poems 93-100

Posted by sarahsmiles on December 31st, 2007 filed in poetry
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I’m thrilled shitless! I’m done!

93- the third way
Learning is different from knowing.
Listening is not about acquiring knowledge.
Reflecting on what you’ve listened and learned is not dangerous.

I want to learn how to live and how to die,
and that is not the same as living or dying.
Few people know how to do either; they just let it happen.
That is a passive way to pass through life.
I think I’d rather be an active participant
through my own passage through the world.

If religion could do that for me, that would be great.
I am sure it does for some.
If science would do that for me, that would be great.
I don’t think it has done much in that regard.
If laughter and joy could do that for me, I’d be happy.
I think that this path looks most promising.

I’ll take door #3.

94 – can’t someone else?
(inspired by )
“I’m tired of being the go-getter.
Can’t someone else be responsible for once?”
Someone else is responsible…
the little gremlin who fucks everything up
when we don’t take care.
There’s someone ready to step into the breach
when we leave the room, just for a moment.
The understudy has taken her place, ready
to become me when I forget who I am.
The fat lady is ready to sing
as soon as I stop talking.
There’s always someone willing to live
when we’ve lost the will to do it ourselves.

95- And it begins again
I’ve always wondered, late at night, why
the hurting hurts more than it ever should,
than it has the right to, than I ever expected.
The pain of the cut is almost a solace,
that moment of assurance of being alive,
compared to the inner uncertainty
of never having lived at all.

From cries of anguish comes nothing but pain.
Those cries of terror will drive you insane.
Cries of doubt lead to cries of loss.
Cries of nightmares turn you and toss.
The end is near, if you go all the way.
And after the end is the start of the day.

96- Buttercup Victory
Looking for words that will fit on the page.
Sinking to verse for a form to be filled.
Forgoing blank verse that appears so sage
or soothing words of emotions now stilled,
for language of anger to incite my rage.
thoughts of before to which my heart has thrilled
to free me at last from my poetic cage.

97 – I can’t listen any more
An image in my head that I somehow cannot shake
is driving me to choices I would rather never make.

Sitting, fretting, remembering then forgetting
what I thought I’d never have to realize;
that my days with you, like those without you
have done nothing to change what I’ve become.

The impact of your life on mine is not what I expected,
and that I was to make a mark on you is something I neglected.

Sitting, thinking, pondering then realizing
what we are keeps us too far apart;
that my nights with you, like those without you
is like sitting, quiet in the dark.

98 – Read and weep
I read, in your letter that you left
atop the pile of your things
that you had packed so neatly,
completely numbered, boxed
and wrapped and labeled,
the reasons why you have to go.

I read, in this letter written so neat
in that professional rational voice
that you save for when you want
to be finished and done, the list
of decisions and deliberations
that you really just thought I should know.

I read, in this letter, held to my heart
words slightly wet with my tears
that drip down from my nose,
past the smile on my lips,
that behind all your actions and words
that love that will not let us part.

99 – tonight
What are you doing to night?
Will you hold me closely in your arms
and sing to me with lover’s charms?
Caress my lips with pearly dew
and create for me the world anew!
Find me open, smiling, waiting,
ready for some satiating.
Spurn me at your own risk
for I am ready to be kissed.

100 – The day is done.
The day is done, and put to bed.
This year is over, year of dread.
The failures I’ve failed will all be forgotten
as the new gives birth to what I’ve begotten.
My heart is a horror filled with delight.
My soul is now ready for a brief respite.
My flesh is new marked with scars of the knife
I am now ready to make a new life.


Poem 81-92/100

Posted by sarahsmiles on December 31st, 2007 filed in poetry
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Surfing Strong (80)
Sunrise over infinity is a smile for the moment
to appreciate when the day is every day
that has ever been, now and forever,
and what it left behind, in sorrow and sadness,
a maudlin memory tears blinking away i
n smiles and sobs of laughter
of release at dawn.

There are crimes that cannot be forgiven
by any god, of passion and regret,
that needs must live inside
to just live once again in the end.
And folly can only forgive what folly
once foolish allowed and one heart must see
what always must be that single smile
in the crowd. I hold you in my heart as
I touch you in my words while
the rest of the world
can fuck off and die,
I love you, it’s just that absurd.

seven eights of the ocean (81)
So much rides on the surface of your ocean;
flat still, choppy rolling, surging gale ridden,
catastrophic maelstrom, that speaks only of appearance
as seen from wharf and shore, a float, delicately plumbed:
your face revealed with your eye in the storm.
The smell. Your taste on my lips and thighs.
Cold, silent and fecund, in that order,
telling me to stay away. My head hurts.
I want you badly. A strange and singular desire
that reaches me even on desert sands
far from any hint of shade or moisture.
I bite my lip and taste you, lover like none other.
If all happens below the waves in the deep,
the cold where the heart of all things waits,
calling me into your arms once again.

