English Club Chatter

liar murderer killer politics jesus right heil unamerican
death commander 1984 patriot george w. bush police-state
unconstitutional control power flag racism reich natural disaster
spying conservative fear katrina SSS NSA women babies protest
war war wars wartime fight rights eat lies live law die death monger oil
rove conservative polls shame rubble order death red fear lies

"no problem"

Guess us poets have to poe our poetry here from now on.
Can't promise much more of the spam stuff, I was inspired by the initial idea into considering what spam might look like if there was a matchmaking service for writers' and muses.

Anyway, time to start poeing!

Dinner In Her Parlor

She comes to me
From out the trees
Wearing naught
But a web

Her presence
Is so strong
Its as though she had four arms

Late in the night
Out of her sight
But I'm caught
In her web

Her essence
Wraps around
Me as though she had four legs

How would I know
She's a widow
Til I'm saved
In her web

An absence
From within
Me as though she had foreseen

To drain my blood
In one great flood
Not kill me
In her web

lorelai rory sookie luke jess logan paris emily richard lane michel miss patty taylor kirk dean drella max jackson april morey babette tristan christopher gypsy headmaster charleston francie madeline albright norman mailer madeline louise mrs kim henry jamie town troubador nicole davey liz gran jason asher tj lindsay dave paul anka trix rachel caesar zack anna gil brian finn colin

love the gilmore girls motif:)

I'm not sure if it counts or not, since it doesn't rhyme...but I tried my hand at a sonnet, and Nic was right, the process was challenging and fun. (I cheated on the last line, it’s actually nine syllables.)

Literary Brink

Shit slinger, bake your brain in an oven
become an addict of opium, booze
and trying too damn hard to write.
It is not worth your short precious time,
Or mine--empty as it otherwise is.
I do not want a parallel history
a short-lived litany of all my intensity
ending a fat dick gun to temple.
But death is not the equivalent
of the failure associated with
never sticking my yellow neck out
Lazy ass, quick pen, can't breath to think
Of sending my work to random house
dangling—severed limb—on the literary brink.

That's not cheating. It's allowed. Also, nice sonnet.

Has anyone else noticed that Sarah seems so SWEET in person, but when she puts pen to paper she turns into some combination of Sylvia Plath, Alan Ginsberg, and Erica Jong?

Hmmmmm.

Some won't like it because it's too sappy. Some won't like it because it's too pornographic. I just wanted to show a different sid to my writing.

Nic
-----------------------------------------------------

Love Prose (Feb 28, 2005)

His body pressed against her bosom,
The bosom of his lover,
He feels his head nestled between
the soft warmth of her breasts,
He kisses her bare skin, feeling the
radiating warmth of her body,
She runs her fingers through his
hair as he rubs his hips
against hers,
They are one.

Her legs wrapped around him,
holding him down, captive,
binding him to her,
She showers his face with kisses,
they moan together like
the purrs of a jungle cat,
Their hips move rythmically,
synchronized like the breeze
against the surface waves
of the ocean
They are one.

He feels the moistness of each
kiss upon his face, as she
runs her fingers down his back,
He arches into her and
They are one.

Exchanged whispers of breath
declare their ecstacy,
Her body quivers, reflected and
reverberated in his body, pressed against hers,
Their motions reflect each other,
entwined, nibbling on each other's flesh,
Cannibalizing their pleasure,
They are one.

She melts breathlessly around him,
he is drunk on their shared feelings,
Their eyes reflect a greater purity
of desire than any two people have ever shared,
Her grip on him tightens and the feelings of,
longing
desire
devotion
loyalty
honesty

And passion
imprison
him
within
her.

They are one.

Imprisoned within her heart
to be hers forever,
She grasps the back of his neck,
and traces his lips with her tongue,
Drawng a map to his heart,
and for one moment his will is gone,
His soul is offered up to her,
for pain or pleasure, all that he is,
given to her, in love and in devotion,

He waits...
for the response of acceptance to his spiritual offer.

Her body...
Her body...

Her body is thrust upon him,
They meet in a kiss,
And he breathes
his very soul
deep
into
her
lungs,

By that kiss, he gives up himself in all form in substance,
His passion throbs deep within the heat of her passion.

They are one.

Thanks, HH, Plath is my hero...Poppies in October was why I started to write.

and, Nic, hey, alternate ending...
"her body.../her body...///does not respond."
(I know I'm tacky, but it adds a bit of anticlimactic fun to all the drama--pun intended:)

Hey Nic, you wrote that on my birthday.

