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[23 Jul 2008|11:54pm] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Greenwheel - Caving In |
] |
Second First Step
06.07.2008
Silently the blade lifts through the static air
Cherry handle turns, as a spit on campfire flame
Fingers walking, pacing, around the wood
Racing thoughts pierce the mental chasm
Why this, why then, would they ever know
Knowing is what is more, he breathes deep
Quietly pacing, contemplating thoughts
The books he loved are mindless sheafs
Palm down pressing, so strings won't hum
In the vacuous cavity, as hollow as his being
Harmonious silence fills his mind, soothing
Feeling his broken body, he breathes deep
Nimbly touching the scars on his skin
His mind races to that ill-fated day,
Young and thriving he rode through fire
Born again, an infant in body, a man in mind
Days pass, he grows, surpassing belief
Walking his second first step, he breathes deep
Raucously writhing, his insides were churned
Bones a many, were broken and sheared
Steadfast and sharp, his mind stood firm
Doctor's disbelieving, doubting every move
Not to be coddled or babied, he moves on
Strong willed, determined, he breathes deep
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[23 Jul 2008|10:20pm] |
every semi-concious soul
beckons me to stay awake
to attend the funeral
I fear to miss
the smell of roses
filling the parlor with
an omnious prescence of death
and obvious gloom as
we wait in line with
tears and hankerchiefs
carefully folded in our palms
I remembered him alive
with bright eyes and
perfect white smile
always cracking a joke.
Now he lays still in a wooden
box with carefully folded
palms against his stomache
a smile sewn shut forever
and makeup on his once lively
face to make up for the paleness
of rigor mortim
Why do we have to have such ceremonies
of the ones that passed away?
Why do we remember them forever in
our memories the 16 year old boy
in a wooden box that holds trinkets
of his once former life?
Why don't we just keep that part
sacred and hold the boy we knew
in life just in our hearts?
The pain of his passing will never leave
The feeling of my hot tears streaming down
my cold cheeks will always remain still
within my soul like a negative photograph.
I remember you in life
but will never forget you in death
as the rose petal scent gets thicker.
Copyright 2008 by Paulinerose Soden
In memory of William McGill.. taken before his time....
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[06 Jul 2008|05:21pm] |
Shiny Skin
all a glow
headed on a road
that no one knows
the stump of life
that has cracks
that we sometimes fall into
Always climbing out
to climb some more
A lizard's path in life
one I would love to know.
*okay, so not my best work and plus, i put it as a stump... I couldn't think of anything with a green pole... I am going to work some more on this. Any suggestions?*
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| 10 - The Big Bad Wolf |
[12 Jun 2008|08:07am] |
|
The big bad wolf has secrets
his brother was a half-wit,
eating paste and hiding his shoes
beneath the stairs.
He didn't start out bad,
caught with the wrong
crowd, ruffians and hooligans
who taught him how to hide
behind tall trees,
to shake down little girls
with shiny buckled shoes,
and take away their scones.
They taught him how
to track down ailing nanas,
break and enter their charming cottages,
the ones with a single plume
of smoke
rising from their chimneys.
He choked on his first,
but eventually learned
if he relaxed his shoulders
just so,
nana could be swallowed whole,
in the blink of a moonglowing eye.
The big bad wolf wanted to be good,
he dreamed
of curling up by the crackling fire,
letting a toddler snuggle
into his warm winter fur,
resting his lollipop head
against the wolf's beating heart.
And so he tore out the pages,
rewrote the endings,
joined a 12-step group
and renounced his sins to Jesus.
This campaign he repeated,
over and over,
until the light of another midnight moon,
reminded him
of where he came from
and all the other things
that would never change.
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| peccatrix |
[26 May 2008|08:37am] |
sinful thoughts and sinful wishes play upon my lips and tongue
while I watch the sinful missives play upon my pen and paper
sinful thoughts of deep delight are memories I warmly cherish
language moments of slight respite from Monday morning's dishes
night time crawls on bended knee in search of favors dark
yes sunlight shows for all to see the marks of my good night
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[13 May 2008|11:15am] |
sometimes the hardest things
are often the easiest
but hard for us to see
what it means to other people
to do what you got to
life is a survival game
a game of chance
and one of skill
a million blessings but
not one god to fortitude
trying my life at a lottery wheel
scratching off that winning ticket
and it wont reveal
my true prize of solitude
my josie is my winnings
and i am gambling with my life
to bring her happiness
in this unbearable world
a million blessings
but not one god to fortitude.
