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bc moon raven Oct 2018
Growling and hissing, a storm formed along the road, portending the merging of the chaos that had been gripping our minds for months.  This day, this type of day, we could have dreamed up in the novel of our love affair.  The conversation along our drive into the country was as full and ***** as all other tête-à-têtes shared in our two months together.  We were never at a loss for words and his conversation had been more educated than the older men I had dated since the divorce.  I was forever astonished at him and with him.  

The first time I met him, I was sitting behind my desk and planning for another monotonous day of office politics and all the drama connected.  Lost in thought, I sipped coffee and read emails until, there was - him.  He opened my office door with such fervor and drama, I knew someone had just entered into my life that would leave me forever changed, and I welcomed it.  A mess of auburn hair, neither combed nor styled and yet quite fitting, haloed around his head and gave the visage of an angel.  He had a freckled nose and cheeks with blue eyes staring from behind all that wildness and they were the only calming feature about him.  I turned my head and grimaced a bit, “how dare someone charge into my office as if to own it”.  “How can I help you?” made its way from my lips with a bit of a sigh.  And he smiled, that smile which would make his face even younger and more deceptively angelic.  

“Hello” danced off his lips and in two syllables was able to sound singsong and my anger soon turned to anticipation.  He introduced himself as Parker and explained his new position as Junior Editor.  He went on to say someone instructed him to introduce himself to me since I was Senior Project Manager for the organization.  His fervent entrance into my office had sent a gush of wind that disheveled my tidy desk and his wide blue eyes looked around at the chaos he had rendered.  He seemed unable to offer apologies, and I soon learned this was his way.  His confident facade prevented admission of mistakes and the word “sorry” could not escape the tightness of his will to be correct.  This was my lover’s way and it was the structure built that only wrecking ***** could destroy.

As is expected of me, I extended my hand to welcome him, overmuch aware of my grip and strength in presenting my hand, I felt the need to dominate the grip.  I was a woman in a senior position inside the male dominated echelon of upper management.  I took his hand and with rehearsed quickness attempted to demonstrate my dominance, my superiority.   It was then, the first time I saw a devil behind his angelic face and I remember my expression churned up my secret thoughts.  He saw my eyes searching those thoughts and delight shone from his blue eyes like cold fire and I was burned.   Our hands soon contorted into a dance of dominance with fingers twisting as if in a finger shadow play.  No time for games or plays for control, I simply took the shake he offered and turned towards my coffee, my drama, my emails and without looking at him welcomed him again and gave a wave of dismissal.  He greeted my brush-off with a laugh and made his way to the chair in front of my desk.  He was tall and the light from behind silhouetted his broad shoulders and upright posture.  He was confident and sure.  His clothes were expensive, well-tailored and not at all the measure for his age.  He had a style about him and I believe it came as naturally to him as did the confidence in which he clothed himself.

I wanted to be angry at his overconfidence, his interruption, his disregard.  I was, instead, amused but annoyed.  He sensed he was beginning to irritate me and it seemed to delight him.  He would speak without taking a breath, eager to finish his thoughts, aware perhaps that time could steal the moment away and he would forever wonder.  He spoke with an accent I did not fully recognize and attempted to invite me to lunch or even coffee.  My lover was bold.  

I was succeeding in this corporate world, my world.  I was not ready to lose my focus for a moment alone with the delightful creature staring back at me, awaiting the “yes” he expected would be my answer.  He was a man who did not accept the “no’s”.    He would get what he wanted and would wait in predator mode until his prey was wounded, weak, ready.  He was not a predator in the malevolent sense, more in the need for survival mentality.  He would lift the wounded and weak above the limits of their afflictions and a “yes” would flow from their lips in fond gratitude.  Today I was not a “yes” and it did not feel like a final answer.  Somehow, I knew one day I would be naked with this man, my lover.  I knew I would take him inside me, and he would show me how to love in ways I had never known.  The “no’ and the explanations of the “no” exuded from my lips, and I could see him grow even more eager to know me.  He would learn the stories of my life from rumors and talk.  He would learn of my divorce, of the men I dated with expensive homes and cars.  He would hear about the occasional woman who would occupy my bed.   I had wished all of it to be true but only the divorce was correct.  I was not exceptional or exciting.  I was driven and focused.  

He stood there hearing my “no” with the sun behind him igniting the fire in his hair with his shoulders pinned back exposing his sculpted chest.  He stood there and allowed the silence after my rejection to hover the room, and there it was.  We locked eyes, and neither could emancipate from the other.  I wondered who he was and what he looked like naked in the morning with his disheveled hair, and we stared, locked in our gaze until my phone rang signaling the end of round one.  

Wrapped in my shawl, I moved between sipping coffee, as was my usual, and typing on my laptop.  He was behind me in the cabin.  I felt him approaching and knew he would quickly whisk me away from the overwhelming din of office emails and calls.  His presence behind me now was no longer disquieting but natural.  

The cabin had been his grandfathers and he had a noticeable pride about it when showing me through the door and gateway to his childhood memories.  He had a smile on his face I had never seen.  I delighted in how young it made his face appear, almost as if the childhood memories possessed him and he became the blithe youth here with his grandfather.  


It was fall at the cabin and the smell of musk and rotting leaves and ozone from the storm, filled the cabin and each deep breath was taking in a memory from my youth.   I was happy to be here with him and yet afraid.  Two months we flirted and touched over our shared lunches, eager to get inside each other physically, mentally.  The office was replete with stories of the happenings between the older woman executive and the younger up and coming man, how he must be using her to advance his career and how she was using him to heal the wounds of her recent divorce.  We heard these stories and watched them grow to the point we ended our touching, our flirting.  Soon the denial of our feelings and time apart turned to foreplay.  Soon there were stares across conference rooms, perceptive smiles as we crossed paths.  The total of it led us to this moment, to time alone together for the first time, this time.  

Fall in the country was the vangaurd to a glorious death.  The earth would explode with color announcing its final breath and moment upon the stage and we had arrived during the final bow and curtain call.  Trees draped in gold - and red - and orange heralded the fire to come and we too were ready to pour forth in glorious blaze and inferno.  During the entire ride into the country an ironical mist of dew and rain dotted the windshield as if nature attempted to douse the desires clawing to escape in each other’s arms.  There was a devil sitting next to me and I had to smile as his auburn hair blended so naturally with the landscape.  I was obviously lost in thought and he looked at me and asked if I was okay.  Him next to me, him crookedly smiling at me.  

“It’s nothing.  It’s just nice to see you in your element.”  My replay was short but my heart was beating so hard I was almost afraid he could see it bouncing behind my blouse, so I began to cover up but was met with his hand before I even reached the edge of my coat.  

“No.  I want to see you.”  His voice was soft but demanding and strong.  Often there were hints of a struggle for power between us.  His youth and position within the company prevented me from accepting his seriousness and his face would ***** into a grimace.  I never gave it much thought other than a bit of a nuisance.  His hand led mine to my lap, and I expected him to hold it, but he let go with a smile.  I enjoyed his show of power but refused to reveal a glint of it for fear I would lose the respect and control necessary over a subordinate.

Soon the cabin filled with the sounds of rain and thunder and as I stared out the window jealous of the drops of rain and their randomness, he touched my shoulder and looked down at me with his eyes bluer than wild lupine.  I smiled a painful smile and he knew I was overthinking the moment.  Taking my hand, he brought me to his chest and into his arms, arms that would embrace all of me and at times felt as if they could wrap around me twice.  I placed my head on his chest and began to reach for his belt.  The *** I had known was always routine.  This was expected, that was not allowed.  I fell into that routine naturally and was happy to oblige his needs in order to meet mine.  He kissed my forehead and still holding one hand, led me to the door of the cabin.  “What are we do…”  He stopped me with a single “shhh” from his lips.  I followed him and felt myself shiver.  I was not sure if I was shivering in fear or from the nip of fall air.  

“Don’t be afraid.  You have nothing to fear from me.  There’s no need to shiver my little poppet.”  He stepped back from me and stared as if I were a tiny bird in need of nestling back into its home.  “I’ve never seen you afraid.”  He touched my cheek and I felt so small and helpless, lost from home, and he was the only way back.  With a smile he took my hand and led me outside to the rain, lifting his face and savoring the drops bouncing off his cheeks.  

“W..w..what are you doing?”  I was trembling now and wondered if I had misjudged this man and he was in fact a lunatic ready to strangle me to my death.  My silk blouse, now drenched, clung to my ******* exposing an imprint of lace from my bra.  He reached for my shawl and pulled it off my shoulders.  He was looking at me so lovingly my body and mind calmed and I was once again in the moment.  Our moment.  This moment.  