Just an observation.

I like Plath too, and it's a shame she died so young. I believe she could have produced more great stuff, like Virginia Woolf, etc.

Oh, and I agree with Sir Hamlin. Sarah, by looking at you, I would never believe you are chasing baby demons. I would pay money to see you utterly punked out - I'm talking black, tattoos, heavy clunky boots and an "I'll kick your ass" swagger. Although, if Sylvia is indeed your hero, you might entertain the guise of pretty normalcy on your exterior while raging cyclones and shadows within. Whatever you do, keep writing.

The Story of Luke Bach

When ewe go the wrong whey
And ewe half two tern Bach
Won thing too dew
Is never Luke Bach

Won other thing, ewe wood want two dew
Is too half patients and sea it threw

If this dose knot work
Stay on the write track
Butt whatever ewe dew
Dew knot Luke Bach

When it's thyme too leaf the once ewe love
Pane and violins make you're sole push and shove

If ewe feel the knead
Two stop and Luke Bach
Just ax yourself
"Hay, whose Luke Bach?"

a poem to me
is not an ideal
or a belief or
something i
live by, but a
fragment of
the greater
human
experience
that i choose
to examine
that i choose
to explore
a piece of me
and a piece
of every
experience
that i have
ever had in
my life, read
them as such
as new ideas
or old ideas
read again
i think that
each fragment
of human
existence
has some
valifity and
should at least
be considered
for its ups and
downs, ins and
outs, and even
its centralized
consistent
aspects, so
read a poem
as what it is
don't assume
the author
intends it as
an only truth

Yeah, Monica, I don't think I could pull off a "kick your ass swagger", but I think a split personality is as much a poetic convention as lines and words and stanzas. We all do it. Note how witty Jim is in person in contrast to the seriously insightful nature of his poetry--which retains the same cleverness but in a deeper form dedicated to the imagery of his metaphors and the often-elusive context of what he is saying. Also, Monica maintains an exterior of calm dignity, but her poems are intense bursts of emotion and unapologetic feminism. (If you guys want proof, pick up last year's Immaculate Cauldron and compare the works to the authors.) Also, perhaps these poets will read something at Poetry Open Mic Night in Eisenhower on Feb. 10th at 6pm.

Swagger...ass!!!!!!! Oh my!!! How poetic when walking. Such an expression of beauty!!!..and dirtiness at the same time. How can those terms be used together. I will just let the two of you feminist beauties continue to define the nature of your poetic expression..........BUT NEITHER FITS THE REAL PEOPLE!!!!

This event set up to be like a poetry battle, ie "8Mile"!!!!!! Sounds like fun, free verse for all!!! Hold nothing back, shoot lyrics and verse from the hip.......I'm in!!!!!!!!

spittin verse like a shot in the dark,
march that kick ass swagger back across,
eight mile to the trailer park.

Throw out a line, toss in a word or two,
Im unna spit lyrics, you shoot poems,
quick see whos better me, not you!!

still working on a sonnet doggone it, but I'll do something now. Here goes.

It is to the sky I look when I want to feel,
and it doesn't matter if it's stars or clouds or sun.
Teathered to the ground, I can feel gravity
not so much holding me down,
but pushing down upon me,
and I cannot bear the weight of the entire universe.
I can feel a vibrating molecule within me--
like a glass at the edge of a table when the Earth quakes,
just before it becomes one with the dust on the floor.

You know what? I'm just going to write a sonnet now.

Nothing can constrain quite like a sonnet
Alas my will resolves that it will do
And so inclined to expound upon it
Will close the matter between me and you
Forsaking freedom for fetter or verse
Drawn to the tightness of rhythmic device
Divining content from a form so terse
I plunge ahead against an inner advice
Once within words copiously long to flow
And I sense a tightening tension mount
From choosing to rein them in or let them go
Amid the constant pulse of the meter count
And now nearly through I can see no constraint
And set myself free from willful restraint

Okay, it's not great, but it will have to do.

Jim, I like the unspoken shatter in your first poem. Interesting. And the tightening tension you speak of in your sonnet is there for the reader to feel.

