English Club Chatter

Thank you, Jesi!!! I don't have anything postable at present, but I'm working on some poems and I enjoyed reading yours:).

Oops! I just read ABOVE the poem (the part where you introduce it) and it wasn't yours--yet now I'm seeing that you have cummings in your style...snappy diction, puncuation, etc.

bang
sarah stevens

shook the dust from my
plastic butterfly wings today
the end of a twenty-two year reign
another exiled princess
watching these pinkertons on strike
protesting entitlement
choking on privilege—(the new catch phase)
drowning in intellectual debt
public universities staggering bureaucracies
now the welfare system of
diminishing human class
less educated (almost) than fifty years ago
got legislation to keep marx out of schools
media focused on hollywood’s cellulite
while broke backs of brown and black toddlers
hold the greatest world power up
and there are stamps on our food
that we trade as currency for integrity
“Are you sure it’s organic/fair trade/antiseptic?”
sucking on water bottle tits as we brose
the aisles of the great santa claus, wal-mart
employing third world countries, endowing
‘them’ those lusty would-be americans
with precious capitalism
“ask not what your country can do for you, but...”
and suddenly
i can feel/hear/see it
the taste of blood wet metal
not a spoon but a gun barrel

Thought I'd pay homage since I really don't have anything to post from myself at the time being...the formatting is off...enjoyable nonetheless...

The Rose That Grew From Concrete by Tupac

Did you hear about the rose that grew from a crack in the concrete?
Proving nature's law is wrong it learned to walk with out having feet.
Funny it seems, but by keeping it's dreams, it learned to breathe fresh air.
Long live the rose that grew from concrete when no one else ever cared.

And Tomorrow by Tupac

Today is filled with anger, fueled with hidden hate.
Scared of being outkast, afraid of common fate.
Today is build on tragedies which no one want's to face.
Nightmares to humanity and morally disgraced.
Tonight is filled with Rage, violence in the air.
Children bred with ruthlessness cause no one at home cares.
Tonight I lay my head down but the pressure never stops,
knowing that my sanity content when I'm droped.
But tomorrow I see change, a chance to build a new,
build on spirit intent of heart and ideas based on truth.
Tomorrow I wake with second wind and strong because of pride.
I know I fought with all my heart to keep the dream alive.

Lunch Break (6-26-06)

five minutes to break
stuck working inside
four-legged factories
stand poised
ready to jump ship
and plunge into third world economies
bearing the name progress
three minutes
I remain a cog in the machine
the debilitating process
my hands ridden
of dexterity
now my thoughts
are no longer 'handwritten'
two minutes
ideas are static and monotonous
NAFTA sounded like a good idea
coming from a poltician's mouth
free trade sounds preposterous
as peasants living adjacent
from mansions; merely gazing
from their shacks
one minute
while prosperity grazes
upon those living in poverty
break.

*Not trying to insult anyone's intelligence* Just in case one may not be familiar with the saying "Asalamalakim" it is actually a Muslim greeting meaning "peace be with you," or "peace be upon you." "Salaam" is usually said in response meaning "peace." I hope I did not offend anyone by pointing that out.

Worldwide Underground (6-27-06)
Austin Mc.

Asalamalakim
("Salaam")
heroes for hire
One love.
No rastafari.
All I hear
write another song
just to get by;
hustling; had a hard time.
Sick and tired
of being sick and tired.
Hope’s not in exile…
She chants:
Hold on, be strong!
In one hundred languages
besides English.
Still People understand
one raised fist.
Where there’s injustice,
one finds resistance.
Heads held high;
Unlimited Potential.
Stand against plight.
Walk alongside
Champions of life.
Dying to survive.
Kings and Queens
of the jungle
don’t pounce on lions.
We raise Cubs
to the sky.
View futures of the civilized
through their eyes.
Reasons to defy.
Never futile.
No Inshallah; now is the time
Thoughts, ideas, words,
poems, stories, and essays
spark revolutions.
Hitler’s first act—
burn books, artists, and ideas;
consumed by fire.
Authors further immortalized
Couldn’t stifle people’s desire.
Blood, sweat, and tears.
Humanistic fervor
Mixed with eternal elixir;
Sniff enough to get high
smells like our desire
Asalamalakim
("Salaam.")
One love
We transform.
Stand equal.
Heroines for hire.
Power in the people;
in the Worldwide
Underground.

Here's one that has been for a time, but not unveiled. She's wicked.

