Towns known only by lovers' beds,
each set of sheets labeled with a memory.
I will always love your dog.
The last turn down the last road
before I am at your door.
Places taken by association,
friends that were never mine to begin with.
Their absence worse than yours.
Recognition of faces that should never
have been photographed in my mind.
These paths are so well traveled I can walk them in my dreams.
You don't have to tell me that counting minutes from
my door to yours
is as good as counting
days until goodbye.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Diseased
*This poem is my number 1 slam... the one I do everywhere because I know it by heart.
Unbury yourself from the depths inside
watch life flood from between my thighs
cycle continued
blood after the wound
your subtle knife sliced
because the seeds of greed were planted from tears cried
after I laid with deprivation and slept around with lies
and if you sleep with dogs
you wake up with fleas
conclusion:
love is a mutt,
and I've caught the disease
but there's more to this equation
than the noise I've been raisin'
about the pride that I've cried
and the tears I've sanctified
this is about the months
I've been staying in hiding
and the dreams I killed
before they were confided
because I know a little about being used
know how to be blind
and still see the truth
because I've felt my stomach swell
with the clamoring of thunder
felt it clamp tight
as the wonder's torn asunder
because abortions of the mind
are much easier to find
follow the path of fleas to to the end of the design
and when you leave
press "erase" please
delete the messages found in this place
and forget what you've seen.
Unbury yourself from the depths inside
watch life flood from between my thighs
cycle continued
blood after the wound
your subtle knife sliced
because the seeds of greed were planted from tears cried
after I laid with deprivation and slept around with lies
and if you sleep with dogs
you wake up with fleas
conclusion:
love is a mutt,
and I've caught the disease
but there's more to this equation
than the noise I've been raisin'
about the pride that I've cried
and the tears I've sanctified
this is about the months
I've been staying in hiding
and the dreams I killed
before they were confided
because I know a little about being used
know how to be blind
and still see the truth
because I've felt my stomach swell
with the clamoring of thunder
felt it clamp tight
as the wonder's torn asunder
because abortions of the mind
are much easier to find
follow the path of fleas to to the end of the design
and when you leave
press "erase" please
delete the messages found in this place
and forget what you've seen.
Arretez
Wait-
Attendant en toi, mais si tu arrives ici-
Where will I go?
Because I don't know if you see
What you leave behind when you leave me
Mais si tu sais-
pourquoi ne restes-tu pas?
Ecoutez-
Do you hear that?
C'est le son des questions
que je ne peux pas te demander.
They remain-
You leave
and someday,
le son changerait a
le son des reponses.
Attendant en toi, mais si tu arrives ici-
Where will I go?
Because I don't know if you see
What you leave behind when you leave me
Mais si tu sais-
pourquoi ne restes-tu pas?
Ecoutez-
Do you hear that?
C'est le son des questions
que je ne peux pas te demander.
They remain-
You leave
and someday,
le son changerait a
le son des reponses.
Act 5: Desperation
*This was originally supposed to be the final segment of a 5-act poem. Except I never wrote the first 4, and I think I like it just the way it is.
She rends her dreams and mends her smiles, continues on while all the while
you wink and nod, bow and applaud
at the stage she's set before you.
The bawdy tunes, the well-kept ruins, the innocence and the lewdness,
all contrive to make her strive
for more than a torn velvet curtain.
The final act begins in silence, the calm before a sudden violence
she hits the mark, descends to the dark
in an Act of Desperation.
She hid it well, that broken heart, but I knew her well, I played my part
the finished scene, a smile so serene
you would think her near to waking.
I bow my head, now, at her cold grave; nothing given, nothing saved
I will not weep, though my heart will keep
the act that stole the show.
She rends her dreams and mends her smiles, continues on while all the while
you wink and nod, bow and applaud
at the stage she's set before you.
The bawdy tunes, the well-kept ruins, the innocence and the lewdness,
all contrive to make her strive
for more than a torn velvet curtain.
The final act begins in silence, the calm before a sudden violence
she hits the mark, descends to the dark
in an Act of Desperation.
She hid it well, that broken heart, but I knew her well, I played my part
the finished scene, a smile so serene
you would think her near to waking.
I bow my head, now, at her cold grave; nothing given, nothing saved
I will not weep, though my heart will keep
the act that stole the show.
Nightmares and Dreamscapes
Wounding--
more deeply, I'd say
than any insult inflicted by such mundane tools
as guns and knives.
Modern medicine has worked wonders
for the art of numbing our fears,
making us stupid when faced with such tragedies
as are found in this purely tangible world of our creation.
This is impermeable.
No pores to fit in needle pricks,
nor mouths for the easy ingestion of pills.
Subconsciously immortal,
because there is no sure-fire treatment for the removal
of this scar tissue.
Chances are, there is no purity beneath anyway.
