying dreams,
breathing hope and beauty,
singing glory and brilliance
into dark, cringing corners.

The bleeding hearts begin to heal
and beat, beat, beat as one;
a marching tune, a clarion call
to gather into thunderheads
to storm toward the movers
and still the mighty shakers,
a deluge of words and images
the music of the multitudes
come down upon the leaders' heads
to swallow them whole
and let digestion take its course.
1.1k · Feb 2011
Here's to ya, Paddy
Joel M Frye Feb 2011
Now, listen here, Bozo...
You had no right to up
and go where even the
silvered back of
my mirror can't access.

Can't blame you though.

I've heard from
outside sources
that the Wonderland
through your looking-glass
is wholly wonderful.
We're still all bozos (and bozettes) on the bus, Paddy.  Catch ya at the next stop.
2-4-2011  JMF
1.1k · Jan 2016
Come, rest your weary body
Joel M Frye Jan 2016
Come, rest your weary body in my arms;
your tattered thoughts rewoven as you sleep.
My spirit wrapped around you, safe and warm.

Cradled up against me, held from harm,
your dreams are free in slumber, still and deep.
Come, rest your weary body in my arms.

Your childlike face protected from the storm
of daily waking nightmares: I will keep
my spirit wrapped around you, safe and warm.

Seductive demons, stealthy in their charms
may bring a restless stirring as they creep;
come, rest your weary body in my arms.

Should you be stung awake by buzzing swarms
of memories, strafing you until you weep,
my spirit's wrapped around you, safe and warm.

The day-to-day may fill you with alarm;
let night sow gentle comfort you may reap.
Come, rest your weary body in my arms;
my spirit wrapped around you, safe and warm.
1.1k · Mar 2016
Blessing of the Brds
Joel M Frye Mar 2016
You are light itself;
you are blessed, you are blessing.
Peace always with you.
A response to a poem by PrttyBrd that I can't remember now, but which I needed desperately to read when she wrote it.
1.0k · Feb 2011
The savage side
Joel M Frye Feb 2011
Whenever I visit the savage side
there's a hangover to be had,
drunk from the darkness
of uninhibited desire.
The streets there are familiar
but the characters have changed.
Not much human left in their eyes
as they glance sidelong at me,
sizing me for hunter or for meat.
I pull my trenchcoat tighter,
stand a little straighter
and emphasize each step,
staring them down one by one
with eyes hardened by
the memories of when
these streets were my home.
Visits to my dark side come less and less frequently as I move on....
2-1-2011 JMF
1.0k · Jan 2011
Adrift
Joel M Frye Jan 2011
I find myself adrift upon a sea of faceless names
and nameless faces flowing
in a wave of information
that erodes and overloads my poor old mind.

Drift far enough and long enough the sea all looks the same;
the hard edge of horizon flat-lined
out before my sun-strained eyes
and not a port or harbor can I find.

I hope to throw my anchor down
upon some distant shore,
but I won't know till I get there
that I will not have to travel any more.

A mile or so to starboard there's a sailor lost as you;
another heading for the sunset
with a full wind hard abeam
and that's what folks mistakenly call free.

She's called six ways from Sunday and forever passing through.
There is no freedom to be had -
just set an open course for home
or some reasonable facsimile.

I hope to throw my anchor down
upon some distant shore,
but I won't know till I get there
that I will not have to travel any more.
(c) 2002 Joel M Frye
1.0k · Oct 2014
A patient prayer
Joel M Frye Oct 2014
Spirit, please plug her
in the Celestial Charger;
I've drained her again.
1.0k · Mar 2015
Plunge
Joel M Frye Mar 2015
We're both aware that I'll be first to go,
but don't think for a minute that I'm done
with life and time.  Although end game's begun
there's too much left, too many things to show
the daughters, sons, the grandchildren, and you.
The few uncurdled dreams we still might grasp
and reach, the promises that will not lapse
expired, without redemption will come true
in what years we have left.  Let's make our plans,
adapt to new realities, accept
the finish of the roller-coaster ride,
dismount regretfully, again to stand
on solid ground, content to know we kept
what fragments tired love and peace provide.
I've been told it won't be for a while, but it will be.  So it goes.
986 · Mar 2016
Camp HP
Joel M Frye Mar 2016
a long cold
forbidding night
the world
crackles
beneath
echoing steps
the frozen snow
squeals underfoot
shivering
lost
alone
seeking what shelter
can't be found
ready to sit
sleep
surrender