Succubus
I have dredged the depths of this swamp
pitched my pale hands deep into mire and peat
to find your corpse missing;
a delinquent delusion, you
are not allowed to arise with the sun -
a shrunken shadow
against borrowed light.
Where oh where can you be my sweet?
Dawn is nearly upon the earth,
you cannot last long without me.
Your wounds need dressing
your tears need tending
and who will bend to cultivate
the dust that is your home?
I have laid you down into a novel season,
you dare not stray from your chosen origin draped
in icy roses and malevolent fluid
Have you forgotten how quietly I shred my flesh
from my vacant bones and offer
nourishment to your ebbing existence?
Who has made you eternal?
When have you ever been one with another?
I have split the shadows in two for you,
breathed a sweeter song into your mouth -
the winged mortals of the dawn are not as melodious
as the feral murmur of twilights creatures.
The light wanes and you must be afraid without me to whisper
the patterns of prey into your mind.
You hunger, yes, I have fashioned you well;
your choreography is too slippery to deceive the sentinels
holding you in,
surrounding your constant realm.
You recognize nothing but my voice,
the siren raping, suspending your decay -
I slither under as you grope for worms and clay,
twist dead roots round your wasted thighs.
You do not know how easily you smile as I
pervade the pulsing channels under your skin
and spin you into another century within my palm.
Shadow twin, you cannot begin again.
You are only in utero, you have other years to invade.
Be still -
I will pluck the tears from your brow
and bead them to the chains you cling to.

6/24/06
"Traverse"

you think that i am all a game with my words, but you don't see that,
i wish to traverse to another place with you, for you to see all the pain,
to take and give,
to color the world in the word of the yellow sun,
and to see more than how the words splash upon the page,
coloring a picture,
telling a story,
it's all just a watercolor at first,
but after you take the fall,
you die to live,
you fall to give,
the colors change and the pain comes upon you---
and you realize it is not yours to keep,
not yours to fix,
not yours to change,
and all that contentment,
your salvation,
your savio,
has come to you in the form of a poem in no ryhme scheme,
there is no game with what you could have forever,

---oh that we could traverse to more than a poem together...

6-29-06
“Superman”

Born December 6th to give everyone a gift
---walking around dying, wondering what to love
Man-of-steel on the outside
He took his heart and cut it out
and his past he could not save
is nothing but an old “good-read”
(I wonder if anyone sees what I see
this broken superman dream)
he can save me, but he can’t save himself
---I’ve carved Jacob on my hand so many times
but the only thing we do is fly around town
hoping to one day understand
the pain I feel through him
how he can love everyone but himself
a broken savior,
and I have nothing to offer but a poem…

MM-- wow, that one is interestingly creepy, and has made my skin creep.... Jesi

Jesi: Thank you. It is creepy, and I'm glad you liked it. It's about the vampire and the vampire's familiar but can double as a co-dependent relationship as well.
I like your poems. They seem to carry some of the same elements. I feel a bit of sad bitterness between and within the lines. Your poems work better when you employ the sublime and don't create a thought outright. And I like how you often use art and the act of painting and color in your work. It seems to carry the poem and fatten it up a bit. Keep posting. Everyone else is kinda MIA. Or it'll just be little ol' me and that's an awful buzz kill.
MM

Jesi I really liked "Traverse." So personal. I can see a lot of myself reflected in it.
-Vicki

7-5-06
“i hope you can hear me”

i hope that you can hear me
as much as I can hear you
like when that song plays
and I am curled on the ground dying
hear my heart breaking, breaking
the pull of a poem given
in the passenger seat
of an old-bottle-of-wine song
i hope you can hear me
whispering your name in the dark
calling out for your hand
and that arm, the arm i need
i hope you can hear me
replaying our reverie
it’s the story of you and me
and our mountain of dreams together
crumbling at my feet

7-5-06
“my give in is gone”

my palms can’t draw
my paints run dry
my yellow is fading
my words words words
can’t find my poetry
and my heart heart heart
can only find you
and where is that love
that i can’t help but hold onto
now that i have turned away
there seems to be so much left unsaid
I just want to love again
I just want to heal all this wrong
but my give in is gone

7-5-06
‘if only’

can’t find poetry in her eyes
has a book of broken promises
man that wants to turn that around
can’t fall down into his arms
he keeps his distance on a broken @irl
doesn’t want to ruin his world
been thinking of turning around
starting to put some feet on the ground
---but what of love and the words she gave

thanks vicki and Monica...

I hope everyones summer is going good? classes on campus and such? I hear that lovely shakespeare class is going on a trip and English club is invited...!! whos ready to watch some plays??

i miss campus!!

theyellowpoet
7-6-06
‘revelation’

its inside the heart
a shoo t ing rip
someone else’s pain
jammed up inside
like a backwards nail
a simple connection of the eyes
and i can feel their whole world
crashing down on me

theyellowpoet
7-6-06
“little yellow flowers”

plastic arms folded nice
looking pretty in her dress
head full of nothing
in her Sunday best
blue-eyed-hell
leaning over his desk
he’s taking her home

this painted feline label
she can’t scratch off
his fingers like to stick more on
stereotypical hypocrite, she cries
believes but walks another way

white-picket fence
full of 2.5 kids, a kitten, and lab mix
she’ll pull the cake out of the oven
burn her acrylic finger tips
little yellow flowers covering
a pretty picture of sunshine

anyone else need a thread killed? I got you.