His face, stern now, official, his mouth opening with such deliberateness that I was sure he had been in this situation before.  Once again my mind wanted to race to thoughts of not being good enough or that I was too old or too plain.  His voice pierced my thoughts and brought me to attention.  “There will be no talking unless I tell you to.  Nod if you understand”

My mind wanted to slap him with reminders of my superiority to him at work, how he was MY subordinate and how dare he.  My mouth would not open and my head began to nod in understanding.  My body and mind were bending to his will and acting upon his orders.  Shivering gave way to shaking now and I wanted to run to the warmth of the cabin and watch the fire burn the logs to a black crisp and wake up in his arms naked and giggling.  

Having seen my compliant nod, he began to speak.  “Undress.”  One word.  One word in response to the shaking mess of a woman standing in the rain, cold and afraid.  My hands were barely able to form the necessary movements to reach for the top button of my blouse.  I did not want to fail him or appear as if I were unfamiliar with tales of ***** men overpowering and having their way with a willing lover.  My fingers moved quickly now, wanting to end the scene and move on to the *******.  He stared.  He did not blink.  He did not nod or move.  He was enjoying every subtlety of me.  He was pleased.   I was a willing participant in his fantasy.  Nothing made me happier than to please him.  I began to feel hot and something inside me broke.  Was it my will, my pride, my fears?  I was not sure, but I felt alive.  Every thirsty pore of my skin opened up and lapped at the rain so very eager to feel it on my skin and the randomness of the drops was no longer something I envied but something in which I participated.  

My hands began to tug my blouse free from my skirt and the wet silk now draped over my hips like curtains, revealing the curves I was so painfully aware of hiding to keep anyone from noticing my *** and concentrate upon my words and actions.  I knew now I had one button remaining before I would, for the first time, display myself to him.  He did not flinch, rather, he maintained his stare and for a second I pleaded to him with my eyes not to expect me to do this.  He was resolute.  I spread open the soft, wet cloth and began to drape it off my shoulders.  I let it slide from my wrists, then fingertips, then to the ground blissfully unconcerned that my Hermes blouse was now draped over wet grass and mud.  

I looked down at my skin dripping and alive with goosebumps.  I had bought this bra in anticipation of this moment, in fear of this moment.  White lace bra and perfectly matched ******* were demonstrative of my control over even the small details.  My skirt was loose and heavy with the rain.  It was low on my waist and lay just below the navel leaving me the most exposed I had ever been with him.  I reached to touch the button on the back of my skirt.  Undone, I slipped my fingers along with the zipper feeling each click of the tiny teeth holding together the disguise of a powerful woman.  My hands traced the banded edge of the skirt pushing it over my hips allowing it to fall to the ground.  

His face looked stern but pleased, stoic and fixed.  I was in my bra, ******* and stilettos now.  I began to reach for the hinged part of my bra when he stopped me.  “No.  Stop.” He walked over to me.  He was close now and I was so cold I could feel heat from his body.  I wanted to kiss his lips, his full lips, but I did not move.  I knew now the rules and I would do only what was asked of me.  I stood rigid with no flinching.  I waited for any words that would pass from lips to ear.  He did not speak but leaned into me and reached over my right shoulder undoing the chignon in my hair.  He draped my shoulders with strands of liquid filament.  He took his time there, placing each strand in the exact order in which he was pleased.  With two steps back, he looked at my wet hair with the deliberate strands, as if he had created a masterpiece and for a moment I was unsure if the artwork he saw was me or his work.  

“Now be still.  Allow me to touch you, to admire you, my beautiful Moira.”  When he said my name even after these two months, he had the ability of saying it as if he were speaking it in serenade and for the first time.  He moved his hands to my back and unlinked my bra, one hook at a time with such dexterity I knew he must be a professional at *******.  He, who was to be my first professional lover.  He slid both straps off my shoulders, then taking my hands towards my abdomen, he slid the straps forward on my arms.  Lifting my hands, he demanded I keep them out and straight.  Me, the student to the professional, complied without question.  He bound my wrists with the lace bra, the bra I had bought just to please him, then lifted my arms above my head.  “You will keep your hands up until I tell you to move.”

I had become his toy.  I knew in this moment, I no longer existed for me, I was his, completely and entirely, and I abandoned myself to the rain, to the cold, to his gaze, realizing that surrendering to his urges strengthened me.  He turned and walked away.  He took a seat in an Adirondack chair and even it looked small in his presence.  “On your elbows and knees,” he spoke matter-of-factly.  Just five minutes ago, the struggle inside me to have the appearance of strength, would have denied me this happiness, this happiness to be free in his command.  “Now crawl to me, please.  Slowly.”

I did not care to be in the mud.  I wanted it.  I wanted to please him.  First to my knees, leaving an indention in the clay, then awkwardly at first, onto my elbows with my hands still tied at the wrist.  Crawling on my elbows, my back was arched with my waist higher than my head, giving him a view of the thong I had chosen only for this moment, my succeeding moment.  My position felt ungainly.  I looked to his face for approval.  “No.  You cannot look at me”, he commanded.  For a moment I felt I had lost his approval and self-doubt harried my brain.  My will to please was resolute.  I faced the ground, once again aware of the randomness of nature, the power of nature, how things in nature will do as they are told.  The reed is told to bend.  It does.  It does not question why but responds in its way.  Rivers do not question why they are shaped.  They just continue with powerful current.  I was the reed.  I was the river.  I did not question.

Face towards the ground, I could see the mud forming on my body, molding to my shape then rinsing with the rain.  It repeated.  Mud.  Rain.  Mud.  Rain.  This was the cadence to my crawl.  I arrived at his knees and waited there, a dog eager for a command from its master.  I was content to watch the rain beat ripples around his feet, splashing and shining his shoes with glossy drops.  “I cannot love you”, I thought to myself, “this is forbidden”.  “Being here in this moment, is forbidden.” We would have this moment.  Yes.  We could create this memory and think back on it in fondness and with both heaviness and happiness.  I would remember my young lover, my professional lover.  He would remember the obedient executive on her knees.  I would not regret our moment.  I would some day write it all down in my journal and press the pen deep into the paper.  It had to be etched, those words, my words, this memory.

His hand below my chin, lifted my gaze to his and he smiled, that smile, his smile, the smile that was like nature to my body, and I did not ask why.  I was a river being formed.  “You are so beautiful.  All of you.  Your skin so soft and pale.  Your eyes moving from fear to acceptance.  I see now you want to please me and I want you to know that I want to make you happy.  I want to be your lover.  I want to taste your lips kissed with rain and feel your shivering body pulled against me.  You are safe.  I will not hurt you.  Poppet.  I love you.  I have for awhile now, and I think you know it.  You, my wise, wise Moira.”  He lifted me up and for a moment pulled my body towards him burying his face in my abdomen.  He lingered there.  I felt how soft his red tufts of hair were and how soft his words were against my ears.  I loved him too.  Genuinely.  Profoundly.  I was afraid.

He inhaled deeply, there against my stomach, as if he were breathing in my essence.  I felt his breath turn from warm to cold against me as it mixed with rain.  He stretched his arms and moved my body backwards as he extended until I was a foot away from him.  “I would very much like to undress you, poppet.  I’ve been imagining it, aching for it.  I want to see all of you, naked and on display.”  He touched my abdomen with the tips of his fingers, as if afraid the pale china of my skin would disintegrate into a misty dream.  I relished it, the touch of him against parts of me he had not known.  I was always able to keep him at a distance, physically.  His hands traced the edge of my *******.  He moved slowly, and I knew he was wanting to etch this memory into his journal.  Nothing less than ink pressed hard to paper would release this memory to time.  His placed his hands on my hips and spun me around, my thong lining up with his gaze.  “Bend over.”  His voice from sweet to demanding again.

My hands were still bound, and I stumbled at first.  He seemed not to notice or to care, so I arched my back and pushed myself outward and into his view.  I felt his hands move from my thighs to my hips as gentle as summer winds that in their seductiveness turn our faces towards the impact.  I was in my forties and unsure how I would compare to the twenty-year-old’s he was known to date.  The gossip left nothing to imagination and everything to speculation.  My mind had conjured images of him, this professional lover, inside the firm thighs of a youthful companion.  Thoughts transformed to pleasure as the nature that was his hands took dominance over the thin lace that hid the only piece of me left unseen.  I became art in his hands, marble statue, exquisite with textures and curves wanting to be touched.  

