I used to think Death came
on little cat feet.
He had a British accent,
and wore black because it
went with everything.

quote:

---

He had a British accent,
and wore black because it
went with everything.

---

somebody read a poem all bent
(with nary a clue as to what it all meant)
saturday, sunday, monday, today
somebody searched and strove for a way

to understand just what mr. cummings was stating
when he said “up so floating” -- the question was grating.
she searched and she worked and she toiled all the eve,
till her sanity was ready to pack up and leave.

but suddenly (and in a flash of great joy)
she saw what he meant, about the girl and the boy
how they grew and they loved in their own special way
from year to year, from day to day.

and quick as a flash she had tears in her eyes
for the plight of the anyone was her in disguise.
for she sang her didn’t and she danced her did,
and longed for a noone, this somebody did.

and the story gave hope to a withering heart,
with cheer in the message the tale did impart.
and somebody, so glad of what to her it all meant,
wrote words of a girl who read a poem all bent.

(edited for ambiguity)

I. En arche

Logos
in the beginning was,
in the end shall be.

But there was between beginning and end
a Light
that shone in the darkness,
and a Darkness
that resembled the Light
but the Light comprehended it not.

I am not that light.
I have been that darkness.

But I will bear witness of that Light.
I will show you what was, is, is to come.

I will show you what letters
come between
alpha and omega.

I will show you what Words
come between
beginning and end.

(edited for font issues)

In a dingy, common attic
we huddle together, one soul with thirteen bodies
(or maybe twelve), all One, but with one
who was before us, who sits before us.
He is a stranger to me, this man who says
he is in me, and I in him--his words
come from my mouth (for we are one)
and reach my ears
but do not touch my heart.

“Eat,” he says,
and I eat,
rending the plain bread to manageable portions,
chewing three times, then swallowing the unwieldy mass.
It has no taste and sits heavy in my stomach.

“Drink,” he says,
and I drink,
letting the sanguine wine anoint my lips,
feeling it burn my throat like bloody flame.
The more I take, the more I thirst.
“This is my body, this is my blood,” he says.
But his body is my body
and his blood is my blood
for we are One.
And as I eat his body and drink his blood
he is in me, and we are one.
And as he gives his body and sheds his blood,
I am in him, and we are one.

But what will happen
when I am no longer in him,
when he has discarded blood and body
and all my bread and wine avail me naught?
And what will happen
when he is no longer in me,
when I have purged him from my body and blood
and all my prayers and tears can’t bring him back?

And what will happen
when I have consumed myself entirely,
when I have eaten and drunk damnation to my soul,
when I twist for a shred of thought or drop of pain
and there is nothing?

Then I will have a holiday repast
and swallow their stale bread and staler theology,
and subsist on their sour wine and sourer hope.
If they have kept his saying,
they would shun mine also.

In a dingy, common Attic
these things I have spoken unto you
being not present with you.
Eat your meals,
you who have believed through my word,
and pray you may not be one
as I am.

Arise, let us go hence.

Mr. Fix-it (You've seen him on TV)

Hey there mr. fix-it man,
i wanna, no, i gotta know if you can
fix-it all up spic'n'span,
find it in your master plan and

Hey there Bobby
sleeping in the subway
joking with the junkies
looking for his own way
home
to the place where the marigolds grow
and Susan and her children seem to know
that God's in the Easter basket,
God's in the air,
God's in the resurrection,
God's in your hair
so

Who can fix it if not mr. fix-it?
If not mr. fix-it, no-one can.
Who can fix it if not mr. fix-it?
We got no-one else but the fix-it man.

See em on the streetcorners
slipping out of straitjackets
working for a dime and
handing out pamphlets
now
they believe and they know that it's so
and telling you is saving you if only you'd go
but God's in the street mime,
God's in the prayer,
God's in the caterpillar,
God's everywhere
so

What if mr. fix-it heard?
What if mr. fix-it learned?
What if mr. fix-it cried?
What if mr. fix-it died?

Hey there preacher
stitching up his sermon
picking out a parable
to make his point
that
he understands that He knows what he sows
but he doesn't care 'cause He knows that you know
that God's in the Sunday mass,
God's in the teacher,
God's in collection plates,
God's in the preacher

We've all seen dear mr. fix-it;
we've believed in mr. fix-it;
we all need our mr. fix-it;
(where in hell is mr. fix-it?)

Lord, in the shelter of thy name
(a secret since the world began)
we meet to praise thy son who came
to dwell among us as a man.
The darkness drowns the sun’s last ray--
Lord, let us see the break of day.

Too soon our Master leaves forever,
his the glory, ours the loss.
Deserted, we must learn together
to bear the lash and mount the cross.
Our mortal god must soon away--
Lord, let us see the break of day.