The Antipoet (7-6-06)

Before he died…
One of the greatest of all time
Scribed the realist shit he ever wrote.
Don’t know if I’m strong enough
To take a good look in a mirror
If I ever could
Would be afraid of what I’d have to say
to myself.
Eyes closed; mumbling to my inner Judas
Who would’ve just
Whispered about how I could be published
Used my words against myself
Used to write just to explore
Get the contents under pressure
off of my chest; not ever to impress
any member of the opposite
or even the same sex
that’s why it was locked away
guarded my heart
bookbag sort of a Kevlar vest
not to protect myself
it’s the innerself
that needed to be bulletproof
guess I was that vulnerable
till a moment where…
I started trying to listen
And actually thought I was a poet
It got me in trouble and of course
You’re not descriptive enough
You rhyme with the same suffix
Too wordy
Too straight forward
Lines were too long
Poem is too short
Let your work speak for yourself
Where’s the punctuation
Stubborn and can’t take criticism
Trying to keep up with them
Just adding to the frustration
Whatever happened?
To just expressing yourself
Even though I have poems in piles
I Never claimed to be a poet
Remains like run rabbit run
All the way through 8 miles
No victim because I got too egotistical
Worried about pleasing people
With the pen and harnessing some potential
To the point where I wanted to
Permanently lay down the writing utensil
Became a writer in passing
Picked up the book
And put back on the shelf
Serves me write
As I zip the vault
Rather be a writer in the wind
Than waiting in the wings
As long as I get to be me
And not one or the other
Pleading to be complicated please
Allow myself to be ever-changing
And carry a protest movement
in my pocket
Call me the Antipoet.

6-4-06
"holding her mothers hand"

I saw her walk in again
that soft spoken stubborn child
Ghostly face holding her mothers hand
holding onto every past negligence
working through a sea of smokers
to a table in the corner of nowhere
and to watch her sit in that perfect circle
without the words to say
that she wanted to escape
from a trap of hurt
like fire slowly smoldering that spirit
she lives her life in far away dreams
sees her life cut away
in a tetrahedral shape
with no chance of salvation
and image of a whole 1/2 generation
spiraling through life with no purpose
given away her dignity with black eye-liner
she could have spoken up today
and shared what she believed
that yellow worship sitting on her heal
it transfers in her sleep down her spine
but there is no hold in the day
and as she lifts that black coffee to her lips
realizingh the only thing keeping her alive is the caffeine
inside she reaches out a calling
away from all the black
and crosses herself with everything that she has
giving it up for what she knows will come
because this is the only way
to bend her knees in a public place
and pray for her story to be heard
but it is all to much of a struggle
to start to bend and suddenly stop
because she can't seem to let go that last bit of agnst
---if only she did she could live forever

I've really enjoyed reading all your poems. My special favorites were; "The Antipoet", "little yellow roses", and, of course, "Succubus". One question, where's Nic?

wooden goodbye
(a kind of fairytale)
sarah stevens

lay her in sawdust—
a woodchip love tangle
cover up that babydoll smile,
she couldn't take out the splinters
wedged in soft, pumping tissue
made a sandpaper jesus worthy of her trust
burning the rotten wood floor boards
of her rusty make-believe enchanted forest
she’ll whittle a dull blade semi-truth
little dancing mary magdalene
swallowed the seven dwarfs in tablet form
don’t wake her tree trunk hibernation
tears mere kindling for her apocalyptic heart
this pine needle heaven more perfect
than either a new heaven or a new earth
(and, to think, in this same place where she once knelt and knocked for fairies.)
it’s the oak veneer of nothingness
the twilight timber lunatic whisper
that lulled her to sleep in this tree root cradle
now she sleeps the drug-induced slumber of infants
cover her up with lichen and moss
better to be a piece of what’s thriving
than the daydream humanity biblical hierarchy
imagine her as driftwood
petrified to a sharp crackle
in some distant forest fire
imagine all her shape and thoughts and lust
no more than smoke from sawdust

barnem & bailey
sarah stevens

all the words circus act
spotlight on an attempt
to understand but if—than
why risk bearded lady
escapades nosebleed
seats sticky (stranger’s
bubble gum) spit it out
hepatitis b quit word
vomiting all over me
talk about spotlights
impregnated with trust
benevolent ringmaster
tame as he is, he’ll bite
“here, kitty, kitty” ass
crack b movie—still
pocket-sized infatuation
peanut gallery lusty kisses
tell me it’s x-mass morning
irrelevant massacre pretty
pink lion tongue licking
up red drip taste of raw
relativity listen to flesh rip
i’ll never say it again but
grand finale fire jump
tail singed, pout face
(that’s it) bitter analogy
we file out one-by-one
into the cold of loving
the ticking and tocking
winter air goodnight
see a tightrope walker
up close outdated wrinkles
lifetime of assholes lookin
up her skirt—and i feel
two concentric rings
momentary pain cannon
ball exhaust selfishly
backfiring into the night

