"troupe" poems
At four, you took my hand and pulled me to your bed,
your small form cuddling, curling, you urgently said,
"Tell me… tell me a story! Story, make it long",
I began to tell the story, the story of when you were born:
Drums and bugles, bubbles and balloons,
somersaulting clowns and calliope tunes,
you came out to meet them, on the day that you were born,
and they were there to greet you, through a January storm.
Lions and gorillas marched to military airs,
snowmen and snowwomen danced without a spring time care,
somewhere in the harbor, a tugboat played a note,
and all the while you smiled a smile, upon a birthday float.
Just like a circus troupe, we formed a great parade,
and sauntered to the birthing bed where your mother lay,
she picked you up, she held you, as close as close can be,
her hand in mine, she softly said, “Now... we are three.”
Copyright © 2003 Gary Brocks
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 9:31 PM UTC
Warning:
The seagull flying over the Appalachians
could not possibly be amused by the
puzzles of an illegitimate composer
and the skyscrapers climbed.
1.
The skyscrapers were played by tall
rocks a girl climbed when she couldn't
remember if the cape she wore was
made from steel or newspaper.
11.
The newspaper they all read together
that morning (girl, boy, king, etc)
promised nothing but a fifty percent
chance of dandelions terrorizing the bus stop.
2.
The bus stop had since become a
dealer corner and the sunset behind
the mountains was blocked by the
flipping hair of a lost boy.
7.
The boy bought a toy for cheap -- it had
a built-in laser, so she stole it to blast a
whole hole in that guilt-ridden quilt hung
over the four dollar love seat.
6.
The love seat, she bought the day he went
to maple -- the soap dispenser was broken,
but she couldn't find anything new (that she
knew) to wash her hands with.
5.
The hands that handed her a hammer were covered
in promotions, so she stole the motorcycle when
they were watching the scarecrow going
through electric-shock, disco therapy.
8.
The therapy that she received from the
parrot-king and his troupe of square roots
was enough to make her not forget not regret
the boy with feathers in his ears.
10.
The ears she woke up with one morning
were different in shape than before
and the black fur she knew
was growing before her eyes.
3.
The eyes of the boy were wider than
the nightly news station promised, and
there wasn't really a difference
between caves and boxes in a town that small.
4.
The town she arrived in didn't have
a carpool lane or derby, so
she had to take her pet goldfish
to the river for his depressive state.
9.
The river wasn't as flooded after a couple
weeks of changing the tune on the jukebox
she found way before the departure
of her white gold pearls.
12.
The pearls she wore for her
coming-of-age were buried beneath
a dirt mound when she promised herself
to always insist on herself.
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 10:49 AM UTC
Upper East Side
The Hamptons
Aspen, Colorado
The plastic people
Follow each other
Moving in herds
Like cattle to the
Slaughter
Drifting
Floating
Shifting focus
From one charity event
To another
Whatever’s trendy
Whatever’s fashionable
Whatever’s happ’ning
Whatever’s the need
Tainted new artists
Society’s rejects
The film-maker who fits in with
The flavor of the month
The disease or the cause
That captures the moment
Stigmas overlooked
Deformities relieved
By one hyper exertion
By one pseudo good deed
Changing bedrooms
Changing partners
New alliances
Noblesse oblige
Mrs. Astor’s
Four hundred
Reinvented forever
Reinvented with fervor
On the edge
Of hypocrisy
Keeping up with the Jones’s
Maintaining the houses
Paris, Rome, Cote du Jura
Malibu, Palm Beach
Couture fashion
Madison, Rodeo
Worth avenues united
Avenues of the liege
Location, location, location
The right address unspoken
Dinner in the right places
Sporting events to be seen
Three martini luncheons
Halcion evenings
Business is business
Where money’s retrieved
Look to plastic people
For fashionable guidance
No matter the moment
No matter the need
Remember to catch them
While jetting to Santa Barbara
Saint Maarten, San Troupe
San Marco, warp speed
They live in their milieu
Can’t function outside it
Can’t follow a shadow
That others believe
It’s easy to find them
They leave behind footprints
But barely a mem’ry
Or singular creed
Other than finding
The latest in fashion
The latest persona
Or new plastic breed
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 8:19 AM UTC
Inside the Rainbow Forest
Where unicorns are born,
And fairy dust floats on the air
From sundown until dawn,
There dwells in royal splendour
Yet very rarely seen,
The king of all the pixies
With his pretty pixie queen.