Another Comforter will come
and teach us what we are to speak--
but now our faltering tongues are dumb,
flesh unwilling, spirits weak.
The world drowns out the words to say--
Lord, let us see the break of day.

Lamp, torch and hearth are shadows of
the way our hearts have in us burned,
yet, though the inward flame of love
thy son has taught, we have not learned.
The night obscures thy holy way--
Lord, let us see the break of day.

Cradled in amongst the hair,
Smells, and sounds of you,
Undiscovered world view,
So I lay me there.
Survival is not our care,
Death has lost its hue,
Pleasures take we not a few,
Gems no longer rare.
Yet worthy still
To grace us more
Than life adored
Through lonely will.
Home of dancing melody:
You're what's moving me.

Delphinian Mermaid
Alone in her under-sea cave she waits
A gem, a moonstone, lies in her palm
Lighting the cave, shining in the waters
She sits gazing into it's light.

Many futures dancing before her eyes,
Happy, sad, all things are possible,
And in the light of a moonstone
They can be seen together.

She watches children dance, hair flying,
Parents laughing, weeping, fighting,
Kings and beggars battling fate
All these swirling in the stone's light.

She cannot alter them, though she tries
Her power is only to see
She cries in quiet frustration
But the stone cares not for her tears.

Committing herself to silence
She sits, staring at the future
Unable to live it herself
She will stay, incased in her grotto, immortal.

Time stands still, even the bubbles wait
Tides and currents are motionless
Awaiting her command, but she watches still
And around her life goes on.

V. The Epyllion of the Revelator and the Beloved

I was in the beginning, and I was with God,
but I was not God.
I was in the beginning, and I was with the Light in the beginning,
but I was not the Light.

I have borne witness of the Light.

How many times each dusty day and sleepless night
among the smell of tar, and brine and fish
I have borne witness! But not of me,
no, never of me, for I am not that Light.

I cannot complain.
I have received my wish.
I last forever.

I am a holy Tithonus--preacher and vagabond, never
a hero, sometimes a fool, often a nuisance.
I am a good thing come out of Nazareth,
led by the will not of the flesh, but sometimes not of God,
usually in between. I am not free from fear,
though I do not fear death.

I am a seer with his eyes wide closed,
a prophet cursed to believe his own
self-fulfilling prophecies, swooning in a trance
of holy ecstasy, then asking for a modest fee.
Food isn’t cheap, though love is free.

Black clouds gather to the east, blown
by the awful wind of rushing wings,
speaking of a storm yet to come,
a storm I have seen over and over
until it becomes almost a litany,
until I would fix my eyes shut with nails to escape the sight,
but I know that I would see
more with my eyes closed. Nothing remains hidden long.

Oh, I will not bore you with details,
nor terrify you with kingdoms to which you may belong.
I could, you know, for I have seen it all:
heads, whores, beasts, angels, tails,
backs, plagues and horsemen. It would mean nothing to you.

I have told you only what I know, and what is true.
The Light has not always been the same thing,
but I have always borne witness of it.
My light has perished, but the Light is everlasting.
Increase, decrease...increase, decrease...

What I have written, I have written. I must have rest.

Spero enim me futurum apud vos
et os ad os loqui, ut gaudium meum. . .sit.

Some dreams are more than dreams;
the solid ones find their way
into the days.
So he explains why he can’t leave her.
Last night he found her dead.
That’s how his vision found her.

I try to explain, this is a swift season.
The dreams - they also come quick
and the morning memory’s all that persists.

I'm experimenting with writing poetry I think OSC will hate. I just can't be high-faluting enough, though.

Weep,
You broken, religious, stick men.
Cuckoo!
Cuckoo!
Push our eggs from our wombs
And sing, sing, WARBLE,
While the clock sickly sticks
Us out, tongue-like,
And we lick up your singing tears.

Until we drown.

Umm. . . yeah, definitely time to go home and get some sleep.

Here, by the way, is where poetry can safely sleep, or cavort, or brood.

Here's my latest:

Look Away, Lady

Listen listen
The bus drove by
and the squeal of its brakes matched the squeal
in my mind.
It wouldn’t have screeched that way if not for you
but don’t give it another thought.
The treasure shop has what you want.
Nothing here but monstrous me.

Passing

Brittle bones
in sheets and skin
…and all I remember are cinnamon apples.

Autumn days
on porch swings
waiting for games
of dominoes to begin
…and all I remember are cinnamon apples.

Needlework
of tiny flowers
on greeting cards,
sewn expertly with
a worn metal thimble,
unworried by trembling limbs
…and all I remember are cinnamon apples.