No More Words (Peace Out) 7-10-2006

I talk too much
To write no more words
Children flip their quarters
In order to be disappointed
Watching their coins fall
Inside an empty wishing well
Peering down images in distortion
Hoping—some spirits extend their hands
Hopefully the wrong entities
Can’t catch quarters and wishes
Close their hands
And watch as the world folds
Upon our hopes and dreams
Many victories and revolutions
Were the greatest stories never told
Caught the breath of individuals
Who blew the winds
In eyes of the perfect storm
Capitalists circulate
Counter clockwise
Within those tumultuous walls
It was supposed to be
The content of our character
Instead of the blind
Too callous to even feel Braille
Sought to strip us of our pride
May sound fatalistic
But I am still walking
As I lace my kicks
That has picked up extensive miles
Yet have not left enough footprints
Will walk in another direction for a while
Flipping quarters to the skies
And catching dimes
Breathing in the eternal sunshine
trying to find space in the grand design
Every moment from here on out
is pivotal—nothing more to lose
Besides the verses from instrumentals
The strongest muscle never breaks
It only bruise
Radicals risking meaningful life
And writing to save lives; while
Robbing privileges from the rich
And distributing them to the poor
Because those children believe
Their quarters could pay their way
Why I should roll up my emotions
And my sleeves
Fulfill a purpose and fight for reprieve
By the way…
Let me step from my soapbox
Deflate my ego
release my pens and pencils
Get off my pedestal
Because I talk too much
And write too many words.

your right where is nic?

NIC?!

NIC???!!!!

“unforgiven judgment”

she’s broken inside an eggshell
blood caked creeping hands
dust building inch thick walls
redundant flakes weighing eye-lashes
livid seething hypocrite town
wants her to choose a novel-death
someone said there’s no worth
cuz she’s stuck in the sh i t ter
whimpers like a vegetarian feminist
and consumes like a swollen misogynist
throw-away political rants
a giant blister on humanity
a leaching zit (seeping in and out)
but nothing is enough to crush
all self-worth an existence
her foam at the mouth rage
will be captured in her trivial debris
liberation comes with im-so-sorry’s
(reigning at most 7 years)
a world with constant penalties
a sequence persistent until casualty calls
until she crawls out of that blue egg
boars it all again, (they’ll do it to her again)
drive the nails in her eyes
they wont to accept her until blindness falls
---an unforgiven judgment needs washed...

I await the new perspective
like the shivering dawn
on the coarse side of a binge.
I check outside the door each day,
but it hasn't come.
What do I expect?
At least a certain amount of inherent change.

Jim:) I've missed your graceful reflections and witty observations.

There is a rock I like to sit on
when I am fishing in the pond
across the street.
And the time elapsed per fish caught, well
there's not much use in figuring.
Suffice to say that if I were there
like the rock,
I wouldn't have to concern myself
with catching fish nor catching hell.

compost
sarah stevens

i prayed for sorry
ate gospel like tic-tacs
exerted flip-flop force
(i have ten bloody toes
to show for it)
then buried the corpse
not human anymore,
nor the son of god--
or my doppelganger,
the girl i made into dust--
but mineral rich soil
clogging my fingernails,
nostrils, can't cough it up
and i've tried
as though trying were enough
until i felt the wood ridges
etched into my back
blasphemous as i am
love was never
my first commandment
too inextricable
the paranoia i suckled
from under her floralness
that's what i get
in place of salvation
someone else's jesus,
a handful of dirt
it's my head pressed
in gesthemane
not as sure as i used to be
in the midst of all this waste
stones seeping, wet with hope

For Austin Mc.

never too many
hold your words
on my skin
too few actually
i want a wardrobe
of poetic graffiti...

OK, so I don't write poetry. I like reading it! Here are a couple I bet you don't know, by an American poet named Trumbull Stickney (1874-1904).

"Mnemosyne"

It's autumn in the country I remember.

How warm a wind blew here about the ways!
And shadows on the hillside lay to slumber
During the long sun-sweetened summer-days.

It's cold abroad the country I remember.

The swallows veering skimmed the golden grain
At midday with a wing aslant and limber;
And yellow cattle browsed upon the plain.

It's empty down the country I remember.

I had a sister lovely in my sight:
Her hair was dark, her eyes were very sombre;
We sang together in the woods at night.

It's lonely in the country I remember.

The babble of our children fills my ears,
And on our hearth I stare the perished ember
To flames that show all starry thro' my tears.

It 's dark about the country I remember.

There are the mountains where I lived. The path
Is slushed with cattle-tracks and fallen timber,
The stumps are twisted by the tempests' wrath.

But that I knew these places are my own,
I 'd ask how came such wretchedness to cumber
The earth, and I to people it alone.

It rains across the country I remember.

"Sir, Say No More"

Sir, say no more.
Within me 't is as if
The green and climbing eyesight of a cat
Crawled near my mind's poor birds.

[Biographical point of possible interest for the above -- he died of a brain tumor.]