a whiff of
wood-fire
a flicker
barely seen
spark of hope
closer
warmer

a clearing
small band
of kindled
kindred souls
the light
and heat of
warm words
thawing
icy heart
a hot cuppa
soothing
a place to rest
surrounded
by those
who saved
their own lives
cleared space
gathered wood
piled what little
they had left
and lit the
last match they had
Happy World Poetry Day, y'all.  Five years ago, a stumbling wanna-be crawled in.  You have helped to mold the poet I am.  Thank you.
985 · Feb 2016
For Eryc
Joel M Frye Feb 2016
Compadres gather
around the hearth, rekindling
warmth of memories.
A response to Tonya Marie's "Low Country Libation".  What it is to be remembered so fondly!
980 · Mar 2011
Sarah Delia
Joel M Frye Mar 2011
You watched me, raised me, taught me how to use
my hands to make a fist and give massage.
Your home became a haven from abuse
that I endured, that you left home to dodge.
The friends, the barflies buzzing round your flat
would treat your old-soul brother as a peer.
They answered patiently the questions that
the man-child asked to understand his fear.
We were so close until the very end,
when Mom would live with me and not with you;
she wasn't sure you had the strength to tend
her, watch her wither as she chose to do.
I never thought when leaving then that I
would never hear your voice before you'd die.
My sister's 62nd birthday would have been today.  Spirit bless her wherever she is.
3-6-2011  JMF
980 · Feb 2016
Yum
Joel M Frye Feb 2016
Yum
Had poet's breakfast
this morning; a tasty bowl
of Synonym Life.
Silly bear.  Many would find Froot Loops more apropos for me.
966 · Feb 2011
do not disturb any further
Joel M Frye Feb 2011
When I am still, it's not that I'm
pacific or content; for while
it may appear a quiet time,
with lips graced with a gentle smile,
a darkening meditation fills
the open space where demons roam
and angels hover for the ****;
I'm just about to write a poem.
2-11-2011 JMF
965 · Jan 2011
Priming the pump
Joel M Frye Jan 2011
Would you come with me and lend a hand?
I forgot to let the dim bulb burn
last night; the water in the well has turned
to ice, no longer flowing on demand.

The flow has stopped before, you understand;
you'd think that in that time a lesson's learned.
Well, maybe so...at least I have discerned
to force a trickle; not to let ice dam.
A combination of a continuation of "Break Time" and my morning pages.  More for my sake than yours.
Joel M Frye Jan 2011
Usually I'm
too busy being happy
to write about it.
1/22/2011 JMF
Joel M Frye Oct 2014
I will grasp the will to write,
To search my finite vision's span
And find some words for our delight.

Using energy to fight
My body's battles, when I can
I will grasp the will to write.

Shining darkness into light,
Spirit raises up a man
To find some words for our delight.

Simple structure's levered might
Rebuilds a level place to stand.
I will grasp the will to write.

Poems don't bring all things aright,
Just perspective and a plan
To find some words for our delight.

My search for beauty, glowing bright
Will not be taken from these hands.
I will grasp the will to write
And find some words for our delight.
But a quick note of defiance from a wounded bear.
949 · Apr 2017
Corn Soup
Joel M Frye Apr 2017
Begin with the meat.
Venison, if you seek authenticity;
if you were raised white,
ground beef will do.
The mirapoix can be purchased
if you no longer till
the back yard.
Potatoes and peas and corn
as well.  No matter
what the commercials say,
frozen tastes nothing like
fresh from the earth.
If Grandfather did not
milk the cow and churn the butter,
saute the vegetables and meat
in half a stick.
Flour was bought and traded for
for many generations;
just open the bag and add a quarter cup.
Beef stock is such a
pain in the *** to make.
Safe, sterile boxes
with tamper-proof caps
so much more convenient.
Let the soup simmer for
what seems to be a lifetime,
then open two cans
of hominy, drain them,
and add to the ***,
letting the smell
summon the memories
of whole families.
Adjust the seasoning,
sweetening the broth
with a tear or two
before serving.
Day Two NaPoWriMo.  Poem based on a recipe.
948 · Mar 2011
haiku 3.29
Joel M Frye Mar 2011
Gentle blades of rain
slashing overbearing heat
into cool ribbons.
946 · Jan 2011
Nothin' to it but to do it!
Joel M Frye Jan 2011
Sway, zigzag,
front wheel with a mind of its own...