The lace scraped my skin as he slid the *******, wet and splashed with earth, over the expanse of my hips and down to the ground at my ankles.  “Step out of them.”  He helped free my ankles, and I saw the delicate lace become one with the earth as the rain beat it into the mud.  This was freedom.  This was me with nature, me with my lover.  I was the reed and he was the wind.  

I was keenly aware of his eyes fixated on the valley of my mound, how my cheeks spread just enough to give hints of the pinkest of my flesh, now swollen and ripe.  “Turn around.”  I heard his voice and could tell the bombardment of rain was making it difficult to speak.  

I turned and began to ***** my body when I felt his hand on my back.  “No, poppet.  You must stay this way until I say stand.”  My body ached to be touched by him, by more than fingers and hands, but this, the anticipation, the wanting of it all, this was the skill of a professional lover.  I saw the earth drowned with a thick layer of rain now, and my shoes made splatters and ripples as I turned towards him.  I was cold now, too cold, unaware cold, numb in my cold.  I was happy to feel it.  I had for too long hid from rain, this glorious rain.  Now, I was one with the rain.  I was the river coursing its path as commanded by nature.  

He took my hands and untied them.  I watched the entire progression of it and I felt his presence now even more.  My hands were free, and I stared at my shoes and his shoes.  I was so small in his presence.  “Stand for me, poppet.”  His voice diffused through the rain and seemed softer now.  I stood there in my nakedness and he delighted in it.  My lover was not afraid and moved his head along with his eyes.  It was easy to know where upon my body his gaze had landed.  He seemed to linger the most on my face, and I thought how odd it was as most men concentrated on my ******* or mound.  My lover was different.  My lover was professional.

“Poppet, I want you to remove my shirt, but you will not toss it to the ground.  You will place it on the chair.  Nod if you understand me.”  He knew I understood but was confirming I was still in the moment and willing.  I obliged him with a nod and without looking at his face, began to unbutton each dot from its hole until he was shirtless before me.  His chest was firm and hairless and dotted with unobtrusive freckles as random as the rain.  I was delighted.  He was beautiful.  My lover was beautiful.

He placed one hand on my head, the other on my shoulder.  “On your knees for me, poppet.”  My knees once again bent for him, and I knelt in the rain, the thick rain and saw my knees again molded in the mud and earth.  I was unsure now.  Years had passed since I had taken a man inside my mouth.  I felt panic, like the river, run a course through me and I started to turn away.  But I was resolute.  “I will make him happy in all things this day” rang in my ears like a mantra.  I watched as he undid his belt and felt it as he wrapped it around my neck two times and pulled the loose end until it was taut but not constricted against my skin.  I was his.  I was the pet and he was the master.  It was official to me now in this symbol.  I was leashed and about to be tamed.  My lover was going to teach me his skill.  I was delighted.

I watched him free the one button on his pants and move to the patterned teeth of the zipper.  He rested his pants on his hips and pulled free the thing, that thing, the thing I was craving.  The thing I would take inside me, deep inside wherever my master wanted it.  I was the river.  

He was not large, not small, but thick, surprisingly thick, he was swollen and vascular.  I studied the curve of it.  The tip, the head.  I watched his hand grip it and move it towards my lips.  I opened my mouth and took him inside me.  He moved his hands to the sides of my head and began to direct me in the movement he needed from me.  I studied the thrusts and followed.  I moved my tongue, my eager tongue, in unison with the rain and percussion of the drops.  I slid him deep inside me devouring and savoring the taste of him.  The taste of my lover was satisfying, and I wanted to bring him to completion there in that moment.

We stayed in the rhythm, with the rain, both lost to the moment.  He stopped his ****** and lifted my chin.  “Moira.  My poppet.”  He led me to my feet and gave his crooked smile to me.  He gave me his smile in that moment, in that second, his smile was mine.  

“I love you”, I whispered, unsure he heard me.  He lifted me like a child and carried my nakedness to the bed.  He placed me there, like a doll.  He contemplated my skin in the light of the fire.  My lover the wind.  My lover the water.  

He was soon naked and drops of rain lit up on his body like little mirrors and I could see images of the room and myself reflected in them.  He removed the belt from my neck.  “We won’t need this.  In this moment, you know you are mine.  You know I am yours.”  We both wrapped our arms around the other, and I felt his skin on mine.  His body was hard and moved in perfect form with each muscle flinching the way it should, each squeeze and release in harmony with the other.  My pale, soft skin was beautiful contrast to his and was yin and yang.  He felt hard and long inside me, so engorged each vein touched the inside of me in a different fashion.  We each sealed our mouth on the other unable to drink as deeply as we wanted.  We were in our moment, this moment.  Alive in the seconds that passed to hours.  We were ready to etch ink on the pages telling of how I was the reed and he was the wind and on this day, I did not ask why, I only did as was I was told.
Lysander Gray Oct 2012
Her mouth glittered agape
With sacred promise,
Like a box of unused
Engagement invites
Christening invites
Birthday invites
Still in the wrapper
For sale at a
Lifeline.

When you’d rather live
In a car
Than the zombie stance
Of a modern house,
Clean and soulless
With a hermetically sealed lawn,
Winter pageantry draws to a close
With bogan’s shooting-
Pearly eyed paupers
With constellations in their gaze.
With eyes full of hope and stars
That burnt bright and fade for
Flickering lens light.

Their voices murmur soft
Through catacomb
And underbrush
As only the ephemeral things are whispered of –
Dreams.
The addicts of ideals
The junkies of hope
The drinkers of despair
Have tiger soft tongues.

They lap and feast gladly,
From broken vessels
Chipped with hazardous teeth
That seek to fill their
Ermine mouths with the ******
Draught
Of truth.
Stumbling through wine-hour
They swarm, with tongues ******
And all constellations burnt out.

The hyacinth rides wild
Upon her shoulder,
Writhes in the silver brunt
Of moonlight,
Writhes in the stillness of dead perfume.

Marching to the beat
Of my enemies drum,
My hands inside my pockets.

Little bluebirds spun from dream
Sit on the holy perch,
A branch in all innocent minds.

The redeemed and patient
Make a subtle art from
Long distance perversions.

Similarly as we chase ghosts over Daffodils.

Fields of winter
under lunar glow
sway without us.

Long distance love
lingers with loose lust
along Regret street.

I hung it next to the memory
Of childhood cooking and Indian summers
Without further thought.

It slipped into the novel that took the form
Of an old coat, slipping into the lined pocket
It sank with a sigh.
Satisfied with itself.

Bombarded by the pounding
Dead eyed stare of ***** goddesses,
Broken by the undisputed angelic
And unglued ones,
All moon faced
All hopelessly optimistic
All lawfully rebellious
With green serenity
We pasted our dreams
On a wall so real it shone gossamer.
He counted the imperfections in the glass
With mind hesitation
As the whole world went black,
In a sea of much deserved discontent,
Wishing for the soft.

A moment of pure luck?
Jesus was an astronaut
Smoking Zen by the fire.

Suicidal angst
never had you in sonnets?
What a ******' shame.

Our life is but a song
We never hear.

I chipped away at the excesses
of my baroque person,
each strike took a
Railing
mounting
wall
decoration
desire
demand
exclamation
from the battlements.
All left now, a hill.

I paid for my banquet
with a sip of loneliness
and left behind the question
that asked all quiet poets
the meaning of love,
that asked all quiet poets
to answer with a villanelle
shouted from every
distant peak.

They sent the troopers
to greet me instead,
and my library was put in shackles,
and I kissed their ***** feet.

I answered that I carved this mountain
from the baroque bedrock
upon which they laid their city.
They smiled and asked about the aqueducts.
I wept and spoke of kitchenettes.

A meal provided
on a lead cast plate
my jailor asked about freedom
I answered with defeat.

There were two atoms
One questioned the meaning of existence
The other the existence of meaning.
             -Regardless they looked the same.

An apple on a branch,I took
The same way history takes a footnote.

The same way cashiers are all doctorates.
The same way trains find the station.
The same way you sing like a bird (and I like a cow).
The same way we never really wish to be writers.
The same way our final friend is made of pine.
The same way all streets lead to nowhere.
The same way all jobs **** society.
The same way we always lie to our children.
The same way a man loves a woman.
The opposite way we ****.
The opposite way we make love.
The way that I know a man who’s totem animal is a worker ant and he is unemployed by choice.
The same way we take old memories and turn them into fashion.
The very same way all sacred things become profane and all profanity becomes sacred in the eyes of many.

