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--- Oct 2013
BEFORE

Before we even started dating
I was very interested in you
I thought
"She's really unique
And cool
And into books
And smart

And cute."
Every move you made
The ease with which you made friends
And of course
How your nose was always in a book.
That interested me a lot
And I still love that
Even when I know
So much more about you.
My observations from outside.


2.  AS I WRITE

I told you I was doing something
For our six months.
It's nothing spectacular
Nothing expensive
Just time
And my thoughts
My love
I hope to put it into these words which I
Preserve for you
Uniquely mine
For uniquely you
And you alone.



3. SUSPENSE

I just told you today
And you ask for my hint
It was in one of my other poems
You read it
But didn't catch it.
It would be obvious if you did see
What the hint is.
And no, these aren't all going to be
Like this
Just basically a diary
No
They will be better.


4. LIST

I like a lot about you love
I even listed some things off to you recently.
Would you like a list?

The cute faces you constantly make
The way you fall asleep in my arms
The way you make my heart skip when you lean on me
The way your mouth moves when we kiss
Your scent that hangs on my clothes after we hang out
The way you bury your face in my chest when falling asleep
The texture of you hair
The way your face lights up when you're truly happy
The way your cheeks are fun to play with
The perfect shape of your body
Your inability to be mad at me
Your anger at people being self-destructive
Your rambles on things that you feel passionate about
Your sheer uniqueness
Your amazing beauty
The way you feel embarassed when you blush
Your quiet whimpers when I whisper that I love you in your sleep
The way you always tell someone when you're annoyed
Your ability to easily make friends
Your addiction to reading
Your crazy music taste
Your refusal to tell me games you play
Your amazing poetry
Your unique way of dressing
Your uncanny ability to look beautiful and **** in anything

And yes, there's thousands more.
But that's enough for now.


5. NIGHT

You know
I think of you always
During class
During sports
During robotics
During my dreams.
You're so great
You just sneak into my mind
And take all control from me.
I'm stuck thinking about you for awhile.
Not that I really mind.


6. SUDDENLY FRAGILE

I've known you for awhile
And now you're fragile
You seemed strong
Never once wrong
And I'm glad I grew close to you
So that I can be here for you
When you need someone
And I always want to be that someone.


7. FIVE

Today
Of all days
I'm sick.
What I wouldn't give
To kiss you once
On the cheek
Or give you a hug
Quickly
Fleetingly
I want to tell you I love you in person
But I cannot
Not today
But I will.


8. FREAKY

Do you know
How crazy it makes me feel
To just think of you?

9. ALONE

I am alone
With nothing but
My thoughts

Of you.
Obviously.


10. PICTURES

I look at the wall
The ceiling
Blank
Naked, but for some scratches
And I wish it was pictures of you
In plain sight
Wherever I look.


11. TRUE HAPPINESS

I know life is hitting you right now
Hitting you pretty hard
Being forced into therapy you don't want
Medicine that hurts your focus
And now it's ******* up your grades
Which in turn make your parents mad at you
And you seem to be despairing
And all I want to do
Is cheer you up
Make you smile
Forget your worries for just a little while.
I do what I can
But I don't think it's
Enough.
But I will keep trying
Every time I talk to you
Text you
Hug you
I hope I can bring you a little closer
To that honest smile.


12. YOU WORRY

You said it's been bothering you
You say I don't have to stay with you
Because I feel obligated
Because of your mental state.
Well
I'm glad you said it
Got it off your chest
But I would never stay because of pity
Because of guilt
No
I stay because of you.
The you-ness of you
You're just so startlingly amazing
Such a stark contrast to other interests I've had
And I love it.
And I love you.
I'm glad I could at least momentarily
Hopefully stop your worrying.


13. BRILLIANT AND BEAUTIFUL

When I think of you
I imagine gazing into your eyes
As I have done so many times
Those infinite, piercing
Beautiful eyes.
Brilliant, shining, beautiful
Just like you.
So wonderful
Calming
I dream of watching your eyes fall asleep
And waking to the very same pair
Happy and alive
Yet so real
Your beauty
And your realness.
Perfection.
I love you
I could say it a thousand timees
And mean it more every
Single
Time.


14. AGONIZING

It hurts me so much
To see you in pain
To know you're hurting.

You're trying to be more
Independant
You say
Well
Sure, be independant
But I want you to run to me
Cry on my shoulder
Because you aren't alone
And I don't want you to prepare for
A time when you could be alone.
Because I plan on staying within reach.


15. QUESTIONS

You lately have seemed
Scared
Afraid that I am staying with you for some
Pity
That I may feel.
Well, let me tell you
That is so wrong.
I feel bad for you
But that is different.
Because I could never date you through pity
I would feel like I was
Taking advantage of you
So don't worry.


16. SO MUCH I COULD NEVER SAY

I love you so
I can not describe it
The feeling
The exhilaration
From catching a glimpse of you in the hallway
I just feel the need to smile.


17. SMILE-INDUCING

Have I ever told you
That everytime you hug me from behind
I just feel uncontrollably joyful?
And when you refuse to let go
I find it cute
And I just want to stay like that


18. GOOD MORNING

A dream we both have
I want so very badly
To fall asleep holding you close
Singing to you the lullaby of my beating heart
Listening to your breath slow and relax
The perfect weight of your body against my own
And for you to be the last thing I see before I close my eyes
And the first thing I see when awakened
To make fun of your bedhead as the day's first light
Illuminates the room gently
To tell you how I love you
Before you can think anything else
Now only a dream
Someday it will happen.


19. TO RUN AWAY

I wannt to forever hold you
To hide away where nobody can find us
No schedules to disturb us
No cold to riddle our skin with
Goose-bumps
No agony tearing at our hearts
No painful reminders of the past
As the days blur into weeks
Into months
To hold you forever
In solitude.


20. WORRY

Why, love, are you so worried as of late
That you have changed?
I love every version of you
And I'm continually amazed at your ability
To cope
To prevail
But you are not strong enough alone my love.


21. LASTING

I have a feeling
That we will last
Overcome the odds
For a relationship that will endure
Past school
Past our new experiences
Past our differences
And bring us ever closer
More in love
As I feel myself falling for you more everyday


22. MARVELOUS

I never feel quite as amazing
As when I have you laying on my chest
Relaxed and falling asleep
With a blanket
A movie
Relaxation
No upcoming deadlines
Nothing else matters
Just the warmth of you relaxing on me
And my feeling of content.


23. DISCUSS

I love that we can discuss
Our different
Yet similar
Religions.
Yours as yet unnamed
Mine becoming again pure
And we can grow from this
And we become stronger.
And if we disagree about something
We can have a discussion about it
Though I keep my mouth shut
If I have the potential to start an argument
And we stay civil


24. LIST

One of your guesses as to
What I was doing when I hinted about this
A list.
Alright, you inspired me.
Words to describe you.
Beautiful
Intelligent
Different
Crazy
Startling
Lovely
Cute
­Modest
Mesmerizing
Relatable
Foreign
Sad
Lost
Stubborn
Sensitive
­And lastly for now
Theloveofmylife


25. TERRIFIED

Having you in my life is
Terrifying.
I worry so much
About your well being.
I wish I could be your knight in shining armor
But I just
Can't.
Society doesn't leave room for heroes.
It only attempts to create villains.
But you and I
We can resist it
Because society ***** anyway
And we're invincible.


26. DROWSY

When I fall asleep
The last thing on my mind is you.
And it's not just a thought that pops in then.
It starts when I am drowsy
And on the edge of sleep.
I imagine you snuggling close
Burying your face in my chest
Inhaling deeply and
Relaxing.


27. COMFORTABLE

I am glad that you can
Be relaxed enough around me
To fall asleep randomly.
And I love how, even in your sleep, you
Snuggle close
Twitch your hand three times
And whimper whenever I whisper into your ear
"I love you"


28. EXCITED

I love being with you
I love holding you close
Your breathe in my ears
The pounding of your heart
Speeding up when we kiss
Your happy sighs
Pulling me closer
Warming me in this new coming chill.


29.  HEAT

You are warm
You are hot
You keep the chill away
Heck, we could be in the snow without any significant
Warm clothing
And as long as I could hold you close
I could remain there forever.