Chickity China the chinese chicken

Ate all my sausage in **** chicken

purple perplexy pandamonium

hot hot y man
not not testy man

hairy chesty man
honey breasty man

honey toasted chicken

toasted chicken nuts

Peas porridge Hot, Peas porridge cold
***'* sausage is spicy and bold

but cold or hot does it matter
he allways strikes out as the batter

maybe if you didnt throw like a
i'd hit the ball out of this world

I can only imagine that one ball fashion

Thought I'd return the favor

The Sweetest Language (7-12-06)

The sweetest language
Smells like your favorite flowers
Your words; your scent;
Your friendship; our braided realities
Is fluent in every imaginable
Language; proficient semantics
Remains undefined; not as afraid
Whomever said evolving theses
Can fit between any one else’s lines?
Would be like trying to
Catch everyone else’s sunshine
Or lightening in a bottle
The mercury outside of a thermometer
And them other clichés
In our conversations
Raises the temperatures
And moves needles along the barometer
Want a wardrobe of poetic graffiti
How about a rain shower?
Of some lovely stanzas
Some limber linguistics
Because no one can stop the rain
Or escape the drops
Oops, pardon me
While I take your umbrella
As some partake in the exchange
With eye contact, winks, and smiles
Carefree syntax and grammar
In the efforts of ideas to evolve
On our papers consciously
Conclusions are overrated
In reading and speaking
The sweetest langage
the journey is paramount
no definintions
actions, thoughts, and words
just believe and trust
to let it be...

“Unforgiven Judgment II”

that livid seething hypocrite town
reaches into her creeping insides
calling out for a redemption
to crush all her crying and whining
but they locked her inside a crapper
and are beating the walls of her shell
with the spiked nails they’ll drive in her eyes
they couldn’t have done anything wrong
no they couldn’t have done something wrong
people make choices, choices don’t make people
pop that blister so if fizzes away from them
they go to church every Sunday
so how could they be wrong
from this scratching scab on town
she looks at them with such contempt
coloring every moment black and white
they’ll never know her struggles
as she glues her blue egg shut again
foaming at the mouth all her rage
one day they’ll know they are wrong
in that political poem
feed them the meat of their mistakes
---an unforgiven judgment needs washed

“unforgiven judgment III (the final call)”

she’s looking at her shoes
walking past the world
they we are all just bumping against
the shells of each others existence
in this system of negligence
stares on the ground
instead of into the genuine
don’t know her name
but know her path
peter needs his feet washed
someone else will do it
it’s okay to be just okay
and contentment comes with nothing
stake a claim or walk away
she’s looking at her shoes
hoping someone could walk into her world
without knowing her story
the final call, out of this crawling misery
and He wonders where everyone is
broken but saying they are fixed
---an unforgiven judgment needs washed

theyellowpoet--jesi
7-12-06
“with a super-power of happiness”

I took her to the hospital
wearing my blue-shirt uniform
she cut her feelings out
let them drip down her hand
she got stiched up
holding a cookie-monster doll
with a cape made of gauze
told me his super-power was happiness
and we came back to a lock-down-home
and now she’s standing their like a stone
crying all those tears
she’s been fighting again
they are yelling at her
with an uncontrolled rage
and like a baby-rag-doll
she stands
while they pull out all her stuffing
she was suppose to find her redemption
around someone that could-have-cared
but these uniformed people
can’t hear her cry at night
or see her dying in an internal fight
And I am watching it all happen
like an action movie worth 7.50
these verbs beating into all her self-worth
I can see her trying to lock-up-love
like a pistol ripping into me
all that hurt lurches my heart
I thought this place was safe
but these children have no refuge
she’s caught up their fate
little child, with little choice
but to blame herself
for all the mistakes
everyone else has made against her
and my tough love comes to register
at a place I can’t sit-still
because this blue shirt burns my skin today
and poetry won’t be all I say
THAT child will be saved
I’m not hear to break what’s already broken
come push a child, strip them down like its right
--- I’ll baptize this hell in a living sacrifice

I probably shouldn't have posted this one since it's unfinished...

Neutral Ground (7-12-06)

The howling walls within
The eyes of the storm
Has thought to be the most violent
That the void was supposed to be
Neutral ground was never believed
A paradoxical notion which
Could not be perceived
Tumultuous winds blown in between
Two pairs of lips
used to connect
Albeit at times asymmetrically
Like an ellipse
Walking on somewhat common grounds
Where forgiveness has to be outlined
Around the pairs of stumbling footprints
Strolling towards cognitive bliss
Then skies the limits
Upon the hum of the choirs
captured clearest in surround sound
instead of our ears and hearts burned
within the encapsulation of fires

Scribble Scrabble (7-12-06)

As the connections
Between my mind
And hands begin to unravel
I scribble diarhetical drivel
Onto a page where letters
Are scrambled—I knew I
Was never good at scrabble
Because I have always had
Trouble spelling out my thoughts
And deciphering actions
Analyzing metaphorical flux
So my wide-eyed glasses,
Social anxiety and
my overbite provided me
The impetus to write
Frantically; mentally wavering
Words upon a page swaying
Psychologically stalling
Because I am good at procrastinating
And now you’re saying
You’re bullshitting us
As if you’re still writing
those English papers
on race instead of british lit
which often left me quivering;
walking out of Shakespeare class
because my heights were often withering
history was my literature
just ask henry fielding
took a few words on a page
from a book I barely read
and pulled a paper from my sleeve
the teacher created a stage
hand out of person who’ve always
had fright
and bullshitted my way
in between fight, flight
or English club chatter
so I should probably quit while I’m ahead
and cease my schizophrenic verbal bladder
so thanks for taking the time to observe
as I tend to dabble
and stew in my own
scribble scrabble.

