on the crooked little porch
just down the street
still talks to the sleek little ravens
as they gather
on his sharp little knees.
They bitch of the cold
and the lumbering way
the old man sags
back to earth as he ages.
The crazy little man
on his crooked little porch
scolds the little ravens
in a voice made frail
by a dryness caught
in his crooked little throat.
The crazy little ravens
seem amused by his bitching,
they caw their crazy little language
at the sharp little man
as he rocks
in his creaky little rocker
on his crooked little porch.
She wears sleek silk and dungarees,
never squanders pain
on softness or chocolate,
but holds it in her teeth
with the grip of Sunday’s demons.
She quotes Shakespeare
like a rosy cheeked Juliet virgin,
her plaits pulled taut
for her tightrope lover.
She’s a sugar coated vixen
‘neath her wet umbrella,
the girl of my midnight dreaming.
She listens, with her arms spread high,
to her sky church music,
on her distant little island with her head held high,
my love for her is comin’ on strong
for no good reason.
to the rocks he could not use,
to the swamps and natty trees,
to the gnarled and the grizzled
land that promised barren weeds,
he cast it all aside
and called it Wee-soc-kadao,
Wee-soc-kadao land.
With imagination,
it sprung to life
more beautiful
than the wasted sum
of all its broken parts,
with a people more lively
than any fruit
the natty trees
could ever truly bear.
You, two-spirited one,
could have been so much more,
medicine man, spirit walker,
great muwin, little aplikmuj,
great bear, little rabbit.
But lutmaqan derides you,
rumour, gossip corrupts your inborn good,
leaves you crippled in your stride.
You, misunderstood, gewaqsing—
blown down by a mighty wind
of voices crunching you to tiny dust.
Scream yourself existence,
suckle the winds that push your life away,
Mimajit, mimajiq,
Alive! Alive!
You of two spirits,
don’t let them end your song.
the way you did
when we laughed
ourselves to sleep
in Nirvana.
Kill me again,
the way you bent me
back against
the moon
while we stayed there.
Kill me again,
the way your breath
entered longing,
and stretched me
catastrophic.
Kill me again,
the way you heaved me
into madness
with a twist of the knife
you buried in my mind.
Kill me again,
the way you brought me
to my knees
when you shook
me from my tree.
Kill me again,
I’ll be your broken baby,
sleek and raven hearted,
my back against the moon.
the sea foam waltz
we knew
when we were young,
our pant legs dipping
in the surf
and the squish
of water in our shoes,
because we’ll be in love
again,
willing to forget
the anger
that made us
dance apart.
We’ll waltz
in the light
as it spills
from the caviar sky,
bursts of starlight
trapped
in the foam
at our feet.
And we’ll fall,
splash in the surf
like the children
we left behind
as we aged,
became these fossils
who forgot
the simplicity
of splashing
through the waltz
of our workaday lives.
And we’ll float
out to sea,
become one
with the waves
as they drag us away.
The Dream Quest One Poetry & Writing Contest is open to anyone who loves expressing innermost thoughts and feelings into the beautiful art of poetry or writing a short story that is worth telling everyone! And to all who have the ability to dream. Write a poem or short story for a chance to win cash prizes. All works must be original.
Guidelines: Write a poem, thirty lines or fewer on any subject, style, or form, typed or neatly hand printed.
And/or write a short story, five pages maximum length, on any subject or theme, creative writing fiction or non-fiction (including essay compositions, diary, journal entries and screenwriting). Also, must be typed or neatly hand printed.
Multiple poetry and short story entries are accepted.
Postmark deadline: July 31, 2009
All contest winners will be announced on August 31, 2009
Prizes: Writing Contest First Prize is $500. Second Prize: $250. Third Prize: $100. Poetry Contest First Prize is $250. Second Prize: $125. Third Prize: $50.
Entry fees: Writing Contest entry fee: $10 per short story. Poetry Contest entry fee: $5 per poem.
To send entries: Include title(s) with your story (ies) or poem(s), along with your name, address, phone#, email, brief biographical info. (Tell us a little about yourself), on the coversheet. Add a self-addressed stamped envelope for entry confirmation. Fees payable to: “DREAMQUESTONE.COM”
Mail to: Dream Quest One Poetry & Writing Contest P.O. Box 3141 Chicago, IL 60654
No one who achieves success does so without acknowledging the help of others. The wise and confident acknowledge this help with gratitude. “And remember, in whatever you do, it’s okay to dream, for dreams do come true.” –Dream Quest One
Wander with me,
a daisy
thick
between the teeth,
a swirling maze
of wonder
keeping every beat.
Hold me in,
a liar
thick
beneath the sheets,
a sweltering storm
of thunder
bearing down in heat.
I taught you the street,
fought you tongue in cheek
for the benefit of movement,
the latitude of kites.
We were a parade
in the cold, a place to go to
when 2am was all the world
could offer. A fight not real,
your twisted steel resolve
how it carried you forward,
made you more
than the street from which you lifted.
I raised you unequivocal,
meant for your feet to dance
onward into night unseen.
your trip was too contagious,
I contemplated melting
at your side,
into sugared winter streets–
The way you made it all romantic,
the dive, the swoon,
your lead balloon.