30. PERFECT LOVE

You are my perfect love
The one for me
The two of us
Can do anything
Beat any odds stacked against us.
Overcome any hardship.
Just wait until we can escape to our life
We can win this race love
Destroy anyone who seeks to foil us
Or just ignore them
They aren't worth our notice
If they try to bring us down.


31. LIGHT

I look into your eyes today
And they are beautiful
As they always have been
I can lose myself in your eyes
The sight behind them
The intelligence
And so much more.
You're startlingly great
And I can't help but want to be around you.
spysgrandson Jan 2013
The origin of spiritual sustenance is defined differently by each person. Most attribute it to a divine power or some God incarnate that helps us, limited corporeal beings that we are, relate to a deity or to the infinite. Like billions of other sentient souls, this is a way of "seeing" or believing that I have embraced on some level. However, when I ask myself what sustains me beyond this, I am taken down another path.

That path leads me to the crumbling adobe dwellings or sometimes to the freshly painted stucco buildings scattered across the great southwest. That path leads me to something more tangible or palpable than I can glean from traditional halls of worship. I am led instead to a simple yet profound vision--the sight of a hot plate of Mexican food.

Here is where a slight or perhaps dramatic shift in the way one thinks about the spirit is required. This is not necessarily a new concept but merely my take on it. You have all heard of "Soul Food" as it applies to the cuisine of the African American community or more generically in recent years, "comfort food". Also, some of you may recall me saying at one time or another, truly good junk food bypasses all vital organs and goes straight to the spirit. Let me clarify that last line--it is not that I believe the physical laws of the universe are suspended when one eats certain kinds of food—calories will still be consumed, the food digested and metabolized, etc. Instead, I believe, like so many things spiritual, eating Mexican Food transcends the natural laws of the universe as we know them.

This begs the question, why Mexican food as opposed to some other fare like Chinese or good old fried catfish, a southern favorite? The answer is simple. Some people, because of where they were, who they were, and when they were, are Christians, some are Hindus, some are Muslims and some are witches. I am a worshipper of Mexican food.

My sustenance, therefore, comes not from those in polished marble and stone palaces, clad in clerical garb and carrying holy texts. Instead, it comes from humble servants scurrying about hot kitchens doing what they do perhaps simply to feed their families—from my point of view, a noble endeavor in and of itself.

From the time I see a Mexican eatery through a bug-splattered windshield, I notice its energy or aura. When I open the door and see the gaudy but somehow authentic colors on sombrero covered walls, and hear playful Mariachi, and smell the frying tortillas, I know I have entered one of the houses of the holy. Truly, the colors, the sounds, the sights and the smell all take me to a higher place.

This sounds strange to most readers I am sure, but if I were speaking of a nature walk in dew covered grass among the scent of lofty pines, listening to the sound of songbirds, all could relate to its transcendent quality. We somehow place pristine nature above nature sculpted in a way for human benefit. I do this myself, except when it comes to Mexican food or perhaps a beautifully restored VW van, but that is another story.

To return to my original premise, the spiritual value of Mexican food—when the hot oblong platter is placed in front of me, I first notice its colorful array on the plate. Imagine a platter with red and blue corn chips, gray/brown frijoles covered with white cheese, orange rice, chili verde (green), a golden cheese covered enchilada, olive green guacamole, red ripe tomatoes with rich green cilantro and snow white onions, and last of all deep green jalapenos, forming a colorful tapestry and visual feast. (Contrast this with a hunk of brown steak, pale green peas, and a white glob of mashed potatoes.)

The scent of this feast immediately attacks my olfactory bulb and like so many smells, has the power to evoke startlingly clear memories. For me, I am taken to a place where the door opens to a moonless starry sky. I am in the desert, perhaps for the first time. I am in the desert, being courted by the dark desert lady who still haunts my soul in the night. I go back there so many nights, when all is quiet and my long day’s journey into night is finished. This vast, dark and inhospitable land that has called holy men to it through the ages calls me, a man as common as the cook whose labors unwittingly took me there. I huddle among the cacti, creatures who ask the earth for so little. I feel the endless winds that carry the remnants of a thousand ancient souls across the black Sonoran sky and rattle the door from where I came, as if still asking for entrance to a place where they can no longer dwell. Long ago, they returned to the desert for a final time, and now, a thousand nights and a thousand miles away, they mix with the holy night air as only desert dust can, and for a moment tempt the living, but then return to the black night. I do not yet join them—the door still opens to me. I can still see the colors, hear the sounds and place earthly but heavenly morsels in my mouth, and ask for more salsa.

Outside, in the dark desert, the night waits for me, but I have a few more bites to take, and a few more words to write, and to borrow a line from another, a few more miles to go before I sleep—thus, the spiritual value of Mexican food.
In my profile here at HP, I mentioned that I had written this--it was probably three years ago.
I hate the dreadful sight of the moonlight,
and wish that it could soon fade away into sunlight.
'Tis all but too coherent-far too lovely and too bright;
such a flaw indeed, to my mood and my womanly night.

Unlike the whole silence of the morn;
Whenst no'ne shall speak but the comely red thorn.
Whose soul is far too genuine-and one too like thee,
Clumsy but witty as thou strolled startlingly by me.

Ah, thee, whom I once loved, and now still do,
Whose love I cannot resist, neither can subdue;
But to whose charm I know I must desist,
For neither shall I be thy snow; nor ever, thy mist.

Ah, as not even abruptly in thy mind,
I snare thy conscience nor make thee blind.
Forever and ever to her thou choose to be bound,
Even when this world remains loud, but emits no sound.

And to her, her feeble soul thou art committed,
Into whose fingers art thy varied souls submitted.
And thy palms, both palms entwined whilst walking hand in hand,
Making herself proud, of claiming such a heart-of a perfect man.

But not to me, I-who thou detained too perfectly,
and turned to when all proved to thee, too beastly.
I, who shall forever be a distant friend,
I, who hath no right to thee, nor thy sweaty bare hands.

And not to me; I, who love thee all the greater,
I whose love for thee is but much sincerer, and cleverer.
I, whose passion for thee is too genuine, and tenderer;
Ah, but which to thy senses, might never even matter.

I, who love thee like I love the summer;
I, whom to thee a mere sanguine poet and a cold writer.
Ah, thee, but do thou know not-that my poems are alive?
They speak of my feelings, they speak of my noble life.

I, who love thee as deeply as I love my poetry;
I, who secretly wish thou could only be with me.
I, who shall love thee still-in my maidenhood and later wifery,
But whom to thee sadly nobody; and clearly no more-
Than a bewitching fellow, and on Sundays, a thoughtful young lady.

Ah, my soul is but crossed by this uncivil noise,
Noise in the night, noise that possesses even no voice;
Noise that hath no desirous wishes, and gravely no bliss;
Noise that is born not, out of a deep, passionate secret kiss.

Silence, oh thee; all-too-unmighty voice!
For thou only trouble the mind,
with an unconsciousness that make me blind;
within a joy my soul cannot retrieve, much less rejoice.

Angry, angry am I-with all these burdens of jealousy,
Ah, besotted I am, with those galleries of envy,
And their echoing portraits and songs of undefined melody-
Full of sorrow; and bloodied fits-of uneventful tragedy.

Hungry, hungry then is my soul-for love,
Which hath never come, nor ever seemed enough.
I am deterred, unlike those free giggling starlights above;
From joying in affection, from rubbing myself against love.

So gross, gross is how my blood-looks like;
Bereft of its breath, unloved by its might.
And its impure conscience that now only troubles the light;
Provoking my innocence, torturing my fair sight.

I hate the dreadful sight of the moonlight,
and wish that it soon fade away into sunlight.
I better hope that morn come daintily earlier;
whenst spring comes back into view and so turns everything, lovelier.

And t'is hope, hope for thee shall spring again;
As I shall pray before yon vase of sweet lavender
Which stays still-and loyally to the windowsill, unbent;
Even when it shrieks gallantly, and makes all not by any, tender.

For morn shall refine those current tides of summer,
so that the lake shall blow again-and grow stronger;
And as it does, my love for thee shall return, and be better,
For t'is time it shall bloom; like words that I write, and thou decipher.