Dying relic of the Optimistic Seventies,
A new coat of paint for the old irony
     -slap dashed with obscurity.
Although I wear the costume of my enemy,
I will write the exaltation in blue smoke
As **** by an unsuspecting victim
Occurs in the dark.

The face of another love stares down at me.
I smile.
Yet I know it is not her.
I weep.
A sudden method sparks revival.

Jackie Pleasure wore a gray smile,
The anthem of a lost generation:
‘Happiness is lost in smiling.’

You are dead to me,
the boatman calls
I will not taste of your amber lips
I will not taste.

The welfare of all never hinged on darkness as we fear the fall,
A multitude of angels sang their songs
And never learnt to say goodbye
Or cast a long distance eye
Over half spent desire.

Drawn out caricatures,
Paraded intoxication
Flirt with our mistress death
And have her pick up the tab.
She pays with silent music.

The ***, we learn, is a bridge
Between all words and waltz’s,
Our Light Brigade to conquer art.

In the twilight of this, our mansioned night
Let us ring out true with indulgence,
Excess, abandon and the call of ‘yes’
Kali rang on the wire of a golden telephone.
Her name
“Kali, Kali…”
Like a quarrelsome minotaur
Flew through the waves of silk ideal
And strangled the babe
With cool breath.

There was ice (oh yes!) and fire and song.
With our candles burnt down to the ash of all streets
We walk then. We walk.
All life is but a song.

The ghosts of all forgotten stamps
Now echo on the wind of speech.
On High! Oh speak!
Of songs sung but never danced
With our broken dream.
When starlight meets the dust, and
Shadow eats the snow,
All our stories are satin sheer
And all our wants are gone.
We watch the memories march, until
They find a sliver of chrome that showed that place
Where all piano’s live and breathe.
My father in the wishing well,
My mother played trapeze.
My sister never saw the light,
My brother never born.
That was that,
Where stars meet dust
And floorboards sing off key.
Over the course of several months, I carried a small notebook in which I kept random musings and poetic snippets that came to me. This is the compilation of that.
Janae Marie Jun 2016
I've been told that I am too broken to be loved,
too damaged,
too crooked and bent
for someone to cherish.

But perhaps it is on those very edges,
those very ragged edges,
that loves snags and is held.

So before you tell me that no one can find beauty in my chipped soul, look at your own perfect life and ask yourself if love has ever crept into the crevices and hinged itself on smooth skin.
Emily Jones Oct 2012
Clayton
How I know you
Paternal parenting
DNA infused
Carbon contribution, to my physique
Father

In everything
My skin, eyes toes,
Unfortunately; inside my mouth
Spitting plaster-walled
Copy-paste personality
The same

Intimately
Close-dangerously
Different
Me a bold-faced fraction of ill abated love
Something that didn't work out
Photocopy
Blond-blasphemy of useless flesh
Reminder of her
Mom

Enough!
Teeter tottering
Tip-Toe tangling opinion
Excuses
Words fermented
Rotting-rigor

I know you.
Slit-eyed palefaced ****** of bigot ideas
Bearing pronged poker
Clicking glinting-clawed finger fondling fake religion
Suppressing supplement thought

*******
God's love the good life
Living a life to be proud of
Excuse me!
For not being as I am "supposed" to be

Eatting rancid lies
Your reality relative
To kiss-*** preferred siblings
Who like the taste of ****
What you shovel

Hung on lipsucking harlot, hinged hip hung-over
Descending oppressidly upon willing wanton will of man
Letting cracked-cackled toothed
Field Gap-smile
Decide your next move

I know you
I see what you push into hidden corners
The bias, nasty film of your character
Under whitecollar shirttails
Citizen, Patriot
Americas American

I know you
Your oppression
Not new
As underhanded and seedy as it was
And still is

I know you
As much as I'd like not too.
Timothy Oct 2012
From the 16th century Anabaptist Ausbund
Hymn 11 by Jörg Wagner, burnt 1527

German

Wer Christo jetzt will folgen nach,
Muß achten nichte der Welt Schmach,
Das Creutz er auch muß tragen,
Kein ander Weg in Himmel geht,
Hört ich von Jugend sagen.

Also thät Jörg der Wagner auch,
Gen Himmel fuhr er in dem Rauch,
Durchs Creutz ward er bewähret,
Gleich wie man thut dem klaren Gold,
Von Herzen ers begehret.

Der Falkenthurm ward ihm zu Theil,
Es galt ihm seiner Seelen Heyl,
Er acht kein's Menschen Trauren,
Er acht auch nicht sein kleine Kind,
Noch seiner Ehlichen Frauren.

Wiewohl sie ihm nicht war'n nunmehr,
Und er gern bey ihn's blieben wär,
Hat Liebe und Leids gelitten,
Kein Arbeit an seim Leib gespart,
Nach frommer Ehleut Sitten.

Gleichwohl er sie verlassen muß,
Es war ihm kein geringe Buß,
Daß er von ihn'n mußt scheiden.
Klein Fürst mit seinem Fürstenthum,
Hätts ihm mögen erleiden.

Zween Baarfüß—Möch in grauem Kleid
Jörg Wagner trösten in seim Leid,
Sie wollten ihn bekerhren,
Er wiess  sie in ihr Klösterlein,
Ihr Red wollt er nicht hören.

Der Henker führt ihn an ein'm Strick,
Im Rathaus las man ihm vier Stück,
Darauf stund ihm sein Leben:
Eh er eins widerrufen wollt,
In Tod thät er sich geben.

Der erst Artikel war nicht leicht,
Trauff an die mündlich Ohrenbeicht,
Kein Pfaff mocht ihm verzeihen,
Dieweil er wider Gott gethan,
Der ihm allein konnt freyen.

Der Tauff ist recht wie Christus lehrt,
Wenn die Ordnung nicht wird verkehrt,
Bedeut sein bitter Sterben,
Ist ein Abwäschung unser Sünd,
Dadurch wir Gnad erwerben.

Vons Herren Christi Sacrament,
Jörg Wagner ihn'n auch frey bekennt,
Ich halt es vor ein Zeichen,
Vor Christi hingegebnen Leib,
Redt er ohn alles Schmeichlen.

Zum vierten wollt nicht Glauben thun,
Daß sich Gott sollte zwingen lohn,
Auf Erd herab zu kommen,
Bis er werd halten sein Gericht,
Den Böse mit den Frommen.

Etlich Christliche Brüder war'n,
Redten Jörg Wagner in sein' Ohr'n,
Weil er noch war beym Leben,
Im Feur sterb als ein frommer Christ,
Wollst uns ein Zeichen geben.

Er sprach: Das will ich gerne thun,
Christum den wahren Gottes Sohn
Will ich mit'm Mund bekennen,
So lang als mein Vermögen ist,
Will ich ihn Jesum nennen.

Zween Heker stunden bey der Seit,
Den Ring um ihn sie machten weit,
Jörg Wagner sprach den Glauben.
Zugegen stund ein große Schaar
Von Männern und von Frauen.

Jörg Wagner sh ohn Furcht um sich,
Sein Mund zu keiner Zeit verblich,
Er redt daß manchen wundert.
Geschah im sieben un zwanzigsten Jahr,
Ein tausend und fünf hundert.

Im Hornung in demselben Jahr,
Am achten Tag ganz offenbar,
Hing man ihm an sein Kehle
Ein sack mit Pulver nicht fast klein,
Benahm ihm da sein Seele.

Man flocht ihm auf ein Leiter  hart,
Das Holz und Stroh anzünndet ward,
Jetz ward das Lachen teuer.
Jesus, Jesus, zum vierten mahl,
Rief er laut aus dem Feuer.

Elias thut die Wahrheit sagen,
Daß er in ein'm feurigen Wagen
Fuhr in das Paradeise:
So bitten wir den Heiligen Geist,
Daß er nus unterwiese.

Englisch

Who Christ will follow now, newborn,
Dare not be moved by this world's scorn,
The cross must bear sincerely;
No other way to heaven leads,
From childhood we're taught clearly.

This did George Wagner, too, aspire,
He went to heav'n 'mid smoke and fire,
The cross his test and proving,
As gold is in a furnace tried,
His heart's desire approving.

The falcon tower became his lease,
It brought about his soul's release,
No human sorrowing swerved him,
Nor was he moved by his small child,
Nor had his wife unnerved him.

