[x]

The Man and the MoonHer mouth corners hung themselves
and I began to wonder if that was the death of them.
A simple, quiet death;
without broken fingernails lining the walls
with the stripes of a despairing end.
I began to ache with the questioning in my heart
with the echoes reverberating in my capillaries
of her face scorching sunshine in her smile
right before it crumpled
and nothing was left but a frowning moon
set firm in its resignation to an upcoming eclipse.

the scars on your shouldersthe scars on your shoulders
are braille to me, so that i
can read your skin, so that i
can know you better.

i like to listen to your heartbeat
and how it resounds differently
from mine, just so beautifully
like two songs played in tandem
to harmonise in rounds;

i like to hold your hands
and rub your back
so that maybe my love
can find its way through your pores
and seep into your blood
(never can i find the right words
to tell you just the way you feel to me)

and to think that and how i nearly missed you
makes me miss you more
every minute and mile we spend
elsewhere.
i can't sleep with another body
in my bed,
but sleeping without you
leav

He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,
even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasures
faded verses from his wife the way connoisseurs
savor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.
I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.

The record needle hits the groove wrong;
he stumbles over words that aren’t there,
rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore
and his confusion is strangely endearing.

But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,
poetic lines inserted between the daily grind
of character names and who said what;
voiceless boys in white a

PocketLeftover religion in the pocket
Of my trenchcoat
A key that unlocks nothing
A penny, a scrap of paper
With half of your name
Written in black ink

A song that is usually in my head
In the shriveled carcass
Of a long-dead dream
In the pocket
Of my trenchcoat
With the lint

with thanks to frosttwo roads diverged in a soulless dawn
and you pull over,
idling on the shoulder of route 50.
it's a polaroid morning and
the world is as grainy
and sleep-heavy
as your eyes,
and one million miles
is not far enough.
it plays back, filmstrip,
blurred along the length of
optic nerves,
and here you are:
facing a choice between
on
and
out.
and this?
this loosejointed, hollowbodied
weightless ache--
this is what
gone
feels like.

SurelyIt was raining
when we kissed for the first time,
for the last time.

Thin rivulets
sunk into the shrunken space
between our bodies
and divided us
like nothing could before,
like everything will
from now
until that never again
when we will
see each other once more,
no more.

Your eyes were
that bewitching shade
of dull brown blue
with all of the light darkness
whirling
in a placid pond
around a pupil
overflowing with vacancy,
and me
and my frowning smile.

The winter heat
fell like a rising tide
and,
for our every breath
was another death
so black and full of life --
embracing our boiled ice skin
as we drew apart,
came together and broke free

Condemnedbeneath the beaten earth they lay,
their dreams condemned to ashes,
and our restless bodies stretch,
for forgiveness, for direction –

survivors of the abyss,
amidst wide-eye, silent soldiers –
so many dead, so many maimed,

how many graves are we standing on, today?

Life, Death And A Pork Chop SandwichAll tangled up, hard to breathe
This steel cloud day that swirls
With heat and pounding hammers
I shake in my boots and cough up
Blood, rust and damaged flesh
Waiting for the second coming
Maybe next time around there'll be
Some chance for more than this

A twisted barbed wire halo
Wrapped tight around my skull
Blinding white light aura
Swarming with flies I'm flying
To pieces, thousands of shards
Cannot be brought back together
But I will remember the summer
Of my first Chevrolet in each bit

Gleaming bits of glass in the desert
Each reflecting a different moment
Still, now, enduring until the waves
Of a new ocean sweep them away
No pain

SisterSister

A sister is like a soul mate;
Someone who is always there
to guide me through fate.

A sister is,
a part of childhood that I cannot erase;
A sister like you,
is one that I would never replace
because you always know how to
put a smile on my face.

I know I can depend on you
to always be there for me;
This is one hundred percent guaranteed!

I've had great memories with you
in the past;
and I hope there are many more
to come,
in the future.