And all this noise shall fall into poetry;
Which every day grows statelier and comelier.
For as we kiss, only thy eyes that shall speak onto me;
That our love is true, and shall remain so, forever.
T'is silence leaps from one self to another. Betrayal, o betrayal, doth greet it-so violently and startlingly, along th' entirety of its journey! Undelightful as 'tis, but made worse by t'at hostile dubiousness. Another fact aside from its ambivalent hatefulness: recognisable to every questioning eye-is t'is downright scary on its own, with unmolested quietude, and ******, but involuntary, unspokenness. Resolutions made within undesirable ambiences! Sacrifice t'at outwardly suggests th' presence of glam profuse in rich elaboration-but bland enough! And on top of all, t'is brimming immovability, and 'tis pool of doubts is causing me but to commence feeling weary about 'tis raising thorn. How didst I send myself into ferocious wanders-about t'is airless rooms, heated like sunflowers bathing themselves to death on th' giggling surface of raging snow. Battle of nature-and war of its childlike beings! Like a stoical plant in th' midst of 'tis glittering forest; vacant and idyllic-passive and unquestioning towards th' blades of farmers t'at come to exploit 'em: with morbid and futile, savage desires for rebellious treasures-unbecoming in t'eir temporariness, and unavoidability of sincere devotion as t'ey wilt soon leave t'eir offspring bereft of t'eir provisions once more. Yet look, look how red t'eir eyes are in t'eir hunger-eccentric vivacity gloweth in t'eir eyes, but mockery governs 'em-as ruptured t'eir weak souls are, by loathsome uncertainty and severe senses of greed. How t'is consideration made aggravated; agitated my soul is-o, seriously agitated! Yes, indeed! No longer doth vanity boast away about being my pride, but th' sultry pointlessness of my power of self-esteem. How melancholy t'is life is! O, and th' raising thorn itself, th' one aforementioned so discreetly within my fourth phrase up t'ere-growing dominantly and selfishly-aye! every day, is unlikely to be abashed by any remorseful incarceration, or stony suicidal attempts hurled by t'ose disgraceful beings out t'ere; but in t'is case, yon disgracefulness is comprised of grateful swarms of exquisite laughter, divine in its own roots, like th' sacred nook of a moonlit river. And how t'ere, on its most godlike slice of rock-so dearly scented by nature and innocent greenness-a sight be so dear to my longing eyes, shalt thou dwell with thy poems, and heart trembling with thy fullness of passion. For me, yes, for me, selfishly! O, my love! Cannot help I uttering thy name-thy very name, whom I am undeniably besotted with, like a feverish storm mooning over its lifelike sea, and whose eager cruelty so invincibly blanched by 'tis romantic tides-gone as it is, in just a seeming couple of cordial seconds! My love, whose name is so unmistakably dear to my heart, and indisputably belongs to 'tis greedy layers-ambitious, my love, desirous of,  and bland to solely th' dormant rains of thy love! O, t'ose pristine tears of blessings t'at are volatile but decorative to my half life-for thou art unarguably th' other half of me! And splendid in t'is very breath, t'at recognition t'en beats furiously along with t'is frail voyage of my humanness-grounded inevitably by unremarkable velocity are my wheels, and sometimes imprisoned in helplessness amidst th' pursuit of my fierce dreaming. But I admire 'tis core-as it is but thy warm, genial slumber; and 'tis skin is but th' very depths wherein I conceal my very whole love for thee. My love, my darling! If only thou wert here-yes, here, querida, to indulge t'is pr'saic quietude, shalt I shrink into nothing but a piece of thy fallen star; and t'ese feeble hands shalt t'en thou own, just as thy heart I should'th won.
These are the gardens of the Desert, these
The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful,
For which the speech of England has no name--
The Prairies. I behold them for the first,
And my heart swells, while the dilated sight
Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo! they stretch
In airy undulations, far away,
As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell,
Stood still, with all his rounded billows fixed,
And motionless for ever.--Motionless?--
No--they are all unchained again. The clouds
Sweep over with their shadows, and, beneath,
The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye;
Dark hollows seem to glide along and chase
The sunny ridges. Breezes of the South!
Who toss the golden and the flame-like flowers,
And pass the prairie-hawk that, poised on high,
***** his broad wings, yet moves not--ye have played
Among the palms of Mexico and vines
Of Texas, and have crisped the limpid brooks
That from the fountains of Sonora glide
Into the calm Pacific--have ye fanned
A nobler or a lovelier scene than this?
Man hath no part in all this glorious work:
The hand that built the firmament hath heaved
And smoothed these verdant swells, and sown their slopes
With herbage, planted them with island groves,
And hedged them round with forests. Fitting floor
For this magnificent temple of the sky--
With flowers whose glory and whose multitude
Rival the constellations! The great heavens
Seem to stoop down upon the scene in love,--
A nearer vault, and of a tenderer blue,
Than that which bends above the eastern hills.

  As o'er the verdant waste I guide my steed,
Among the high rank grass that sweeps his sides
The hollow beating of his footstep seems
A sacrilegious sound. I think of those
Upon whose rest he tramples. Are they here--
The dead of other days?--and did the dust
Of these fair solitudes once stir with life
And burn with passion? Let the mighty mounds
That overlook the rivers, or that rise
In the dim forest crowded with old oaks,
Answer. A race, that long has passed away,
Built them;--a disciplined and populous race
Heaped, with long toil, the earth, while yet the Greek
Was hewing the Pentelicus to forms
Of symmetry, and rearing on its rock
The glittering Parthenon. These ample fields
Nourished their harvests, here their herds were fed,
When haply by their stalls the bison lowed,
And bowed his maned shoulder to the yoke.
All day this desert murmured with their toils,
Till twilight blushed, and lovers walked, and wooed
In a forgotten language, and old tunes,
From instruments of unremembered form,
Gave the soft winds a voice. The red man came--
The roaming hunter tribes, warlike and fierce,
And the mound-builders vanished from the earth.
The solitude of centuries untold
Has settled where they dwelt. The prairie-wolf
Hunts in their meadows, and his fresh-dug den
Yawns by my path. The gopher mines the ground
Where stood their swarming cities. All is gone--
All--save the piles of earth that hold their bones--
The platforms where they worshipped unknown gods--
The barriers which they builded from the soil
To keep the foe at bay--till o'er the walls
The wild beleaguerers broke, and, one by one,
The strongholds of the plain were forced, and heaped
With corpses. The brown vultures of the wood
Flocked to those vast uncovered sepulchres,
And sat, unscared and silent, at their feast.
Haply some solitary fugitive,
Lurking in marsh and forest, till the sense
Of desolation and of fear became
Bitterer than death, yielded himself to die.
Man's better nature triumphed then. Kind words
Welcomed and soothed him; the rude conquerors
Seated the captive with their chiefs; he chose
A bride among their maidens, and at length
Seemed to forget,--yet ne'er forgot,--the wife
Of his first love, and her sweet little ones,
Butchered, amid their shrieks, with all his race.

  Thus change the forms of being. Thus arise
Races of living things, glorious in strength,
And perish, as the quickening breath of God
Fills them, or is withdrawn. The red man, too,
Has left the blooming wilds he ranged so long,
And, nearer to the Rocky Mountains, sought
A wilder hunting-ground. The ****** builds
No longer by these streams, but far away,
On waters whose blue surface ne'er gave back
The white man's face--among Missouri's springs,
And pools whose issues swell the Oregan,
He rears his little Venice. In these plains
The bison feeds no more. Twice twenty leagues
Beyond remotest smoke of hunter's camp,
Roams the majestic brute, in herds that shake
The earth with thundering steps--yet here I meet
His ancient footprints stamped beside the pool.

