Monthly Archives: September 2011

ink blots


drip drops, blits blots

tiny little pebbles lead the way.

their color black

or blue. their song is

colored too.


this is how it comes together

meaningful lines

on ice.

retrospectively it’s supposed to be clever

and defined,

not rough

just art.

 
clinging to meaning and feeling

beyond the pictures shaped by

drops that

drip blots.


it’s a love making technique,

sometimes just shoving, no love,

just fucking and breaking my soul.

but, it is here

and it is me

no more.


~at dVerse, emmet wheatfall met us at the bar to talk about the craft of writing poetry. we were invited to write about writing, and so here it is… 

always always

walking sideways
has always
been my thing.

 singing always,
always singing,
hoping for
new beginnings.

beginning to learn
to walk again
after an un-graceful
fall.

learning to smile again
after feeling
nothing at all.

nothing at all.

~my humble  entry to poetics at dVerse Poets Pub ~ say it again, Sam! ~ hosted by  Hedgewitch (Joy Ann Jones) on the theme of repetition in poems.

in-sunity


shadows and light reveal

nothing through the window.

unintentionally late. someone took my place.

now sitting

uncomfortably

on a bench,

waiting for an opening.


my first “intake.”

heavy heat is settling in.

fragments of feelings screened by plain yellow door,

cracked walls,

broken sun and then,

diffident, I resist,

refrain from testifying to the ominous presence

threatening my existence.


refrain…

a breeze is what I need.

cool air on my face…

grains of sea salt amplified by longing

touch my lips, my tongue.

movement of waves

back and forth…

waves of movement ooze electricity up my thighs

ripple behind, round my breasts,

up and over and around

softly caressing, rocking, pacifying

rocking…


for one brief moment I feel good.

but,

me:

intellectually guarded, confounded

wrapped in self pity, self loathing, self preservation and

fears. louder voices wake me from my fantasy,

call my name.

there, in a circle of professional strangers

are slips of paper slipped through time,

survivors of crimes, tormented lines, abused curves,

dots and coffee stains.

my frightened beads glance around,

a bird soon to be caged,


I can’t remember how to fly.

they are staring at me, looking through me and beyond

to some meaningful insight.

perspectives shifting in their chairs.

scribbles and screens. they will intervene or

hold me.

(rocking… )

and then I want to be free

with no presence but my own

unafraid

unembarrassed

un-confounded…

uncertain of what I am to face but,

able.

 

the moment before dawn is the darkest,

but then there can be light.

there will be.

I will be

free.



~ entered in OpenLinkNight – week 10 at dVerse Poets Pub, Brian Miller hosting – read, link, comment, drink… enjoy!  

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אתר שירים אישי / የስነ ግጥም ብሎግ /

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