CRASH.  

Red-faced
from tears and scratched pride.
Up again.  Got it...going...

CRUNCH.  

Pedal like mad.
"Keep that wheel steady, son!"
Grin so wide the street won't hold it,
wobbling off into the sunset.



Sleepless night.  Thoughts zigzag,
dream with a mind of its own.

HELP. 

Pray a lot.  Faced head-on
my fears and false pride.
What will she feel for me....

WHRRRRR. 

Spinning like hell;
keep that head steady, son.
Heart grinning at me as I roll on,
wobbling off into the sunrise.
A thousand blessings upon ephemera's household.
937 · Mar 2011
Coyote ugly
Joel M Frye Mar 2011
I have a steel trap
mind; easily triggered, shut
down painfully tight.
929 · Feb 2011
Your table's ready, ma'am
Joel M Frye Feb 2011
Come, let me lavish love
upon your shoulders to start;

thumbs probing for stubborn
points of stress, rolling them
about, plump grapes of pressure
aching to pop.  s  l  o  w  l  y

s  t  r  e  t  c  h  i  n  g  

long ropes of back muscle,
langorous luxurient strokes
all
     the
             way
down to cup the flexors
around
(your parenthetical)
hips.

you didn't even know
you were tight there, did you?
Always at your service, memsahib.
2-2-2011  JMF
924 · Mar 2011
Paging Mr. Buzzi
Joel M Frye Mar 2011
He hums his happy-making tune,
she ***** a brow, one dimple shows,
then slyly spreads across her lips.
She knows full well what is to come.
Not that I know a thing about him....
Joel M Frye Apr 2011
Your eyes flash with tin-metal heat
radiating from your naked
shoulders in simmering waves;
a palpable presence, third-party
to our locked-door liaison.
I want to sear my skin
against yours, but keep
a calculated, cunning
distance, bringing myself
to the same boil, smilingly
watching your steam
whistling from every pore.
Understand
that although this is
supposed to be
"just ***"...
we are about
to brand each other.
915 · Jul 2016
Considered Words
Joel M Frye Jul 2016
I have been taught
by those much wiser
and more experienced
that if I am disturbed,
I have in some way
caused the disturbance.
Whether by ignorance
or inaction,
intent or mistake.
I am responsible
for the actions
I take; no one
can "make me"
do or feel anything.

Practice does not make perfect;
practice makes permanent.
Be ****** careful, then,
what you practice.
A little consideration of one's own words and actions and consideration of others goes a long way.
Joel M Frye Feb 2011
Dead heart beats,
floorboard creaks;
killer shrieks.
Hey kids...Lucan and I have started a group called, "History Light".  Shorts and snippets and skewered perspectives on history and historical writes.  Anyone who likes to write in miniature is invited to join and contribute.  Have fun...we intend to!!
2-19-2011  JMF
Joel M Frye Apr 2015
Whose words these are I think I know.
He's on another website, though;
He will not see me shopping here
To snitch his words for me to show.

My readership must think it queer;
I post ten thousand poems a year.
Between the copies, pastes and likes
I've barely time to chug a beer.

They give their addled heads a shake
And ask if there is some mistake.
The others call me out, a creep.
Who cares? They're just a bunch of flakes.

Their poems are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have villanelles to sneak,
And lines to own before I sleep,
And lines to own before I sleep.
NaPoWriMo day 7.  Not by prompt, but something I've wanted to write for a long, long time.
If you really need to steal the work of others to call yourself a poet, it's one of the most pathetic admissions any human being could make.  Stop it.

With apologies to Robert Frost, of course.
909 · Nov 2016
What Max Ehrmann taught me
Joel M Frye Nov 2016
What truths I know
are neither quiet
nor clear.
I listen to
the dull and ignorant
when I too
tell my story.
Vain and bitter, yes;
for I have
a lifetime of
comparisons.
Late in life
my body calls me
to wholesome discipline
and gentility.
The universe unfolds
with and without
the full consent
of this particular child.
Peace with Spirit
will keep peace
with my soul.
In spite of
and because of
my best efforts...
it is still
a beautiful world.
I can choose
to be cheerful
and careful.
Strive to be
human;
happiness follows.
"Desiderata" has been a guiding light for me for many years.  The times I've fumbled in the dark have been when shunning its light.
903 · Apr 2011
Awww, shucks, guys...
Joel M Frye Apr 2011
Birthday wishes bloom
on Facebook; friendship's fragrance
will last all year long.
899 · Jan 2011
How Ya Doin'?
Joel M Frye Jan 2011
I live now in a small garage
at times still half again too big.
It's not your style, a bit unkempt;
perhaps a bit too much like me.

