"anthologies" poems
~
June 2023
HP Poet: Patty Mager
Country: USA
Question 1: Welcome to the HP Spotlight, Patty. Please tell us about your background?
Patty M: "I was born an only child in a 3 generation household. I loved books, and playing imaginary games, and chasing my mom with really long nightcrawlers, my Grandpa raised in a washtub. I was a banker, and a financial banker for many years. I quit to do hospice for my Dad when he was to go into hospice. My husband had heart problems and my little Mom eventually got Cancer. So I nursed and loved them all. My Dad for a year, the others over an 8-year period. I saw the transition of each and the way each handled their ending, and I was there for them all. I consider that a special blessing."
Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?
Patty M: "I always wrote, but I found a poetry site 20 years ago, and began to write seriously. I've been published in many anthologies both in the US and abroad. I was nominated for the coveted Pushcart Prize twice and I once had a three-page spread in our local newspaper. I came to HP in 2014 and I love this special place with amazingly wonderful poets who have become really great friends."
Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).
Patty M: "Sometimes poems seem to write themselves, almost like automatic writing."
Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?
Patty M: "Poetry is spiritual, and a lifesaving rope that carries me through both good and the horrible times of my life."
Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?
Patty M: "My favorite Poets are: Sylvia Plath, Neruda, Billy Collins, Maya Angelou, Poe, Ginsberg, Anne Sexton, and Longfellow."
Question 6: What other interests do you have?
Patty M: "I love to cook, do crossword puzzles, read, and play card games like canasta, and spider solitaire. Being with family is my heaven."
Carlo C. Gomez: “Thank you so much for allowing me to interview you, dear Patty! I learned a great deal about you!”
Patty M: "Thank again Carlo. Thanks so much for all your help and kindness."
Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed getting to know Patty a little bit better. I indeed did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez (aka Mr. Timetable)
We will post Spotlight #5 in July!
~
Jun 1, 2023
Jun 1, 2023 at 5:56 PM UTC
I’m from the city where jacaranda trees light up the streets with their purple blooms.
I’m fascinated by spring, jacaranda petals and the countless anthologies that Mother Nature continues to write.
Without a sound, the city’s jacaranda petals fall effortlessly onto the ground.
As they fall, I begin to realise that we are all living in a world where the minutes are working overtime.
I’m reminded of the days when you and I devoted our time to the art of rhyme.
I no longer know where you are in the city but I hope you’re doing just fine.
I’m not where I want to be at this current moment but please give me time.
It’s within our simplicity where I discovered how beautifully complex we are.
Our circles might be smaller but our hearts are much bigger now.
The circumference might have drastically changed but the love hasn’t.
It’s no mystery why my aura will always long for the company of yours.
Even though I’ve got two left feet, I still want to slow dance to the rhythm of spring’s heartbeat.
In the capital city, October skies glow with a shade of purple.
Went from breaking up, breaking through to breaking new ground.
So even though I’m hurting now I know I’ll eventually be safe and sound when summer comes around.
These pages do not have enough space to describe how phenomenal we are.
It has been a while since we’ve seen each other so where are you now?
I value all you taught me about life and the importance of true friendship.
The circumference might have changed but the love between us hasn’t.
I’m from the city where jacaranda trees light up the streets with their purple blooms.
I’m reminded of the days when you and I devoted our time to the art of rhyme.
I no longer know where you are in the city but I hope you’re doing just fine.
I’m fascinated by spring, jacaranda petals and the countless anthologies that Mother Nature continues to write.
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 8:25 AM UTC
I lived my half dictionary life before I could
comprehend compulsory compromises.
Collectors arise, disguises and devices beeping,
chastising my blindness.
Gather geography from Afghanistan and Myanmar
graciously growing gold gilded gift horses,
gleefully gloating about floating far away.
My hoof beats above concrete match my heart’s defeat
across borders and mountains
embroidering cardboard cut-outs
calling deserts, decorating front covers.
Exhaling handcrafted letters for my missing half,
half demanding highest caliber commanders and half commanding completion.
Jade jays joyfully lay arrays of bouquets
fragile flowers decay faraway
in jawbones and jail cells.
Begging farewells in a hotel’s lobby
began my hobby,
early morning coffee and carbon copies
concurringly cocky around his dead body.
Gang ciphers for cartels are
Christmas bells hissing at collars,
half dollars embellishing bar crawlers
godfathers hollering at car haulers.