  Still this great solitude is quick with life.
Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers
They flutter over, gentle quadrupeds,
And birds, that scarce have learned the fear of man,
Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground,
Startlingly beautiful. The graceful deer
Bounds to the wood at my approach. The bee,
A more adventurous colonist than man,
With whom he came across the eastern deep,
Fills the savannas with his murmurings,
And hides his sweets, as in the golden age,
Within the hollow oak. I listen long
To his domestic hum, and think I hear
The sound of that advancing multitude
Which soon shall fill these deserts. From the ground
Comes up the laugh of children, the soft voice
Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn
Of Sabbath worshippers. The low of herds
Blends with the rustling of the heavy grain
Over the dark-brown furrows. All at once
A fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream,
And I am in the wilderness alone.
Amanda May 2014
It was Saturday mornings like this;
or don't you remember?
Five-year-old me riding shotgun,
watching your cigarette embers
blow hastily out the window,
listening to the engine hum.

The Beatles would play on the radio,
you'd sing along,
and try to teach me, too.
“Close your eyes, and I’ll kiss you,
tomorrow I’ll miss you,
remember I’ll always be true…”


I’d watch your fingers drum rhythmically
on the steering wheel -
something I’d thought only daddies could do.

You may not have realized it,
but at a young age you taught me
how to love life, and embrace it completely.
With loving words, and a strong heart,
you told me I could be
anything I wanted to be.

I remember being young:
you, a drummer, on the road.
I’d wake up, startlingly,
every single time you came home.
You’d leave us each with
a kiss on the forehead,
promising, always, to come home.
“Close your eyes and I’ll kiss you,
tomorrow I’ll miss you…”

Singing us Beatles’ lullabies
with promises to never leave us alone.

Some nights I’d wake up
in the middle of the night.
In a panic, I’d run out to the living room
just to see the glow of the TV light.
“Daddy?,” I’d say, in a tiny voice
that only little girls laced with fatigue
can have.
Waking you up out of a dead sleep,
I thought, maybe, you’d be mad.
But you’d just look up,
and look over
to where I was standing,
And say,
“Baby, come lay with me.”

In your arms I found safety,
and the first protection I’d ever known.
You, daddy, are the one that I’ll come to
if ever I want to come home.

The TV lights glow soft now,
and that little girl is little, no more.
But don’t you ever think I’ll forget,
your voice when you’d close the door:
“Close your eyes and I’ll kiss you,
tomorrow I’ll miss you,
remember I’ll always be true.
And then while I’m away,
I’ll write home every day.
And I’ll send all my loving to you.
All my lovin’, I will send to you.
All my lovin, darlin’, I’ll be true.
All my lovin’, all my lovin’..”



Happy Birthday, daddy.
Marshal Gebbie Aug 2023
Everything is BIG here.

Meals are big, bums are big, cars are huge and the skies are a million miles wide.

Janet and I are travelling in the Northwest of the United States of America, spending time with Boaz and Lisa in Idaho, Steve Yocum in Oregon and Greg and Linda in Washington State.

The trip is a "quickie" in that we are fitting one helluva lot into just three weeks duration.
Never in all my days have I seen such huge quantities of food served up in restaurant meals, plastic bags discarded, American flags fluttering and all the young, blonde girls in tattered, impossibly short cut offs and sleeveless tops talking loudly, incomprehensibly at a million miles an hour ......Just blows you away!!
Monstrous pickup trucks, Rams, Broncos, big V8s travelling the freeways continuously. Sheriffs, troopers and Road cops all wearing firearms on the hip, in their souped up pursuit vehicles parked on the roadside shoulder, eyeballing everyone as they pass, with a mean, accusatory glare.
Out on the range there is a million square miles of nothing but sage brush and basalt rock....and searing, baking heat.
114 degrees in the painted desert of Moab. Beautiful though with vaulting red sandstone cliffs and rearing stone arches against the blue-est of blue skies.
Standing pillars of ancient sedimentary rock born in depositions laid down in vast oceans of bygone eras, millions of years ago.

History is painted vast in this immensity. The gigantic and abrupt catastrophic inundation of a vast and deep inland sea, swelled suddenly by floodwaters of rivers diverted by lava flows from subterranean fissures....Unimaginable torrents abruptly released, gouging out ancient lava beds to create gigantic waterfalls and deep, sheer sided chasms.

Cascades that constituted the biggest river flow ever known in the history of the planet, washing away everything from the epicentre of the continent in Utah through Idaho to the Pacific ocean in the rugged coast of Oregon. Such was the Bonneville flood of 12,000 years ago illustrated today by the gigantic chasms created in the beds of basalt and rhyolitic larva throughout Idaho and the fields of massive, round, house sized boulders strewn from the floods origin near what is now, Salt Lake City in Utah to the coast in Oregon, a thousand kilometers away.

The two weeks stay with Boaz and Lisa just disappeared in a flash. They took us down to Moab painted desert, Zion National park, the Craters of the Moon, Monument National Park and up to Stanley and the Sawtooth mountains by the mighty Salmon river. Janet and I took advantage of a couple of push bikes hanging in the garage and spent most days cycling the local trails and visiting Starbucks for a celebratory cappuccino or two....Those bikes saved our bacon, walking trails in that heat was ******. Great hospitality enjoyed here. watched reruns of Sopranos on Boaz's 70 " SmartScreen TV and enjoyed Arnie's escape from postwar Austria to Mr Universe and fame and fortune @ Hollywood with Boaz whilst enjoying chilled margaritas in the hot tub.

The camaraderie of meeting an old mate of 45 years past, Steve Yocum of Oregon  a fellow writer and author. Both of us intent on shooting the breeze, putting the world to right. In some ways a sad exercise in that no longer can either of us make things right for with age upon us, neither has influence. We can huff n puff n blow the house down....but it seems, nobody pays the slightest bit of attention. The penalty of age is invisibility. The relief in it all is that, really, nobody actually gives a hoot!

Just two Old Dogs letting off steam..... it's rather cathartic actually! Thanks to Stevo, Ian and lovely Heidi for the accommodation, great hospitality and warmth.

The cool atmospheric relief of the serene and calm, Puget Sound in Seattle, Washington state gave welcome respite from the intense heat of the interior and the serenity of our cottage accommodations and startlingly beautiful garden surrounds. A forest of conifers and deciduous trees harboured gardens of blooming roses, hollyhocks and multihued cone flowers, emerald lawns carve swarths of sunlight in avenues of deep, green shade....a delight for the sunburnt brows of yesterday's heat.
Woken by the bassoon blast of the passing early morning ferry out in the waterway, to stroll out to sit at the very edge of the sandy, pebble beach and gentle surge of the deep, clear saline waters of the magnificent Puget Sound.
The peace of early morning crisp cool air, a seascape of moored fishing boats on mirrored waters, the distant Olympic range rearing to its' full 7,000 ft against a powder blue sky left us quite breathless with the utter beauty of it all....add to that a lovely breakfast offering of fresh berries, kiwifruit slices and yogurt and a chilled glass of fresh squeezed orange juice...and we absolutely, couldn't want for anything more. To Greg and Linda our love and thanks for giving up your beautiful bed, travelling us around beautiful Seattle and being our airline coach to and from Portland. We shall return the warm hospitality next time you hit NZ and Taranaki.

Vulcanism has dominated the terrain in Idaho, Montana, and Utah. Continental drift westward of the land mass has brought about a steady transference eastward of the massive geothermal hot spot which currently lies in Yellowstone park and which is the source of all volcanic activity within the park..
Idaho, in ancient times, wore the volcanic mantle of the region in having truly gigantic rhyolitic ash and magmatic eruptions. These cataclysmic eruptions emptied deep cavernous, subterranean magma chambers which collapsed under their own weight leaving vast circular calderas in the landscape. Subsequent plate tectonic activity caused deep faulting allowing huge flows of sticky magma to surge to the surface like searing hot black toothpaste, spreading across the plains obliterating all evidence of the rhyolite caulderas, surfacing the state, to this day, with millions of acres of hard black basaltic rock.
Here and there, rhyolite has wormed its way to the surface building gigantic domes, over the centuries these have weathered leaving statuesque, dramatic flat-topped mesa scattered across the landscape.
Altogether a truly unique and enthralling terrain for visitors to behold and one which reveals a dramatic insight to the volcanic and tectonic violence of the recent past and gives a definite air of mystique to the beholder.