His palace is a mushroom
As tall as any tree,
With bright red spots upon it
That will make you squeal with glee.
A winding golden staircase
Stretches to the very top,
In a mesmerizing spiral
That you think will never stop.
All those brave enough to climb it
Would soon chance upon a door,
With the most enormous knocker
That you really ever saw.
One hard tap summons the butler,
A polite and friendly gnome,
Serving tea and fondant fancies
That will make you feel at home.
Through a maze of vaulted chambers
Each more lavish than the last,
Passing walls lined with the portraits
Of kings from the distant past,
That dear gnome shall gently guide you,
With much merriment and song,
To the Great Hall of his master
Who resides there all day long.
From beneath a silver archway
Set with precious gems galore,
You will enter to the fanfare
Of ten trumpets, maybe more.
Dainty apple blossom petals
Shall be scattered at your feet,
As you bow your head in homage
To the king you are to meet.
With a heart bursting with wonder
You will hastily be brought,
To the throne of his most highness
Far across the royal court,
Threading through the marble towers
Of an ornate colonnade,
And a troupe of prancing dragons
With their riders on parade.
Seated high upon a pumpkin
In a matching orange gown,
Curly shoes of bright green velvet
And an elderflower crown,
The king shall bid you welcome
With a beaming toothy grin,
As he beckons to the minstrel
For the music to begin.
With his beard like cotton candy
Waving wildly in the air,
As he slides down to embrace you
From atop his lofty chair,
Both your arms shall link together
To the fiddler's merry tune,
Clicking heels and laughing loudly
As you skip around the room.
In the magic of the moment
You will give yourself to fun,
As the mischief making monarch
Tweaks your ears and cracks a pun,
All those cares your heart now carries
Shall dissolve and simply be
Lost in wondrous celebration
Of a pixie jamboree!
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 6:38 PM UTC
**Yo! Yo! My Drug of Choice **** Poets)**
Yo! Yo!
Member of the troupe?
You up all nite?
You always hungry,
Making trouble, rite?
You one of those?
**** poets!
Exist on strict diet?
Pleasured-pain,
Constant-continual surges
Turn into urges,
Full-time suspense,
Juices always flowing.
**** Poets!
Yo! Yo!
You one of those?
Never knowing,
What? When?
The eyes gonna invert
Retina images into words
Brain signaling, semaphoring the fingers
Yo! Yo!
You don't get nine months,
Maybe nine seconds,
Then mother-birth another verse,
****** poets!
Yo! Yo!
Remember your first real high,
That moment
No absolution, no return.
That moment
When you admitted, confessed,
to yourself:
*I am
Forever forward,
A home-grown poet.
I am
Soul enslaved to words.
The alphabet - My oxygen molecules,
I am both,
Addict and dealer
A ****** poet*
Yo! Yo!
So you do recall,
The exact moment,
God-spark-within, ascendancy gained
You lost control,
Wept words instead of tears!
A ****** poet ******
Yo! Yo!
Sophie's Choice.
You chose writing over breathing,
Worshiper of the purest pleaure,
******* in deep the smoke-high of
Head-nodding discontented contentment
Stealing anything you saw
For to satisfy the need, the craven
Craving.
****** poets!
Yo! Yo!
Don't you're ever sleep?
Hear that the city, the state,
Gonna methadone your kind
In a special program
Teach you only language to sign.
**** poets!
**I am a ****** poet.**
*The first step taken.
Admission.
Poetry is my default rest position,*
My drug of choice.
5:07am
June 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 5:12 AM UTC
Reality is the stage upon which I play the fool & lover.
Delusion is the Act, not knowing one from the other.
The Past, a script,
Memorized to poison the mind.
Hope, a costume,
Worn to keep the heart blind.
Falling into bed,
the curtain raises from the ground.
Quiet whispers in my ear,
house music thrashes loud!
I Perform with passion,
putting faith in my troupe.
Convincing the audience
My story is true.
Scene to scene,
They see no flaw.
Each song & dance
Inspires awe.
In the end my cheeks, they shine,
like all the roses that will fall.
My eyes stay glamoured
with the curtain call.
The lights come up,
The morning sun,
They cheer, they kiss.
But the show is done,
they have had their fun.
It was pleasure, it was bliss.
Take a bow.
I played the Lover for a night.
I am the Fool now.
Exit stage right.