Holiday feasts
spent sitting across
from her smiling face.
As plates are passed around
the table, no one thinks to ask
if she is content to sit and listen.
…and all I can taste are cinnamon apples.

Church pews
creak, the service ends
…and all I will remember are cinnamon apples.

I really like the poem. I tend to like poems that repeat a single line.

This is my favorite part:

quote:

---

As plates are passed around
the table, no one thinks to ask
if she is content to sit and listen.

---

Here's one I wrote about six weeks ago, after, well, a walk along the bayou. I also wrote it in sonnet form, but I think that this one, while very rough, is truer to my feelings at the time:

Bayou

I see the coming storm before we set out
(the sky so white above us, yet darkened grey to the south)
but I take your former role and remain silent.

You glide ahead of me on wheeled feet,
leaving me staring at your back.
Yes, that's how it is.
You circle, waiting for me to catch up,
but I know that eventually you'll forget to turn around,
you will leave me staring into a grey sky.

You point out the flowers in the grass beside us,
entranced by splashes of yellow, purple, blue in this grey world,
but my eyes just move to the white paper that litters the walkway,
the green-brown sludge on the cement by the water.
You skate on ahead. I watch you, wanting to shout
out everything that's been on my mind,
but I remain silent.

There are fish in the water.
They fight against the current,
struggle just to stay in one place.
Some don't swim hard enough, fall back
and drift silently in time with me.
I can't spare any pity for them,
too busy thinking of myself.

We head home, crossing paths with the man who lives
under the bridge with the "No Camping" sign.
"I hate crossing roads," you sigh
as the rain begins to fall.
I nod, and still remain silent.

I like the way it contrasts the monstrosity of the scene with the 'lady's' apathy.

The last line is well executed.

Sarfa- I can relate. My mom's mother died while I was in Italy. . . we didn't know eachother very well.

For the poem-- why is the second stanza only 4 lines long? The two after it have six lines. . . and the first and last stanza are composed of three lines each. Was there a conscious decision to make the 2nd stanza the odd man out?

Othewise, there is a palatable rhythm in your poem, despite the 'free-verse'ness construction. I rather enjoyed it.

The last stanza is the punch. . . nice.

Ophelia-- I really like the sense of conflict and loneliness you portray in 'Bayou.'

quote:

---

. . .I know that eventually you'll forget to turn around,
you will leave me staring into a grey sky.

---

::shiver::

One complaint:

quote:

---

I can't spare any pity for them,
too busy thinking of myself.

---

These lines make your narrator seem more selfish than I think was your intention. . . But maybe I'm interpreting wrong.

I got a good sense of longing and need. I found 'Bayou' to be haunting. . . I liked it, in other words.

Bumble bee,

I love thee,

How your wings sparkle in the light,

Do you have fun,

Working day and night?

With the pattern on your back,

With the tune I always hear,

I will love the bumble bee forever.

Good bye, my friend,

We'll meet again,

I used to be so naive.

I never knew of troubles

That would make my heart heave.

Betrayed but thrice

I payed a mournful price.

So evil did indeed succeed.

I say goodbye

And in my eye

I weep

A baby is born

I rejoice

A man kills

I Shutter

A boy aides a stranger

I am inspired

A woman is crippled

I ache

A young girl dances

I feel strong

An animal suffers

I feel heavy

A bird soars free

I feel light

Life is a seesaw

Life takes, life gives

Life is what life is, no more, no less

The perfect Vacation Is filled with peace

Don't know who it wouldn't please

Sunny skies and butterflies

Laughing hills and Twinkling eyes,

Golden memories And paradise,

What a Vacation to Remember!

Time ticks by As every minute

Brings yet another Faded moment,

Fun, yet wild, But no one gets hurt.

People gather,The friendship is strong,

All come relax, But for how long?

Take your time, You'll always be welcome here,

Do not worry, Learn to cheer,

Generations Reuniting,

No more cultures fighting,

Time stands still,So remember forever,

The great vacation we had together.

But now it is time,To get to work,So Come back soon,

Wave goodbye To all your friends As the World returns to Reality

Sometimes I gaze at the sky

With its brilliant streaks of white

And I marvel at the birds

When they are in flight.

Sometimes I dare to dream

To venture out into the world

Loneliness isn't as bad as it seems

It's easy to behold.

Sometimes I take comfort

In nobody's presence but mine

I sit against my tree

The sun will always shine.

Sometimes I just think

About love, life, the world

And people say I am different

Does that make me bold?

Sometimes I want to cry

When I see people strike

Sometimes I want to hide

When pain is alive.

I often look and ponder

At what is just out of reach

And I see the violence

And I tell you, I beseech.