Pretty little things called words and dustif you weren't a hypocrite,
you'd be wrapped in the sweetest
perfumes
(learning
how to engulf the ocean
with your lungs
and think of how to cup it
in your hands
despite
your broken prayers and
still be beautiful)

dance with the gypsies
'till noon
(a quake in
your hips like the thrust
of continents
and the faultlines
emanating from
your spine,
but still
so, so graceful)

sing with the nymphs
in tune
(your voice,
it's growing old,
raspy even.
your throat's burning dry
like a monsoon
faltering in a desert,

and tones
still octaves
powerful)

be nestled in a king's arms
soon
(oh, you precious
little thing.
how

Lost In ConfusionMy mind is spinning without a rest
emotions whirl and twirl around
A merry-go-round gaining speed
Until the world blurrs before my eyes
What's happening? What's going on?

The simplest thought slips away
Right from my mind, fading so fast
Trying to focus, I stare and stare
Until my eyes are heavy and unclear.
I don't understand, what is going on...

Emotions rise and fall again
Within the blink of an eye
I'm crying, laughing, and depressed
A rollercoaster ride that never ends
Am I losing my mind in this ?

I try to close my eyes and rest
But the world spins me around
I feel like I am failing this test
Voices and noisies echo in my min

Puppet My tears fall,

like invisible

diamonds.

My heart beats,

like soundless

drums.

Unwanted,

because of the

strings attached.

Why meI wanted sleep very badly
I tried my hardest to rest
I closed my eyes and laid there
But sleep didn’t come easy
I would doze off
And wake back up
Again
Why me? When I know I have to be up at 3 AM.

DangerousMermaids; they seduce you then hold you under
Vampires; will kiss your lifeblood away
Mages, will turn your own mind against you
While trolls will hunt you down if you stay
Run through the woods, don’t stop for nothing
Monsters wait with jaws opened wide
Ignore that pretty elf, who’s probably plotting something dark
For she will torture you once she’s lured you inside
Orcs; will have a craving for your flesh
While dwarves are just prejudiced against your height
Dragons are very skilled when it comes to fire
While faeries will torment you throughout the night
So run little weakling, don’t stop now
The faery realm has go

A Night By the FireNo light,
The light sired by the night
All above whilst the day's delights
Now disappears from mortal sight.

Faded away is the sun's power,
Taking the stage now is night's sallow flower;
Now mortals may behold the stars and falling shower.

Set in a pit Nature's skyscraper ablaze
And revel in the emanating heat as you gaze,
Looking down on occasion when you hear a crack from the fire
And witness "fireflies" flying away from mother's blaze;
Dying shortly after but not lacking burning beauty do they desire!

I look out towards the teasing shore
And meditate as we sit upon her door,
Thinking on what my future has in store;
Who I am now and even

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Frustration with dA"Thanks for the watch,"
then nothing else.
Polite, meaningless words.
Of course we know
not every stroke can be stared at,
not every noun can be analyzed.

Not every one can be friends.

I remember giving treats
to an old, deaf, ailing dog.
I remember bearing its smell
in order to pet it.
A cat saw this. The cat would
jump in front of me,
trying to get my leg to rub
against its fur.

Animals may not know to be grateful,
but they don't take for granted
what is good.

SummerRipples – murky pond -
fanning out against the dark
the color of chalk

Kobayashi Issa: Don't worry, spidersHappy Mother's Day

Don't worry, spiders
Kobayashi Issa (tr. Robert Hass, from The Essential Haiku)

Don't worry, spiders,
I keep house
casually.

Comment:

1. I spared many a spider growing up. Mom said spiders killed other pesky insects and shouldn't be smashed promptly. They could be helpers for keeping the house clean, if it weren't for those webs they tend to create.

I still spare spiders for the most part. (Admittedly, I don't think I've ever lived anywhere spotless.)