And Kleppy, I don't know if you will find anyone to "8 Mile" with you--I assume this means battle? But hopefully lots of poets will share their original work (you, perhaps?) and it's a pot luck, so you can bring and eat lots of yummy food. English club is comprised of the best cooks on campus. It's the truth:)

Re. Kleppy's "8-mile" comment, which Sarah picks up on, the one thing that interested me about Eminem's movie was the depiction of rap as a kind of battle of insults. This actually has an ancient history, in the curse poetry used by Greek and Irish bards. There's a legend about the Greek poet Archilochus, that when his bride-to-be stood him up at the altar (at her father's persuasion), he cursed them both so powerfully that they immediately killed themselves. There are also stories about battles in ancient Ireland that would be decided simply by the bards representing each side hurling curses at each other. The losing side would retire in shame. Even in the Renaissance, the Italian poet Pietro Aretino had supposedly killed with the power of his cursing. All of this attests to the origins of poetry in formal language, chants, and charms (the English word comes from the Latin "carmina" which means "poem") that were felt to have magical power.

As for the expressions of the power of constraint in Jim's sonnet, here's a similar idea in a sonnet by William Wordsworth.

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room;
And hermits are contented with their cells;
And students with their pensive citadels;
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:
In truth the prison, unto which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me,
In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound
Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground;
Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs
must be)
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
Should find brief solace there, as I have found.

Much to think about here!! (By the way, for those of you, like Jim, who enjoy puns -- and what poet doesn't! -- did you know that the word "stanza" comes from the Italian word for "room"?)

Hey Kleppy, how is it that you are such an authority on who I am when I don't even have the faintest idea? Enlighten me please.

Don't take offense to the utterance of word,
when of course what are they really to us
we own them, use them,make people just fuss,
about written, spoken, broken words of absurd.

How quickly you lash at the unknowing poet,
who verses of poeple and things seen in life,
but given and taken the ownership of strife,
Spoken in rhyme and riddle so you know it.

Who would have written, who would have wrote,
something nasty of you in this little note.
It was I, It was I, I must admit to naught,
keep guessing if you will, come to a thought,
Of who it could be that knows you so all,
maybe I am the mirror that you hung on a wall.

Maybe I listen, maybe I dream, of what or how,
everything I need to know just comes to me now.
A poet I am not, but a listener I am one,
listen closely, whisper, no, its the sun.

A sun so bright can only burn a while,
be offended not,its a long way to 8 mile!!

Not here nor there
offense you may find
but dishevled bemusement
& words intertwined

Feldspar and mica
cling to her brow
while transient twins bleed
as she will allow

Never a poet &
never a song
where in this glacier
do intrusions belong

You trace her image
deep in hallowed earth
the sea is her dwelling
her breath is to serve

Each singular sliver
of ice she exhales
a ritual bleeding
a journey unsailed

Leave nothing to fall
this chill is ablaze
your fingers to bind
your dreams to amaze

"Naked"
theyellowpoet
1-20-06

i write my poetry in secret,
away from prying eyes,
when you can undo my words,
with a gaze,
i am naked.

"Not With You"
theyellowpoet
--no date

you are simple--and i like
your words are complicated
into me.

your smile spreads,
my hands push away,
i'm my own.

Choose your words better. Know what to say next. By our verb and noun enhancing pill. You wont find this nowhere but online.

now 9.99!!!

and if you call our toll fee 1-777-Consumateverbs NOW you will also get a free RedNeck Dictionary.

Response

It occurs to me that others
May know themselves well,
I'm still searching for myself
So don't judge my personal hell,
An abundance of my poems
Are just about me,
But they have many layers I
Think you don't see,
Oh, my friend, you say stop
Being self-absorbed,
But you can not understand
The nature of the war,
Between my heart and mind,
Deep within my soul,
I feel like fifteen people
Who can not be whole.

kieze consciece. nic

Girl Observed
Sarah Stevens

look what Fuck does to her face
angel wings, bleeding heart
then she spoke
and I listened to her hymen shatter
blood spatter
the pitter-patter of my heart
hurting for the loss of innocence
but she did it for
little grown-up girls
with chastity belts locked
like our dirty purple knees
and it doesn’t have a thing to do with love
or sticky social norms
hell bent on degrading
dirty girls—little whores
pushing us, palm to brain
hand to ass
on our backs
to do the only thing we’re good for

Another Love Poem
Sarah Stevens

Sporadic love that oozes
Serves as a make shift glue
But bubbles and erodes
like the most toxic of acids

call it a bubble bath
dip and splash
hold your head under
scrub my back

My mallard duck lover
with peacock plumage
But it’s cold
and slippery out there

The plush pink rug
(a gift from your mother)
Hardly serves as an adequate safe haven
From the potential travesties

of my tiny bathroom
Where you are floating
face down
In our love puddle

Of soap suds and arsenic
Glittery like rainbow gasoline
In direct sunlight
The smell and taste

