[OT] Poetry

[Mallus]

I used to write poetry...

...or I still do, with enourmous infrequency. I don't have anything up on the web, nor can I recall any full poems from memory.

But I do rememember some titles...

These are the poems in my yet-unfinished Love Poem Cycle:

"Lion Whizzing on a Sleeping Gypsy" --complete

"The X-Men do scenes from Ibsen" --complete

"Lemurs Steal Turkey Baster" --work-in-progress


And these are the opening lines from a poem I wrote sometimes call Boys v. Girls...

"Boy, I wish I could go on the rag sometimes
so I could feel in my belly the stately turnings of the Moon"

 

[MerakSpielman]

So... I gave links to some of my stuff... any of you other poets care to share some?

Why not?

This is my alphabet poem. It's one of my personal favorites and started as an assignment back in high school and became what you see now.


Questioning
by Merak Spielman

Asking questions to the
Blackness that
Causes
Death to rise on wings of shadows.
Entering the
Forbidden realm of
Gray neutrality and
Having to shut the door behind you.
In seas that boil and freeze
Joining together and rushing apart at the same time
Killing is survival;
Laughter is death.
Moons lifting over a barren landscape cause
Night to fill the
Open eyes which dare to gaze on them,
Pausing only to listen to, but never answer,
Questions. Clouds,
Rising above the
Stars and
Turning them in their dance through the
Universe cause
Visors of cold iron to lift and allow the
Waves to enter
Xanadu, to enter paradise, still
Yelling madly into the night of light a
Zodiac of questions, which are never answered.

 

[Wolfspider]

LINES

Under the stars she reads my palm.
She traces a wrinkle to an intersection,
Proclaims my head rules my life.
Scanning again, she finds one line
Like a frayed rope: chains on my heart.

Our lives are in our hands. From birth
We clench against the little paths
Carved out for each of us,
Scars that never heal or bleed

 

[Wolfspider]

THE SPOON

Once upon a time, he was prized,
admired for his delicate design.
Out in the light, he would shine
and hold the whole room in his eye.

Now there is only a glimmer,
lost in the concave mirror,
of a desire, a want for a dish,
perhaps, to run away with.

 

[Mallus]

Wait a minute...

...I sort-of remember a short one. This is called Love Poem at Work, which was originally written in the office of an accountant I was temping for during a bout of Lotus 1-2-3...

"Later, I found words to love you
that made the heart seem as
ridiculous as weather.

Later, I found the words to love you
on the side of a balled-up tube of toothpaste.
The words were
--Aluminum triphosphate gel--
What a sorry state of affairs.

Later, I told you
You have to read a poets entire body of work
lest a thousand clowns fall out of a window
and the law of gravity is born."


This is fun... Not good, mind you, but fun...

 

[Wolfspider]

LEAVES

When I came home, you had already gone.
It took more than a month for us to move
here a year ago. I remember you
dragging the dresser up the stairs yourself.
You tried your best to cover the deep scars
in the wood. This time, though, you needed
just a few hours to pack. But you left
a shirt on the bedroom floor, half hidden
underneath the bed. A couple mismatched
socks tossed in with mine. Those earrings you lost.
The cherry jewelry box, now empty,
I bought you as a gift. Some rings of dust.

How long did it take you to write those words?
It’s taking me weeks to read them. I keep
your note by the bed. Thanks for making ice
tea before you left. I wanted to read the leaves
in the last glass, but then I drank the dregs
before realizing that I was done.

 

[Wolfspider]

ROAD SIGNS

Each black mark shows where someone’s gone astray.
Some swerve sharply left, out of the way

of something in the road—possum, deer,
dog, or just a blurry dream. Others veer

right into the shoulder, guard rail, or grass.
Sometimes there are other signs: a crass

plastic cross wreathed with flowers, hubcaps, streaks
of paint on bent metal. Each remnant speaks.

Every couple miles, frayed black coils of tire
lie still and broken on the outer edge.

These fragments warn off better than barbed wire,
or painted lines that try, and fail, to hedge.

 

[Wolfspider]

SKIPPING STONES

Some claim that skipping is an art. Who knows?
If it’s an art, then I was born stone deaf.
No matter how I pose or twist, my throws
All end with the same single plunk. Too rough,

She says. Good skipping stones are smooth,
Not bricks like mine. But even ones she picks
Fall flat for me, barely making waves. Truth
Is I have no skill at this, should stick

With words instead of stones. So I watch her,
But not to learn just how to throw. The way
She stands and casts. Stone floating on water.
These images of what I’ve seen today.

 

[Wolfspider]

BREATHING

Breathe, she whispers as I mount
the stage to read my poems;
Breathe deep, go slow.

All my poems, those careful puffs,
deliberate beats of breath.
This gift of filling up
and letting go.

 

[Wolfspider]

Sorry!

Got a little carried away.