Something Old, Something New

A couple new ones from the vaults,
Old but relatively new... Or was it the other way around?

*********************************
Duncan

All or nothing unhappiness
Is equally as frustrating
As 5am rising to your
8am late...

*************************

Some Nights

You are
The Format-
Sinister,
Stone cold
Severity.
And I am
The child's defense,
Elaborate, wild,
Panicked piety.
And all the anxiety
Notoriety
I have
Cannot compete
With the way
I want to be
Violently
(Unemotionally)
Capable
Of convincing you
Otherwise.
But here, as always,
I speak in
Fragments
Instead of
Sense,
Remaining prisoner
To the present tense.
And as my tension grows,
As usual,
I won't yell.
I'll only whisper...
How.
Fun.

U-Verse and U-Poetry: The Bagpipes Serenade

From the shy view
Of a pullout couch,
I slide my fingers fast along the floorboards to find
Derelict bootstraps
Roped around sheepskin on a
Delicate frequency.
(Your stripes look better than mine.)
With one foot to steady
And one breath to give,
I cannot help wishing
To be one
With you...
I speak to you in code
With my eyes and my phone
From a distance,
(The hallway)
As your bellow forces retreat
From even the bravest child-bicyclists
To challenge the neighboring sidewalks.
Not a single word lingers on your lips.
There is only sound and breath and regal motion
Splitting the room and my mind
Like paper seams
That wrap and fold and press my thoughts together.
Thus, I press the moment to my heart,
Knowing we must carry on
Apart in the cinnamon air,
(We are stuck opening door handles
And internet portals
Through the burnt bacon sauna).

What else can interrupt our Mockingbird morning?
Submit all your ideas
Care of one callous, cloudy, humming Saturday
And the one
I shared it with.

:)

Fan the Smoke Alarm Some More

little light, coated in
banana-chocolate filling
over blood-spilling bathroom deliverance.
canvas, carry me over sunken seashores
to my lover's thirsty side.
hiding is no option around you,
but oh, to be pulled in!
you are rush and wrath and righteous
courtesy.
cover me.
I'll brush up on my Kentucky Scot,
if you let me be your Alabama Scout.

My Moon My Man

I've managed to avoid
All the hassle and hurt
And the curt belongings
Of shame and ignorance
I should be carrying
On slanted shoulders.

But I waver,
Knowingly,
(Despite the warnings)
And I push right through
My determined seams,
'Til the inside of my desire
Is right-side up again...

A moonlight serenade for me
Would be divine-
If only the right moon
Were mine.

Dark Blue

You.
You are glowing with a pride I haven't seen before.
You are telling me what to do.
Your eyes are the words I could never say.
Your lips, the thoughts I never felt.

In design, your body motions me forward. And I fall away. It scales me, though I pull back. I am not here. But you are.

In my prison, I am a slave to both. But that is a lie. The curse of the prison.

Permanently, have I really been changed at all? Should I have been the active, rather than the passive? Have I stopped to breathe? Will I replace it all again?

Rebounding, I am led toward uneven pavement and pond rings and complacency and shuddering. It's eating me.

Can it be explained so simply? What, am I a child? Am I incapable of this?

I stare at the questions I pose. And they pose me.

Grant me serenity
Instead.

Tales From the Crypt

Well, look what the monster dragged in!

Hiya, existent or non-existent reader folks! I am BACK! (for how long or how consistently, i fear i cannot yet tell.) BUT, here I am to catch you up! The following are some tales from the crypt, that is, some pieces I never put up on here from ages and ages ago, buried deep within the confines of my ruby, cardboard-bound notebook. Enjoy at your own risk!

curse ive

how i feel about love
is more like an ongoing question
that i fear will never be answered,
rather than an achievable goal
or a summons
or a song
or a resolvable plight.
cuz I am an uptight, invitable,
irritable, ever-angry-in-the-face-of-ignorance,
too-good-for-that-girl who
occasionally leaves her post at
Prude Bay and takes up residence at
Port-au-Prince ss.

3DD

Gingerly
I watch the pines set sail
On the light, furry parades of snow
That refuse to trickle from
These wanting branches.
I scoop up regrets
In my arms
Like seashells,
All soft and edge and knowing.
They slip and cut my feet
Like well-oiled machinery.
I sit and slop up
Mad soup
That sucks off all the sorrow
And empties it kindly into
My selfish brain.

...Sloth is not one of my proudest habits.

summerquiet

I want to feel like that, though since I am changing what I want on an hourly basis, this feeling will certainly pass.

I love to re-listen to those messages. I treasure re-reading those words on paper- the ones that you read forever and ever ago.

Warmest sensations overcome me with both these memories. They are the most accessible, real feelings I've had in a long, long time. And I have been silent for far too long...

My heart would burst with wanting, if it could. But, I think the sterilization changed all that.

I don't want to share it anymore. And that "it" is me.

I can't own something real unless I first own me. Entirely.

...I am nervous. And a little terrified. And as I've been told, fear is a response to something important...

Like telling secrets.
I've always been an open book.
Except for the guilty parts...
No more.

Old Things, New Things

Another poem from the vaults. (laughoutloud)

"Snib Rud"

And that was the night I met you.
I could not stop staring.
You were in the exact form I had always pictured:
Bearded, porcelain, warm.
Full of mildness and sweetness.
Stuffed with temerity.
Laced in good humor.
Dipped in a vat of laid-back.
Cautious-honest...

But I cannot forget that this is what I have oft wanted before,
And when fully sampled,
Found it to be less appealing than imagined.

So where does that leave us?
You, a stranger with a debauched uncle.
Me, a taken woman,
In every sense of the word.
My eyes followed you everywhere
In the hopes that they might ignite
Some miracle between them
That would transcend all boundaries...

Alas, this could not be.
You moved to the door,
And with a warm shake and a gentle smile,
You were gone.
Disappeared behind a door that led you
To brisker weather and congenial smokers conversation,
While I, trapped in my relationship occupation,
Could only sit beautifully
And smile secret tragedies inside.

We were the afternooners.
And I hope that someday
There will be a sunrise for us.