In a land of 360 million people, supermarkets are downright huge...and they contain the spoils of the nation's plenty.
Acres of dazzling variety... and cheap by international standards. The very best of prime beefsteak, sides of pork, Alaskan cod freshly caught and displayed in rows of chilled enticing exhibit. Every possible vegetable and fresh picked fruit known to man in piled pyramids of brilliant, colourful display. Beautiful ornate furniture, beds, mattresses, tiers of car tyres of every conceivable brand and size, wheelbarrows, fertilizer, fresh flowers in mountainous display, ***** in barnlike chillers. Supermarket trolleys for giants..... and gird yourself for a marathon hike in collecting your basket of groceries...and give yourself half a day....you'll need it!

America has momentum, huge momentum. Across vast tracts of country lie networks of highway. Multilane concrete that tracks mile after mile carrying huge trucks with 40 tonne loads. Incessant trucks, one after another,  thundering along carrying the lifeblood of America, merchandise,  machinery, infrastructure, steel, timber and technology. Gigantic mobile freezers hauling food from the grower to the markets. Hauling excavators, harvesters,  bulldozers and giant Agricultural tractors. Night and day this massive source of production careers across the nation transporting the promise of America, the momentum which drives the Stars and Stripes onward, ever onward.

On the margins of the cities of Portland and Salem the unhoused gathered in squalid tent communities. In the beautiful city of Seattle I saw many down and out unshaven, untidy individuals with hopelessness in their eyes, pushing supermarket trolleys containing their sparse possessions. I drove through rural communities, some of which, reflected hardship and an air of despair. Run down dwellings in need of maintenance and repair, derelict rusty vehicles adorning the **** strewn frontages.
Not 20 kilometers away in Ketchum and Sun Valley Idaho the homes were palatial in grounds tended by gardeners and viticulturalists. Porsches and Range Rovers graced the ornate, rusticated porticoes. Wealth and privilege in evidence in every nuanced nook and cranny.
America is, indeed, a land of contrasts, a land of wealth, privilege, and plenty..... and yet a land that, somehow, tolerates and abides a fragile paucity which emblazons itself, embarrassingly, within the national profile.

On a hot day in Twin Falls, Idaho, I walked into a huge air-conditioned sporting goods store specifically to look at guns....and in the long glass cases there were hundreds of them. From snub nosed revolvers to Glocks, 38s, 45 caliber even western style Colt 45s and the ***** Harry Magnum with the long, blue gun barrel and classic, prominent foresight.
In the racks behind the counter are hung fully and semi-automatic rifles of myriad types...all available for sale providing the buyer has appropriate licensing.
In a land where mass shootings proliferate weekly, I ask myself....does this availability of lethal weaponry make sense?

The aching beauty of the mountain country in Northern Idaho, Oregon and Washington state cannot be overstated. The Sawtooth mountains, the Cascades, Mt Ranier, Mt Hood and the Olympic range. Ridgelines of towering conifers as far as the eye can see, waves of green deciduous running down to soft grassy clearings with boulder strewn, rushing streams and the cascade of plunging waterfalls. The magnificence of the natural beauty of this rugged, heavily timbered mountain country just defies description being far, far isolated from the attentions of man.

To happen upon this country from the far distant reaches of the South Pacific is a culture shock, to be suddenly exposed to the extreme largess. It is difficult to calibrate, hard to encompass, impossible to assimilate....but the people encountered warmed us with their generosity of spirit, their willingness to welcome travelling strangers into their homes....and, of course the invaluable time we spent with our family….and for these factors alone together with the huge magnificence that is this........
GRAND AMERICA.
We are truly, truly grateful.

Janet & Marshal
Foxglove@Taranaki.NZ
Kurtis Emken Sep 2012
Wake up, stare out your jagged window at the yellow-green, creeping mist that pours through the suburbs.  Taste darkness inside a spit shined, stream lined dank tank that your roommates call home.  Shower and be appalled at just how unshapely you have gotten, your body a testament to your diet of Wendy’s and alcohol.  Go to your dream crush, thankless job and stand at attention as the human flesh wave moves blankly through aisles and registers, even as they pretend that they are not the target market.  Watch as they consume ferociously violent DVDs and smart devices at discount prices.  Stand startlingly still and pray to God that they are like Tyrannosaurus and can’t see movement.  Realize you are a ******* idiot because you get your facts from movies.  Feel fear and dread make a shrapnel nest in your stomach when you understand that this might be the best that you can do.  Frame count with fellow claustrophobic agoraphobics and call that pointless perfection pursuit escape.  Desperately have twisted, quasi-acrobatic *** with every woman that is willing, but not so secretly wish they were that somewhat mousy, yet charming, grad student who makes your coffee every morning.  Try to shrink into her pocket, invisible, only an absent touch away.  Hope that someday you can intervene in her life positively so she notices you there.  Go to sleep and breathe in that yellow-green vapor that reacts with your cells and becomes a clean cancer.  Rinse, repeat and pray for that big break.
Mikaila Jan 2014
I always loved your hands.
Not in any kind of lustful way, just the look of them.
I still love your hands, henna-ed and smooth
And so soft- startlingly soft-
If my fingers accidentally brush yours.
I used to marvel when you'd lace your fingers through mine-so casual- as we walked,
At how they felt like moonlight looked.
I love to watch you work, the careful way you do everything
Like it's all art, like it's all important.
Hell, you make a sandwich like you're carving a sculpture
And I find myself watching you, fascinated like always,
And I want to laugh, and I want to tell you you're beautiful.
And my smile turns wry
And I say nothing
Because who thinks of things like that?

I have a favorite photograph from long ago
Of your hands as you were drawing.
They've not changed.
That's why I always ask "Is that ring new?"
Because I catch myself noticing them
The way you might catch yourself absently holding a smooth stone you left in your pocket and forgot was there.
I used to secretly wish that someday you'd draw on me in henna
And I'd have the daring to ask you
To leave a handprint on my shoulder
Like a promise.

I've told you you look like a sculpture, too perfect not to be planned
And
I remember long hours in the museums as a child
Walking through a maze of white porcelain and marble women
Wondering how rock could look softer than my own skin.
I wanted to reach out and touch
See if they would be cold and hard like they should be
Or warm and velvety.
And their hands... So graceful and light-
The sculptors of old strove for perfection
Believing that they had not found it in humanity
Always imagining something smoother, something lovelier, something more delicate and more exquisite.
(You weren't around yet.)

Your hands always reminded me of something from that soaring hall
With all its silky looking statues and its ceiling of cross-paned windows.

So when I sit here, watching Art
Make ham sandwiches
It feels so incongruous.
Something here just doesn't belong.
And I can't tell if it is me or you
But honestly
How many people can say
They have watched Artemis sit down at the counter beside them
As if she has no idea she's divine?
NicoleRuth Feb 2017
After all was said and done
He wrapped himself around me
In a tightly formed question mark
The answer to which I yet do not know

I spent the night tossing in confusion
His midnight kisses further puzzling my thoughts
A random hookup wasn't this to be?

No feelings
No attachments
No anything
Wasn't that the unsaid plan?

Then why did I feel this growing fondness
For a boy I barely knew
Whose one and only connection to me
Were the stupid investments our fathers had made

Why did I want to hold him back?
Kiss his cheeks with the same gentleness he showed me
When the plan was always a physical one?


This monthly ritual of his I succumbed to
My mind overthrown by multiple questions
While my body gave to him every part of me I could

Until on a lonely Friday my eyes opened
The metaphors I had discovered
Now lay dead around me
The reality lying startlingly naked ahead of me

It was not care that brought him close
It was not any symbol of love he saw

A woman's body is all he acknowledged
My soul never receiving the gratification it dreamed for
There were no metaphors to this story
No hidden secrets waiting to be discovered

Just a girl who hoped for more
Settling for a boy couldn't ever see more
Than her naked waist
The tickle of moving hair
The flutter of her lips in ecstasy
The sigh in her heart as he moved away
Mik Josefchuk Jun 2014
I've often dreamed
Of how you taste
If you kiss sweetly
Or hungrily
Maybe both but
Either way it's perfect
Like the taste of peppermint and oranges

I try to remember
Your embrace
Is it still protective?
Holding onto me like a lifeline
Because I was all that mattered
Will I still feel safe?
Of course I will
You promised

The way he talks
Still makes me bow my head
And bite my lip
Because I know he's got me
He's got me bad
With promises of completion
He's keeping me up all night
Thinking about that word
Very

His eyes are like sapphires
Hit by the sun they shine
The only color in my world
Of black and white
Emotional
Surprising
Startlingly beautiful
And absolutely right

I hope he still loves
The way he used to
Risky
But comforting
Keeping me sane
Always and forever
The way it should be
Sean Fitzpatrick Nov 2018
Green to the eye
begets the visage: life-
Startlingly simple,
a color tells it all.