2008 Paulinerose Evans
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| At the border poem 31 |
[31 Mar 2008|08:22pm] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Satie: Sports Et Divertissements - Le Golf - Les Courses - Le Pique-Nique - Le Water-Chute - Le Tang |
] |
At the border, on the waterfront, on the beach,
a calm salt surf kisses our slippers
of brocade and gold thread slightly
damp from the cool moist sand.
We stand together, three of us, looking
out across the water towards a far
shore that is without more than
an image in our memories of two,
and a storied fantasy for the third
sister, conceived at home but born
after our journey had begun.
We hold her between us,
our youngest, our sweetness,
our treasured hope and worry.
The sisters, we three,
muse to our own survival, stalk
these shores in the evening
and again in the hours before dawn,
searching in those magic moments
for a way across to take our child home.
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|
| Desire and the Inner Derelict, poems 26-30 of 2008 |
[25 Mar 2008|08:20am] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Sanctuary - Natalie Imbruglia |
] |
The Harrow Inside -26
Razor-wire wrapped buildings crush my spirit from the outside,
sharp steel fetters cut and burn the soul without marking flesh.
The prisoner's dilemma, an awkward gambit in a single roll:
to die on the inside from the infinite wound of timeless captivity;
to fight the metal machine harrowing punishment into flesh.
Sweet oblivion, succor breast of numbing nullity.
There is no crime that can justify a soul destroying fate.
Kill me, if needs must, but killing my humanity is an evil
greater than whatever crime you think I've just committed.
True Final Love -27
There is nothing to call into question, action, thought or deed,
recollection or half-whispered memory to come between us.
It just doesn't exist... that thing to tear us apart. We are wedded
body to body, hear to heart, our soul is whole, indivisible:
Gloved flesh and mirrored sighs, never we're apart.
Brain waves and smiles, syncopated bliss replete.
Gestured affection matchless, violent ruthless intimacy.
So close, yet so far, I know longer know you are there.
I cannot feel your touch, or feel your breath on my skin.
We are only one, now and there is no other to break
the immeasurable sadness of our lonely steps
that will never be echoed by a lover's foot falls,
or be caressed by a new lover's first touch.
When lovers are one, there is no one to love.
Get it on! -28
Get your learning boots on, and stop fucking surfing the net.
You pornformational sluttery and data whoring must cease,
along with your random access attention deficit shopping.
Give it like it is. Say it as you want it tattooed on your ass
in a nudist colony... "This is who I am!" Right here and now.
Get it on, sweet sister, get it on. And make your ramblings
meaningful. Without purpose, your sorry ass is just a heap
of pale processed GMO protein in gelatinous soup-base.
Forever never dance with only your finger tips, soft flesh,
when you can dance with every pore of your skin.
outstanding desolation -29
Flat flat land upsets my sensibilities,
as blank canvas to painterly desire,
promise both unrealized
and perhaps to be forgotten.
Desolate winter unbrushed by rampant spring
lies mute upon the brown scrub earth
mute testimonials; nothing to be done
to save the past, only hope for the sun
to ignite the green fire hopefully
to smother the stain with life.
The Gypsie Run -30
There's something that I've never forgotten
since I was first struck, how the train
from Syracuse to New York is so similar to the train
from Budapest to Bucharest, and perhaps the same again
from any two points on a forgotten landscape.
Burned out and derelict, windows smashed, brick crumbles
as the train rumbles leaving each vista to its own fate
of post-war industrial rationalization and consolidation.
Forgotten unloved industrial monstrosities beached
after some gothically cataclysmic conflict unresolved.
Signs of life scurry at the edges, forced fences
and broken barriers hint at a new life within
unforeseen by architects and captains of industry
though the Roma, Europe's gypsies, hang fluttering clothes
drying in the windowless frame like America's dreams.