Recalling the vinegar veins,
he smiles and winks
at the passing spirits
so hot and full that they bubble over
yet so unsatiated as to be never ripe.
Exploiting the ills of conditions
far far far better. . .
Alas, lithe and deaf!

“my weakness”

i had a whole poem written
that would bring you back to me
shiny yellow note against the others
those words that we would keep
like a sacred song and a hand
but i can’t carry on focused
on one topic of memories
and letting it spill all around me
i’m talking of the good and the bad
these thoughts thoughts thoughts
make what of yesterdays drives
a country boy and a country @irl
wrapped in each others worlds
some story book chapter printed
where best-friends fall into forever
finally someone worth waiting for
couldn’t hold in i-love-you anymore
in a dark passenger seat it spills out
just like that song made me cry
and that poem--i give
simple moments can’t be forgotten
and everything broken is forgiven
my flowers are still pressed
between a bible verse and theyellowpoet
the day i see you again, i’ll lie
that i never paint watercolor yellow
and it doesn’t hurt to look away
from your hand coming towards me
on a roof-top stargazing night
when we ran from the screaming
hiding in each others arms
one-day we’ll look back and laugh
at your mothers disapproval
my complete anxiety sickness
when your hand left my back
all imperfect moments are now perfect
tapering away to how they end
with us in our Winnebago running away
pretending to live in the mountains
away from what tries to tear us apart
we were not afraid to get caught
and today that far-away-bracelet
a gift still tied tight to my keys
is wearing down to colored strings
like the images captured in Polaroid
i’ll hold onto them until they are stolen
they help me miss you all the time
like those messages you’d leave
saying you’d rather be somewhere with me
at anytime, anywhere, your voice over the phone
was closer than anyone around
i would have done anything for you to stand
and in that freezing-blizard road
when we both were afraid to show
that there was no one else we would rather
be slid into the ditch with for the night
like those long just-best-friend calls for no reason
and a letter of a good or bad day
or when i drove forty minutes
just to see you smile across the living room
at a you had no idea had already fallen
for a simple man with such humbleness
it was all slow going to a start
but i can’t ever see it dying so fast
i still see you, i still feel you, you are in me
traveling around in all of my poetry
and i am nothing but a nomad tripping after you
like always you have your hand leading me
and i sit waiting for something i know i’ll never see again
on top of our mountain in a church parking lot
every night i go our memory is there
and the words find this yellow note
scribbled on the back of a napkin
all the things i can’t touch anymore
---of all the poems i write, you’re my weakness

I saw Sara and she asked me if I had written anything this summer other than on essays,!!! Well, these are the two poems I have composed for the summer. I hope everyone is having a joyous summer. I am enjoying my teaching opportunity at NCSC. It has been a learning experience or shall I refer to it as a re-learning!! Well whatever, enjoy!! Keep in touch.

TJones

Speed of Time

Pale, sullen and wrinkled are the hands of time,
or rather the hands of a man alive only in rhyme.
With such haste turn the hands of the mortal,
clock as we await a seemingly heavenly portal,
to escape the time that kept us being,
less we be just soul in space fleeing.

If such man be free of verse, simply sublime,
is it he who escapes altogether what crime,
only to age as do the pages, of he so divine,
as encrypted with words, lines and in rhyme.
Word has not the power to elude this,
mortalized and aged in utter word bliss.

Paralleling a time in space we cannot slow,
perpetual time transcends to old we grow,
clock time passes and surely we must know,
infinitely, musing as ashes and dust we blow

by Todd19

DERANGED MIND,,,,,

CoNfuSeD, dAzEd, MuTtErInG, bAbBlE uNcLeAr,
To An UnReSpOnSiVe DeAf MuTeD eAr,
YoU wHiSpEr So SoFtLy To InVoKe A RePlY,
A dErAnGeD mInD iNsIdE sEaRcHeS, wHy?

to answer the question so posed by you,
or free itself and evil be construed.
the power of a mind so conscious and alive,
unparallelled, unchallenged yet deprived,

OF A SOLE EXISTENCE, TO BE ALONE AS ONE,
TRUE FUNCTIONING ENTITY OWNED BY NONE.
BUT FORCED TO UNITE DIEING BODY AND SOUL,
A MIND LEFT BEHIND TO BEAR THE TOLL.