Atrocities across cities attack,
attachable atrophies audibly ambush arthritic anthologies.
Anomalies begin apologies between apostrophes,
advancing autonomy arousing ancient animosities.
All eluding Antarctica,
giant frozen crests, multi-coloured ice
hidden in my illustrations
anxious for my distant half.
Friday cassettes and cigarettes
deliberately making bets following “M”.
Breaking bindings and finding “beta” in alphabet,
may feasibly end in debt.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 1:51 PM UTC
this is for the Dreamers, Lovers, and Surgeons
for the Hopeless Stargazer who immortalized his Subject with one hundred and eight sets of fourteen lines in iambic pentameter
for ***** tight clad teenage boys who envied frisky fleas, struggling to make holy ungodly passions with cheap arguments and metaphysical pick up lines
for Disillusioned City Dwellers, who, wandering lonely as clouds, stopped to quietly reflect upon wind-beaten moss-covered crags, and heard God’s whisper thunder from petals and blades of grass
this is for the Dreamers, Lovers, and Surgeons
for Bespectacled Slave Drivers who submersed idle minds in anthologies, forcing them to **** neon yellow on dreams deferred and rivers; slicing and dicing Grecian urns with red ball point pens; bruising and battering, in blue ball point, roads not taken; scalding supermarkets in California with pyroclastic flows of graphite
for those pushing to tear apart lines and letters, reconstructing ,deconstructing, agonizing, imaginizing, bullshitting, and brooding on to crisp white sheets in times new roman twelve point font
for the Monsters and Lollipops that exist in the millimeters between a skull and a brain
this is for the Dreamers, Lovers, and Surgeons slumbering beneath Restless Leaves Under the Moon
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 10:39 AM UTC
A shadowy shop with
Shelves that bend and buckle
Under the weight of years.
The dust of the decade
Lies undisturbed
Volumes lined in motley ranks
Anthologies, albums and almanacks
Heaped in
Precarious stacks.
A few flaking pamphlets.
Dream-like sepia images
Dog-eared and damp
Bulge from mildewed and
Musty manilla.
Some are excited by
The acrid smell
Of old books.
Not sure that I am.
A bargain box or a treasure chest
Who cares.
Festered and forgotten
Between the yellowing pages of
A railway timetable
Lie someone's drawings.
Quite clever.
A little deranged, if you ask me.
Nice colours
But you wouldn't want them on your wall.
Jan 15, 2010
Jan 15, 2010 at 11:16 PM UTC
Our little collegetown is a jungle tonight,
with the deafening, staticky drone of locusts constituting
its own kind of warm gravity,
sidewalks drenched and carpeted with a rotting mess of
blood-red maple leaves, and
thousands of spiders the size of human eyes, glaring
down from the dead-center of their backlit, dew-drizzled webs.
I always thought that I'd never be loved enough.
In crafting anthologies on the angles of my favorite noses,
I pretended I didn't want someone else’s protractor on my own,
and prepared for a life sentence as the uncharted geometer,
the invisible painter, the secret poet,
the immortalizer, rather than the immortalized.
I find myself, now, to be a poem––
your poem––
etched into the curvature of your jungle-green eyes.
But walking home in our jungle tonight, I feel sick.
Your ears distort my hesitant laughter
into a dissonant, deafening euphoria, and
when I lay my head on your heated chest, I can feel the blood
gushing underneath your skin,
surging through your veins, storming, drowning
you, and I feel sick because all this love you pump for me--
all this love you are drowning in--
only rots in my guilty stomach...
When my memory is watching me
with her thousands of glaring eyes,
she will always mourn the breaking of a beautiful heart.
Oct 4, 2021
Oct 4, 2021 at 3:08 AM UTC
#25 | 31 Poems for August 2016
A few months ago you didn't know that I could write or recite like that.
My notebook is full of broken masterpieces that fail to come together like contour lines.
If my art goes unappreciated, unnoticed, unloved and unpublished then just know that I wrote from the heart.
I know that love is a beautiful thing but sometimes I feel like its main intention is to tear me apart.
So don’t be too surprised when I tell you that I’m slowly falling to pieces.
The ocean in my muse’s eyes reminds me of the colour of the sky and how I want to dive into the depths of who she is.
The world has made her feel like an abandoned church but in my eyes she’ll always be a cathedral.
She will always be a cathedral and you can say hallelujah or amen to that.
We are from the city where jacaranda trees light up the streets with their purple blooms.