Our mingled blood
Love is just
A gross compilation
of expectancy

That’s what you said to me
In that convertible
you drove around
Like a gleaming

yuppie ken doll
Your hand stapled
to my knee
As if I needed

to be grounded, steadied
That was before love grew sticky
now you rise up
like a caucasian fucking jesus christ

Out of the slime
to claim me
Skirt so short,
when I bend down

My panties show
And you can hardly stand it
Try to make me
A plastic kennedy bitch,

pale make-up and hideaway tits
Ideas no bigger
than the size and want
of a diamond ring

That false ideology
But all this is,
is another love poem to you
Another attempt to keep you.

Sarah, after reading your "Girl Observed" poem, I just wanted to ask......Did you know that "Venus Observa" is the technical term for the missionary position?

Nic

Nope, but duly noted:)

I think that was the first "rhyming" poem I've ever written.

It hurted.

Sarah, I liked your "Love Poem," but reading "Girl Observed" was physically painful because of the imagery. Not to mention the sounds strung throughout.
Ouch. Good but definitly ouch.

Simply beautifully written!!! Very nice!!

MM,

You know as much as I "hate" to say it. The poem was nice!!!

T

her words burst in on bare feet
dirty cracked dried bloody
a remnant of a bookstore sticker
stinking of someone's voided bowels
and naked she shrugs
offering nature's choices
of where I can stick her truth
but i blush demurring
and her girding implies
Typical
as though we thought I could be a stake
she huffs away with an additional stench

Tumultuous—
this battle waged
to make my sense more common
and, in chambers politic,
to negotiate truths
with the fine black art of lawyers.

Wisdom whispers
Against the deafening roar
Of my almost manic penchant
To shout it down.

My Happy Birthday Poem

Autumn arrives in summer’s trappings,
and only those bound to it will fully see
the significant subtle signs.
Imperceptibly crept,
the shadows do come sooner
as the sense sets in
that one has become somehow
closer to the pie
than to the bud

Nic, i liked your play on words earlier. so I thought I'd give it a try.

Toucan play
And flamingo
Puffin the night
From heron
Nor egrets
No bittern aims
Would ibis tow

"Yellow"
1-23-05

Yellow color
Yellow color drips on me
Taint.

I cover my face with smiles.
I walk in yellow.
I see in yellow.
I'm taint.
Yellow seeping, scattering--
moving into me, now i can't

escape; passing
by you
and contagious falls...
On my yellow falls...
Yellow taint...
--on you.

Baptismal Yellow wickedness,
trapping me on a trail
I can only fall....

"The Girl Who Will Not Share Your Secrets"
1-23-05

Look at my words unclasp
them, run your fingers
across my face

this look is for you
--something

dont forget the time i drown
in my tears for your words

i have them safe
i promise to keep them mine

No matter how you betray me-beat me,
my silence will protect you.

Wow! What a collective creative burst. Sarah, didn't your mother warn you about loving ducks? Seriously, what are you people DOING out there? Maybe it's all this Sylvia Plath you're reading. On the other hand, it's interesting that I respond by making biographical assumptions. The old Life and Art question again. Someone writes about a demon lover, so we assume she/he has a demon lover (Damian Bloggs or Lilith Thingummy). But maybe the poet just thought one day, hmmm -- I wonder what it would be like to write a poem about a demon lover? This works for Plath too. Obviously a woman mentally ill, and thus with her share of actual demons, but if you read her "Daddy" poems you assume she must have been abused as a child by some vicious Nazi. In fact, as I gather, she barely knew her father, who bore no real resemblance to the character in her poems. They're still powerful poems, but not much help to the biographer (though maybe to the analyst). What do you think (from either your reading or your own writing)?

And so the question might become one of what the demon lover represents to the poet or to the reader. Or maybe how the lover was interpreted by the poet, though the lover and/or the poet may or may not have been simply, thoughtlessly following some societal or hormonal template. Where does the idea of a demon come from? Is there that dark realm, or is demonism a construct designed to offer some form of order or something for human minds? Does Nature make us demons or do we get translated that way when acting upon instinct or impulse rather than following a people's idea of how things ought to be? Can a demon be innocent, but a victim of someone else's expectations? But if the demon lover is just inside the poet's head, then good luck with that.

My doctor warned me about loving ducks, but she was a bit of a quack.