2. Hass makes two points relevant to our consideration of the poem. First, there is probably a hidden seasonal reference. This is about summer, where housekeepers are

We see the sky where it is skylessNot the crystal with the bluish tint,
nor the dark wisps rising from cigars.
Another realm entirely. There,
day ends in royal purple, fiery orange.
Gray walls hold those colors for an instant.
Air places dew drops upon grass,
as if to say the world begins afresh.
Birds fly together, each supporting the other.

Now the sound of change striking the sidewalk,
the smell of dirty pigeons collected.
Noting the white of the closed blinds of hospital rooms.

EyesLike a mosquito,
her eyes spoke hunger, leaving
only freezing blood.

If you want a new beginning...If you want a new beginning, consider investing in a mechanized suit of armor

Streets shattered as giant robots
strode in the city's center to duel.
They aimed pulse guns,
hit everything but each other.
That was the day I knew I had to move.

A limb of steel and wire
fell and smashed the garage.
Salvaged my old journal,
plans for a new design.

Papers flying out of skyscrapers
reminded of drawings you sent.
I stopped by your house;
in your absence left a letter.

Finally, about to evacuate,
an eyelaser wrecked the highway.
Border of concrete and fire for miles.
Sorry, right now I'm trapped in my fears.

One day I'll sneak into a

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Spring

by *akarra, Apr 23, 2012, 1:31:05 AM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Pfft.
This is a time
of renewal, rebirth?
Please.

Here, we all sneeze more.
It rains.

Dumb slutty kids
underdress for prom.

There, the ice is still frozen.

But.
I saw a female cardinal
in its dull brown beauty
stand out against the brightness
of the day.
It endures.

Not the rejection,
but the recognition of winter.

Springby *akarra

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

For #Soul-Poets' Spring prompt.

Hope you guys will read my other poetry. I'm getting quite a collection started.

love 2 2

joy 2 2

wow 1 1

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~HazySunray May 27, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I love the mild cynicism and the added, noncommittal words that just seem to aggrandize the emotional meaning of the poem.

*akarra May 27, 2012 Student Writer

Love your comment! Yeah, there's definitely a movement to objectivity of some sort here, perhaps.

Our speaker knows something. Just wish I knew what it is.

~HazySunray May 27, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Hahahaha! I can completely relate to that.

~Landminds May 12, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I like the spite and humor in this. Longer winters are fun.

*akarra May 27, 2012 Student Writer

They are! I agree entirely with our angrier speaker. I definitely think he's on to something with the cardinal. Prom, he just might be a bit spiteful...

*AlecBell May 5, 2012

Enjoyable. A little debunking is often for the common good!

*akarra May 27, 2012 Student Writer

Agreed. Spring is too easy a trope.

~TheGlassIris Apr 30, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I can see Romanticism rolling in its grave. And, like an elephant shot for ivory, it becomes

Tragically beautiful. (snort)

*akarra May 27, 2012 Student Writer

You know, the haiku poets I've been reading have their own cynicism about "Spring is so awesome look at all the love blah blah." Basho especially seems to see it as more natural, therefore more chaotic.

~TheGlassIris May 27, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I couldn't read anything other than the translated versions myself, as I'm not fluent in Japanese. From what I understand of Japanese literature, spring has all the normal connotations of the rest of the world but there is a whole ideology about the fleeting passions and ephemeral beauty of the season. The cherry blossom in particular has a very paradoxical connotation behind it. At once, it represents beauty and life, but simultaneously, decay and disappointment in its own short season of flowering.

Personally, I think that its a nice sentiment, but also one that's a little bland.

These days, the thing I'm into is poetry by American women. Marge Piercy's "More than Enough", Alice Walker's "How Poems Are Made: A Discredited View", and Diane Wakowski's "Dancing on the Grave of a Son of a Bitch".

I wrote this, thinking about what they had to say: "Ballad of the American Waitress"

This, thinking about how overdramatic all the other people make them out to be: "House of Fake Sorrows"

And finally this, according to how I think: "Thousand-Star"

Tell me about what you think of them, yeah?

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