Ain't it funny, some of the things we do
to avoid pain. Am I kidding?
Surely I'm not. Who's laughing?
Everyone's leaving. Losing me for
some-other heathen, somebody a bit
more tangible, someone a little less lost.

"I asked God for a bike, but I know God doesn’t work that way.
So I stole a bike and asked for forgiveness."
Sprained my ankle cycling home, call it the karma I don't believe in.

pumice
peat
mulch
humus
leaf mold
clod
loam: a rich, friable soil containing a relatively equal mixture of sand and silt and a somewhat smaller proportion of clay.

marl:  Geology. a friable earthy deposit consisting of clay and calcium carbonate, used especially as a fertilizer for soils deficient in lime.

argil: clay, especially potter's clay.

bole:
noun
1.
any of a variety of soft, unctuous clays of various colors, used as pigments.
2.
a medium red-brown color made from such clay.





clutch
kaolin
loess: a loamy deposit formed by wind, usually yellowish and calcareous, common in the Mississippi Valley and in Europe and Asia.
slip
till: a stiff clay, a glacial drift of clay, sand, gravel, and boulders

Architects plant their imagination, weld their poems on rock,
Clamp them to the skidding rim of the world and anchor them down to its core;
Leave more than the painter's or poet's snail-bright trail on a friable leaf;
Can build their chrysalis round them - stand in their sculpture's belly.

They see through stone, they cage and partition air, they cross-rig space
With footholds, planks for a dance; yet their maze, their flying trapeze
Is pinned to the centre. They write their euclidean music standing
With a hand on a cornice of cloud, themselves set fast, earth-square.

but I'm not all here
my words are like dry wheat,
snapping
in the middle of a sentence, there are
parts of me that are lost and cannot
speak for themselves so the things I
say often break

That the countryside is punctuated with quaint idyllic wonder, is overstated.
For those who survive on the other side of here, we as strangers have our
illusory perceptions of blissful self-sufficiency.
But seeing is not everything.
Our aspirations would be dashed if we were to live amongst its people.

+++

A young couple is putting seed potatoes into the friable soil, hoping for a taste of the earth.
Storms have been forecast for later today, so they've been up since first light -
racing against Nature.

Their widowed Mother strains to watch them from the farmhouse window.
Oblivious to black clouds gathering in the distance.
She can just make them out, backs bent, next to their loaded basket.

Her husband, long gone, left her with empty hands to fill, so she's grateful at her age to be of some use to her family, minding their baby, just a few months old, cherishing it as if it were her own.

At midday, she settles the baby in its pram and begins to sing softly,a lullaby
she remembers singing to her daughter years ago, aware of how rusted her voice
has become, though her audience of one doesn't seem to mind.

As baby's eyes begin to close, she tiptoes to the kitchen to prepare bread and soup for the hungry planters, then taking a a final peek at the sleeping child, pulls on her boots and sneaks out.


In the yard there are pigs.
Solid, rounded brutes, ready for slaughter.
A little afraid, she moves between them, still humming the lullaby – just to feel safe.
Once in the field, she closes the gate behind her, as though it was the final chapter in a book.

In the narrow field, her vision allows her a clearer view of her daughter and husband,
so she walks a little quicker, eager for adult conversation.

As she reaches them, they are sitting side by side on a convenient stone, both straight-backed, looking rather like a Henry Moore sculpture she thinks. They've been bent over for too long.

Sipping on the hot soup, it's as if they've forgotten how to talk – they're so exhausted.
But she understands, she knows how hard it can be.
Once you're committed to the countryside, there's no escape.
Life's like that.

A sudden gust moves the heavy clouds closer. She can smell rain coming.
Maybe there'll be enough to raise the first green shoots.
A distant rumble of thunder decides for her that she should go back to the house
so they can finish the planting.


As she reaches the gate, the wind gathers speed, bringing with it a heavy downpour.
She's glad she's wearing her boots.

At the house she finds the door already open where the damp wind has muddied the quarries.

Further into the storm-dimmed hallway, she senses an atmosphere of ruin -
a kind of emptiness breathing in a dead space.
And from the violated air, a chill freezes her heart with a fearful silence.

The pigs, the terrible pigs......

Her eyes fix on the pram, tipped on its side,
its white covers ribboned with flesh and blood,
and one wheel spinning, its rhythm gently slowing for the final lullaby.

It seems that the sound of the storm is leaving the field, soon to burst through the open door
of the first chapter in a different story.