So ‘tis with the note
and the morning earth is smelly-
I ask,
by what happy accident
is everything made plain?

Like a dog bearing its belly
or a moth sleeping in daylight-
the unapparent thing of life
these words just cannot say.
I walk along edge here
and meld her electricity
with sunset overhead

then sing those songs
I write fore bed again
when she feels overhead

where such a plan ready
shines inside my mirth
those attitudes my own insight

when she's startlingly cute
faint in her cry
it dances throughout another night
Cinnam Muscat Aug 2011
Past meadows of dewy green
Far above the tree line
On mountains peaked
With snow

A marmot comes out
To drink from
Rivulets of a melted
Glacier.

Walkers trek
Up the Alpine
Trails, past the
Lodges.

They passed a country
That belongs to another
World, another century,
Where fairytales were born, to get there.

But the marmot neither knows,
Or cares, as he drinks, drenched
In a dazzling light, Reflected
Off ****** snow.

I saw him as he stood
On a rock, surveying the
Humans nearby,
Striding upwards.

He turned his head
And met my eyes.
Just another human.
He turned away and left.

I stripped off my boots and dipped my feet
In the chilly stream,
Breathed in the startlingly clear air
And waited for him to reappear.
She was the centre of my universe,
and I, the eye of her storm,
the soft centre, cushioning,
calming...
I wore her hurricanes like wings,
her fires like a second skin,
and all of it was beautiful.
Terrifyingly, startlingly, strangely
beautiful.
To feel her heartbeat next to mine,
in perfect sync, the rhythm of the
skies and heavens. The meeting
of two souls, tainted separately
yet, together, fierce
and free
Mak Waddle Aug 2015
One
Pretty and kind
Startlingly considerate
But
He is afraid

Two
Athletic and funny
Strikingly aware
But
He is beloved

Three
Purposeful and hardworking
Peculiarly tolerating
But
He is away
Martin Narrod May 2016
We're weathering this unbecoming world of words. In the womby vortex of disgusting speech. We're not the movement in which your mouth commoves in disgusting misuse and hellacious abuse. Shame on you! We're already sickened by your pageantry and similar symbolism, simile, and pedantic matters of the hand. Someone should have stopped you. Your shoes don't fit and are rather unflattering. We're well rested Reader's of the greater digest and your context is unsuitably off. We've noted this recipe of disasterous dactyls and abhorrent lines that masquerade limerick like a proverb when it ought not be an idiom. We're weary to walk in your idiot-dom, your startlingly stark choice of anti-matter, and material of unsettling misuse so indigestibally obtuse. She says you've manufactured passages with verbose tapestries of word laxatives. We're unimpressed by how many fuxks you've given. Lessons like these are earned not given, not learned but lived. We're not meant to cure your ails, only forward your adjectives, and collect your mail.
Marshal Gebbie May 2010
Portrayed in an artiface
Of long and grey rhymes
Replayed in a video
Of really bad lines
Lost in a tangency
Of bitumen and brick
Tangled in quagmire
Of cigarettes and sick.

Lurching through life
In yesterdays clothes,
Acting the part
That nobody knows,
Chic desperation
Apparent to all
With the certainty
She’s for a terrible fall.

Miasma of moods
Through a *****, blue haze,
Insulting a friend
In an instant of craze,
Sprawled on the street
In a leopard skin skirt,
Makeup awry
Broken nails in the dirt.

Screaming abuse
To the well meaning hand,
Lost, alone
In a drug ridden land,
Fearful of shadows
And clinging to those
Who lustfully use
To so casually dispose.

Blond hair falling
Down over her face
Mascara running
In smears of disgrace,
It’s dangerous to stagger
Through traffic in rain
With lost high heel,
Tear streaked in pain.

Vagrants for company
Hunched in a cell,
Shivering cold
And ****** to hell
In a moment of clarity
And startlingly clear,
A small shimmering hope
Lies so distantly near.


Marshalg
@theCoalface
Victoria Park Tunnel
8th May 2010
Tyler Adams Nov 2014
She always sang smoothly,
startlingly scrupulously,
after studying the stanzas for mere seconds.
Anglerfish Annie I called her.
A voice as pure as heaven lit her lure,
the one-way ticket that swallowed those kids
into an inescapable abyss.
I watched as those thirsty jaws grew dull,
and that mesmerizing light died out.
Hanging over the windowsill, atop that disturbed building,
her hauntingly beautiful voice showered down once more,
reverberating through my bones as it always had.
As the last note hurried to accompany its creator to the ground,
It was shrouded by the yells and sirens booming from the Institution.
I saw all the lost souls pouring out of her mouth,
And thought of how they knew Annie more than I did.
Robyn Jul 2015
On a Saturday morning, one unnaturally warm for the usually brisk Pacific Northwest region, a girl woke up early.
Her first thought was not of the time, 6 am. She had woken up at this hour many times before, every Saturday in fact. Nor was her first thought about the unnatural warmth of the air seeping through her window. Her first thoughts were not of her legs tangled in her blankets, of the large breakfast she wouldn't eat, or of the last remnants of her dreams.
Her first thoughts were of a boy.
As were her second.
Her third. Her fourth.
Her fifth however, was that she should probably get ready to leave.
That summer, the girl had spent every Saturday morning 3 miles up the road at a small farm owned by a family from her church. Her father, the pastor with a history of dairy farming, had encouraged church goers to head up to the farm to help pick the bushels of fruits and vegetables being grown for his churches personal food bank. The girl simply assisted him.

The boy was on her mind every other minute, as she dressed, washed, loaded her allergy medication into a bag and trekked out the door into the misty morning heat. All through the drive she was silent, wondering if he every thought about her. Her father was all but indifferent, speaking of little but weather patterns and permaculture.

The farm was large yet quaint, owned by a woman who evidently had an unfulfilled dream to become a Barbie doll. Farm animals were littered unnecessarily around the property, serving little purpose but to appear cute. The girl supposed they succeeded.

45 minutes of plucking kale leaves offered little satisfaction to the girl, her fingers shaking and *****, aching for contact with the boy who she admitted to herself had probably never given her a second thought. However, this thought was in fact her 67th consecutive such one about the boy. She was unaware of how her 79th thought about him would happen to coincide with the gentle vibration in her pocket. A small blue box with an early morning greeting would appear on her cell phone screen, making her dirt covered hands oddly still.
She was unaware that the boy was motivated to send this particular message by his 104th consecutive thought about her that morning. She was unaware that, much like her, he had thought of little else over the previous month. She was unaware that hours of conversation would lead to revelations of startlingly similar music preferences, opinions and thoughts.