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 10:34 AM UTC
326
I cannot dance upon my Toes—
No Man instructed me—
But oftentimes, among my mind,
A Glee possesseth me,
That had I Ballet knowledge—
Would put itself abroad
In Pirouette to blanch a Troupe—
Or lay a Prima, mad,
And though I had no Gown of Gauze—
No Ringlet, to my Hair,
Nor hopped to Audiences—like Birds,
One Claw upon the Air,
Nor tossed my shape in Eider *****
Nor rolled on wheels of snow
Till I was out of sight, in sound,
The House encore me so—
Nor any know I know the Art
I mention—easy—Here—
Nor any Placard boast me—
It’s full as Opera—
2.2k
meaning of wishtastes
desires drive delusion
devils delve deepening
seeds to root loathsome leaves
smelt cinders graying goals
craving strangled contentment
under backalley blackness
beats heart sneeze two
cavalcade blue
cacophony in fast dreams
reseized by letting go of circus surlplus
reassurance of real love is real gone
gone is the relooped sad troupe armies of needinesses
truth proofed **** the magician disappeared
withdrew tears,fears, smears, and leers
now amongst new artful peers
The lions tail was a cobra coming with teeth under the door
awoke then broke my dreams end and don't hafta go back again
ego sinning by ego being a sin says ego
leggo my ego waffle a proper prophet
the jewels three sweet gleams eaten
gifts even the ego cant teacher the reached rifts
sewn up all dischordian accordian polka poked out eyes
belief swam away to the island of surprises
can I ? I can will it . Will then be faithful to real action.
kung fooled schools chop trees sticks
paper stones throw away
I can walk 6 feet on airs invisilbe stairs
ears heard alistening stream just the branch that froots
Shotgun riding to the holy holy holy
Dee vine
Jun 18, 2010
Jun 18, 2010 at 11:16 AM UTC
A woman traipsed with the whole company of ballet;
She was but only a soloist, a mere sujet.
Her companions wore clothes for traveling hard,
But our sujet, she dressed in dancing shoes and leotard.
Her head was upturned and her nose pointed
High, as if by a great saint she had been anointed.
With ease she stretched into each dainty pose
But no other ballerina saw the bandages wrapped around her toes,
Which she had to replace every other hour;
Seeing her bleeding sores did often make her cower.
To the other ballerinas she was dismissive and ****
But her oft-clenched fists belied the faltering of her heart.
Her chestnut hair she had dyed golden like the rest
And her curves became thin so she would dance her very best;
She had hidden herself inside ‘till her olive skin turned pale,
Believing if she fit in, at her craft she never could fail.
Instead of breaking her fast or supping at night
She practiced her art and took nary a bite.
The ballet troupe sneered while the sujet put on her airs
Yet I know she wept at the ice hardened in their stares.
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 9:08 PM UTC
II.
Oh ! vers ces vétérans quand notre esprit s'élève,
Nous voyons leur front luire et resplendir leur glaive,
Fertile en grands travaux.
C'étaient là les anciens. Mais ce temps les efface !
France, dans ton histoire ils tiennent trop de place.
France, gloire aux nouveaux !
Oui, gloire à ceux d'hier ! ils se mettent cent mille,
Sabres nus, vingt contre un, sans crainte, et par la ville
S'en vont, tambours battants.
À mitraille ! leur feu brille, l'obusier tonne,
Victoire ! ils ont tué, carrefour Tiquetonne,
Un enfant de sept ans !
Ceux-ci sont des héros qui n'ont pas peur des femmes
Ils tirent sans pâlir, gloire à ces grandes âmes !
Sur les passants tremblants.
On voit, quand dans Paris leur troupe se promène,
Aux fers de leurs chevaux de la cervelle humaine
Avec des cheveux blancs !
Ils montent à l'assaut des lois ; sur la patrie
Ils s'élancent ; chevaux, fantassins, batterie,
Bataillon, escadron,
Gorgés, payés, repus, joyeux, fous de colère,
Sonnant la charge, avec Maupas pour vexillaire
Et Veuillot pour clairon.
Tout, le fer et le plomb, manque à nos bras farouches,
Le peuple est sans fusils, le peuple est sans cartouches,
Braves ! c'est le moment !
Avec quelques tribuns la loi demeure seule.
Derrière vos canons chargés jusqu'à la gueule
Risquez-vous hardiment !
Ô soldats de décembre ! ô soldats d'embuscades
Contre votre pays ! honte à vos cavalcades
Dans Paris consterné !