Graceful Death & Knife-Slit Heart

there is blood
on the floor
between your shoes
after i made you

to die

just a little
thing to die
bleeding through
plant cloth covers

the slit

on your body
tatoos of pain
in every scar
lucky enough

to grace

the meat i
see you for
getting every
beating

heart

----------------------------------------------------
screaming conscience

internally screaming to torture the innocence of the world that could save it from the man who destroys itself and its dreams and its home and my home and your home and the unmanned bombs kill all the threats to a specific truth that we cant dispute or argue with and you think your right and i think im right and you have no rights and they have every right to protest this but not protest that and they are drawing lines between us with their politically correct labels and categories like were just subjects of science lab rats tested on to see if well die soon but thirty years from now its more abestos and i see a world in my head with no people and its beautiful but i see a world in my heart with peaceful people and its beautiful and i fear that none of us will be citizens someday unless we are willing to kill our fathers enemy and if we tried to kill our father or someone elses father we would be killed to protect a man who does not exist hollowed be his name no one sees him but he sees everyone and he has tricked us to think we are him and he isnt even there but a hollow man with a hollowed name will lead his people to kill for him until none are left or all agree and the remains will rape the earth

Demon lovers....ummm, how wonderful. We can learn much from such beings if we are courageous enough to seek them out. But what is the real mind-rape is when the demon bears your own face. It's always a shock to look at yourself as a person who is the killer and killed, the raper and rapist, the perpetrator and victim. But much can be gained by doing this, you just have to be prepared. You can end up chopping off a limb just because of what you may have been up to. Or sticking your head in an oven. Sylvia could not return from Ariel. Those poems are like a loaded gun. I read them often because they are so poignant and powerful, but I can't follow her completely into them. That would be suicide. As such, you cannot truly enter into the realm of having demon lovers if you ever want to return.

Who's to say?

I sit and wonder a many dark night lonely,
about what demon searches for my soul.
Throuh my eyes, passed my mind but only,
finds empty space left to mortify her control.

She searches for a path for evil to willful man,
but she finds herlself terrified by emptiness.
Overtaken by a fear she wished to supplant,
by grace of evil will, she is given much less.

If then eternal evil is forced to surrender to,
a man of thought, and his own spoken will,
has he battled with words, mind, this altrue?
Vanquishing demons, evil, man's old skill.

Long have they tried, short succeeded in,
taking mens souls and embedding begins,
with no soul to begin with, why must they try,
but temptation glossed beauty is such devilry.

Fall back demon so oft you have made such,
attempts on my soul, but a mind is too much,
even against your seductive caress and touch,
seduced, teased, tortured by evil loveless rush,

I have beaten you and my soul saved from pain,
but what I crave is the adventure of this game.
I call you out she-devil of my own desires,
touch not my mind with your hell burnt fire,

it is all that exists and protects this man alone,
but a mind is driven, by a passion that is gone.
What love is this you offer me so oft in caress,
one that takes away so much, am I so less,

than you oh, evil temptress, seductress one,
no dark side left for your forlorn deed done,
for my soul lives to yearn for your body only,
you return those parts you used to tempt me.
Leave my mind alone though, it wants to be free!

I wrote this thing in like 3-4 minutes, tear it up, break it down!! i know NIC will. I need to start writing some new stuff soon, but need some topics, some idea. A spark!!! Some motivation. I graduate in like 7 weeks, what is there to motivate creativity?????

send money to:

Nic, I loved what you did in "Graceful Death & Knife-Slit Heart" so naturally I attempted to play with words in the same way, but it came out like they always do.

Sexually Liberated
Sarah Stevens

Pathetic attempt
hardly a feminist
Wanting them
To masturbate the glittery
Thought of you

Partially exposed
breasts legs ass teetering—
heels making the perk look real
Needy; wanting a big man
to be daddy

Tickle the insecurity
Sleeping between
Not so secret thighs
Just tell her she’s pretty
And I can’t even look

In the mirror
Clown make-up
Exposing flaws
Cracking and pealing
A diseased thing

But you’re so left wing
So ready with that
Trite line,
“Don’t call me
honey/sweetheart/baby”

Unless he’s
Big biceps to pacify
the little girl in you
lollipop sucking heart
of a cock tease

Barbie doll complex
Think you’re an activist
Whore for self-confidence
say sexually liberated
it makes everything better

Todd, I think you did your thoughts and words an injustice by picking the most obvious rhymes in "I sit and wonder...". Monica's "Not here nor there" is what I would consider a good example of when words are chosen carefully--it feels as if her rhymes happen naturally, which echos the earthy feel of the poem as well as accomplishing her desired effect of "words intertwined". Also, I think there is some evil about writting a poem in under five minutes.