+++

When the madness of country life turns against you, the unseen future comes quickly.
And the past forever gone, lingers to torment the soul with stories
that have no endings.


copyright © Caroline Grace 2013

you lick me clean,
(no need for seconds)
i am dinner and desserts,
wrapped in one.
i have metamorphosed.
(you chipped and cracked until
the cocoon fell and shattered)
sticky air kisses my collarbone,
you slurp the salty water because no one can
satisfy you like I can.
the fields tingle through my old bones,
the lakes shiver upon my friable vents.
i am free, darling,
free only when i am with you.

This defines my heart
define:friable

Ripe, bitter, sour and oh so sweet.
Dangling off of a Californian tree.
Living within peels so stringent and
containing cascading juices so pungent.
He leaves you wanting, aching to know more.
He lures you in with the irresistible sweetest of enchanting
songs and ballads.
But what you didn't know was, that the ending
melody left you in a note that made you feel as though
you were drowning in a sea of rotten,
forgotten, and lost once loved dreams.
You became addicted to his freshness,
to the zest of his scent.
You became seduced, captivated even.
You let yourself become vulnerable
and susceptible to his touch.
You slowly opened up your wounds.
You let your friable bandages flow free.
You even let him lead the grand dance.
You let him twirl and spin you to the point
of reaching a state of trance or reverie.
He took you on romantic evening picnics,
he brought you to the oldest of antique boutiques,
and he even painted you angelic
mosaics in oil.
Ones comparable to those grandiose and imposing
works' of the masters.
At last he casted you under his spell
and he enticed you once again.
He had the charm of a thousand
and he was spontaneous in all his ways.
He never failed to surprise you.
They say he had an oriental descent
and this would explain much.
But when you least expected it,
he touched your wounds.
You felt an unbearable pain,
and a strange surge flow through you.
It burned, to say the least.
You almost felt your incisions
blister under the effect of his acid.
His yellow and aureolin tint
seemed only to be a facade.
An illusion, a charade to the naked eye.
But in that moment you could see through it.
You looked at him with pain-struck eyes,
full of confusion and disappointment.
You couldn't really identify the look in his.
You realized that he really had nothing to do
with his cadmium yellowish golden tint.
You felt as though you were fainting.
You were sinking and all the sweet
memories you two shared, flooded your
sight.
But then he said, "look at your wounds"
and you did as he ordered.
You looked down and shook off the stupor
and came back to.
You looked at your wounds and
became staggered and managed a mere "thank you".
For your wounds were no longer swollen and irritated.
He had healed you.
So when life hands you lemons,
don't make lemonade.
No, instead care for those
misunderstood beings,
and tend to their needs.
Because the lemons in our lives
are all too prevalent and far too
misread.

If I had a heart in my hands
One not made of flesh

If I carried it all the minutes of every day
And it was made of friable stuff

If I stumbled in a careless way
And it slipped before my eyes

If it fell to the hardened ground
And smashed into a billion atom bits

If the fractured shards were
Myriad made in a smear of salty tears

If I had no one but me blameworthy
Because it was only me around

If this was the case
Then I can’t look behind me
With accusations tumbling from my lips.

If I had the chance to glue, piece by piece
It back into a heart-shaped thing

If each tiny silver sliver was slotted into place
To once more catch the noiseless light

If I took a thousand years
And made my fingers bleed

If I once more held it up
And it had glinting form

If this repair was done in the dry dock of my hands
Would it still be a flawless gem?

If this repair is painfully gained
Does the time and care infuse the fault
With a lustre of perfection?

If all I see is the spinning binary pulse
If all I have is a sparking
Einstein-Rosen Bridge

If all around me is a sea of foaming mediocrity
If nothing else is worth my time

Then surely repairing this shattered glass is
The worthwhile work of every second

Of this remaining life

Paper hearts
Coated in sugar
Sweet simple art
Lightly tread on edges thin
Living through warm smiles and dormant memories
Forever and ago we will reach fin
Side by side
Lightly caress to break my stationary casing
Barely close enough to confide
Hoping everything
Leaves a beat
An exigent effort to remember
Living by friable motions
Break with rain
Torn apart
You can't wear me down
I'm sustained by something paper thin
Stopping my heart with a touch at a time

every atom
blasted apart
reconstituted
in an instant
random fragments
of memory surface
then spin out of sight
permanence and solidarity
laughable
dissolving
everything tissue thin
friable

Charcoal trees
crowned in
greenish grey,
diluted in mist;

glitten dew, spilt
by sword shaped ferns,
bruising in yellow
the bushy scented moss;

likens' frozen tracery,
gothic earthly waves,
bursting gloomy barks
into shades of red and sand;

in a friable sunbeam,
a swirl of a honey bee.