I found this, written on a bit of paper torn
from your notebook after you had left,
and I knew you had written this to me.
And as I watch the ferry leave the harbor
to Corsica or somewhere, I know it is true,
and I let it fall from my hands into the sea.
As the ink runs awash in the surf,
I know that it is true. And I want to die
with you once again so that I might
pull you from the depths into my arms,
like a sister’s kiss to bring you to life
after your heart has failed and your soul
thought it had finally left me and this world.

Hard for you (82)
It is hard to write a word until you feel
like you are dying: for love, of life, forever,
because of a dream come true,
unanswered, beyond recall.
When the weight of life, of pain, of memory
is too much to bear, ignore, accept
without distraction, acceptance or exhilaration.

The words I have written,
remembered and forgotten
are all for you, myself, the other,
and I find myself lost, found,
discarded in the warm,
cold indifferent words
I write, somehow.

Return (83)
The lost ports of my storm return
in my dreams, dead, revenant
ghosts of wood and sale, rotted
iron, echoing gulls and the sea,
salty on my lips and warm in
my thighs, misty on my throat
and in my chest… a slow engine
throb where my heart once cried
long into the night for you to come
home to my shores and beach
your keel on my warm wet sands,
run aground between the rocks
of my shoals on the island of my heart.

Find a place to live (84)
You cannot live with them, and it is getting
just too hard to hide the bodies, any more.
The pain of change translating into the unknown
or the pain of the trite recapitulation into the comic
recreations of the every day. Liminal desire
forever at the edge of waking consciousness,
bloody border of passion in the day
fraught with routine and borderline sanity.
A reminder unwelcomed, that another world
awaits, a vision of a better world, rhizome
of evil telling me to kill this world so that
from the ashes you might live again.

The same question, again… (85)
You made yourself into who you are.
You volunteered for this, remember?
Remember the alternative that was too
much to bear, and all that fate worse than death,
you can always go back to, if you can remember
the steps you took, people you stole dismembering
act by subtle wound, tearing fear with fright.

There’s nothing to love in the hero,
anymore. Anymore than a statue or a sign
pointing to the impossibility of the fictionalized
account of something lost in a past that
never really happened as any of the
survivors remember it.

It’s a beautiful life.
But you’re not allowed to live it.
Severed spit and sinew from
the smile of a child playing,
blood and bone from
a kiss, or the play of words
on the mind and soul.

And you don’t get it, still
you stare into the mirror
maudlin and despairing
thinking your pain matters
more than that which you
have caused, never able
to fathom that it is this
moment of understanding
that always brings it to it’s end.
Stop looking at me that way!

Last Summer Gone (86)
Blood-heated summer crawls like an endless
unfinished tattoo across young unblemished flesh
coursing intricate patterns of unexpected color
and patches of calm cool shade to relax the senses.
Languid with pools of cool water and dappled sunlight
that warm into human afternoons of lazy buzzing
insects, and not much else. Fire-driven sunsets
without beginning or end. The eternity of midnight
until dawn where quiet is an illusion of the senses
when each pause or corner turned reveals
soft voices in lover’s conversation sleepless
for all sensual swelter leaving whispers on sweat.
Warmed stone of yesterday’s sun beneath,
blood of life on my lips, tongue and skin
mixed with the moist oily sheen of this summer night
tells me that I’m still alive.

‘Speare and Thorn (87)
Your blood is like a red read rose,
green stem wik and alive, frustrated
with the thorns that bite and scratch, growing
wild with your sisters along side of the road
before an abandoned farmhouse, between
the highway and nowhere. Leaves young
succulent grace your skin. Aphids sucking
your youth as spider mites crawl about,
everyone calling on the sun for one more
drop of life. My blood rose, all pretty with ruby
spires, green impaler of the blue sky,
I crawl to you wingless, on many legs
to hide in the long grass wet with dew,
anathema. Caustic breath, biting, sucking.
Teeth, ripping and tearing, voiceless,
my only music is the slow worming
deep into your heart.

And your heart will fail, and you will crawl to me
on broken stem and wilted leaf. Crawl to me,
the canker of desire eating you but and root.
That final bud, driven to the sun by every
photosynthesizing cell hoping and dreaming,
flowering, and mating into seed, thrall to me.

That bud, first flush of blush struggles on with
tears of early morning dew, hormone driven,
pheromones flying sweetness scenting
each molecule of air, stamen ready to
to thrust forth, petals ripening on summer’s
warmth, forgetting for the moment my gaze
writhing lecherous, grasping need entwining,
endlessly constructing.

And the moment comes. The bud shoots forth
to flower upon the setting sun,
all energy spent, the evening has begun.

Try as you might, dying against the night,
inevitable plight and dark delight.

Caught in the tarantella, young perfumed lips
becoming saccharine sickness sweet,
all too red and ripe, each tear drop
to be savored

88 – She sleeps in anger
Too many low slung blows have caressed my flesh,
slights too slight to rouse the serpent from her hot
sun summer repose. Gnats and flies and myriad crawling
life abuse my skin. Noticed and remembered,
all below the action threshold, she sleeps,
lazing the hazy days with an inward smile,
tonight is her turn to bite.