A mind makes us human and mortal are we,
once we die, we set our mind forever free.

by Todd19

If I ever have kids, I am definitly going to have to name one of them Trumbull Stickney. It's got a real nice ring to it.

ALL OF THESE THINGS ARE TRUE

The ramparts are lofty,
lurid and woven.
Do not fuss over all of this dust,
it is bought and paid for.

Prevention is the best medicine.

Their backs scream beneath the weight
of paper and hate.
They know nothing;
only what they seek -
lethal cavalries, fashioned with ink.

Only the strong survive.

They buried the clocks long ago;
no need for miniscule movement,
discordant reminders.

There is nothing new to defend under the sun

Smiling into their coffee every hour,
holding razorblades under their tongues,
they carve new commandments into their bodies -
never take smoke breaks -
sealing every violation with blood and ash.

They only appear when provoked.

Water is forgotten.
There is no sense in such neutral matter,
no sense in being still.

Silence is not tolerated.

Fear only a natural death.

Swallowing broken compasses,
eyes dry and fixed.

Salute willful victims.

Martyrdom -
their chosen captivity.

Coming Attractions? (7-16-06)

Now playing
Clash of the titans
Bombs burst on trains
Buildings collapsing
Are we listening?
To London calling?
Countries playing catch
With missiles
From Israel to Haifa
And back to Damascus
Now Lebanon’s falling
Are we deaf or
Are we hard of hearing?
The powers that be
Blaming the mid-east extremists
While others point their trigger fingers
At the Israeli zionists
Does anyone care?
That we seem to be staring
The next great war, which
Could not be saved by
Seventy virgins of Allah
and the second coming
Or is it really that human nature
Is constantly consumed
By violence and warfare?
Buttressed by a religion
Not faith—nor the same
fate as their humanitarian
predecessors
what should be our legacy
oppression or peace?
if you turn a blind eye
then I can’t turn my cheek
towards any one
bleeding their apathy—for that idea
I’d rather not speak
Would rather have my life taken
From fighting to see
Rather be known as naïve
And idealistic
Because what I speak
And write for
I stood on the shoulders of,
I never invented, but
We are only human
And I at least believe.

and still no nic?

Nic is in my basement. So there!

I'll tell him everyone said hello!

you didnt bury him there did you?

haha.

ps. MM. loved the last poem. yummy.

Nic's definitely better buried in Monica's basement than sleeping on my floor . . . again.

Tel-apathy

Too lazy to phone
Ain't made a post in some time
But I've been dug up

Good to see you, Nic.

Nic don't put on airs. You know very well that you were never buried in my basment. Nothing stays buried down there, and yes, I speak from personal experience.

I live in a deep valley and on a large marsh. What with all the rain we've had as of late, my basment has been extremely flooded. Nic, along with Marilyn Monroe, Jack Kerouac and myself, have simply been bailing it out with pails. Under the veil of night, we come out, ladened with another bucketfull of spring water which comes in through every crevice in the wall. Leaving watery footprints, using the snapping turtles for stepping stones, we take the water back to the marsh, little by little. At night so the neighbors won't talk, you know. Then, after a few hours, we go up on the roof and catch falling stars in our mouths and listen to the water rise. As a matter of fact, we've all decided that we're going to start a bottled water business. It's going to be called "Pretty Water from a pretty valley in a pretty bottle from a pretty spring gathered by pretty people; drink it and feel pretty!" Look for it in the Fall, it's going to be a real smash!

So Nic, don't talk of being buried. It's bad for business.

he sleeps on your floor too...!

will i be able to purcase this water via the internet?

and another thing Mr. Python whats up with your link...yeah I followed it...

Monica, you are watching WAY too many M. Night Shyamalan films!

they dooo suit me better, and here is something for you ,love.

(i'm making you dinner)

;)

VoaA, not much to say about the lyrics, though perhaps this new set will suit you better.

Mmmm. Nothing like chicken guts to go with my monkey brains. Bon appétit.

that is an amazing video...

but careful about the monkey brains... dangerous i hear...

like a child i pear around
hoping to catch a glimpse of you
it’s a tricky vice I keep
to allow myself to not look away
and while i sit here in my poetry
like a flowery wreath draping around
you don’t seem to care
much about these poems i have
someone, someone might one day
push me to turn away from your hands
the way you take me up into words
like that brown tendril falling
to cover up your glance my way
i’ve lost myself in your etchings
painting story, picture---poetry poetry poetry …
of the way i look at you
and whether or not you’ve changed
or if all of these words mean the same
poised and leaning over the table
to see that book your holding open on your lap
wishing i was the author you read
you barely even speak to me
but i vindicate the reason with a purpose
that you’re a far-away-friend now
such a ache that my poetry is so close
and to pretty for this ugly-defective-me

You guys definetly need some Pretty Water...

especially Sir Hamlin over there.