Clean dishes jumbled by the sink,
not neatly stacked and filed away.
The desk astrewn with books and bills;
clothes all ****-heaped by the bed.

Makes sense, for I'm the one who left
to you the well-maintained facade
of stockade fence and painted trim
which most would call a happy home.

I left you ten thousand things,
careful not to take too much; but
find myself amazed by all
that moved in which I did not pack.

The touch of legs upon my lap
I found while sitting on the couch.
Your smile was wrapped in Sunday's Times
and wedged in with the bowls and cups.

Your hair blows up against my arm
as I drive with the window down,
and hear you sound asleep beside
me as the droning motor runs.

When our paths crossed tonight, we spoke
a moment, went our separate ways.
Walking past the shut-down shops,
I thought of how we fell apart

and everything that came with me
that I took pains not to include
and smiled to myself, wondering
what I had left for you to find.
(c)2000 Joel M Frye
Joel M Frye Feb 2015
trace your faded prints upon the dirt
around them, mud congeals to form my hurt
failing falling stars confuse my path

I shuffle feet for miles but stay inert
all false the trails refusing to subvert
antipathetic strands to stir my wrath

The trees all flay themselves to spill the secrets
thou swore undying oath to never keepest
lest all worlds align to hide the truth

Pausing, taking breaths beneath the deepest
floors of pits that tenderly would keep us
undestined, lost and wild to know our youth

And seek you out I must, I must, I will,
at universe's end, a galaxy
where we would rest, reborn; become, to be
where every breath relaxes into still

Ever will you walk alone, until
you witness me in my entirety
Come, my unforgotten one, you see
arrival less one is a bitter pill
Helen got her attention grabbed by Dante's sonnet variation; she made a helluva run at it, and asked a bear for direction while pondering through the woods.  Oh, bother....  ;)
895 · Apr 2016
Birthday present
Joel M Frye Apr 2016
The table holds the tokens of your love;
a card, a present.  Simple things, and still
I don't know how you keep on finding time

to work, to care for parents, and yet have time
for showing me the warm, unbounded love
that strikes me silent, wonder-filled and still.

The hours you're gone, the house is quiet, still;
my heart the ticking watch in measured time.
I'm thirsting for a droplet of your love;

love concentrated by the still of time.
Best present I've ever gotten by a long shot.
NaPoWriMo day 7 - a tritina.
893 · Mar 2016
Diogenes, poet.
Joel M Frye Mar 2016
Carrying a lamp;
seeking other wanderers
lost in quests for truth.
887 · Feb 2011
Unabashed Dictionary XXI
Joel M Frye Feb 2011
Enjambment: meaning
and meter bumping bellies
in holy union.
Thought you might appreciate this one, Lucan....
2-3-2011  JMF
884 · Apr 2015
Terror-dactyls
Joel M Frye Apr 2015
Sapphic poems call upon mathematic
skills, as meter meted out over three lines,
groups of two feet followed by three, again two,
                              ending with five beats.

Even this old formalist, prehistoric
in his method, limps along through elevens,
just like playing Jethro Tull, Lynyrd Skynyrd;
                              seven-four, five-four.

Hear the roar of dinosaurs in the tar pits,
stuck in sonnets, villanelles, rhymes and rhythms,
sinking slowly, praying for preservation;
                              creative fossils.
NaPoWriMo day 11...a confounded Sapphic poem.  And I thought sonnets were structured....
882 · Jan 2011
duck!!!
Joel M Frye Jan 2011
Life goes barefoot, and
we walk in fear, wait for the
other shoe to drop.
"...but then, if you're so smart...tell me, why are you still so afraid?" - "Vienna", Billy Joel.
A variation on this morning's theme.
1/24/2011 JMF
880 · Jan 2011
Lady Chasing Rainbows
Joel M Frye Jan 2011
There's a vision in the lightning of a springtime thunderstorm,
a thought to be rekindled one cold evening to stay warm.
The sun was drinking clouds away, the last few droplets flow,
and far away, a lady chasing rainbows.

She ran to where one started but just as she drew near,
the first would melt away to mist.  Another would appear.
She sought in vain to see the colors' origins unfold
which meant much more to her than pots of gold.