Vos pères, je l'ai dit, brillaient comme le phare ;
Ils bravaient, en chantant une haute fanfare,
La mort, spectre étonné ;
Vos pères combattaient les plus fières armées,
Le prussien blond, le russe aux foudres enflammées,
Le catalan bruni,
Vous, vous tuez des gens de bourse et de négoce.
Vos pères, ces géants, avaient pris Saragosse,
Vous prenez Tortoni !
Histoire, qu'en dis-tu ? les vieux dans les batailles
Couraient sur les canons vomissant les mitrailles ;
Ceux-ci vont, sans trembler,
Foulant aux pieds vieillards sanglants, femmes mourantes
Droit au crime. Ce sont deux façons différentes
De ne pas reculer.
Jersey, du 7 au 13 janvier 1853.
2.2k
*Sometimes at highs
sometimes at lows,
Striking hard
yet the life flows,
Never plan forever
the life moves in the loops,
Atop in love
followed by droops.
Come out of
the life humdrum,
Let the spirit resonate
with the drum.
Facing each other
clap and stoop,
A gentle hop
move in the hoop.
Come dressed up
making one hoop,
Let the music play
dance with your troupe.*
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 8:04 AM UTC
You hear their siren song in the air,
before you ever see the truck.
If it is “The Rolling Cones”,
Then my friend, you are in luck.
Where "Mister Softee" use to be
an old bald man down on his luck,
“The Rolling Cones” have sweet young things
Make **** sundaes in a cup.
These ice cream ladies sell the wares
while wearing frilly bustiers.
Men of a certain age all troupe
to wave their dollars for two scoops.
Curves and ice cream swirls can be
**** yes, but not obscene,
It’s a profitable duopoly.
They use hot babes to sell ice cream.
To differentiate their trucks
From the ******* coffee vendor “Cups”
They needed a name all their own
That’s why they’re called “The Rolling Cones”
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 6:21 PM UTC
I lived in Pyongyang,
Breathing to be wired to follow my father’s footsteps.
Taught all day the greatness of our homeland.
As a kid, I sunk into their teaching,
But now seen as propaganda through my grown eyes.
I dreamed of leading my own troupe
Into battle, for my great country, to stand with pride
As I was destined to protect it.
Out of grief and sadness
A cry stretched its ways to my ears.
The great leader fell
From swell to nothing well.
I was told we were to go on holiday
In Gyeong-Seong forced to stay.
Moving in and out of it to see the light of day.
No longer blinded from my homeland’s falsehood
Tricks and tactics meant for military
Used against it for my own tranquility.
Oh! The irony.
Now grown up, with a new dream.
I no longer see Joseon the way it used to seem,
I say my story as a North Korean defector in hope,
hope to see better lives for those who reside there.
In my oh so forsaken great homeland Joseon.
Dec 7, 2019
Dec 7, 2019 at 11:09 AM UTC
I am just a useless metal
probably kryptonite
hated by the person
who is loved the most
I am probably kryptonite
known to everyone
but hated by all
Maybe you should join the troupe
and start hating me
because that's all my world lacks
more haters..
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 9:37 PM UTC
Eleanor stepped from the rear platform of the caboose as they were sidelined to let a freight
Pass she mused how she loved freight trains how romantic they were the gust of night air from the
Passing train that and the sound the train made was intoxicating she too was a piece of heaven she only
Had a blanket wrapped around her body just above her breast her blonde hair was wet it had deep
Comb lines she presented the highest qualities of womanhood freshness innocence a wild freedom a
Tenderness her face expressed a look of longing a yearning the call that commanded wonder she picked
Up the natural richness from the golden sunset as they traveled west the silver stream that was wide in
The river they ran alongside for many miles this night it had been her bathing pool bemusement and
Wistfulness came from her eyes and played on her face there to was a sadness a mystery that spoke of
Pain she was travelling with a music troupe on the cheap she stated to stroll in the dark up the length of
The train first she encountered the only Spanish man in the group he was setting with his back against
The train on the rail at first quiet and thoughtful was his tune you visualized walking down the dark quiet
Street of a Spanish village then he increased with a fastness you could hear Olay the scene quickly
Changed to the famed bull fight in the great arena he played slow and softly making you feel the
Tenseness as the great Matador faced the great beast the first pass was letter perfect the grace the cape
Moved in a half circle then he spoke Toro the bull charged but in the blink of an eye the Matador saw
The bull turn his head with those massive horns it caught him in the side and then the terror of a human
Doll being tossed and stomped the cadence of the guitar told it all the day would go to the bull glory and
Honor would go to the dead Matador she continued to walk as the guitar sound faded only to be picked
Up by the sound of a rich trumpet it pierced the sweet night the distant pine seemed to sway in
Appreciation the lone Coyote not to be out done howled his plaintive cry to the magnetic moon the
Expanse of the dark southwest night was the fulfilling and telling of the tale many ghost rose that night
Native American people always on the move in their nomadic way the wild mustang were real they
Stood grazing in the lush grass just across the river Eleanor with her rich creamy skin seemed as a dream
Passing between them made perfection call out from a night train
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 3:41 PM UTC
Mon triste coeur bave à la poupe,
Mon coeur couvert de caporal :
Ils y lancent des jets de soupe,
Mon triste coeur bave à la poupe :
Sous les quolibets de la troupe
Qui pousse un rire général,
Mon triste coeur bave à la poupe,
Mon coeur couvert de caporal !