Who is buried under the rock
It's a friend of mine, in Barros
Walloping scallops in French Kitchen, cradling reserved Paris
In the free, memories are made often
Of these great following, greetings today
Now tomorrow now comes yeses and sclera
Is a rocking soup, in the full stomach, day after and after

Hue, in the colorful streetlight
Imagine the night of the thunderous clap, when the fly is a ****** hull
And it just hit me, and I kicked the dirt, you're life has to full of sons
If I had music like this ramble on the porch, bleeding by the fire with the letter of tout wheatish complexion
By the dog who waits on the Mitya and Alyosha is your friend in the thought that you will survive the thing that stays after that is what survives in my mind, the Ivan remembers you in his searching elegant looks

Hooking for readable pages that him to a crime of the senescence wailing, waters won't come back again tainted by the hint at the story and talk oh human nature and passion, a bold letter took from your open book, now strewn hanging in the room

Even when I'm in the drunken haze in the clear, swarthy and dressed, lilies wilt in cold art nouveau, talk of colorful tambourines
Dietrich, Lithuania rebarbative is not subjective
Folgen Sie nur auf der Ersten unlike this we search for some facts between the lines of anticipation of something crawl from under
Auf Wiedersehen from the sending  halls that for romance was once, breadth, lengths to go if you're in dearth sickness and you just keep looking to change how you react
Now, you don't even attract me anymore with stories of Lithuania and unspoken in the loveliest languages, how slovenly though
In need for love, drugs can keep this warm, the finding a drunken haze in drugs, ******, are we arriving at the naked frumpy girl or your heaven's in crisis

Hue in the callow streetlamp, your glib about Ibsen, and talk of centuries and blazing etudes that your soul collates, a thrilling merit
When they told her, that she was "yelling."
They asked her to stop making the noise, forgetting that it was music once
They saw the determination in flowery spokes, that follow the sunflower
Parallelogram van in the dim light, strong verses terse hearses
Towers calls and church were we young once, are we full of ourselves
And becoming romantic, philosophizing on knowing you and I
We must have a purpose to do this, applying and ousting ourselves of comforting minnows yarns of jocular joints cracking by the Thomas Munroe book and fireplace, trust the recesses of your mind they aren't distinctly, but, a warm gun
A free drug and Englishman couldn't prevent the brew from brimming
The drudgery of a different time and passion
Time machine, wheels on fire that talks to us and also tells us to sleep, making sure that we keep a mindful eye optioned out of the dinner sleep and talked about that
Well, we are titillating, scintillating, coruscating, shiny friable animated
Frisco bay, curiosity in the shell-shock of the freedom that talks of captivity and caitiffs, call me a coward
We are soldiers in the prisons of our mind, except most of are in the kitchen making the derelict talk, a black cat crosses the street
Talk, and talk, then the electric silence missionaries, a tabled missionary serving food to the few toward the city in pursuit of the curious one.

Chills abound enliven the skin
The quiet is pervasive
Yet you still listen
Mist of your breath
Reaffirms existence
The placidity of warmth
Is yielding to friable ornaments underfoot
How is it that the smell of the impending decay
Is so intoxicating?

friable alabaster bones huddle
in rugose rose wrapping,
words hanging pendulously in the air,
and I think this is where we fell in love –
somewhere in the Gehenna between
how-do-you-do and nice-to-meet-you
the moon thawed and
bled
into the crescents your fingernails left me with.

Dead leaves are colorful,
aren’t they?
laying like a frozen dance
atop the dewed staves
were seen every day
waiting below.

Dead leaves gave their bodies
to the upward aching hands
of a graying yard this morning.
Dead leaves were tranced in
the whole apparition
this morning.

The sun made snow falls
frailly through mist on my
friable face.
Am I an old man, already?
I don’t ask if it’s the change
made them fall. I don’t ask—
I know.
Time breeds wisdom
and also Alzheimer’s.
But it doesn’t matter, we’ve
learned to laugh at Woody Allen
movies, after all,
haven’t we?
Dead leaves are colorful,
aren’t they? Aren’t we?