They no more his could be to aid,
Though he gladly with them had stayed,
His love and sorrow welling;
No labor spared he on his part,
As righteous partners dwelling.

Although he from them must depart,
No meanly sacrifice of heart,
That he from them be parting,
No prince with all his princely gain
Could him from this be thwarting.

Two barefoot monks in grey array,
George Wagner's sorrow's would allay,
They would be him converting;
He waved them to their cloister home,
Their speech he'd be averting.

The hangman him with rope interned,
In the town hall four counts he learned,
Upon which hinged his living;
Before he one truth would deny,
His life would he be giving.

The article which first would weigh,
With the confession it did lay,
No priest could be forgiving,
For against God would he have sinned,
Who'd only be grace giving.

Baptism is right as Christ has taught,
When this ord'nance is not distraught,
Portends his bitter dying,
In symbol washes us from sins,
And grace us signifying.

Of our Lord Christ's own sacrament,
George Wagner testified intent,
A symbol, it esteem I,
Of Christ's own body offered free;
No flattery spake he hereby.

Fourthly, he would not fain believe
That God should such constraint receive
And come to earth in brightness,
Until His judgment He should hold,
The wicked with the righteous.

Did several Christian brothers near
Speak then into George Wagner's ear
While still he was yet living,
(He died in fire, a Christian true),
Wilt us a sign be giving.

He said: This will I gladly do,
Christ, truly God's own Son, as due,
By mouth I'll be confessing:
As long as privilege shall be,
Jesus him be addressing.

Two hangmen stood now at his side,
The ring about him they made wide,
George Wagner spake his faith strong,
Around him a great company,
Men, women, an attent throng.

George Wagner's gaze did nothing quail,
His lips did never once grow pale,
He spake that many wondered.
T'was in the twenty seventh year,
One thousand and five hundred.

In February the same year,
The eighth day, openly and clear,
Men on a stake then hung him,
A bag of powder, rather small,
There took his soul quite from him.

Men fastened him to ladder firm
The wood and straw was made to burn,
Now was the laughter dire;
Jesus! Jesus! did he four times
Call loudly from the fire.

Elias speaks the truth entire
That he in chariot of fire
In paradise did lighten;
So pray we then, the Holy Ghost,
That He may us enlighten.

Translated by John J Overholt ©1970
Guy Braddock Mar 2014
Innocent Hyacinth tinted with mint
Tingèd grey hinged on stem singed
With chestnut leaves flowing, to me a fair hint

Of off-centred carousing, black eyes perusing
Wares of all sorts and stocks of all shares
The leading on of a pleasure most gracefully enthusing

Drops dews of all shades, of selfsame structure
And we full of rowdy Sedition;
But Wait! Recognition.
In my hopes and tired efforts, a puncture.

Music blaring loud, aftertaste of rejection
And full on full strand of all smoke addled people
Oh! How great Quasimodo I fell off my steeple
In the midst of the crowd, full dejection.
From an as yet unfinished novel
Emma Linnane Aug 2014
What is a loser?
Someone spiraling within a microcosm of unfortunate events?
Or forgetting to update one’s facebook status in the macrocosm of tiresome vents?
People nowadays throw around insults as smiles and cheek,
Loser is a mere phrase between impudence and courageousness, sheik.  
Many forget the power in which words command,
“Sticks and stones may break my bones”, but words unmanned..
Rip the heart and soul and cannot withstand,
The ebbing soreness of our confused migraine.

Perhaps I misunderstand.
Twenty-first century loser on the other hand,
Means you've made it into the ‘in-crowd’,
Enshroud,
Rain twinkling like stars,
Bicycles feeling like cars.

Yet heed this warning with everlasting effect,
Your words are yours to not neglect,
Take pride in your intellect!
Those hearts you may sway,
With words of colour and not grey,
As sweet as if valentine’s day.
May encroach your direction through doors unknown,
Before hinged like an Antarctic zone,
Forget “loser”, create your throne.
Whilst scanning through my own personal news feed on facebook, up popped a picture with this quote; 'Be kind. For everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about', it inspired me to write this particular poem and I hope I can, myself, take away the positive message it utters and apply it to my own life.
JWolfeB Oct 2014
The core of our earth gets up to 10,800 degrees fahrenheit. This is the type of heat I know I will never experience. A force so unlike anything I have ever felt. Love does not feel like the core of the earth. It is weightless.

Lifting me off my toes. Putting gravity to disgrace. The earth gave up on holding us down. We moved through the clouds together in a slur of elation.

God let us pass by with a turned eye. Knowing that power has nothing to do with love, but giving up. Letting go. Releasing every burden held between those hinged shoulders.

The universe accepted our love. Letting us glide into an ever open space of everything we will know nothing about. Our love will be translated in space as a constellation. A phenomenon we all drop our jaws to watch and will never touch.

Our love is something like that. Unstoppable, but further away than either one of us can reach. Only for the fact that if we could define this love it would not be so special. Our telescope will tell myths about us one day. This love will stand the test of time.
Everyone should feel this kind of love.
This isn’t the first Saturday night ,
When your muse will gently kiss a faded parchment ,
And give birth to verses
That will keep me awake all night.

This isn’t the first Saturday night ,
When I will spill more ink than a wounded soldier ,
Writing his last letter back home ,
From the treacherous trenches
Of scarlet love.

But then the trenches I sought refuge in,
Are more treacherous than the rusted bayonet ,
With which he will script ,
The final chapters of his life .

And yet like him ,
If there’s one thing I have come to believe in ,
Then it’s this :
There is more comfort ,
In believing ,
In an unshakable absolute ,
Than there is in hiding ,
Beneath the mills of woolen warmth.
And
There is more naked grief ,
In letting your dreams ,
Be hinged to uncertainties,
Than there is in daring ,
To brave the winter without your warmth.

And yet you wonder?
Why I detest absolutes,
Which need a blanket of uncertainties ,
To survive the chill of a Saturday night ,
A night which as it drags on,
Like a frozen Nicholas sleigh ,
Seems to mock every fiber of hope in my being ,
Fibers that I unravelled to adorn
The dwelling of My absolute.

This isn’t the first Saturday Night when the tale will remain incomplete
Without that innocent question I crave to answer

For you are my absolute ,
Uncertainty.
Peter Sinead Jan 2016
Hinged

It's a feeling of bulkiness
Gathering up the strength
But also the coordination
In front of the mirror
A certain Goliath effort for
Planning, detailing, getting affairs
In order, all in orderless care

Carbon planes rattle the
Hotel air conditioners on the 2nd
Floor below the outside balcony
Smoky white dancing lines trace
And replace a clear day view
Like so long ago when all the world
Was just a moment, just a day,
Just a boy and his thoughts

I made all the right calls to
Make sure it all goes smoothly
The plan in place and ready set
I slip off the Adidas shoelaces
And place them to the right hand
Side of the bed with the night stand with the magazine the hotel
Put out,
The Kardashians' latest baby story
About giving birth in designer high heels
The eyes all white and faded in
Too much light

The cord in place, I move the
Desk chair closer to the center of
The room, the wheels squeaking
Like the raising and lowering of the crab traps from the shore house, Long Beach days shine on
Forever ago

My feet wobble as I climb onto
The chair, that few-second elevated vertigo
Feeling obscured further as I slip
Off my glasses one last time,
Blind and blurred to all the world I cannot see

Tears heap to vapor and disperse with a weary glaze down
My cheeks as
Life seeps away into mortal corners, boiling goosebumps on my arms
Drowning nevermore,
I feel the thresh of the cord
As this world turns to the next
And a soul quietly exhales
Sameen Shakya Jul 2014
It was
In the first night of the breakdown
Young Pedro came alight
Aligned with troubles of the distant future
And no way of knowing what came true,
To see the idea of the flood
Subsided in a thousand tantric tumbles
Of prostitutes and ****** in street lamp lit streets
That never felt like anything at all.

Two hands outstretched to reach out anywhere
Somewhere out there beyond the billboardic lights
And the zooming off of troubled kids in bikes
To see the nature of the deluge
To know what came after tomorrow
That nobody knew but acted like they did
Bleary eyed in fore sight,
In the first night of the break down,
It was.

It would
Never have been the same as was
An irretrievable
Thing had been lost, never to be found
Among the plastic bags of the past
That passed the by and by and Pedro
Could never know what it felt like lest he die
In a cold knowing unknowing of defeat
That trampled down all who could ever know
And hinged on that dead young Pedro
Saw the starry stars of the demolished sky
Demonic litanies as past times
Writ in an obscure tongue naught defined,
Aligned with troubles of the distant future,
The deluge and the flood
All elements of equations
Done dead.