I watched the prisms tease her, saw her fall and fall again
until the clouds reclaimed her, and I lost her to the rain.
To this day I wonder...and for all that this man knows,
somewhere there's a lady chasing rainbows.

Should her flight be finished one fine day she'll comprehend
no gold nor truth is to be found by chasing rainbow's end.
There's beauty in the doing, not in the wondering how.
Expressions of the future are created here and now.
So in another vision of that bright and stormy show -
there will be a lady making rainbows.
Nothin' to it but to do it...right, Hildy??
879 · Feb 2011
Hangman
Joel M Frye Feb 2011
The oak tree stands with one worn branch
of perfect height. This rope well used,
'twill serve its purpose for a year,
just as the forty-two before.
With practiced hand the knot is formed;
its loop a perfect fit around
my neck.  The bitter end goes up
and in the grooved bark, wrapped three times
then ******* firm. On tiptoe now,
a deep breath in, a snort, a sigh,
a firm kick of the tall wood box
I stand upon.  The rope, stretched, squeaks
as my full weight is caught and stopped.

Most only hang themselves but once;
I'm not as fortunate as most.
I am the ghost that haunts myself.
I know the what, I know the how,
I know the why. It matters not.
My hang-up looks me in the eye
and mocks my repetitious swing,
aware that every time I fall
another piece of soul will die.
To err is human; to forgive...not mine.
2-21-2011  JMF
878 · Apr 2016
Saucy
Joel M Frye Apr 2016
yo, buddy...
dere's a secret to dis.
First of all,
a good, sturdy bed
of veggies;
carrots, onion, celery
chopped up fine.
Take your time
preparin' 'em.
Start a slow, steady heat.
It softens 'em up.
Now, dose tomatahs.
Y'gotta put your hands on 'em, see?
Firm, ripe globes
is what you're after.
Peel da covers off 'em,
and work 'em gently.
Get your hands right in dere.
Y'should have
a little moisture there by now.
Now, just keep da heat on low
and let things simmer for a bit.
Here's where you add your spice,
whatever floats your boat.
As mild or as hot as you like.
Whatever you do,
keep stirring now.
There may be a little foam
around da edges;
not to worry.
Just lower da heat a little,
so she doesn't boil too quick.
Now, be patient.
If you can let 'er cook for an hour,
dat's good.
Da longer, da bettah.
Soon, da smell
will be everywhere.
Lean in close and get a taste.
A little more spice
at da end, and

**BAM!!!
With apologies to Emeril.

NaPoWriMo day 6 - foodie poem.
878 · Feb 2011
Mr. Clean
Joel M Frye Feb 2011
He lay in the bed
I had made for him,
emaciated, brittle;
the only part of him
truly alive,
more alive than anyone
else around:
                        his eyes.

His wife sits next to him;
serene, accepting, aglow
with his reflected light.

He fixed his gaze upon me
as he grasped my hand
with uncommon strength.
"I saw last night", and
gripped even tighter.
"I saw peace, and great light."
His arm shook, willing
his vision into my flesh.

"I saw, and was scoured clean.
I was purified!"

His hand fell limply,
and his head dropped back
on the pillow.
"I'm so glad I got to tell you...
I believed you would understand."

I believe you...
I understood what you saw...
and I bless your sandblasted soul.

The rust and grime
of a lifetime
weigh upon my spirit;
please pray with me
to your light
when the time comes.
One of my Hospice patients from years ago.  I can close my eyes, and see the brilliance in his, even today.  Thanks, Roy.
2-14-2011  JMF
870 · Mar 2017
mindful
Joel M Frye Mar 2017
With every passing day my body begs,
Consider that all drink, all food consumed
Will shorten breath, and weigh on swollen legs.
But thirst and palate are no less attuned
Though appetite has slaked as time goes by.
Instead of gluttony, I must select;
Notice what I eat and drink and why
To savor flavor to its best affect.

A poet learns their mindfulness of words
The same.  With small or no restraint at all,
They gorge themselves on overstuffed buffets,
Well-salted with their tears.  Yet, to be heard,
A simpler line cuts through the caterwaul
And quenches thirst and hunger on its way.
Shared lesson hard-learned by a reformed gourmand.  Graze lightly, thoughtfully, and well.
862 · Jan 2016
Dad...I get it now.
Joel M Frye Jan 2016
I extend a hand,
a smile to Death, and bid him
comfort in my soul.