Meticulous, Prodigious;
Pedagogy, Melancholy;
Sanctimonious, Sacrilegious;
Fallacy, Facetious, Flippant.

Contumacious, Efficacious;
Equanimous,  Calamitous;
Sclerotic, Spasmodic;
Fastidious, Feckless, Fecund.

Rebarbative, Pervasive;
Petulant, Redolent;
Wheedling, Withering;
Fulsome, Friable, Factotum.

Rushing with the piece
Resting with the ease, of the meals
Hunger of the daydreams, and elation
Rush of blood to the body
Rushing into ravines into the edifice
Friable spice and the ravines, protean about my description
Repetition of the surreptitious, debate preaching
Pecunious, fidelity and high on life lying on my own
Each to his, one for his own, stress about the abortive
Imitative, about love being his stressful, hurtful for her
Free, and then shielding myself about it, hurting her
With defenses, maybe, going to cry broken fears through the ticking time

Indurate or friable?
it's
frustratingly undeniable
I do not know.

Hard of hearing
soft of touch
is it too much to ask
an answer to a question?

such are the lines
hard times
soft landings

I think that I'm
still standing here
waiting.

poetry. folded into my back
pocket marooned pages are
left frayed and friable like
leaves on the bottom
of a teacup

poetry. stancion of
formed glass emptied of
its torch by breakage
each shard a grain
of obsidian
sand

poetry. lamp of a great
beast structure struggling to
find its way through the labyrinth
Minotaur myths blackness
camera obscura to a feast of souls
who's meat is dusty tomes
skeletons in tombs
choking on their crusts of
parchment owls


i am poetry. all of these
am i. a paper soul clipped
from an origami bird's wing
frayed like a homemade
leaf but never

empty


SoulSurvivor aka
Write of Passage

Pitiful plow tilling fallow ground
Turning friable soil
Loamy luckless pillows trailing
Investments with no reward
Love doesn't grow here anymore

Persistent Poly; grandiose gumption
Attempting to alter the arc of a function

Showering afection
Anointing rays of attention
Amalgamated with emotion

Sowings showing no enrichment

Capsicum capsules; dormant destiny
Fruitless loom; hindered harvest
Barren barrel; wanting womb
Mirthless smirk; sorrowless frown

No seeds to spare, no crops to share
No capacity or compassion to care

Give a friable pen to an insolent joker,
for he will write a cacophony of laughter

Send a man with nothing to search for a lost treasure,
he will go on and leave his name in fervor

Say your truth without lies nor deceit,
figures will follow you and speak your wisdom

Write a poem alone in your house,
the world embrace you for all you've done

Parable of Mikeas: “Once upon a time, the donkey Mikeas, where he lived with a villager near Profitis Ilias, walking near this promontory, m always called his attention to the water layers that tickled him because of the orogeny where he rested his feet. In the low degree of donkey evolved from him, with his friable adventures of the animal groom, he continued west towards Salakos, near Mount Profistis Ilias. He went every day for that route, but one day he twisted his ankle, being able to continue walking with his fingers. His heel was similar to that of Achilles, therefore he feared he would not be able to return home from Molokos, the Nymph was trying to get out of the spring, trying to be able to bear his capricious load on the underside of his ribs, but the cobblestones made him overly tired. way, therefore he had to drink fresh water near the spring. When Achilles suddenly appears saying: “I wounded King Telephus. The wounds did not heal, and Telephus asked for an oracle, which said "he who hurt will heal. From this same stones full of twisted earth I will do the same with you, Micah ”. He missed the donkey when he saw that his wounds were adorned in pale blue, letting his foot mold into the curvatures of the floor, contracting Mikeas's tendon. After Achilles vanished near the mute donkey, he saw how orchids in the shape of bees came out, thus being branches that moved horizontally from the horn of a fawn Lady Platonis, who was holding on to the humid forest to affirm Mikeas of the stirrup of Achilles, indicating with his right horn that he could go back home, to Profitis Ilias "

Greek-Orthodox parable: “in the sacramental, Jesus and his Apostles, continued with their faithful apostolic icons in Salakos, from the same source of the roar of the source of the Lion and the Nymph, each claiming to be the separate component divided into its half exact of those who moan of Catholicism, when one more apostolate extended further from the Mediterranean of Christian primitivism on the side of the Lion and Rabbinic Judaism, in the conciliation of the Mashiach, and their Abrahamic legacy even being separated from each other, Mikeas he joined again after the birth of his scab, re-emerged from his ribs, such as that of Jesus on the binominal shoulder of Golgotha ​​and Gethsemane, as a Templar after the temple of King Solomon was destroyed. The Lion stretched out his leg and the Nymph received in her hands the reality of conciliation, under a species unification that will contain dominance near the springs that will act as a nativity between Rhodes and Patmos, transforming the viaducts into anti-heresy or heresiology from the same binominal spring, for all the priests who never understood that it was the Division of the World into two unknown parts, if only a donkey-like Mikeas would unite them so easily.