Went from breaking up, breaking down, breaking through to finally breaking new ground.
So even though I’m hurting now I know I’ll eventually be safe and sound when a new season comes around.
I’m still fascinated by spring, jacaranda petals and the countless anthologies that Mother Nature continues to write.
Reading the lines on a woman’s skins is poetry and too many men are illiterate.
So they will never truly understand the fact that liberty begins with literacy.
My notebook is full of broken masterpieces that fail to come together like contour lines.
Even if my art goes unappreciated, unnoticed, unloved and unpublished I will always write from the heart.
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 9:39 AM UTC
Back in the day when I first started writing poetry
I was writing just to pass the time
Because at the time things weren't all too great
and the pressure came crumbling
What I wanted and hoped to gain from it was always there
In the subconscious of my mind
Though back then I wasn't thinking of it
Because like many others I was just writing
To relieve myself of years of emotional pain/abuse
What I really wanted from writing poetry
Wasn't just to write and never share with the world
Wasn't just to revel within fits of insecurity and manipulation
What I wanted from writing poetry was fame
That's what it's always been about for me
Though as I stated earlier I didn't know it at the time
But it was always the fame, the power, the popularity, the respect,
The admiration, the love etc...
And in my opinion poetry did bring me a small amount of it though to others it may seem like a bit of a larger slice of it but compared to other poets I really wasn't doing **** lol but yet I received numerous accolades.
MyPoetryForum Top 50 Poems Of 2013 By Rating
#13. "+ America Walking -"
#45. "Passing Clouds"
MyPoetryForum Top 50 Poems Of 2012 By Rating
#12. "Wonderwicked"
#13. "Download"
#14. "Evergreen Suite"
#15. "Pixel Juliet"
#16. "Coffee Fashion"
#28. "Vanilla Amour"
MyPoetryForum Top 50 Poems Of 2011 By Rating
#28. "When Two Poets Fall In Love Pt. 4"
MyPoetryForum Top 50 Poems Of 2010 By Rating
#41. "7 Years"
#50 "Extraordinary"
MyPoetryForum Top 50 Poems Of 2009 By Rating
#5. "Spontaneous Desires"
#13. "A Thousand Words Of Beauty Pt. 1"
Today's Writing February 2011 Black History Month Writer Of The Month (Prior to defunction)
People in different parts of the world using my poems in their videos, in their photo captions, on their blogs.
Poetry featured in a few anthologies etc...
Wrote and published my own poetry books
Ran my own poetry club at my local library
Hell, I even had subscriptions to about five different poetry/writing magazines at once with my subscription to POETRY magazine spanning nine years because I would by a ******* subscription every paycheck so I would never have to worry about renewing.
I pretty much got what I desired but then I suddenly woke up and realized that I yes I do truly and badly want the fame but I want to obtain it through another medium.
Poetry isn't my passion.
Music is my passion.
So stop ******* asking me if I'm still writing poetry!
I don't and I don't ******* desire to write!
**** off!
Jul 24, 2020
Jul 24, 2020 at 1:51 AM UTC
✿⊰✲⊱✿
Me and Paul waltz upon the marble
floor with others. Each one of us gliding
swirls of many colours, becoming rainbows
that float in sync with the pianos, the flutes,
the drums, the harps. The aurelian tunes fills me
with nothing but joy, a smile never leaving my
face as my skirts swirl - my body moving
with the soul of the sound. Cleansing, emotive
yet free. When the music is done, we all
clap, cheer and bow.
✿⊰✲⊱✿
"And you said that you were not a dancer!"
Queen Sue beams and embraces me like a sister
which I return. After, I embrace both Kim
and Yidna.
"I never said I couldn't dance," I tease. "I just
said I didn't."
"Well, everyone can contest that!" Paul laughs.
"I suppose you're right."
"Just to confirm, Paul," Kim asks him. "All
the shipments were successful in delivery?"
He nods. "It was a smart move
for everyone to send the gifts to me because I
managed to keep it all down to five ships.
So we didn't overcrowd her harbours. From
what I hear, Donna was quite overwhelmed by
it all. Everyone sent more that four crates of
gifts each."
"I do hope she enjoyed the anthologies I gave her!"
Yidna beams.
✿⊰✲⊱✿
"I have no doubt she will," I chuckle. "So, is
it just me or does all that dancing have us peckish?"
"It's just you , I'm sure. I really hope you didn't starve
yourself to make room for all the food again."