Since my father died
so young, always unreasoned
fear of dark, the end.

I have my father's
heart; it will fail me, just as
his stopped that winter.

He worked when he could
(not often at the end) to
keep family fed.

I have my father's
heart; I work for food, shelter
to its final beat.

I say in half-jest
I work to eat better cat
food in retirement.

The half-truth unsaid
is I work so my wife might
eat in retirement.

I pray I have my
father's heart; lived so bravely
and died so alone.
My mother's song for my father was "Desperado".  Mom...I get it now.
860 · Mar 2015
A Song for Charles Ives
Joel M Frye Mar 2015
America the Beautiful is broken
into variations, reassembled
at fifteen, while your friends played ball, tumbled
after grounders.  Met her, vows were spoken,
children came, a job to feed and shelter.
Insurance, managed risk made up your days
while music filled your nights and underlaid
a counterpoint of art and home.  She felt your
dualistic muse; the age-old tale
of starving artist held no taste for you.
Forty years of working every breath
until the night your muse's heart would fail.
You lived for years with your worst fear come true,
for you had starved your artist to his death.
Charles Ives (1874 - 1954), considered the first true American voice in classical music, creator of the tone cluster...and as an insurance agent, creator of the concept of estate planning.  Another musician who never believed in the myth of the starving artist, and a personal hero.

Every choice has a price to be paid.
857 · Mar 2015
cavete troglodytarum
Joel M Frye Mar 2015
Some people are
insightful; many others
merely inciteful.
Well to consider before posting on social media.
854 · Oct 2021
immolation
Joel M Frye Oct 2021
what does a survivor do
upon the re-entry into life?
851 · Mar 2015
For Erika
Joel M Frye Mar 2015
I've known you only as a quiet child.
So many years in passing spoke your name,
And hearing it would bring a fleeting smile.
I've known you only as a quiet child.

You're now a wife, a mother; all this while
It took for me to stake a father's claim.
I've known you only as a quiet child;
So many years in passing spoke your name.
Still getting to know my daughter.
846 · Jan 2014
Haunting
Joel M Frye Jan 2014
Wandering past poems
of those who have gone on, may
they have found their peace.
With both acknowledgements and apologies:

Goode frend, for Iesus' sake, come share
And rede the wordes enclosed here.
Blessed be they who move these stones,
And cursed be they who spare these bones.
842 · Apr 2016
My place (repost)
Joel M Frye Apr 2016
The ocean's pulse, the ebb and flow
of constant waves' re-nourishment
bespeaks to me of life, although
an undercurrent message sent
in whispered sighs of Gaia's breath
upon the shoreline where I sit
relates a tale of bounteous wealth;
the wind, the rain - that we exist
at all is purely by the grace
of Nature's cycles. Also heard,
a gentle, soft, disturbing voice
reminding me without a word:
when we have come and we have gone
the ocean's pulse continues on
NaPoWriMo day22 - Earth Day poem.

I don't think I can write another as good as this, so....
838 · Jan 2011
Creepshow
Joel M Frye Jan 2011
it's morning, and your arm cradles my head
gently, after such a long and torrid night

i roll over to watch you sleep

your eyes half-lidded, unfocused,
unmoving, unconscious

tenderly, i move your arm;
you do not stir.
slowly, i raise up on one arm
the better to see you my dear
delicately stroke your breast,
your ******, proud, *****, unaware

trace down with my fingertips
your firm abs, now rippling with
your steady, slow breathing
and lower, to your loose
and flaccid thighs which
flashed their strength on
the dance floor last night,
now so unresistant to my touch

your calves, (my breath catches)
what i noticed first
about you, smooth yet well-turned
and solid, what made me notice
and want you

the last drink i bought you
hit you hard
and still works your mind
as i speak softly in your ear
and watch your eyes respond
to what i say to you for later

Shall I take you now?

All in good time, my dear
All in good time.
Did someone say dark?  Just wanted to let y'all know what dark is.  So much more refined than serial killers, don't you think?  LOL
No actual persons were harmed in the writing of this poem.  Any resemblance to any real person, living or deceased, is purely coincidental.
The yang to "Object lesson"'s yin.
1/31/2011  JMF
837 · Feb 2011
here we go loop de loop
Joel M Frye Feb 2011
Fear the Mobius
strip mind: one continuous
loop severely kinked.
My world with a twist...
2-19-2011  JMF
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