(Procoro takes a similar image of Vas Auric and reflected it with the twilight sun on the plans of the temple of Omega that are going to be built, reflecting his heraldic prose image in that of the Lion and the Nymph being fed by the Good Dew adventure in the landscapes that continued to be traveled by the remaining parts of Mikeas)

Inherent madness, or good or evil
Everyone is questioning my devilish innocence
Airbrushed the evidence, vanishes with the vain goodness
Proud of a crime I'm an asylum to broken bad
Crime Punishment tends to the children of terrorist acts to schoolkids
Revolutions a part of the agenda of educated sordid seditions
The propagandist flag yells "Act", taking it for what it's worth
Act before the protest, the run after the morning, I have left my clock on stop
I looking for an eternal reflection in a tomorrow I'll never see
Jungle-run and humming puns, hammering drunkards with reruns
I'm rivetting with the genesis and my enunciated elegies with the dour dry
Or for someone in dearth need and the falsities and fallacies
Peacefully and four friable fiends, that crumbled with the atomic bomb
So, why are selling streets in the dead-end dreads
The locks of a speakeasy, the talking eyes, the messages beeps intermittently, telling me to sell the bomb
In the jungle rage of the rhyming of the ****** bombs, that I find peace and fantasy with truth and profanity
Peach diesel kick out from underneath, **** my destiny and fears
Burn up with the gas, with the members of the fraternities of the derelicts with freewill crooks
Gravitating towards the era of laughter and mirthful madness
Burning money and the diesel at the same combustible pace
What's oil without fish food?
Water surfacing across the painted picture
Of the absence of truth
Inflammable, both of these items of greed in a box of full of things
The thespian greed in the sequestered dream, quoted by the *******
Quantifying these Swedish dreamers and sycophants and circadian  hillbillies

I'm howling under the little tree
Becoming quiet, becoming a pole
Lank, hankering on the ransacked goals stealing the sleep from, meaningful free prose with the simple words that stole my sleep, I want your hand
Don't you wanna dance in the dark
Butchering Sundance, in the kid of the friable apartment
Apartment 145-146, today's last cries on the radio on Central park songs
That's alright to turn the radio and explain the positively rhapsodic living sphinx riddle, be killed by it or understand it
Across midnight skies, and shirk the sins, and scream with the pursuit of desires in Tangiermen
Burning with Illmatic fire on the sunflower beads with sultry kisses on the nape of your neck
For happiness, I live in a time where we are quixotic
Blind with angel hippie looking for Alhambra, to ruin their with happiness, with mindful language burning in the circles of hell reigning with boundaries of paradoxical paradise lost
Some of us are a locked stocked barrel gun in machine tombs Barros creating sorrows, likeness to a warm run on Spain
An open book within without a son is like a train journey, it stays like a good friend in the Blake Light of burning Solaris
We were on the run on, Goldman Train running the errands like a kid waiting for the gold rush on the cast across acrobat, back and forth should I sat or should I go like the ultimate punk
Counting the stars just like you, easing ego in the poetry losing myself in strains of woes in a parceled nosegay which time clutched from Empyrean isles
Ginsberg meeting Walt Whitman in the supermarket sharing the list of cultured vegetables in Elysian isles, California in the catcher of eye fields
It's all coming together.

poetry. folded into my back
pocket marooned pages are
left frayed and friable like
leaves on the bottom
of a teacup

poetry. stancion of
formed glass emptied of
its torch by breakage
each shard a grain
of obsidian
sand

poetry. lamp of a great
beast structure struggling to
find its way through the labyrinth
Minotaur myths blackness
camera obscura to a feast of souls
who's meat is dusty tomes
skeletons in tombs
choking on their crusts of
parchment owls

poetry. oil of anointing
for to wrap the Christian
alive as he burns in
the garden of
Caligula

i am poetry. all of these
am i. a paper soul clipped
from an origami bird's wing
frayed like a homemade
leaf but never

empty


SoulSurvivor site
Write of Passage