"No!" I say.
"Yes, our Sweet Queen did!" Ainhara pipes up
as I playfully glare at her.
"Traitor!" I huff as my handmaids giggle and
Paul snickers.
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 6:14 PM UTC
I want poetry to break out of it's underground cave
Break out of the solitary lonely, locked cage.
I want my poetry to be capable of inspiring change
I want to illustrate beauty in a verse beautifully maimed
I want to communicate the tender sudden pulse of a surface wound
I want my poetry to be blueprints for change, in the world, or a room
I want to connect the universal nerve of tremors and feelings
I want to connect wires and vessels, shifting cells and ceilings
I want to broadcast this current human condition,
Rewiring like a revolutionary electrician
I want to transcend my, and next time,
With my poems added to anthologies
And each of their lines
Being recited by literary scholars and dedicated readers
But I have accepted some poets are popular during their lifetimes
Like Alice Cary, and Maya Angelou
With acknowledged, renowned, printed
Published Stanzas, and lines.
I want to at the very least, be one of those who guard a hidden, folded..
[Rather than outdated, infamous, tattered and broken]
..genuis.
Or maybe an answer to some past hanging question
Found in the very letters in my words to
The trademarked inflection
Breathing a bashful verse that grew in this universe
Or the next
To strengthen roots of the beauty of language
The older, the wiser, the more interpreted complex
Not the unknown but claimed roots of American poetry
And some
May close the **** kindle. Or rip out the last page.
After I die, I might return with bones live with rage.
Because if nothing has happened, I will continue to say:
I want my poetry to be capable of inspiring change.
Because we are destroying a world we should be killing fighting to save.
(Hopefully this shan't be said again from a grave.)
Each person who has read solely to write one more page
Take your weapons, inspire, engage
None can lay bricks until a clear path is paved.
iii.viii.xii
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 6:41 AM UTC
Step one is waking up
and writing about your day.
I want to talk about language,
your mothers cheapest wine and worst blueberry jam
staining all your best clothes with verses.
Vignettes appearing all over
the rented tuxedo from the wedding.
Dark ink and oil separates in a margarita glass
soaking into the cuts on your dry lips,
dusting your hair and the spaces
between each individual vertebrae.
Syllables dripping from the tip of your nose
and fingernails
leave novels on the linoleum and
books of sentence fragments on the hardwood.
Poets bleed into cracks on fine china
pooling into poems.
Space heaters emit quotes from dead people
I sign each word when
the analogue clock ticks,
each poem adding another minute to the day.
I’m always hoping I can squeeze in a few more hours
so I can watch the ****** orange sky
with grass in my shirt,
the Pixies mumbling in the background
leaving lyrics trapped in my teeth.
Anthologies of letters
between man and his dog
hidden onomatopoeias in every backyard.
I'll write you 364 days of the year
too many paragraphs to fill the barbecue.
Burn through pages with paper matches
making enough poems to last a decade.
Transfer phrases into the soles of my shoes,
I want to walk on water,
the "W" curled up beside my baby toe.
Every inch of the fabric we call skin,
stamps and ink pads,
turn everything to poetry.
Despite seas of fog
where breathing stops the words
from forming in your throat,
the only way to express is by experience
and frantic fountain pens.
Smoke on the balcony
writes starry sonnets about the girl in your bed
lining the waxing moon with poetry,
a **** homage to Shakespeare himself.
Serendipity;
finding something good without looking for it.
A feeling I have encountered
keeping my breathing sporadic,
rarely setting me on fire.
Living Chinese finger traps
burning blue poems on my palms
splotching the back of my neck
licking up my thigh and hips.
Let me throw away my common sense,
the final step of becoming a poet.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 10:59 PM UTC
I was gagging on poetry
And nothing could help:
I was gagging on poetry
So they let me lay my head
On Emily's desk
And her inkwell spilled.
I was gagging on poetry
And they covered me up
With Whitman's army blanket
On which I promptly threw up.
I was gagging on poetry
And the Poet Laureate
Sent me a get well bouquet
Of forget me knots.
I was gagging on poetry
And all my poems
Kept getting rejected
For Selective Service.
I was gagging on poetry
And they performed
The Heimlich maneuver
And up came
Twelve autobiographical
Sketches of poets
Thirteen anthologies
Three missing manuscripts
Two thesaurus books
One rhyming dictionary
And my good luck eraser.
Mar 10, 2010
Mar 10, 2010 at 5:56 PM UTC
Celebrate the invisible embrace.