She was unaware how deeply he felt for her. Yet she was all but unaware of how deeply she felt for him. She was unaware that two years from this warm Saturday morning she would be laying in bed at 1 am, rediscovering her writing talent while recounting the beginnings of a love story. Her own.
Kat Zimmerman Dec 2015
#8
This is the last time our two lips shall touch
The last time we share our essences, passing one to the other in gentle exhales
This is the last early morning I wake up to you
                Our last cup of coffee

I will stall this last conversation:
                  drawl and pause and share deep sighs
as we lean over the balcony staring at the snow falling on the mountain

It seems relevant that it is sunny as we share these final words

We've come full circle - our beginning so startlingly similar to this quiet, hopeful end.
I could say all the words of love/hate but
    shouldn't dare
    don't dare for all the things you've done for me

All I will say is

Adieu to you, my dear
I quit smoking this morning.
Aphrodite Feb 2012
Transformative is the only way to describe your effect on me,
The way a storm transforms the seasons
Your voice is the rumble of thunder through my body,
Our attraction, the sudden white bolts of light.
Lips curled in that familiar taunting smile
Mocking, yet captivating.
Your eyes languidly roam my body
Glinting with infinite promises
Stripping me to the very essence
My own eyes ravage you,
Taking in your hauntingly masculine beauty,
Tracing the startlingly perfect planes of your face.
And your hands,
Oh the glory of them!
How every caress is burned into my memory
How every stroke brings you deeper;
Not only into my body, but into my blackened heart.
The moment you release me,
You become engraved to it.
And in the same instant, questions consume me
For I cannot distinguish between my love or lust for you
I cannot even distinguish between art and love itself.
So I Lie nestled in the shelter of your body
Wondering (but only for the fleeting moment that you are my muse)
For soon I will find new inspiration.
Vamika Sinha May 2015
I'm 'sophisticatedly' sticking a pen
in my mouth, pretending
to smoke a cigarette.
I don't have the courage to hurt
myself, but
I do.
In 'subtle and implied' ways, he
says.

I make watery coffee and convince
myself, my happiness
lies in there,
floating. And I pretend
I'm in a Parisian cafe.
But these are pipe-dream dregs,
nothing else.
I guess they can't substitute the
vividness of being,
living.
Of sharp technicolour experience that can be
smelt.
Dregs, indeed.

Today, I borrowed Birthday Letters by
Ted Hughes from the library.
I'm wondering if
salvias were his favourite
flower.
His favourite.
I can't figure it out.
For his words are only stricken,
messy with the rawness of
too-technicolour experience.
Beautiful.
But sharp
enough to pierce and
poison,
like Paris.
My Paris, your Paris,
our little Paris.
So startlingly, breathlessly
red.

I suddenly know why I have written this.
The colour of salvias,
of Paris,
of me and you,
is my soul's favourite.
His favourite.
And salvias, their fragrance, it
douses the fire that's threatening to
suffocate, swallow my
life whole,
incomplete.

Red is my favourite colour.
And it's yours.

But I really don't think I want it to be.
I've been reading Ted Hughes and thinking .
Jimmy King Jun 2015
yes, this city
is awe-inspiring.
graceful.
the sheer height
of kroger's hq,
the intrinsic intimacy
of the 5/3 dome, yes
grace
is the only word.
when the sun is setting,
i mean.
when the light

shines on the columns of windows, the buildings
slide startlingly out of focus to become something almost real,
something almost untainted by glass, uh--
a sunset.
a river.
the buildings wiped almost
out of existence
by
that river. a river
that gushes, changing with every second yet
remaining. constantly
in its pose of watermotion and water-
grace.

but then the sun fades away
and the neonlights come on,
and the moon
is far too faint and the buildings
cast shadows that are far too wide
and reality is submerged and we
are submerged.

we need another glint.
another light.
we need to turn the stillness
of this night
into a movement,
and yes,
we need to be prepared,
just in case--

we have to fight.
meh
Connor Nov 2018
The metro station caged the slumbering metropolis
From this dingy mid-March town fridged in January wind
A ******* clad explorer marches in mellow strides
All the way to you
To back the lover's whisper spoken by static selfies
With fleshy whiffs, a borrowed jacket and a gawky face
Blind to but maybe fiddly pepples on the ground.

Down at a backstreet diner, its locked out doorstep,
A hygge cover made for two,
Humming low is the city's nocturnal remains' dubstep
Coming from an illuminating exit,
Luring the busy hands and buckled excitement, whereto ----

Whereto the vacant main street glides them
With the at ease traffic,
Down loops of everextending branches
I followed you
To the roundabout between
two surrounding glassware towers
Where gleaming sparks ***** on each other's windows
Divining themselves by lighting up pavements, entrance signs
and glooming heavens.

Corridors, lawned with clutters from refurbishments,
Lead to glassrooms of suspended business meetings,
And that cozy cavern,
Where you flump into a swivel chair.
Your inhibited expression unwinds
As my curious caress explores
The damp torso slumping deeper into the pliable seat.
And a devoted twitch of ecstasy, blossom unexpectedly
On your face,
Which already shied itself away from its audience,
Doubtlessly, for way too many times ----
A candid sight I could only cache from you,
Because I intend to see it again, your effortless reaction.
The sarcoma-like lump left uncut at the bottom,
Wrinkled like wind waves in a Ukiyo-e drawing.
I scoop the saline ripple, so you can taste it beforehand.
Our bodies started gravitating
onto each other or all over the place.
And lips, they startlingly perched,
out of wills, like magnets
For the very first time.

I've been feeling patient.
And I love taking my time with you
SøułSurvivør Jul 2015
Sadism joined with narcissim
psychopathy and Machiavellianism.

This is the makeup of the TROLL.

They are not just a nuisance. They
can latch onto innocents and try to
corrupt them in startlingly inhumane ways.

Look up the personality profile of
the internet troll. THEY ARE HORRIBLE PEOPLE.

If you encounter one my advice to you is to ignore and block it. Be vigilant as it may start a new account and try still further harassment.
Be aware of key words, phrases and ideas your troll has played with before. He/she/it will ALWAYS want to let you know somehow that it is BACK. Look up the traits of a troll. If you see an individual taunting others for no reason it may be a troll. Most of all TRUST YOUR SPIRITUAL EYES.
Your gut. If you even have a suspicion don't engage.

EVEN IF IT POSTS A WRITE ABOUT YOU, DON'T READ IT. DON'T READ OR COMMENT IT'S WRITES ABOUT OTHER PEOPLE. If it doesn't get narcissistic "sample" it will move on.

Trolls like to "play dumb". Come off as mentally challenged or very young people. Or as the very devil HIMSELF. They have delusional ideas of grandeur so will often use Lucifer or God in their poet names.
This has been my experience anyway.

I am being stalked by one currently.
This is a message to him/her/it:

I AM IGNORING AND BLOCKING YOU. I KNOW YOUR TRICKS AND YOU CAN'T FOOL ME. GOODBYE.



PLEASE BE AWARE AND VIGILANT POETFRIENDS. GOD BLESS YOU!

♡ Catherine
Cali Oct 2016
It's the middle of the afternoon
and the street heaves
beneath the weight of
so much ordinary existence.

The leaves fall steadily,
matching their pace to
the unceasing rain and
painting striking contrasts
of crimson and umbre
against the grey sky.

The woman next door
is screaming
and the grief and terror
that catches at her throat
is palpable amidst this
ordinary scene.

Solid things suddenly seem surreal
when they are choked in sorrow,
and I feel like a statue
dialing 911 with marble fingers
as she runs from demons
that will plague her forever.

The dispatcher gives directions,
and step by step,
I try to recreate feelings
like compassion and empathy,
as if that could be enough
in this startlingly raw moment
to calm someone who is
coming apart at the seams.

She won't look at me,
she is not here.
I can feel the grief
in her voice like porcelain,
and I can taste it-
like ice chips.
But I'm not here either,
I'm just holding this emotion
in my hands, numb.

The ambulances come
and take her lover away
beneath a white sheet
and I can hear the police radios
shrieking suicide
as everyone stands
on the sidewalk,
enjoying the show.

And I retreat into
my quiet home,
still holding this
porcelain grief
like a talisman.
I sit down
at the kitchen table
and turn it round and round,
trying to understand
where it fits
in this ordinary
Wednesday afternoon.
Jim Snape Jul 2015
For I can snore like a bullhorn
or play loud music
or sit up talking with any reasonably sober Irishman
and Fergus will only sink deeper
into his dreamless sleep, which goes by all in one flash,  
but let there be that heavy breathing
or a stifled come-cry anywhere in the house
and he will wrench himself awake
and make for it on the run—as now, we lie together,
after making love, quiet, touching along the length of our bodies,  
familiar touch of the long-married,
and he appears—in his baseball pajamas, it happens,
the neck opening so small he has to ***** them on—
and flops down between us and hugs us and snuggles himself to sleep,
his face gleaming with satisfaction at being this very child.