Sameen Shakya
Samuel Oct 2013
They smoke, somber around us
    cooking phrases in our daily newspaper

dancers in their own right

     While I'm just trying to figure out how to
             breathe you in for long enough that
                   I can float forever when you're gone
Tell me about the Ace of Wands!
Tell me about the Ace of Wands!

This has been poorly imagined I admit:
The sunny penthouse
Open to the breeze
which presses and sways
through the sliding glass doors

Upturned champagne bottles
set in buckets of melting ice
A crystalline view of the Pacific
Or dusky Vegas lights

Strewn silken sheets
A **** carpet you can grab on to
The myriad of variations under a rising Moon

Yet Leather and Ecstasy are no where to be seen.
And though I wasn’t thinking of Sardinia
or of the Amalfi
That is a great idea

ROMP
noun
1. a spell of rough, energetic play.
2. a farce.

Eventually
(An earth-sign cusp is slow no matter how much air)
Eventually
creeping into my mind’s eye
(Thank you Time)
was my dodging of the slow-moving bullet
Alas, the lumpy bed in Hollywood awaits
with serviceable sheets
Encased in variations on a theme of
brown everything
A soul death in faux wood paneling
Someone else’s earring on a
grubby carpet floor
that offers you
burns for your back that won’t heal so fast
if that’s what you want
There’s the opening of the door
on the purring refrigerator
to look at cold nothing
And think nothing
Cystitis is on its way
And yes,
Too much dust

Don’t get me wrong
I have no real issues with dust
I have stood
Alone in the semi darkness before
In such a living room
Staring at this luminous particulate
On album covers
and in the glare of backlit windows
Floating in a beam from
a ceramic thrift store table-lamp

I was on my way to find the bathroom
Where a pair of pink ******* lay
drying
in wait for
me

Bachelor dust
Is old
I can write my name with my finger
in that which rests
upon the turntable’s hinged cover
In case you don’t remember
What they call me

As I’ve said
I’ve got nothing against it
Ask the dust
Go ahead
Ask it
Resting quite comfortably
on the bookshelves
If there are bookshelves
As if it had
something to do.
I ask it why?

my invading molecules subdivide
and grow more comfortable

Dust?
Why do I smell the stench of
chaste virgins and ***?
The intoxicating odor of foxed letters from an epistolary exchange regarding:
One Fair Maiden and the Devilish Pursuits to  Compromise Her Virtue?
The Opinions and Observations of Fallen Fruit
Here: The woman and her only true
possession
And Here: The sticky absconder who smells of fish.
They meet.
She blinks.

The dust replies
It’s a simple plan:
The Dear Lady is to be led
Astray
by pretty words and unspoken indiscretions
her dowry in the end, useless
She’ll be banished to the counties
To be a governess
or the
Bored companion
of the only living relative who will
Admit her services
Unpaid in silver coins
He is Blind and his Cook has left
Dyspeptic
Disagreeable
Cheap
and Mean.

She is Ruined.
Perhaps she will escape
to Italy
and die
Alone
in the sunshine.

The dust tells me another story
The same century still
This time, a miscreant princeling
surrounded by Trifles
Picking up one bob and then another
Preoccupied by uselessness
Perhaps a strawberry
Perhaps more claret and his mistress’s left breast
Tonight will be the scullery maid
Who will lose more in the end
Than she could ever possibly imagine
Tossed out of the kitchens
to Providence.
God bless Her.

The dust tells me
It’s mercantile, my dear
It’s all transactional
But look at me
I’m here for a time but am easily
Agitated and
Airborne
Aeolian driven
Ever blossoming fugitive clouds of swirling devils
Interstellar Reflection Nebulae
As you can see
I’m never in one place
So I say keep it movin’.
Kathi Anne Sabot Jul 2014
Three striped cats daily demonstrate awakening:

a) BijaChen: startles by pounce onto bed or banging of sunlit window blinds;
b) BlueMonsoon: prefers annoying whining coordinated with scratching at blankets;
c) LadyFiona: chooses a prickly psychic stare into my sleeping consciousness to disrupt dreams. (she must have been a witch's cat).

Sleep you say?

Mr. Rooster, lover of Flathead Lake cherries,
rehearses a  solo operetta while strutting sharp grey claws inches from the screen door.

Doze off?

Thirty small brown-red-yellow-speckled birds usurp seeds at the swinging feeders in frenzied unharmonious clatter,

While the low moan of iron hinged gate closes pale hay and tall horses into the corral.

Rest?

Urgently a  growling lawn mower slashes green strands of life and delicate insects from their microcosms of Little Earth,

And calico barn cats dive from rafters onto feed sacks to devour the crunch of breakfast.

Lao Tzu speaks no sound, eyes watch

Two butterflies sweep though moist morning monsoon air.
Jemimah Jan 2014
Around the Earth
she sings
a silent twirl

Parting curtains
hinged
with diamond stars

On endless stage
adorned with
grace

Spinning
silver threads  
into the sky

The moon
she pirouettes
upon the night


A ballerina
Claire Waters May 2012
“It was so quiet, one of the killers would later say, you could almost hear the sound of ice rattling in cocktail shakers in the homes way down the canyon.”

William Garretson was the gardener of 10050 Cielo Drive, in Los Angeles, a summer house rented by Roman Polanski and Sharon Tate. He lived in the guest house on the property. On August 9th, 1969, members of the Manson family visited the residence and brutally murdered all the inhabitants, as well as Garretson’s friend Steve Parent. Garretson claims he had no knowledge of the murders that night. He is the only survivor of the Tate Murders.

your screams sounded
like fiberglass breaking
an almost impossible noise
like a hemorrhage at midnight
i was walking through the garden
and i swear
i heard the neat click
when he severed the phone line
if only i had known

i have thought up one hundred scenarios
in which i saved your life
but there is only one
when i don't
and every night i try to justify this reality
because i could have sworn
the sound of their boots
on the steel fence
was the telephone
ringing

when they saw the headlights
swerve over the lawn
steve was as good as dead
shattered like a lightbulb
under pressure
four shots pressed into his forehead
a candid bullet kissed him faceless
his absence was
a tell tale piquancy of slaughter
i lay in bed that night
and turned my face to the wall
when i heard the screams

tell me i reek coward
say the raw red skin of my knuckles
shaved away from the foundation of my raised veins
as i sat through another police interrogation
are nothing compared to the red poppy
that blossomed in the center of his chest
call me callous
but i will never forgive myself
for trimming the flowers
that sat innocent on the coffee table
in the middle of a mass grave
all i can say is
i was just the gardener

i found her
blooming on the living room floor
the baby cut
weeping from her umbilical cord
still attached to mother and father
by a rope traveling from neck to neck
thorny slices of fetal skin
peppering the carpet
blood sprays still wet
were soaking into the wooden door
sadism comes in many
limp limbed contortions
but only one color
and i saw *HIS
smile
carved in the cavity
of her stomach
i swear to god
i wish i could say
i didn't see it coming

i found the severed tendons
of his fingers
suspended in the eerie light
of the swimming pool
pruned like overripe plums
the remnants of his face
scattered across the driveway
like taraxacum seeds
their bodies all
hanging like wilted stems
broken xylems hinged to sepals
by threads of sap
running down uprooted ligaments
there is not enough therapy in this world
to cure the silence in the garden
upon the aftermath of execution

the shapes of murders' footprints
left raised beds in my shoulder blades
manure smeared ***** across my lips
every flower i have ever planted since
has languished in the smell of your corpses
melded into the callouses
of my finger tips
i am just the gardener
and i am all broken anthers
petals shriveled, toxic
call me a survivor
but there is blood inside my filaments
K Mae Nov 2012
Mercury stops~~~Before Retrograde Motion
Time to sink deeply immersing in truth
Paying attention to what drives distraction
and all that we've buried as if it's no use
Be sharp with contracts and service your engines
Revitalize ~ and absorb what's abstruse

*Now is not hinged upon past or the future
This precious portal is our gift to nurture
Asphyxiophilia Jul 2013
Cracked vinyl bus seats
Windows that have heard the stories of every passanger smeared with truth
The spit of the elderly woman who fell asleep while reminiscing about the son whom she's visiting that she hasn't seen in 35 years
The stubbled cheeks of the older gentleman who is counting the pennies in his pocket on his way to the store to get food for his daughter
The knitted scarf of the middle-aged woman who is slowly pulling her coat closer to her in an attempt to warm herself because it was the only article of clothing she could afford that year
The ponytail of the teenaged girl who is tracing the scars on her wrist from the last time she tried to end her life
They congregate for a common purpose, but
The doors to their hearts open like the hinged door, letting anyone haphazardly stumble in for a moment,
And
Their souls are brighter than the lights of the megabus as they are honest with themselves for even just a minute
And their walls are temporarily demolished because who would ever have to lie about who they are on a greyhound bus?