Anesthesia is too big of a mouthful
for the immature beliefs that fuel our dreamscapes;
there is no morning-after pill that will flush out the virus
that leaves sweaty clutch-prints
in sterile cotton pillows.
more deeply, I'd say
than any insult inflicted by such mundane tools
as guns and knives.
Modern medicine has worked wonders
for the art of numbing our fears,
making us stupid when faced with such tragedies
as are found in this purely tangible world of our creation.
This is impermeable.
No pores to fit in needle pricks,
nor mouths for the easy ingestion of pills.
Subconsciously immortal,
because there is no sure-fire treatment for the removal
of this scar tissue.
Chances are, there is no purity beneath anyway.
Anesthesia is too big of a mouthful
for the immature beliefs that fuel our dreamscapes;
there is no morning-after pill that will flush out the virus
that leaves sweaty clutch-prints
in sterile cotton pillows.
Mesmerization of a History
*this poem developed from a high school writing assignment to write a poem like Sylvia Plath.
The young man stands, tossed by the wind. Caring
nothing for the way he looks, or so he'll have you think, he gazes
ominously out to sea. Stirring
slightly, he notices me. Devilish black hair reflects innocent moon-white
as the water drowns out his smile. Mesmerized,
we stand, as cloud covers the sky and leaves
hearts cold and lacking. It has grown old in my absence-
no life but our stirs in this sparse place.
Society's pestilence has spread far.
History intertwined, the young man and I
leave this ghostly sight. We met young,
omniscient in the way of life, cruel
in our naivete. But tide came, high and unforgiving,
ripping us from our ignorance, and soaking us
in an epiphany we could not yet comprehend.
Forgive me for my past! I cry, as frost binds my
recollection to this spot. My eyes
blanken, but you do not notice, because we have finally learned what we were taught
years ago.
The young man stands, tossed by the wind. Caring
nothing for the way he looks, or so he'll have you think, he gazes
ominously out to sea. Stirring
slightly, he notices me. Devilish black hair reflects innocent moon-white
as the water drowns out his smile. Mesmerized,
we stand, as cloud covers the sky and leaves
hearts cold and lacking. It has grown old in my absence-
no life but our stirs in this sparse place.
Society's pestilence has spread far.
History intertwined, the young man and I
leave this ghostly sight. We met young,
omniscient in the way of life, cruel
in our naivete. But tide came, high and unforgiving,
ripping us from our ignorance, and soaking us
in an epiphany we could not yet comprehend.
Forgive me for my past! I cry, as frost binds my
recollection to this spot. My eyes
blanken, but you do not notice, because we have finally learned what we were taught
years ago.
Destiny (Slam)
Nothing to blame except
the way you say my name and
the persistence of this heart in thinking
I could exaggerate my part and
I always wanted
to be the lead role
instead of delegating talents and
losing bits of soul but
you have led me on while I pretended
not to know
reversal of the quid pro quo
but still I will not let you go so
I just thought I'd say it now
I will let you break me down
but it's not your fault, there is no blame
it's just the way you say my name.
the way you say my name and
the persistence of this heart in thinking
I could exaggerate my part and
I always wanted
to be the lead role
instead of delegating talents and
losing bits of soul but
you have led me on while I pretended
not to know
reversal of the quid pro quo
but still I will not let you go so
I just thought I'd say it now
I will let you break me down
but it's not your fault, there is no blame
it's just the way you say my name.
Back East
You will have to leave me--
one of life's few guarantees.
Pack up your camera, notebook and guitar,
pulling out a smoke as you say it's not that far.
And I will taste you in my mind
long after I've been left behind,
knowing that, at most, I'll get to be
that funny little girl who kissed you once back east.
Idyllic nights like that one:
so late gone I caught the sun.
And you were you, but then, not quite,
talking parts of me at times.
I could've sworn we'd loved before,
blankets strewn across the floor;
maybe you'll remember this, at least-
that funny little girl who held you once back east.
Driving slow through silent woods,
I was giving what I could;
wanting you, yet certain too,
we were lost before we're through.
I cannot give in only parts-
too much shared to save this heart.
Promise, when you leave, to take a tiny peace
of that funny little girl who loved you once back east.
What strength it takes to let you go
is not something I want to know.
Standing still, head tipped to the sky,
your eyes are planning your next ride.
The stars are clearer somewhere west;
I am not who puts your heart at rest.
Maybe, one day, there'll be a song for me-
that funny little girl who lost you once back east.
**PS: one of my favorite efforts. Written about someone who was a total waste of time, aside from the fact that I created this poem because of him. Thanks, Cowboy.
one of life's few guarantees.
Pack up your camera, notebook and guitar,
pulling out a smoke as you say it's not that far.
And I will taste you in my mind
long after I've been left behind,
knowing that, at most, I'll get to be
that funny little girl who kissed you once back east.
Idyllic nights like that one:
so late gone I caught the sun.
And you were you, but then, not quite,
talking parts of me at times.
I could've sworn we'd loved before,
blankets strewn across the floor;
maybe you'll remember this, at least-
that funny little girl who held you once back east.
