16 poems
Posted by sarahsmiles on April 7th, 2007 filed in UncategorizedComment now »
I’ve not been near a computer with my notebook for a couple of weeks but I’ve been writing!
45 “Oh, you wild, beautiful thing!”
Push me. Push me to the edge of all reason and desire.
Make me fall. From my place into the gutter, rich
in the warm mud of spring passion that knows nothing
beyond the oozing sensuality of the moment, careless
of the stares and muttered comments of those
with clean soles and well-washed desires
that can never acquiesce to frolics under the sun.
46 – Painful blue Dawn
Sunshine rises from the earth,
painting the morning purple in the night,
impossibly fading to orange
in a broken spectral surge
for my eyes only.
Glows fade and fall behind
unseen clouds below the horizon
far out to sea
or behind the mountains I can’t see
hunting far off noons.
47 Hello Toes!
I love you again! My ten pink cherubs.
Back again from the edge of oblivion
where you had been banished
along with your host soles
in the long purgatory of abuse and neglect.
Pink and squeaky clean as new-borns,
you smile up at me from the bath
as I finally scrub the last
of the feral contagion
down the drain.
48 Love hurts
Smiles hurt the soul in pain
just as they can be a balm
to the recovering
and succor to the lost.
The smile. The warming mark
of attention, burns
into the heart
of one who will never
smile again, except
in an ash-dry remembrance
of what the smile once
meant, long ago
and far from now.
49 Dry Oblivion
“Face in the station at the metro…”
Each a flower. Expectant, blooming
warmly planted in soft earth. Gaudy
cut blossoms trussed up for monetary appeal;
all fragrance that averts the gaze.
Slightly wilting in the heat with
a brave face, hoping for a cooling breeze
to sustain the moment. Petals falling
one by one, into dry oblivion.
My garden of humanity in bloom.
50 Spin on love
So many hearts fall. Only some rise
from the ashes intact. Some rise
ashen, with the marks of the fall
tattooed in living flesh. Others rise
broken, wings smashed; gaped wounds
that never heal. Some never rise,
crawling among the fallen, existing
on the flesh detritus wedged
into ravenous jaws. The rarest bounce,
cartwheeling across the heavens,
in a lurching sidereal spin
smashing others from the sky,
wrecking havoc on love.
51 Hard Landing
I crawl sideways, scuttling for purchase
on the hard shifting stone. Sharp tallons
shifting cracked, calloused soles burned
by the scorched earth. My hair drags
around me; a moving pile of ash crouched low,
hiding the lost vacant stare of blind
hopeless wandering, searching each rock
for my gift of sight torn from my skull
in my headlong fall.
52 Images
Bloodied photographic lense,
splattered with hunger and desire,
haunts waking moment memory
and awakens frozen nightmare dreams.
Cascading assaults on sense-drenched
macabre visions that spring
blunt-forced through reoccurring drama
that plays across waking days; endless
reruns of a moment gone wrong, never
forgotten. Never escaped.
53 Remembered Rage
Never pay attention to the details of the moment
in the fractured specific visions that show
only fragments of the whole. See me,
not my flawed faults exploded and magnified
in sculpted intensity that marginalized
the everything for the sake of a single
blemished scar, a foetid breath,
and a kiss unrequited.
54 Voice
“Break my arms politely…”
Release your hold upon my soul,
as I crawl from beneath your boot,
sell my heart from bondage thrawl,
unchain my bleeding feet,
liberate my broken smile,
so the sun may once more shines in.
Cleanse me of my rancid breath
that I might wash away your sin.
I wriggle on my belly like a worm,
cut in two on a careless blade,
parching in the scornful sun,
miles away from cooling shade.
I crawl on my knee, a broken toy,
so that each step a circle makes,
winding down but unrelenting–
no matter what it takes.
55 On writing I
“And your poetry will be written with blood…”
Soft flowing veins of verse; some languished long,
streams, some muddy and terse. Others explode
in crimson fonts where pierced with the quill
of lust and arrows of desire. Though some flow black;
a cancerous plague of narrative corruption
that poisons the mind and soul.
56 On writing II
“And your poetry will be written with blood…”
That is how it goes. A small puddle of words
at my feet. A few verbs on my lips,
and a recollective declaration on my tongue
still warm, even though the moment’s passed.
The metallic taste of adjectives fill my nostrils,
as blood red tears fill my eyes
with stories of lost similies and songs.
57 On writing III
Dry-caked verses, and endless stanzas
encrust my fingers, wedged under cracked nails,
laying splattered across my blouse and skirts.
“And your poetry will be written with blood…”
Dry-etched sorrows mar my brow
and gash across my belly, only hinting
at the baleful wound between my thighs;
hopes, aborted and unloved, still cling
in fragments where life could
once have sung.
58 Pre-dawn Raid
Let’s just say “At night.” Forget the hour
and the exact angle of the moon
and its reflected refracting influence
on the landscape of the wandering soul.
The fox was out that night.
That’s all you need to know.
The target, code-named ‘ice-bitch’,
is a subtle mark, but tonight
the plan seems good to go.
Somehow separated from her clan,
she walks alone. All she really needs
is a love in her heart, but the good
girls are weeping again. They have lost
the last hands they were delt
by their fathers and mothers.
The winning hand for a man’s world.
And the rules have changed. Leaving them–
unprepared and naked for a new day.
Miss Calculating is reduced to a mere
Mary-Anne Faux Pas, in a strangely twisting
cultural conundrum, where your breing
suddenly became nothingness
in the instance you ceased to be
an appendage, and were thrust without
ceremony or a new frock into the harshness
of being yourself.
59 Remorseless Seductions
Finding faltering fragments
in free-fall fascination.
We call across impossible restrictions,
answering in phrases only half-acknowledged,
finding nuanced movements of the heavens
as proof of intentions that could never
be spoken of face to face.
The panic of unexpected meeting
on the platform of the station waiting
for movement in opposite directions;
when any opportunity for intimacy
is lost in ludicrous hopes and polite smiles
once again. I want to fly into your arms,
but they are ‘occupied’ this time,
just as the reverse was true the last.
Hands touch, along with polite kisses
of greeting and “have you met…” introductions.
“Yes, I think. In Marseilles last fall…”
And I must be off, with covert glances
as we go separately again.
Hope against hope that we might maroon ourselves
and lay for eternity in mutual caresses.
60 Where is your voice?
If you do not write, where is your voice?
How can a voice call to the heavens
from lips to sky in the maelstrom.
Crying out words in the darkness
without form or sense.
I crawl over each and every fragment
of a thought, fractures line and verse
looking endlessly for that one word
that will make a prayer of lost muttered
ramblings that could not stir a soul.
And I watch and listen for another song
to call mine own from all the whirring
voices in my skull. How might another’s words
speak for me, of all my cares and dreams to birth.
Mine must speak for me, or I must be silent.
As yours must same for you; crawl naked
from lips to fingers to pen to paper
for any hope of life.
Me in Second Life
Posted by sarahsmiles on April 3rd, 2007 filed in UncategorizedComment now »
living rough again