Smooth polished church pews
Floors that have been tread upon by every saint stained with lies
The flats of the elderly woman who is nodding off while pretending to pray for the son whom she hasn't spoken to in 35 years
The loafers of the older gentleman who is calculating the amount of money he can sneak from the spagetti dinner fund without getting caught
The high heels of the middle-aged woman who is slowly pulling up her skirt on one side in an attempt to catch the attention of the younger men further down the pew, while her husband holds her hand on the other
The tennis shoes of the teenaged girl who is tracing the bruises under her blouse from the last time she started a fight with her boyfriend
They congregate for a common purpose, but
Their masks are painted on more elaborately than the Sistine Chapel
And
Their lies are built up more intricately than the stained-glass windows that surround them
As they read their words to live by from a book collecting dust in drawers throughout America because who could be anything but holy in a church?
Hinged in the middle is their wagging tongue
Tirelessly sharing all that you've done

With any ear that will bend its way
Hoping to turn a double play

To gain sympathy and have their legend live on
Oh! What a triumph for a wagging tongue

And although it's irksome to be the target of malice
In any situation there can be found solace

Hinged tongues delight in the breaking apart
The details that might conflict are omitted from the start

But  (pay attention this is the good part)

In the midst of all that flurry of tongue and ear
The wheat from chaff also becomes quite clear

So, pay attention, watch and see
Who's left standing next to thee

It's not your business anyway, the stuff an injured tongue has to say
Choose to put it behind you today. Head high, walk away.

For the barbed tongue will always stay busy
And you mustn't indulge in an egocentric tizzy

Let them rob the graves of memories put to rest
Invest in the living! Fuel the dreams that lie in your breast.
I was moving out
Parked my bike down the street
With a cart hinged on the bolt beneath the rusty pole
connected to my seat.
The yard was steep, and the stairs leading down
the front
Vanished each car-
go carrying trip
of dictionaries and travel guides that
could have been lumped together in boxes
separately tossed into the neon
green
synthetic fiber
rain-proof buggy
Connected to my seat.
I ran across the lawn, one last time
Buckling the watch I found from high school
remembering it’s broken and not caring
then I saw men wearing polos beneath
Greek symbols beneath a doorway
and held my breath as they stared at me.
This vacant lot held something which I carried back
to find
my bike was gone, replaced
by a life-sized depiction of a bike saying
“no bikes--” A girl inside, explaining where I could find mine
I walked down the grey spiral of handicapped access ramps
surrounded by aquariums or tvs
which comprised the store's interior.
The last ramp faced an exit and went straight past
refrigerators next to vending machines
In the alley behind this office supply store were two old men
Roasting my bike on a chain beside the others
Disconnected, hung
its tires lying on the ground beside their feet
and the carriage slung aside like a bloodied gazelle's neck.
“What the ****!”
A woman got into my face “don’t use that word”
“****’s a perfectly good word, after all, it’s how we
got here”
One man smiled.
He felt bad.
They helped me put the bike together and I walked it back to my house.
I saw my car down the street.
I thought about the long trip to the interstate and wondered why I’d
rode my bike
Then I went back up the stairs of the blue sided hill,
to see the roommate I hated
and thought about stealing his SNES and stereo
but took only my one possession
and walked past rotting turkey bacon in a plastic pouch
on the top of a table
beside some legos
and left.
MMXII
Golden Ratio Aug 2010
This started                                         dec 2009/ a lifetime ago/ shortly after the titanic sank
And when I first read it I               liked it/ hated it/ didn’t get it
But after all this                                 time/ mental torture/ self-indulgence
I can’t help but                                   think/ worry/ be extremely concerned
That you may be slightly              shut off/ un-hinged/ locked in a secure unit
How long will this poem                haunt me/ entertain me/ **** me off  
Will it still be here at                       christmas 2010/ christmas 2011/ the second coming
And how many times do you       tweet this poem/ take your medication/ look at it adoringly
To keep it                                            where it belongs/ as the thorn in my side/ on a poetry list for ever                            
Did you know that you have      no comments/ 2 comments/ 101 comments
And you have replied to               all of them/ 1 of them/ none of them
Which could be viewed as           bashful/ egotistical/ down right ******* rude
For the sake of                                  me/ the human race/ your psychiatrist
Make it stop                                       please/ pretty please/ pretty ******* please with cherries on

(delete as appropriate, preferably the poem!)
nate1990 Jan 2016
There's just one thing I long to do to you.
My minds fed up;
Frustrated.
I want to give you a *******
Facelift!
Staring at yourself
have you ever seen-
Your face so beautiful?
Have you ever been replaced
While watching it all go down?

I can't erase you from my mind
I can't controll the way I feel
Your memory
Consumes me
Like the cancer that you are.
I can't erase-
Or turn back time.
I'm so ******* sick from this
DEPRAVITY
CONSUMES ME
time to **** this ******* *****.

This times for real *****
Deep breath in!
Beauty...
It's only skin deep!
And so is my knife,
I'll erase you!
This times for real now
So let's begin!
Maybe it's always been me...
It's all in my mind,
I'll replace you.
REPLACE YOU!
IT'S ALL IN MY MIND [I'LL REPLACE YOU]
Borderline personality disorder
Personification of two very different ego's
Christopher Lowe Feb 2015
Therein the hearth lies warmth
The warmth of a long old fire
That burns with such fragrance and love
Warming generations
And some say
It's just an old wood stove
Cast iron
Two double hinged doors
One covered with tin
Glass busted and gone long ago
The other door
Ornate stained glass
Blazoned with family memories
Even in the summer a gathering place
And some say
It's just an old wood stove
What care given to stoke the flame
Just to keep the family warm
Day and night it never dimmed
And everyone still gathers around it
Countless years burned by one family
And some would still say
*It's just an old wood stove
Inspired by a cast iron wood stove at my grandparents house.  Its much older then me and has so many memories etched into its existence.  It might as well be a part of our big family.
There's a cold Creole cry
that steeps from the underside of the moss
those thick recesses where, the water bridges tight to the banks
and even when the haunting moon fades upon its shades
there is always a cast of eerie chills that invade the frame.
The long lonely, half depressed, half unawakened  strolls
that never quite lead anywhere, yet always ends by the bank
where the water calls, these deep muddy swamps
that awaits in the hopes of a lost soul to enter
to step beyond the boundaries.
There is stew in these waters
a thick haze that fills and the scent it leaves
clings always upon the clothes, hugs so tight the breath, that
no matter how far one strays, it always calls one back.
Trees that have no roots, skeletons cloaked
hinged in the thick ivy moss that scatters from limb to limb
The cries, urgent, fearful, that echoes through the thick undergrowth
gathering in Voodoo curses the humid air to dance, dance
where the imagination clings and hides, Yet! Dares to know more.
It is a long walk, one, that time cannot gather nor hold
where the fields seem surreal to the charged air
and the night falls like lotus blossoms upon the water
to float away where tides to the Delta stray.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Sarah Bat Jul 2012
My heart is like a locket
It is delicate and ornate
and slightly too big for the gossamer pink ribbon in hangs from

It shines brightly when the light hits it
but just easily is cloaked in shadow

It is delicate and easily breakable
Hinged
But whole

My heart is like a locket
with a picture on only one side
I am there
and I am whole and I am okay
I am not incomplete with a picture beside me
I still shine in light and become lost in darkness
I am still too big for my pink gossamer ribbon.

My picture does not need a companion
but she would like one
someone to share the fight to keep the ribbon taunt
and to smooth her frayed edges
and bent corners.

She has been there awhile
just like the locket
hinged
but not broken.

Slip into the empty space beside her
I think she has forgotten she is beautiful
slip into the empty space beside her
next to the hinge of my glistening locket heart.
Stacey Hecht May 2013
He sat strapped into his chair like a shrunken scarecrow.
A motorized miniature from the Wizard of Oz, roaming the yellow brick road in his chrome chariot.
His clothes hung from his stick thin limbs like fresh wash on a clothesline.
As new as the day his Mom brought them home from the store.
Adournments for a body on display, not designed to be used.