Ithyphalliques et pioupiesques
Leurs quolibets l'ont dépravé !
Au gouvernail on voit des fresques
Ithyphalliques et pioupiesques.
Ô flots abracadabrantesques,
Prenez mon coeur, qu'il soit lavé !
Ithyphalliques et pioupiesques
Leurs quolibets l'ont dépravé !
Quand ils auront tari leurs chiques,
Comment agir, ô coeur volé ?
Ce seront des hoquets bachiques
Quand ils auront tari leurs chiques :
J'aurai des sursauts stomachiques,
Moi, si mon coeur est ravalé :
Quand ils auront tari leurs chiques
Comment agir, ô coeur volé ?
1.6k
Poetry and promises are lies
Hidden beneath the beautiful verses
Veil by those heartbroken words.
Poetry and promises are lies
they often mark your fragile heart
not because you're hurt
it is because your life is related.
Poetry and promises are lies
Widely used to express and confess
and also for words of depress
because it works when
insecurity is at its best.
Poetry and promises are lies
they made those pretty faces wrinkle
staying up all night
to write, to read, to feel
the night.
Poetry and promises are lies
where science and logic
are above the skies
Floating they will be
in the silent sea.
Poetry and promises are lies
I wonder how it can produce cries
when all the logic
are above the skies
when they are there
to be the best sighs.
Poetry and promises are NOT lies
people are being covetous
because someone chose
poetry over another
troupe that spread lies.
a.b
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 5:00 AM UTC
Sitting in the bath once again, small blue pad in hand, bit of plastic as support, I write this poem. Albert Cat demands a bit of attention and pad slides into the water. I grab a bit of toilet paper to blot it. That makes it worse. So, blurred and vague, I reconstruct it, using magnifying glasses (2!) while watching the evening news. Here it is:
I Like Facebook
I like Facebook. I don’t know exactly why.
I like looking at the pictures,
Friends I’d never meet another way.
I like friendly messages,
Passages of verse I’d never read
If not for Facebook’s lead.
I like Likes and Comments kind,
Find in comments rich expressions.
Possibly I’m one of few - or few new millions.
I’m inspired when tired, fired up.
Even when I’ve written ‘crap’
No one’s there to trap me.
Some reviewer always sees my views,
Understands.
Someone always sends
Me praise; ends with a Like.
I’ve never had a spikey word;
Cordiality is all I’ve ever read or heard.
Commonality forever somewhere, there
Where someone wants to start a group.
Always somebody to whoop de whoop:
Somewhere folk who populate;
A troupe with common passions.
Then there are the monthly Happys:
Happy Birthdays, Christmases and Easters…
Never had one word rescinded.
Reminded gently daily:
Classmates, playmates
I’d forgotten, dovetailed,
Blazoned on the psyche;
Friends and places,
And of course, the faces -
It is Facebook, after all; the key, the glee,
A source of history.
As for weaknesses I’ve read about –
Never think to route them out,
Going ‘bout my business,
Focused on creativeness,
The lofty and the small.
I like Facebook.
Happy Facebook to you all!
I Like Facebook 3.31.2018 Our Times, Our Culture II; Arlene Corwin
Mar 31, 2018
Mar 31, 2018 at 4:01 PM UTC
Dancing on the stage bathed in ultra violet
is a dripping young honey making me ultra-violent.