It catches you napping
in the gaudy light of summer days
and all those toasts you made
around the campfires
amusing and poignant
only serve to remind you
that momentary flashes
exist in and out of their time
but thinking too long about charm
is your style
and my thinking of your desperation
appears to be mine
and once again nobody
knows shit

Sick

how does one respond...
to something they've never seen

seeping in on thier skin
and drinking all the hope

i used to see everyone angry
but now i just see them empty

and when i walk in
wearing black, and black, and black--
I scare you,

barmaid
sarah stevens

it’s not happy hour yet...
she, so pensive, in her black mini distress
wide open counterfeit eyes flirt
across the amber light of whisky shots
here’s fifty dollars on a thirty dollar tab
for thighs curving up to plush
lace-encasement of buttocks
he dropped it more than once
how’d you get that bruise,
you sexy slur of a lost little girl
already twenty-four
bending over in a place like this

not even crowded in here yet...
just wait, she moans over the dialog
eyes half closed—camel lashes a barricade
against the harsh climate
of degradation and smoke
she lets him touch her, earth and oil
in his fingernails as they slide into
the shadow of her artificial god-given
exposure of skin means better tips
you do the math, she says
nimble pink of her tongue slicing my neck
grabbing me from behind—pushing

is it closing time yet?
laughter as her polyester red-hot center
masturbates the shiny metal tap
he tells her she’s sexier in the dark
he’ll take care of her and her kid
and her blind eye twitches
toward the bucket full of tips
i goodbye her, over my shoulder
wish i could scoop up her minute bravery
carry it with me into the soft musical
of the parking lot—cars choreographed
to the heavy thump-thump of her heart

Polititry (7-20-06)

In spite of being antipoetical
Pretty paradoxically
I take my politics and poetry personal
As if I didn’t have a choice
Eat, shit, sleep, and breathe in
liberal and conservative air
And various media
Antithetical rhetorical pollutants
as my darken lungs constrict
my heart pumps
Change I’d probably bleed
In efforts of the cleansing
Maybe a little too romantic
Not just paper champions
What I write, think, and secrete
some truly believe;
and in solidarity;
no American dreams;
All hard work
Every ounce and it shows
Through the perspiration;
The soaked passion
Weighing down my sleeves
Never heavy enough
To raise the fist or
The peace sign
As we aspire to
Keep it moving
Because I never have enough time
And the rumors of the span
Of a radical or revolutionary
Has left a deadly life line
Never been afraid
To stare the man in the mirror
in the face and
shake the hands of
My predecessor’s fate
While I keep stirring the jug
With the other
Because our fight for freedom
Has been warming my mind
Whenever the world’s deemed too cold
The elevating desire burns at
Temperatures higher
Than the fluids within the strongest
Smoker’s lighter
Because when some write
About injustices
I scribe these words; my polititry,
to cope, explore, act,
and ultimately to get by.

Blind Visions (7-23-06)

Sometimes a life
Can be one huge walking,
writing, irony
because with the best of them
I can lift and push your pen
And invoke beauty through
The written word
Yet through some sort
of Charles Darwin
Of natural, emotional,
selection; I’ve sometimes
had a difficulty;
adequately expressing
Affection.
I mean, in my mind
I’ve always seem to
Think of what I want to
Convey—without the pen
To be used as a crutch
I can be tongue-tied
Yet simultaneously
There are sparkling moments
Where I have the guts;
The confidence in my semantics,
manner, cadence, and timing
I seem to choose the right words
To match the perfect situation
or a special person; and to be in sync
with myself
because the thoughts and terms
that pass through my lips
never consult with falsities and lies
and they are more than just lines
even more than just being nice
I believe that the blind
Can even see truth and
Could bear the license to beauty
In sight; without feeling Braille
I could pick up the utensil
express my blind vision
And draw a beautiful portrait
of humanness and their precious lives
While I open my eyes.

flower of my heart
sarah stevens

i don’t mince words
too often
you, the flower of my heart
inert, throbbing thing
grey green chloroform
held it there
too long
and now you move motionless
my hands at your armpits
your leaden bulk
a controversy against carpet
rigormortous sneak
once again, you win
crafty wingtips grasping
broad shouldered obstacle
goddamn entryway
blue lips rasp
call an ambulance
ha!
slide the coated cellophane
back in place
hardly a game anymore
besides, the going improves
once we start downhill
remember the slopes
that winter?
i was nearly twenty
pretended i couldn’t ski
you saw
my cheap leak of a parka
and believed me
shut up that gagging
weakness is cheating
let me cut a slice of you
for remembrance
your blood drip tombstone
my flower, my heart

yes,but
birth grants me life
and life grants me death
and inbetween are choices
but, please, I will beg
that you do not allow
your self-righteousness
the power to judge me
or the bombs will never stop falling
from the hands
of the name of Godonearth.
Perhaps what you see as my apathy
is a quiet rhetoric
of peace, love, and understnding.

Jim, I just read your poem eight times, I think. I like the way you take a common assumption and twist it into something much bigger--and very beautiful.