Sometimes I think am I

The only one who cries?

Sometimes I start to worry

What if someone dies?

Sometimes I just lay there

And let the world pass me by

And I think that sometime

Sometime I will die.

As I look beyond the painted hills

And past the southern skies

I'm filled with a sudden wintry chill

That brings a yearning out from inside.

My gaze falls upon a silver lake

My reflection stares right back at me

The silence of the water is so disturbing

Who is it that I see?

A breeze blows by and her hair twirls

Freely into the night

Her skin gives off a golden glow

Under the pale moonlight.

I lift my gaze back to the skies

As a pack of geese fly by

And see a bit of the girl in them

And suddenly want to cry.

The stars shine brightly watching me

As if to give me a clue

But the uncertainty lies deep within

Wondering, was the reflection true?

I step into the quivering waters

And look down once again

The girl with wavering brown eyes is still there

Her reflection never ends.

Still as I look into the pool of mistiness I see

The reflection of love and emptiness

Is she truly me?

Pale reflections bounce off my memories

And once again

She stares me right back in the eye

As if to ask, is this the end?

I dive into the water

And when I wake up, I'm on shore

And I curse those mocking silver stars

All the way down to their core.

Then I start to tremble and cry

As I look into the sea

And do you know what I finally found?

By Dawn I. Cambridge

Look at them, then look at me Tell me, what is it that you see?

I close my eyes and disappear Into a land I wish were real

I open my eyes once again And wish for once I had a friend

I wonder if this is truly real Is this what we're meant to feel?

In the corner I stand alone Waiting, watching, because I don't need a home

I won't give in to what they say I live my life in only my way

I won't well up with tears and cry The way they do and want to die.

When at night I'm all alone I don't even cry or moan

In the darkest midnight hour I find I've acquired the highest power

I don't need love, I don't need hate I'll do what I want- it's my own fate

I don't need laughter, I don't need tears I've conquered all that's to be feared

I don't need anyone to keep me strong I know exactly where I belong

I'm a survivor, ruler of all I will keep soaring, what means to fall?

Then I get a glimpse of their joy And I wonder why it isn't me with that boy

I see girls laughing; flicking their hair And filled with jealousy, utter despair

But they are worthless human mortals I need to concentrate to open other portals

For what really does lie for me

Is going down with conformity; being truly free

A poem is a soul that breathes free

Like the angels watching me.

Poetry is the dewdrops over flowers at night

The dazzling white stars that illuminate light.

Poetry is life; it lives everywhere

In deserts, springs, fresh mountain air.

The fire within us

Glows brighter still

Because poems are the wings of free will.

Like friendship, it blossoms over time

It lives in spirit, bourne in the mind.

Death is the end

The last verse of a poem

But alas! Not to worry!

Ashes are reborn.

From the dying embers of a phoenix

A new chick is born

And into this world it goes,

Delivered at home.

Dante... your poem was cool. And the funny ones crack me up! Keep at it, scott r! Dare to write!

Scott--actually, I was feeling pretty selfish at that point (questioning my right to feel the way I felt and all that). But I'm not sure I want to keep the line. Thanks for pointing it out.

Here's what I posted. Some of you may have seen it before.

1)The stanza read better as six lines

2)The line length of 6 just fit better with the mood, that is, originally, I wanted the reader to notice the lengthening of stanzas as the speaker remembers more and more about the grandmother, sort of mimicing the natural progression of thought processes (a sort of snowball effect of memories), but the second to the last stanza has an abrubt change in mood (and is a little less detail oreiented), and so the 6 line stanza is there to show the limit of the snowballing process (that is, the speaker could only remember so much), a petering out, if you will.

When childhood dies,
And our thrones grow thinner,
When the armrests close in,
And the floor meets our feet, -
Stealth enters our eyes,
As we sever our inner
Smile from our faces,
Preparing deceit.

When childhood dies,
And our walk rises taller,
When the ceiling drops near,
And the sky marks our height, -
Walls made of ice
Crowd our faith ever smaller.
The glittering pebble
Withdraws from our sight.

When childhood dies,
And the corpse is banished
To a tomb that we carved
From our innermost cell, -
Alive the child lies,
Forgotten, not vanished,
Silently whispering
To teach us the spell

Here's a short piece I wrote exactly a year ago. I don't particularly care for the second stanza. But I like going through my writing and seeing exactly where I was one, two...I guess I have from up to six years ago now. Anyway (now that I've written more than is in my poem), here it is:

The Dead

you left me waiting with your dead
who rise and rise and rise
refusing to remain buried
refusing to remain hidden
refusing to speak

and I
can’t escape from their silence
when they
look me in the soul
as though I am one of them