In the half darkness we look at each other
and smile
and touch arms across this little, startlingly muscled body—
this one whom habit of memory propels to the ground of his making,
sleeper only the mortal sounds can sing awake,
this blessing love gives again into our arms.
Galway Kinnell, “After Making Love We Hear Footsteps” from Three Books. Copyright © 2002 by Galway Kinnell.
Colin Kohlsmith Apr 2010
This sudden spring
Arriving before the gardeners
Have prepared the beds
A profusion of growth
Invading the gardens
With startlingly vivid colours
Before their season
The trees have budded
As if an invisible hand
Has tilted the earth
Just a fraction faster
Than normal
There are no complaints
Of this early spring
The gardens can be raked later...

This sudden emergence
Of what matters most
Love and all it awakens
Feelings forgotten and now relived
Dreams and hopes reborn
It's as if our hearts have now learned
How to love deeper
And with more understanding
And compassion
The other "things"
Will just have to catch up
Things that can be bought or replaced
For that which is irreplaceable
Has made its appearance
And has transformed our world
Vernon Waring Jul 2015
Pakistan.

A moonless night in May.

Inside the compound,
everything appears to be
almost pitch black.

Night vision goggles lift
the veil of darkness.

With the goggles, everything inside...
         all the details of the home,
         become startlingly visible,
         revealing all in this surreal setting
         - suffused as it is with
           a dreamlike green hue.

And then there are the eyes
of those looking on...
     Osama Bin Laden's wives, children, couriers
     peeking out from doorways,
     huddled in rooms and hallways,
     their voices whispering in Arabic;
     those large curious eyes incredulous
     as they study these invaders
     with their goggles, their strange gear,
     their weapons drawn as they methodically
     carry out their mission.

This night so far four people have been silenced by gunfire.

The raiders are certain Bin Laden
is up ahead on the third floor.

They climb slowly up the
dangerously slick steps wet with
blood, moving with deliberation
toward their target's bedroom.

They hear suppressed shots fired
by their point man
and see a tall figure flee
back into a room.
He's been shot.
The men in pursuit enter the room and
more gunfire ensues.

A small cluster of people are also
there in the room - two women, three children -
eyewitnesses to history...

They are confused, dazed, shocked.

They see this wild man,
this phantom of our most torturous dreams,
writhing on the floor,
desperate, struggling,
about to take his final breath.
Miranda Renea Apr 2013
Person came. Black, black dressy clothes
Abnormally high heart-rate
"Because there is another soul,
Sharing your body."
"Are you an angel?" I ask
No answer.
Other people come into the room (a pub in London) and I am distracted a moment.
I look back,
He's gone.

Another room, another man.
We kissed.
He was soaked in water.

A small town,
I look over, see a wall.
Know it is the edges of my consciousness
I jump over.
Everything is foggy, broken toys scattered everywhere.
grass startlingly green,
hills gently rolling, trees scarce.
I decide to explore.
I fly and find other islands, a great many, some barren
Now missiles are shooting at me-
The other soul is angry.
A dream I had.
b e mccomb Oct 2016
i'm eighteen and
my mind is running away

you're screaming
ranting and raving
but don't know you're
doing it and don't know
that i'm crawling
inside a cave where
nothing can touch me
except wanting to die

you were grumbling after
dinner that i don't talk
to anybody anymore
but you don't know that i'm
not lacking words i'm just
lacking the energy
that it would take to
use any of them

(flashbacks to all the times recently
you've complained i don't love you
anymore. to my whole lifetime of
wondering if you loved me at all)


i'm thirteen and
unaware of my anxiety
associated with existence
usually put in in writing as
"pressure". but you don't think
there's anyone pressuring me

i talk too much to too
many people and have
been hurt before. but
never in that abject
way of it being because
i set myself up for it

(emotions so haywire that i end
up hospitalized over a box of
broken cd cases. now that i
remember it i was rage cleaning
and would unquestionably have
an even worse reaction today)


i'm seven and
having another ocular
migraine even though
i don't know it

(the past as as brittle as the
uncooked spaghetti filched
from the box and wedging
between my crooked teeth)


my memory fails me
whether you steamed
your way through preparing
dinner in the kitchen of faded
herbal wallpaper with words
and woodgrain. if i've been
tuning it out all this time
only to notice recently

("you're just like me" you said today
my seven-year old self thinks that's cool
while my current self is wishing to
deck someone while saying nothing)


today and tonight when intrusive
memories keep coming back is when i
remember that if i don't automatically
see things from your side there will
be a row. despite the fact you have
never investigated my perspective

(you're complaining about how
badly you sleep and how it's my
fault for waking you up at
four a.m. but did you ever stop
to ask why the ******* your
daughter is awake at four a.m.)


"my whole body hurts" you said
having taken some chronic
illnesses for some light grocery
shopping and attend a reception
"so does mine" i said
having taken a dark cloud
with me to work and
a panic attack to the library
"mine hurts worse" you replied
"and how do you know that" i demanded
sweeping my sadness off the kitchen table
"because i just do"

i guess your problem is that you
don't know how to be in pain without
minimizing mine but how hypocritical
when i'm over here minimizing
your pain to justify the fact that
my brain is trying to **** my body

(one of these days i fear what
i don't say will get the best
of me and i will crack clean
in two. start screaming
through doors death threats
ending in quadruple homicide
accompanied by my own
swinging body. it's not that
i hate everyone i just hate
feeling like i hate everyone)


but for now i'm investigating the perspective
so startlingly clear that you never loved me
just did what was required of you and so by that
standard i never would have loved you either
Copyright 10/7/16 by B. E. McComb
Jason Watson Sep 2013
Please forgive me
I know not what I do
I’m living in a bubble and I can’t see through
Walking in a daze, an ambient haze
That’s so thick that I’ll never really see you

I walk around in a dream, while my life passes me by
I’m filled with fear, it floods my head
And I don’t even know why…
The voices in my head,
They ebb and flow, and startlingly grow  

If only I knew how close I was
To the stillness that speaks
To the light that shines and ultimately sublimes
Opens your eyes to the wonders around
And even the sights and sounds

The one word that will change your life
Take you up to new heights
Now always remember,
That word is…
Surrender
B D Caissie Oct 2019
Armed with my umbrella I ventured out into the rain.
Quickening my pace as thoughts begin racing through my brain.
Travel bag draped across my chest by my lucky shoulder strap.
I hastily folded up the seemingly old and weathered treasure map.
When I finally reached my car I fumbled desperately for my keys.
Upon entering, glancing in the mirror. Is someone following me?

Shaking off that feeling that I'm secretly being sought.
I turned the key over but the ****** engine wouldn’t start.
Exasperated I pressed my head against the steering wheel.
Just then off in the distance, I could hear foreboding tires squeal.
Set off back in the pouring rain I jogged towards my destination.
Peering quickly at my watch. Will I still make it to the station?

Wet and weary the street lamps reveal that I'm nearly there.
I turn and proceed backwards as I slowly cross the square.
Finally my footsteps echo in the station, lights flicker on the walls.
Slipping on the marble  while navigating through  poorly lit halls.
Map said locker number 78 so that’s what I hoped to find.
I think I might be going in circles, was I losing my freaking mind?

Finally on the right track, I scan the lockers, 76, 77 and 78. Now what?
I have neither key nor combination, may as well be welded shut.
Wait it’s not locked! I lift the latch and gingerly swing open the door.
An old flip phone!? I pick it up, startlingly it rings and I watch it hit the floor.
Quickly I grab it from between my feet, flip it open saying ”beam me up, Scotty!”
Couldn’t recognize the mysterious muffled voice, was the reception in here shoddy?

The person on the other end said, board the next train due.
They quickly hung up before I could ask when, why or who.
I seriously began to question the authenticity of this map.
As I followed colour coded arrows, my curiosity had me trapped.
Just then the station speaker crackled its arrival on platform three.
Proceeded by don't worry about a ticket. Were they expecting me?

I make it to the boarding strip no longer caring about getting wet.
Then glancing across the platform I begin to see a foreboding silhouette.
As the gap between us shortens I begin to see a familiar step.
When the face of this figure came into view my heart it surely leapt.
My wife was staring back at me with a bag for going on a trip.
She said I hear you’re looking for adventure as she bites her bottom lip...

©️

— The End —