You will be quite alone,
When the altruistic deed is done.
Content your heart in silence.
No choir will raise its voice
To sing your praises.
Consign your life to anonymity.
History no longer needs
Martyrs to fill anthologies.
Comfort your dreams in oleander.
Flowers are an appropriate caress,
For love conferred in obscurity.
Cultivate a flair for solitude.
Isolation is the purifying fire
That steels a damascene soul.
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 11:34 AM UTC
It had been four months since I started
reading his favorite poems aloud
to crack through congested silence.
I memorized the way
his nose crinkled up when I stuttered,
his husky chuckle after I read
one of his favorite lines,
the smell of yellowed, dog-eared pages.
I got to know this man
who had seemingly lost everything
and was just waiting
for his children to visit,
his medications to be dropped off,
to be with his wife once more.
I wore his favorite burgundy scrubs;
it was almost his birthday
and I had a new book to add
to his collection.
They didn’t tell me before I walked in.
It was bare:
the room reeked of bleach,
there were no sheets on the bed,
his few belongings were stuffed
in a cardboard box in the corner of the floor.
I sat on the mattress and wondered
why his kids were not here
mourning or making arrangements,
why I didn’t get to see the slight tug
of his lips to form a smirk when
I showed him the new Tennyson
that would now just gather dust.
He left me his anthologies in his will.
November 30, 2014
4:41:38 PM*
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 1:28 AM UTC
One way flights into the sky & let fate control the destination of my destiny.
Sail the supple curves of the oceans waves and may the rocking motion rock me into an everlasting fantasy.
Read about Baldwin's palpable endeavors, cover to cover and marvel at Sylvia Plath's anthologies that run shivers up and down my basketball-court of a spine.
Let Shakespeare educate me on love, heartbreak, tragedy and the reality of all stoicism and cynicism bestowed upon my naiveness.
Truth is, I don't know where I'm going, but whether it be the sky, the sea or within ink-stained papers, let them guide me to a place of genuine sincerity.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 12:11 AM UTC
I imagine my death a lot.
I am 28 years old
With two poetry anthologies
And a novel out
Living in New York City with a
Husband who doubles as a musician.
No kids,
Three dogs.
I laugh so hard I combust into nothingness
And my husband writes my memory
Into a song.
I am 19 years old
And looking over the edge of a
Casino building in Atlantic City.
Just last week a man
Flung himself down onto the ghost streets
Because no one told him
There’d be no gun in his game of roulette.
He had to take matters into his own hands.
The rain washed him into the ocean.
I hope it does the same for me.
I am 60 years old
And living in the New Mexico desert
Just outside of Roswell.
I look up at the night sky and
Hunt for UFOs.
I am yelling at the clouds
‘Just take me already!
Take these withered bones,
Take this soft skin!
Find me a new home!
One where I fit in!’
I have a heart attack just as they come to collect me.
I am 18 years old,
A sad girl from New Jersey.
A sad girl who grinds her teeth into stardust,
Who plays with the frayed ends of existence,
Who smiles with fury.
I imagine my death a lot.
But you see,
I’m dying.
I’m dying dying dying dying
And you are too.
There is no need for imagining.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 7:52 PM UTC
“Lucratively tedious” is what I called him.
That odd-ball collector of street-wise poets
Bulking up the lost devil anthologies while
Drowning black coffee with wordsmith stoics
Ready to deal a winning hand
at a moment’s notice.
The carnal majesty of fever blizzard erotica,
Stories penned with the sweat on oily skins.
The curtains of neon phantasmagoria
showcase psychosexual fiends and harlequins
Sing away raw vocal cord fire while I’m
dancing with Queens of glamorous sins.
He had that red tail swinging in the rain
She watched, the emissary of jaded seduction
With pale skin and leather lips abundant
Stroking hair full of snakes and destruction
With a wardrobe fit for 1980s metal scenes
As he in turn supplemented instruction.
It’s those bedlam vices creeping through the creases
Playing in our heads like a thousand movie reels
Desired fantasies mutated into corrupted realities
Shameful like the artificial chemicals we call meals
Some things need to be ruined to be appreciated
Just Like ol’ Lucy in her stiletto heels.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 3:13 AM UTC
i've been asked to be
in fancy anthologies,
be in fancy magazines.
to write freely on the page,
fill it with words,
light it up in flames.
after all,
everything i've learned to love,
vanishes in the end.