My three stooges become scrooges using ***** useless excuses
to not be Zeus's and noose the spruce for their collusive abuses.
I leave the troupe, loop back, snoop, try to ******
induce some juice, a little loose chartreuse
The girl looks down from the platform, eyes vacant and hollow
Ten years of this storm full of snake-pits and sorrow
No glow but the glint of a nose speckled with snow
Her heartbeat allegro slows, lower tempo - adagio
For she's hooked to the pole by an IV of ******* and circumstance
I regret holding the cash and stealing her glance.
It falls from my hand, not that thats exculpatory
and when I next catch her eyes, it's merely to say, 'sorry'
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 11:27 PM UTC
God took my soul
This morning.
In the poet's nook,
Ye old adirondacke chair, turned about face!
My back to the bay,
In order to feel the early morn sun kisses
Excavate the approaching fall chills.
I don't possess any more the skills,
Making images, that take your breath away.
All my poetry plain spoke, another trademark.
Simple verse what I feel, what I see,
What I know,
Like Jason sings,
Almost out of words.
So the sun rays enveloped,
Speaking in tones dulcet,
Thru them into my pores,
He spoke, a song for the soul,
Is simple words, just like mine,
Oil and spices of passing over,
They, his troupe, poured,
Cinnamon and myrrh, oil of balsam,
Upon my tired head.
*Child of mine,
Needy for you,
Needy for a poet
To sit besides my throne,
On my right,
In need for someone who sees
Just like me, the extraordinary,
In the everyday things that populate
The earth, the kindness of loving,
The planets, the loving of kindness.
You, yeoman job done and done.
Poems drip from your eyes,
Glory, Glory, Glory,
To man to woman, their
Shapes unique, their foibles, amusing,
Understanding that the pieces
Do all fit.
Needy for your-perspective to give to
Another.
It's time,
Close your eyes,
For your journey,
To new places,
Where you will lyre us, we-who await you,
Our daily poet-writer.
Your love is now
Our responsibility.
Your responsibilities, now
Our love to tend.
Just bring alone those
Pocket tissues, used and new,
That you always carry,
To wipe the tears yet to arrive,
And the ones you shed,
Even now,
As we begin
All over again.*
~~~
8:36am
August 24 2013
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 8:45 AM UTC
I met an old woman on Leander Avenue
who told me, “Don’t breathe or the earth
will swallow you whole.” I
stayed very still and didn’t move.
A butterfly could have landed on my nose
but I sneezed so I may never know for sure.
After that I remembered that my generation
doesn’t have to follow their elders, so I
walked to the corner store.
I bought three candy bars that I would
never eat and tied my shoelaces on the front porch.
My neighbor watches old films. He calls them
Lumières, and sometimes invites me over.
I watch the hand-cranked film flicker
black and white over his screen.
A troupe of acrobats flip about and wave
the French flag, large women kneel and scrub
endless linens in the still river, the gardener
punishes the mischeivious boy. I smile every time
they look at the camera.
The slats in the blinds yawn widely
and seeing them, the melatonin strikes.
Flowing, forcing, endocrinal.
The wind whispers Greek words in my ear.
Helios, zoetrope, khaos.
The trees outside of my window
spell out foreign letters.
They only make sense one at a time.
I can’t spell a word but I speak and
realize I can still make a sound.
I fall asleep.
I never wake but dream
of exquisite lavender pillows doused
in holy water from the lips of a
spouting statue. A Carnevale clown waves
at me in the corner and takes off mask after
mask. Confetti rains softly from his eyelashes and he
quietly laughs into his palm. I want to hold your
hand but remember that I am just
a raindrop streaking down your car
window in a mountain spring storm. I
open my eyes.
Jun 12, 2011
Jun 12, 2011 at 6:05 PM UTC
My tongue left me lost
Telling stories of jungle and mirth
Vines around my voice
Sounds that were not mine
Leaked out
My mind escaped all my plans
Evading the minstrel of imagination
Symbolically dampening my conceptions
Reluctant troupe performance
A coy castaway
My legs marched without me
Trampled every blade of grass
Concluding I have no where left to run
No path at all
Upright disorderly conduct
On two feet
My heart forbade another beat
Leaving a bowl of dust to swirl
Aimless joys and sorrows
Suddenly freeze dried
coagulant
Without conduction for lust
Or anger
Thumpless
My life dropping out of sight
Evading the drones
Searching for me
Here I lay in this late hour
Evaporating like the rain puddle
With no where to go
On the hottest day of the year
Dissipating until
I vanish
Dec 29, 2024
Dec 29, 2024 at 2:13 AM UTC
For Sia
wake up unscrubbed,
sleep still in the eyes,
dream crusted,
probably unaware, child,
that you are a poem
sleeping
when a little girl,
reverting, designing
real from dreams,
processing, reforming,
the dreams lusting
to be poems
to go awandering
no wonder you have
more first names
than the rest of the world
combined
who you gonna be
this day?