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| Poems 19-25 of 2008 |
[25 Mar 2008|08:19am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
pensive |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
You Will Be My Ain True Love - Alison Krauss |
] |
This has not been as much of a different year's beginning as I thought it might have been, and we're 84 days into the year, and all I've come up with is 30 poems. How could this be, when in past years I've killed one a day for more than 6 months. WTF, that's the way it goes. Words come and words go, and only some words actually stick. These have stuck so far, for good or ill, and I should be happy to have any poems at all.
The Seasons - 19
My voice is fractured by the cold,
frozen in darkest night,
and later thawed with spring's bright rain
to summertime's delight.
The summer bakes me sexy tanned,
languid lazy days past,
then the fall with a death's head moon
puts me to rest at last.
[Appreciate the 8/6 meter]
Desire - 20
I feel my lips ripping from my flesh, unwilling
to leave you, even for the moment it would take to smile.
I want to smear your body with my blood, every pore and wrinkle
of flesh bright red and oxygenated with my heart's desire.
I would adorn you body with tufts of flesh
torn with my finger nails from bone.
My tears would anoint you, and the sweat
of my burning brow will make you mine.
errant - 21
I am on a quest
for unspoken mysteries of my heart,
to find lost wisdoms I might have known.
Thoughts from where, thoughts lost
of purpose and meaning, I might find
a new beginning. My quest
among forgotten memories like landscapes
take me past all I never knew I once knew
of fictional hopes long abandoned
of supposed lovers' unnecessary tears.
My journey will be over
when the prize is won
and the daylight has meaning
once again.
Daily Dichotomy -22
Each morning
it begins again,
impossible juxtapositions
that obsess my mind
driving thoughts
into fanciful apprehensions
I cannot escape.
Should I want to lose
the fires of my imaginations?
Sunny Days -23
"Ain't nothing better in the world, you know,
than lying in the sun with your radio..."
Too early to call it spring, the warming
sun has returned with storied memories
that speak to skin and bone, soil and air,
plans and rain.. rhizomatic evocative
messages signaling the return
of the divine light that is seed
to new beginnings.
Write of Spring -24
Sun softly singing month before spring's
crawling green invasion speaks soothing
apologetic regrets, a lover's returning
from a bitter absence, again, with new promises
without assurance that she won't leave again,
yet offering a season of new life warm
forgiving enticing embracing again
I take her in my arms.
Another thought, a paused regret awaiting
on the rocky steps up from the beach
looking back over right shoulder
at the path just taken and the panorama
left behind spreads before me
my life in a view in a moment of a day,
micro-epiphanic revelation:
though I return as spring, offering
"sweet delight"
I'll take you with me when I go.
Administering Love -25
There is no question of your marked fidelity
and your acceptance of all obligatory gestures,
observed and completed. Each and every
gesture demarcated, documented and
conspicuously displayed for each and all
to see according to plan. Each caress
workshopped and methodologically sound,
conveying every appropriated nuanced
meaning, according to plan, vigorous and sincere
heart felt and without reproach, according
to need and duty without fault or complaint.
Such a happy duty is your love,
crying forth and announced, according to plan,
truth and meaning a public pronouncement.
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| 9/100 The Dream |
[16 Mar 2008|10:05am] |
I can hear
the soggy leaves of grammar
and arithmetic folding
under my feet.
I shuffle through the abandoned schoolroom,
past broken desks bent sleeping
or toppled like toddlers unattended
on the cracked and porous floorboards.
I walk to the front of the room
where the paint is peeling from the walls,
where a map of the world is balanced
between two chairs, my fingers landing
on a dusty edition of Gray's Anatomy.
The book surrenders, revealing the neck
and the musty smell of molded paper,
short lines point silently:
the jugular
the trachea
the larynx.
I hold my own neck to protect it from the exposure,
and wonder if all the missing children
found their voices before the schoolbell
stopped its ringing.
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| 8/100 Falling Apart |
[16 Mar 2008|09:59am] |
|
One afternoon, her hair fell out.
Not in clumps, no, but gracefully,
like water coming over a mountain
in glinting cascades, landing noiselessly.
in a matter of minutes, it was gone,
her bleached forehead awakened,
and then her hands began to tingle.
They disconnected themselves
from the wrists, watches and bracelets
clinking, scattered on concrete,
and the fleshy spiders scrambled
disappearing into dark gutters.
The cracking sound in her hips
and her back, like gravel under your feet,
her left side
jutting
too far to the left, a tent
with a broken pole, buckling.