Apr 25, 2021
Apr 25, 2021 at 9:10 PM UTC
When first we met our words with each
Were laced with smile and touch. Our eyes,
Confessed and broke at the closing café
And fused in joy and salt, opened up
With long, arresting arms at our sides.
You brought me to your toppled room,
I counted a number of worn, weary
Books, various anthologies, travelogues
And philosophers, a few fierce Poets,
Looking on, strategies for study,
All assembled, with great measure,
It was an alternate version of my own
Battle ground library. Then, I was yours
But you were never mine.
Your stone,
Walled spirit encroached upon me
And I was unset to siege at the base
Of your winding turret and waged
With you a fortnight of five full years
When you rushed forth on your crusades
You left me, flung, far from the holy lands.
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 2:37 AM UTC
in the shutter of my camera.
in all the worn holes in my cardigans.
in the smell of your cooking.
in the sound of cutting strawberries.
in the turning pages of all the anthologies.
in the broken windows.
in the crumbled sheets.
in all the songs I hear.
in the place where you used to sleep.
May 8, 2011
May 8, 2011 at 9:13 AM UTC
hello poetry, can you put me in the mood
give me your sacred anthologies
your oceans and rivers too
human insight seems to fail in everyone I knew
like painted sandcastles on a gravel beat
a song lyric draped in Princeton blue
don't hoard the cadavers from both of us
this is one right you cannot undo
licorice rope to tie the knot, in the coma you've slipped into
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 12:30 AM UTC
As men, we respond. With sticks, in garments wet with black anthologies of life
Which whistles out of us as thorns, and sticky eyes that point that way. Exact hours.
Despite lust, from what has taken us before- to that androgynous triumph that brings
Us tears as we undo our buttons. That rakes time over our backs with the needles of small
Trumpets the teeth of ghosts, blood on the stems, awarded to brass ballerinas dancing on
Wounds each quotient inside our breaths, terrified strips the branches from the everywhereness
In front of what we can't see. Or open our eyes. Or follow our hands. The legs that we used to know.
The pallid girl I called home, dusty eyelids with energies sharpened with the sweet water and gold Threads atop a haystack I burned in pyres of all the yesterdays.
Once I was human, but not for my breaths or my volume or my sullied attitudes. Not for the denature of
My rotten mood, or the noxious smells from some evil words, or noisome meat, or grueling and expired
Thoughts. Unrolled canvases cauterized with the silks shreds in a suitcase beyond. A caption unread Intwined at the bow of her hip, or the hems that dotted her skin. Black and blue staled songs a father Sung so long ago. The hill rolled on as our bodies clung to satchels we hid, each watery step we steeped In the mud, culms fell and I didn't think, I haven't thought; everything I forgot approaches the tines of my Nose once aching thews overcame the moors I'd undone, there acarpous hues were pried into me.
Everything I've seen, is a muse that disperses my lungs.
Is the incantation of the thoughts I don't spake. Intwined in the fingers I shook, at the people that I
Wanted to hate, I am steal the weight of their steps. This urgency, penury hides. The silt hasn't moved
From the cenacle place. While cloffined the ashes stuck to my face. An eroteme I still uphold
As if this rock inside of my chest, only wanes when I lay on her breast.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 10:40 PM UTC
.
When first we met our words with each
Were laced with smile and touch. Our eyes,
Confessed and broke at the closing café
And fused in joy and salt, opened up
With long, arresting arms at our sides.
You brought me to your toppled room,
I counted a number of worn, weary
Books, various anthologies, travelogues
And philosophers, a few fierce Poets,
Looking on, strategies for study,
All assembled, with great measure,
It was an alternate version of my own
Battle ground library. Then, I was yours
But you were never mine.
Your stone,
Walled spirit encroached upon me
And I was unset to siege at the base
Of your winding turret and waged
With you a fortnight of five full years
When you rushed forth on your crusades
You left me, flung, far from the holy lands.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 3:57 PM UTC
Do you follow me...
I've scattered thought
across countless stages of unveiled catwalk
Graced anthologies of rhyme
Watched you
watch me
indulge in second guess
Still ...
reflection
seldom circulates
obscured from Elementary
Fact is... words refrain
as thoughts pile higher
Each ode grows less incent
from straining to dip our quills
Leaning
way beyond comfort
to soak
in crisper thoughts
Our only regrets ...
a shortage of counterintelligence
~~~
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 9:10 AM UTC