undecided?
a new name adopted?
why not...
did you think I didn't notice?
the degree of yours ungranted,
I favor most is the one
you
never take
unless given
but always only
offer all:
friend
escapade thy 'they' thru
their assorted flavors,
nose rings, tongue piercings,
take 'em all, on the train ride to
see Sia run
see Sia play
see Sia read
see Sia lead
her troupe known only to me as the
Sherwood Forest Baker Street Irregulars
on adventures all over the U.K.
someday you will get a degree
from Peter Pan in
all grown-up-ness,
settling down,
but I surely hope not,
for I will then be sadder,
way sadder than I am
even now,
a different generation man,
when
forgone, missing,
the little dream crusted girl
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 10:15 PM UTC
~
this tide of clouds is rolling in,
iridescent crimson, tangerine,
her swells in shades imagining;
walk with me upon this shore,
tide pools of the night explore,
’til the tide returns once more;
her color palette, crashing wave,
troupe de ballet, all ablaze,
this sea of memories engrave.
~
*post script.
this inspired by a particularly
color-filled sunset last night;
it resembled an incoming tide;
yes, of course i photographed it!
knowing that i cannot resist
a beautiful sunset, she asks,
'whatcha gonna do with
all those sunset pics?',
i respond, 'i suppose like
all good memories,
i just plan to hold them..
close.'*
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 12:38 PM UTC
The North Wind doth blow,
And we shall have snow,
And what will poor Robin do then,
Poor thing…
The house that poor young Robin bought,
You’d scarcely call it a house,
A single room on a farmer’s farm
You’d not swing even a mouse.
But he moved on in, and tidied it up
And asked Rosemary to stay,
She sat in silence, her knees clamped tight,
And her first response, ‘No way!’
‘There isn’t a cupboard to keep a broom,
The kitchen’s there by the wall,
We couldn’t live in this tiny room
To even think, I’m appalled.’
But Robin said, ‘It’s just for a start,
I’m going to build on a wing,
I’m making the bricks from mud and straw
It will all be done by the Spring.’
So Rosemary had unpacked her case,
And hung her clothes on a hook,
Then looked in vain for a tiny shelf,
There wasn’t even a book.
But Robin slaved, out in the yard,
Making his bricks from straw,
The walls went up and the roof went on,
And he laid the wood for the floor.
At first they slept on the floor inside,
And Rosemary kept it clean,
She said, ‘Don’t touch, till I am a bride,’
And pillows went in between.
He put his love all into his wing,
All carpeted now, and swish,
And set it up as a bedroom then,
‘Are you coming to bed?’ ‘You wish!’
She only ever kissed with a peck,
She never opened her lips,
He wanted more, but couldn’t be sure,
As he nibbled her fingertips.
Then one day, down came the winter rain
And the wind it was blowing cold,
Rosemary lay there shivering so
She allowed him just one hold.
His hand had strayed, down where it would
You’ll admit we’d do the same,
But he found down there, in that neighbourhood
Something that changed the game.
He leapt on up, and he washed his hands,
Said, ‘You’re not even a girl!’
‘Didn’t you guess,’ said Rosemary,
‘It’s not the end of the world.’
She chased him all around in that room,
‘I thought you wanted to play,’
While Robin stood, his back to the wall,
While holding her off, ‘No way!’
He fled into his favourite wing,
And hammered and bolted the door,
His bricks were melting out in the rain
And mud flowed over the floor.
She went on back to the troupe ‘Les Girls’,
While Robin stayed on the farm,
You’ll not see him venturing out these days
He lives in a state of alarm.
With just the sight of a petticoat
He’s a shuddering, gibbering wreck,
And ask him if he will leave his wing,
The answer comes back, ‘Like heck!’
He’ll flee to his farm,
To keep him from harm,
And hide his head under his wing,
Poor thing!
David Lewis Paget
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 7:37 AM UTC