*something evil about writing

Nice comparison, Sarah. I was quickly inspired by all of the undertones from the discussions I heard earlier in the evening. Yeah, I admitted it was not thought out or planned, just right off my head and between consultations, so it should be weak. I just wanted something for someone to bash and batter, it feels so GOOOoooood to be abused and amused at the same time!!

I tried to stick my head in an oven once, but it got waayyy too hot in there.

Invisible ink. (1-24-06)

Should’ve observed the transparent
Writing on the walls
Indecipherable
(The hieroglyphs)
To stand or take a seat
Opposite actions with impulses twice as strong
(And what’s strength?)
It only takes one person to form a line
And if I turn my back?
(To the myths
And succumb in the valleys of (in)difference(s))
But I’ve heard—
That if you can walk—you can dance
And if you can talk—you can sing
Amongst other African proverbs
But what do I know—I don’t pen songs
And sometimes I wish I write poetry
with invisible ink
Like the words on the wall
undetectable to the human eye
(They’re present
And they haunt—psyches they may stalk…)
But not like the fall
Of snowflakes that grace a surface
(We’re all cognizant)
Then they fade away
Therefore
my inscrutable psalms become difficult to read
racing against ourselves or against time?
(Do we want change—or is it just a good idea?
As much as some think things have changed;
times have really remained the same)
Yet, we often admire and worship those
Invisibly literate, yet too radical and articulate, visibly
who were strong enough to pay the ultimate price
And then act surprised when we find out that our monikers
Require a sense of sacrifice
(Or else its mockery)
I guess time will only tell me
what’s written on those walls
When my ink drys…

Thanks Sarah. Actually, I wrote that poem in about 5 minutes just sitting at the computer. I felt up to the challenge. So Todd and I are both evil. Big suprise.

"Who's to say?" I can just speak from my own experience with the whole issue, and what I've observed in others who have chosen to walk the same path. That is the extent of my authority on the subject. If I got preachy I apologize. But I know what I know.

And Todd, the good writers are people who whisper our own stories back to us. Look around you. A story is always unfolding. Sit somewhere and observe. Nuances, deceits, small kindnessess. I like sometimes to pick one person and create his or her own universe. I've done it for people on campus. Professors, anyone. It can be seen as a power trip and maybe it is. But it can also have huge payoffs creatively.
Am I sounding preachy again?
Sarah, I love how you entertain the same stream of vision in your writing. I have a poem from 9th grade you've encouraged me to unearth. Maybe I'll post it later.

yeah, little diffrent from what you have been getting...love to read everyones words. glad to see that the blog hasnt dribbled off--but grown.
GO ENGLISH CLUB.

bye the way we have a poetry reading coming up. be on the look out for posters and emails. open to all.
jesi

The Seventh Son (the revolutionary II)

his shadow has been more real to him than his personality
his body displayed baptized on a fiery cross
a fan of the sun

he writes for the action
he talks for you to walk
he calls out to you when there is separation
but you just pass, just passing through his speech

he’ll stand,
he’ll speak,
but who speaks next to him?

his shadow has been more real to him than his personality
his body displayed on a fiery cross
a fan of what can be done

(my struggle is between the lines
where does your conscience lie...)

Lots of talent in here. And quick too. I figure I should start spending more than ten minutes on a poem, but that's not how it works for me. Naturally, then, my poems are not what they could be, but they are what they are--premature poemgasms. zzzzzzz

Oh and Monica, I didn't mean to suggest you sounded preachy, I'm just trained to question absolutes. So I always do and never don't.

Jim, all is forgiven with your exhalation of the word
POEMGASMS

hell yes

maybe you need some piagra.

Then I could be the purple poet and filter everything blue, maybe a sylvia plath blue. or is piagra something different?

Maybe I have had that done to me....a story told of my own little universe. Maybe there I was Mr. Puniverse, but mostly I wondered if I liked having my story creativively re-created, what if the most important part was left out? what if a love was never revealed, or a hatred never acted upon..........who craeted that damn story and universe, Get out of my mind!!!!!!!!!!!! Or perhaps for those of you who prefer the more vulgar approach, did it arouse my manly creativity? Power, such a devastating tool to possess,.

Take these thoughts and turn them into something craetive!!!

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