Shoulders and knees crash into eachother,
the anatomical car wreck,
and the way beads scream across a countertop
when their wirey spine is removed.
The legs turned to ash while everything else
dissolved beneath her clothes.
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| 7/100 If I were a Poet |
[16 Mar 2008|09:55am] |
If I were a poet,
I would braid the lines together,
making nouns into verbs, and letting them
tumble along like rapunzel's hair
for all of you to climb.
I would stop keeping secrets,
tell the truths that must be told,
and I would be willing
to lose control,
to burn things down,
to disintegrate.
If I were a poet I would travel the sky at night,
gathering the light from every star
and place them in a ceramic bowl,
like a still life of poignant observations
sitting on my kitchen table
glowing like polished apples.
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| 6/100 Saturday Morning |
[16 Mar 2008|09:51am] |
|
I can hear my brother in the living room,
he's talking back to the television again.
It's like this every time, me
filling my warm bed with sleep, searching my pillow
for another dream and knowing they are gone.
I gotta let the world
have another look at me,
and then I gotta figure
on how to look right back at it.
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| the public vampire 18 |
[16 Feb 2008|08:08pm] |
The whole notion
of being a stripper
has never appealed to me.
Though I'm very happy that people
want to take their clothes off in public
for either praise or ridicule,
I wonder at either the desire
for acceptance or the need for exposure.
A vampire is not that
which needs cry for position
if it still seek to adhere to the name.
It is not an option or a lifestyle choice,
is it? It is a sombre and reflective state
of being that looks on the abyss
and is dismayed. To Jerry Springer one's self
seems antithetical,
and I could imagine it easier to confess
and placate the monotheistic god
than to self-dissect before the world
on people magazine's pages.
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|
| 15-17 poems about place |
[11 Feb 2008|06:01pm] |
Pity the lost thrall
Pathological individualism:
the cult, the apogee of culture.
Being as mono-maniacal
mythology, ultimate mono-crop
ripe for culling. Bulldozed
social hierarchy of quality.
Fettered and fetishized each
sovereign in a room
all alone.
Choice without purpose.
Gare de lyon
Waiting.
Waiting is divine
relief. The train
that has not come.
The cab that brought
me here. Time to kill
as an infinite respite
from doing, or being.
Identity foregone
in the silence. Being nothing,
no one. Past and future erased,
melded with everyone in mass
transit. We are a species
of our own locked in our own
separate world, between here
and there, leaving and arriving,
apart from all others who are
just where they are.
it is a silent world,
sounds without meaning
where each disembodied voice
merely announces possibilities
to move into another state
of waiting somewhere along
the timeless continuum
of being nowhere,
yet.
Faces in the station
Composed and silent watching,
conversations on topics of
movement, schedules and delay,
embarkation and arrival. Short term
thoughts. Immediate intentions.
Transient desires infuse the station
with flickering candle light,
illuminating nothing but the passing
of myriad souls for charon to ferry away.
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|
| 8-12 2008 |
[27 Jan 2008|07:06pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 tired |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Satie: Gymnopédies - 2. Lent Et Triste - Angela Brownridge |
] |
It's a beautiful day
Just to wake up in the morning remember who I am;
intake of breath and exhale.
Feel my chest move,
diaphragm relax, the air sing on my lips.
To touch the world, eyelash moving air,
lazy hand catching dust motes in the sun.
A warm sigh showering moist breath.
To wake up and realize that you have survived,
again, one more night.
It is enough, just to live, without dreams or despair,
past or future; to worry the moment. It is enough,
when faced with the alternative, to reserve judgement,
forego questions or hoped for answers. Just to be
a part of it all. It is a beautiful day. A new voice awakes
me from slumbered contentment, compliant reverie,
this passive repose of someone lost
to expectation and desire.
Man of Action
A rumbled trust growls deep; barrel chested voice
confident, unquestioning of variable truths or meanings;
unconcerned with ulterior alterities or liminal 'facts.
No paralytic notions elicit questions for reflection
to deter the waking lion with a mission to fulfill.
In this micro-maniacial moment you do nothing
but say, "I see..." as you slowly awaken from
an eternity-like slumbering repose , shaking dust
and leaf from your beard, and fixing your good eye
on the goal beyond the horizon, move to act.