Around and round circles ring, whole, symmetric complete.
But the coil of life, puzzle pieces in a whirl, must be free, infinite, unfettered.
The text misprinted, the logic destroyed, the flesh misshapen, the extremties unusable.

Tied to his wheelchair like the scarecrow to his rack, guarding a field of linoleum on the hospital ward.
His eyes blind to color and light, I saw only clouds as I peered into his mind with my inquisitive scope.
The boy's hair had the texture of straw on his nubbin head and he smelled of dry leaves before the winter's chill.
His useless limbs twisted and fine, delicate as dried twigs, they draped his John Deere in the vegetable garden of his imprisoned life, bound with the barbed wire of his treacherous genes.

He could move his head, and played a game of cat and mouse to us tinmen, who lumbered by his throne with our toolboxes full of bright scopes and latex gloves, frozen saucers and wasp sharp stings.
His head would bow, limp upon his neck like an overripe sunflower at the end of its stalk.
As our footsteps grew louder his Jack-in-the-box head would fly up, a clown's grin upon his silly face.
Was this the boy or his disease we would wonder despite the reruns of his show.
What could he know? This crumpled moonbeam parading as a child in rumpled clothes.

But one day upon a whim, I took him for a ride into the big blue sky and over the rainbow.
I grabbed the handles of his chair and slowly, slowly began to spin.
His head shot up like a shooting star, his twiggy limbs stiffened even more.
Faster and faster, I whirled him and twirled him.
A twister on the hospital floor, sending doctors, nurses and patients diving for cover as we spun, building like cotton candy strands.
His mouth opened wide, a huge smile spread across his face like sunshine pouring over a mountain's edge.
Beams of light speared through the clouds that filled his eyes.
A rusty hinged croak jumped from his throat as he hee-hawed a laugh as I flung him to the moon, ruby red slippers upon his feet.
Caroline Grace Feb 2012
Trapped in the definition of his interior,
he had become an invisible thing.

In moods deeper than dark ebony
repetitive folding and unfolding of nefarious reasons
pushed him to step outside his restricted vision.

Lost perhaps?
Or provisionally eclipsed?

A luminous slash hinged his door,
the cicatrice between brooding paralysis and explicit dreams.

............

Here on the ledge,
teetering on the cusp of obscurity and mountains blinding peak,
his sight catches a net
streaming from an open window-
billowing freedom.

A metalic thread glitters through him,
its coppery tang branching across clenched fibres
igniting his fingers, his tongue.

A mute cloud disperses.
He stands in the presence of a revelation.

Through the smoke of his eyes
he steps off the threshold
plunging into burnished sun,
his head incandescent with foreign scents.



copyright © Caroline Grace 2012
written for a friend who has recently won his battle against agoraphobia.
Our empty syncopation's are patiently ambushed
By restless margins of undeclared territory;
Shivering cymbals, entraining cloistered memories,
A nimbus inclining toward unredeemable quarries:
Refrains unimagined, of star-tipped dawns
Upon certain days of ritual, unbelievably worn.

Breathing dragons of fire-squandering meridians
Pour round water upon semblance's drowned emotion;
Cleave then to me, who cleaves to the last vestige
Of rarefied air, breathed by bellows-smothered centuries
When your foot trod the newly opened ****** earth,
And your hand hinged loves diagonal, even unto death.
Tim Knight Apr 2013
Seats sat around standing tables
void of conversation,
whilst waitresses danced around the homeless
clearing up their desperation with no fuss-
just a cloth wipe across the surface
and a smile to a lonely face;
hard wood walls closed in like
coffin-lid, coffin-hinged cases.

One man alone in the corner held hands with his coffee cup and looked up hoping for familiar faces.

And his finger snapped around the rim,
for this cup of coffee
was his only drink of the day.

And his fingers broke around its handle,
for this cup of coffee
was his wick and leathered-spine candle.

And his fingers melded to the cup,
because this cup of coffee
burnt like coughed-up cigarette ****-stubs.
tweet to me > @coffeeshoppoems
traces of being Jan 2017
a storyteller's perspective, steppin' off the ordinary edge, into the unknown

An unsent letter lay on the rustic log cabin floor
A cold wind musta’ blown through the cracks the light comes in,
where it laid fallen, half *** crumbled, yet never a wadded ball;
never an unspoken thrown paper stone,  a befallen regret was all.
Silently atilt and leaning against the canted wall's slant
behind the gathered dust a squeaky hinged burl wood door

A timeworn tarnished copper wind up clock roosted,
an old lip smirched coffee cup time stood still;
an empty bottle of gin sat near the bed post headboard
where the ink stains and blotted spillings let the memories in.
Stained pages torn and bent like fallen paper wings
returned to the unread sender … postage due,   south a heaven sent ―

A sullied envelope, gnawed and mouse chewed,
for a nest of new beginnings ―     
                                                          just read:                   Lydia  ...  
                                ... followed by a scribbled empty heart               

The time aged brown tattered tablet paper left behind
stifled like the unread heart it holds upon the threadbare pages
of smudged tear’s ache and spilled gin

The weathered rock hearth fireplace filled with spent ashes,
hand rolled cigarette butts, traces of an aching lament;
scratched up old vinyl records lay ***** and tired out,
from a time of sweeter fallen fences, a musical bliss, and
a lost angel's abandoned red slinky party dress,  
aside a busted off black velvet high-heel stuck sullied
in a hollow knothole in the ancient barn-wood floor
a sparkly pearl pink jewel entangled in a spider web

An unsent letter lay on the rustic cabin floor
A cold wind musta’ blown through the cracks the light gets in

The final unread words silently said:

                               "We lost our way,
                                  it all went wrong,
                                  it all turned bad"

                             ..."This is the outcome when someone you love  
                                  up and throws you away"

                             ...“I’ll reach out from the inside
                                  I’ll rise up again and do without”

                             ..."You went out into the world
                                  with an untamed hankerin’ ―
                                  like a carefree restless gypsy breeze
                                                                 and come back worlds apart"


The Unsent Letter,  
                          just whispered words to the dust in the wind
                                                            ­                        in quivering ink:

                             ..."how can I ever unremember you...?
                                  a thrown stone sinks wordlessly as a rock...,
                                  an old wood bucket with a rotten hole the heart,
                                  fallen forgotten, rock bottom as an empty well"


                                        just signed:   ...   ❤  August


                          *January 1st, 2017 ... august ... wild is the wind  ♡
postscript: trying to write outside my comfort zone box
                  this storyteller's perspective, steppin' off the edge the unknown
                  i did have fun from behind the incarnation of a caricature's eyes
                  some say "it's always about the writer"...what say you(?)!
.
Francie Lynch May 2014
Before you turn and finally part,
Unwind this tourniquet from...

Enough! You know the rhyme and how it ends:

“...blah, blah, blah, from my heart”

Too much angst for me. I refuse the rejected lover's curtain call.

No more: “Your neck gave no early warning
  Of warm seduction in the morning.”

And some: “Your neck gave no early warning,
     That it needs shaving in the morning.”

This is cathartic.

You might have liked: “Your tresses, spread like Sif's woven gold,
  Are plated  on my inner soul.”

But now: “Your tresses  shined like Sif's woven gold
     Will thin and grey as you grow old.”

Ouch! But I'm feeling better.

I could have written:   “Your nose bridges such eyes and lips
  That shame golden flowering May cowslips.”

Instead: “That nose that bridges eyes and lips
       With time and gravity droop and drip.”

Are you getting my inner self yet?

You will miss: “Legs that lead to heaven's gate,
  Held promise if I deigned to wait.”

I won't miss with: “Those legs that lead to heaven's gate
  Now hinged for all  below the waist.”

Funny, isn't it, how one's outlook changes.

Oh! Your eyes and teeth.

“Your eyes are black holes stealing light,
  Your teeth like yellow stars at night.”

Do I feel better now?
The clam doth fritter my mind
So close that shell, tightly bind

Protect the flesh, soft body hidden
Predators, everyone forbidden

Rigid shell scalloped in unison
Form the bond to close within

The frilly layer undulating rhythm
Soft body concealed and hinged

So perfect beneath hardened chalk
Worming tongue
Gaping mouth
Wordless talk

Oh to rest inside your precious womb
Forever bask in your rosy gloom

Hold my body with your silken lip
Precision pulse throb through your grip

Mixing Love, Patience, Hope for the world
Depositing on your pink precious pearl

— The End —