89 – nothing but time
I crawl on shattered knees, crushed
on impact, tendons severed, flesh torn.
My way is clouded by hair hanging
down into the dust, tangled with scrub
and brush. Sight fails behind grime-
rimmed eyes, kohl black with tears
that wash nothing away, but time.

90 – Blown away
The moment is lost in the winds of desire
maelstrom; the evil whirlpool has swept
everything away but your titanic force of will.
Remorse, reflection, even my hard-won sense
of self, flushed away in rip-tides and wind-driven
salty spray that etches you into my soul, tattooing
my flesh with a thousand deep caresses that morph
my thoughts and dreams into a mermaid’s siren call
to be at one with the sea and find myself fathoms down
in your stormy waters.

Broken hearts. Broken bones. Broken hope and dreams.
I see all this in your eyes when you look at me.
Wasteful days and wasteful nights, wasted empty life.
A forced smile painted to hide nightmare dreams.
Tears of sorrow. Tears of pain. Tears for lies and memories.

The future is a smileless past played out again,
and again I want to save you from yourself.
I want to take you away. I want to start you fresh again,
help you find your way. But you won’t listen when I call,
or see me when I stare, still lost inside your anger, and despair.
Call to me my lovely. Strike me when you hurt.
Drag me down into your hole and wallow in the dirt.
I am beyond words of shame, scorn or praise.

91 – Doubt
Taking everything but my pride
in a maudlin twist of fate forsaken
by what I’d thought to forsake.
Ripped and shrouded, broken and abused,
body and soul are reduced to a cold burning
embrace, feral and self-contained, writing
in blood every moment, every day, every step
from the instance when humanity
was no longer an option.

92 – Where went my heart…
Being elsewhere bound in languid autumn folds
of warm flesh, welcomed absence.
Lost in wondrous arms.
I was lost, running from the horror
of being found, trussed up and dragged
back to polite society.
Stayed lost, ambivalent to the hunt,
left behind dreaming of becoming
lost again, when you made yourself
into who you are, and came for me.


poems 78-80

Posted by sarahsmiles on December 23rd, 2007 filed in poetry
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<strong>Impaired Liberty</strong>

The contagious identity of our inventions;
restrictions from heaven, restrictions from the law.
Injunctions and invocations.

My constraint biased love:
the trap of unweary charlatans,
my own fantastical myth
that has no meaning
even to itself.

<strong>Gypsies @ Garre du Nord</strong>
“Do you speak English?”
“No.”
The quote of the day.
Roma in Paris have British accents.

North Africans at Sacré Coeur with wristlets.

Hassled outside the museum of man by a
buck-toothed gypsie who wanted to return to me
the cheap ring he ‘found’ on the ground for a reward.
Never fell for this in the past, as he quickly realized.
But I was looking ‘la touriste’, so he is forgiven thinking
I’d want a 0.00009 carat gold ring… and it was a man’s ring
though it might have looked good on my big toe, though it
is surgical steel or nothing… well platinum.  Poor guy,
I’d been watching as he’d reached down to pick up nothing
before the ring had appeared in his hand, but I guess
that is my fault for noticing. Just a gadja, an infidel to the people.
I don’t exist, except as a raw resource.
The tragedy of that assumption is clear.

We sat in the park, eating and drinking; goat cheese with peppers,
Auvergne sausage and some ancient grained baguette, all served
up on a backpack with a swiss army knife.

What was the response? “Oh, that’s not my ring.”

And the wanker wants my sausages! Not at 28 euro a kg!
Shout and eye to eye expletives.  Thinking he could shout
two women down. Women with a backpack and a swiss army knife.
It is strange to say that I had to go european on his ass,
ameri/british packing up and moving on just wouldn’t do.
Pointing the knife to my chest I ask “Puyuria?” laughing,
do I look like some gypsy groupie? Third time he gets it.

<strong>You must!</strong>
When did I stop loving art?
Perhaps when it got to love me.
When it, body and soul,
made love to itself, on show,
for the whole world to see.
When it stopped seeing me as a woman,
a person, a sinner a saint. When it saw
me as just a consumer to sell to.
Don’t forget that I am your art,
I inspire all that you do,
and you must make me immortal.

<strong>Salvatore Rose</strong>
Action–action in the sunshine.
Passion–but little feeling, and less thought,
such was meant to be our existence,
but we refine, we sadden and subdue.
We call up the hidden evil spirits of the inner world.
We wake from their dark repose those who will madden:
“He was made of all nature’ s most dangerous ingredients…”


cook! where’s my hasenpfeffer?

Posted by sarahsmiles on December 23rd, 2007 filed in unusual things
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Bugs Bunny



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Boules in Antibes

Posted by sarahsmiles on December 21st, 2007 filed in travel
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Boules in Antibes

Boules in Antibes

Love the air action on these shots.


Dogging in Antibes

Posted by sarahsmiles on December 20th, 2007 filed in travel
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Dogging in Antibes
Scarfed a better cam and good lens and got an hour taking shots while ma peeps were map hunting at my fav store.