Nighttime Crawls
From the moments after midnight,
when the light of day is lost
into a memory from sensation dead.
Before the morning on pre-figuring gesture
pulls the darkness toward dawn.
The seconds lose their purpose and minutes
lose their place as markers of meaning. Gone,
all attachments, social truths, gestures and actions
under many layered nothing that blankets
all intention in a coverlet of sweet oblivion.
It's not dying
Cast off unacknowledged constraints and see
for who we are as much your unaccustomed
mind can without losing all and everything.
It is not dying to kill within yourself something
dear and destructive, that unacknowledged sense
in self that now distantly mirrors a distorted re-vision
of what you never thought you were and now realize
you can not really ever be again, and are wracked
with regret for a now hated past, fearful at a future.
It is not living
That "ever-fix'ed mark" that "alters [not] when it alteration finds."
As change seeks change, like seeking like, a constant flux
and endless reconfiguration of the self to the myriad others
in the co-creation of matrices that sing and swing chaste
around an ever-moving unseen center. A center that itself
has no being except in that it is about which things spin.
Location, that quantum fiction of static potential as of yet
to be placed in motion has no more importance to life
than the last exhaled breath to the living or the lived.
And when will you, once beloved charished calm,
find within that to be into the nothing until all
potentials are finally put into motion.
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|
| 5/100 The Argument |
[26 Jan 2008|06:19pm] |
|
Icicles crash to the sidewalk,
my words lie there
shattered and glistening with gravity,
too stubborn to melt.
We wear a new silence
like the dust on china dolls.
My barefoot thoughts drift
in the shape of a question mark
swerving around us,
resting beyond my name.
Your face is a single word,
typed in the center of a giant page,
stark,
and unshaded.
I reach for my crawling voice,
nudge it gently toward my mouth.
I want the blanket filled with holes
to wrap itself around us again.
|
|
| 4/100 America, the Carnival |
[26 Jan 2008|06:13pm] |
Step right up, ladies,
get a close look at it,
the wonder of suburbia:
blacktopped roads, silver sidewalks,
and a minivan in every driveway.
This
is the place where dreams are made,
where your man comes home
every night at five fifteen,
to kiss your cheek and lift your baby.
This place is
cancer-free,
bankruptcy-free,
and earthquake-proof.
That's right ladies,
you can almost smell the apple pies
cooling on the sill.
|
|
| 3/100 Al's Bar |
[16 Jan 2008|09:49pm] |
|
On the corner of Third and Traction
a bouncer checks your ID
sends you through an unmarked door
into a room
filled with spray painted missives,
and gothic tattoos.
The bartenders pace, their dodging heads
and tired wrists in continuous
choreography, set to the sound
of ice and loose change. On the corner of Third and Traction
there's a bar called Al's,
and at midnight on a Saturday,
the women wear red lipstick,
play pool with cocky college boys,
their tight black dresses
stretched across the ash-stained felt
high voices giggling,
as the white ball hits the rails,
missing every pocket.
|
|
| 5, 6, 7.100.2008 |
[10 Jan 2008|08:58pm] |
| [ |
music |
| |
10 - I'm Always Chasing Rainbows - Alice Cooper |
] |
Counting
Ten more minutes before the train arrives
at the station, the terminus. At the one
solitary point where I will find myself
in ten more minutes. A journey
will be complete. A passage
that seemed endless, a travail
that seemed pointless, after
I realized that the assumed purpose
what not what I'd expected
with ten more minutes to go
until my arrival, I want to go on.
Flowing
Narratives of ruthless lust and never slaked desire
gush unbidden from the love abscessed pen
that has forgotten the gulf between
the tender touch and the ripped flesh,
so lost in her own shame,
poisoned b regret and yet still inside
a young child cries without surcease.
And the words flow forth on a tactless
waste of white that would but wed the lovers
twain when nothing would release the shadows
and the shade by the spring at dawn.
Prayer
Let the morning sun shine around me,
burn me, burn the terrors of the night
that cling as hoary frost on the hem--
wind blown dust that haunts every crevasse
of flesh--cling as sticky cobs that web
my hair and halo this shrouded form.
Let it shine and burn and drive these
thoughts that rise unbidden from memory;
distorted lens and subtle liar.
|
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