Driving slow through silent woods,
I was giving what I could;
wanting you, yet certain too,
we were lost before we're through.
I cannot give in only parts-
too much shared to save this heart.
Promise, when you leave, to take a tiny peace
of that funny little girl who loved you once back east.
What strength it takes to let you go
is not something I want to know.
Standing still, head tipped to the sky,
your eyes are planning your next ride.
The stars are clearer somewhere west;
I am not who puts your heart at rest.
Maybe, one day, there'll be a song for me-
that funny little girl who lost you once back east.
**PS: one of my favorite efforts. Written about someone who was a total waste of time, aside from the fact that I created this poem because of him. Thanks, Cowboy.
Hovercraft
Incongruous-
nature conquering nurture
in defiant flights of fancy.
Sun-spangled, it struggles,
beating wings and fluttering heart
steady rise above boiling blacktop.
Colors careen wildly, saying soft and swift-
you may have your technology,
but can you cut the breeze
with woven wings like these?
nature conquering nurture
in defiant flights of fancy.
Sun-spangled, it struggles,
beating wings and fluttering heart
steady rise above boiling blacktop.
Colors careen wildly, saying soft and swift-
you may have your technology,
but can you cut the breeze
with woven wings like these?
This is Not to Say
It is possible that
should I live to be 100- or more-
snowstorms will always be
walking backwards, buttoned breathless,
to the store
hoping for one more day, or hour
or minute of impassable roads.
This is not to say I miss you.
Forgive me,
sometimes I just need to remember
once there was
something warm, like love.
should I live to be 100- or more-
snowstorms will always be
walking backwards, buttoned breathless,
to the store
hoping for one more day, or hour
or minute of impassable roads.
This is not to say I miss you.
Forgive me,
sometimes I just need to remember
once there was
something warm, like love.
Sonnet I
Knowing that I had, in truth,
ev'ry right and ev'ry reason,
does not end this self-reproof
or make it less than treason.
But though I've gone, not to return,
and left you lost and lonely,
I cannot bring myself to yearn
that we'd stayed two strangers only.
Recalling now when love was strong,
whispered thoughts appear inside
parts of me might not last long
without you steadfast at my side.
Yet nighttime passes, and with it, my fears-
having known our love, I can shed no tears.
ev'ry right and ev'ry reason,
does not end this self-reproof
or make it less than treason.
But though I've gone, not to return,
and left you lost and lonely,
I cannot bring myself to yearn
that we'd stayed two strangers only.
Recalling now when love was strong,
whispered thoughts appear inside
parts of me might not last long
without you steadfast at my side.
Yet nighttime passes, and with it, my fears-
having known our love, I can shed no tears.
Your Ghost
Your presence is tangible,
trailing fingers of persuasion
along my paths of least resistance.
(How do you still know I hate to drive alone?)
There are songs that still scream
squeal of GT tires
along curves so sharp they cut my eyes-
until closing them, even, could not
stop or deny
the tears of desperation and frustration
that hid behind those happy lies.
(I will love you until the day I die.)
Still I would not surrender those
nicotine-fueled dreams at shore,
or the rocks below,
I dashed them on-
parts of them are still wholes of me.
Still I wish that leftover souls
could find some sort of serenity,
pleas for peace,
that your presence might presently
change directions, leave me un-persuaded.
(Let's go for a ride...)
trailing fingers of persuasion
along my paths of least resistance.
(How do you still know I hate to drive alone?)
There are songs that still scream
squeal of GT tires
along curves so sharp they cut my eyes-
until closing them, even, could not
stop or deny
the tears of desperation and frustration
that hid behind those happy lies.
(I will love you until the day I die.)
Still I would not surrender those
nicotine-fueled dreams at shore,
or the rocks below,
I dashed them on-
parts of them are still wholes of me.
Still I wish that leftover souls
could find some sort of serenity,
pleas for peace,
that your presence might presently
change directions, leave me un-persuaded.
(Let's go for a ride...)
Night Ride
Routes and maps and strange new places,
roads less traveled, changing faces.
A different person looking bored
behind the counter at the local gas station.
One more pack of cigarettes,
one more lover's smile,
slowly crossing fresh-kissed lips
as memories blend into miles.
Tires hugging gravel close,
another track to leave behind.
One road older, a few trips wiser,
changing lanes, one more night's ride.
roads less traveled, changing faces.
A different person looking bored
behind the counter at the local gas station.
One more pack of cigarettes,
one more lover's smile,
slowly crossing fresh-kissed lips
as memories blend into miles.
Tires hugging gravel close,
another track to leave behind.
One road older, a few trips wiser,
changing lanes, one more night's ride.
First post on my new blog!
I've created this blog basically just to have a place to put up some of my poetry. It's been a while since I've spent a lot of time on my writing, and I think putting up some of my previous efforts might be a good place to start. So enjoy, and feel free to comment on anything that you hate, love, or find completely boring and indifferent.
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