But I was more than tragic,
I was more than soaring loss
could ever be,
I taught you tongue and cheek,
but forgot to teach you sleek
and beauty,
the latitude you held inside,
of gentle winds and lifting kites,
the beauty of the night.
our house fights
to be found
amid the towered banks,
the snow
weights the world
with heavy sound/not sound.
we stand immobile,
like children
lost in a world
strung with paper flakes,
cut from patterns
and hung with lace.
we are lost to the din
of silence,
captivated,
lost in trance.
I’ll Keep You Breathing Somewhere Out There
to find out you have died,
it’s just a funny hell
to live in.
your bones are nearly sorrow,
returning to the ground
to mix with mingled malice.
I try to come to terms
with twenty years of wondering,
but can’t quite seem to get there
from the place I’ve come to rest.
our subway days still haunt me,
those nights of ill repute,
fractured laughter lifting
our weary weathered limbs.
Dead is just so frozen,
the fucked and final gasp,
I’ll lift your body boneless
from the tomb you now enchant,
forget the fact you floundered
and let my memories last.
the ones who chant your dying
can take their seats in hell,
I’ll sit and linger
over ticket stubs and tears,
and they can fall through broken cracks
of places long forgot.
I’ll Remember You Dead
You are no longer a cardboard memory
drawn from the dust of days
I long ago buried
under a rubble of pounded meal
and twisted flesh.
your bloated body is made
of ancient winds now
and I am lost
for words and uninspired.
your face is no longer smooth
with the grace of careless youth,
the lines that mock your smile
are worn with bitter pride.
they lied about your illness,
bitches, thieves and sharks,
they took from me the sadness
of nostalgia,
your limbs crumbling to dust
while still I breathed
here above ground, the victor,
cavalier for having made it
to a place you wouldn’t know.
How many others like you
walk this bastard earth?
friends and lovers
I once believed dead,
walking and filled with living breath
and stolen light?
I do not like deceit
or redirect.
I shall keep you whole and dead,
a cardboard cutout
in a book of pictures
left to rot
among the ticket stubs
and shallow chachkas
I long ago forgot.
with the ice and snow,
she is so far under
the greening land
that hands can
never reach her.
a prayer whispered
to the earth
that hides her bones
will never be heard.
the lips that sink
a little further
into dirt to reach her
will never touch
her un-harked lobes.
the rock that sits
upon her tomb
means nothing
to her tired sleep.
she will not know
how the sunlight
flares inside
and catches flecks
of fools gold,
or how i pressed
my weight of wild hope
against its smoothened sheen
before i placed it there.
I paint her,
smile serene
and playful,
nothing like
the slit that burns
foul on Monday
mornings
filled with rain
as she lays, intoxicated,
in dampened sheets.
The curves I add
in burning ochre
convey full-throttle
on a canvas,
but are only facsimiles
of the hips that sway
beneath–between–my hands
while we trace
the night
with Neil Young
singing sombre
against the dust
of a skritching broom.
Her eyes, in paint,
a lazy shimmer,
can neither capture
the sexy timbre
of her voice full scream
nor her spine in arch
when she is gently kneaded.
I cannot describe
in clumsy paint
the way she moves
my wanting fingers.
Still, she lets me trace
the fragile places
I have circumnavigated
on Monday mornings
filled with rain,
intoxicated.
the echo of your laugh
will die in here,
even with your wide-eyed
cathedral stare
pumping blood
from my splintered limbs
to my mitted throb,
i cannot hear
your slinking tongue
in here.
enwrapped in your flesh,
a shroud of pink embers
stretched to smother
the cruel intent
of my animal ways,
even so entranced
by these layers inside me,
i cannot hear
your whispered song,
i think i’ll die in here.
i will tell you all i know.
when i was but a junkie
i lavished all with tales
of whim and trite.
back then, not the least
among you listened.
but now, now
i really know.
i’ll show you the world,
without even the slightest
puncture of a vein
to help me crib my notes
from other planes.
if only you will sit
and listen.
I just found this one. It’s very cool! What do you submit? A 3-5 minute video of yourself reading your work in a kitchen setting.
That’s right. I love it! PistolPress calls it “an online video-based alternative to live literary readings.”
Visit PistolPress today to find out more: PISTOLPRESS -
Go directly to some kitchen table readings: THE KITCHEN READING SERIES
she is dead now,
her hair a ghost whisper
on a lingering river
and her face,
slightly below the wind-fluttered surface,
no longer looks into mine.
she has found a brighter light,
a star of David,
bent back and speckled
with time’s manic whispers.
her eyes glimmer now,
all-knowing,
so far away
from the boy she knew
and daisies,
but still a light,
her face in shimmer
tells me in little micro-words
what to write and how.
she is smoke in the bonfire,
a twisted recollection of life
unlived. her bones, though brittle,
play softly in the wind of life,
teeter on the edge of remembering.
a sigh escapes me as i recall
her flesh with breath still simmering,
but gone–she still unfolds
around me. she, the goddess darkly,
can never be truly gone.
she is dead now,
a ghost mid-whisper.
I sometimes lose myself in Dali art. I like to freefall from his pieces and see what happens. Here’s a freefall I did to a Dali piece painted in 1936.
Soft Construction with Boiled Beans (Premonition of Civil War) 1936 by Salvador Dali
And broken, we still insist
on turning our face
to meet the desert sun.
The fist a vital display
of strength, even in dying,
pulling free a mother’s milk
to wash away the sin of broken.
Even with the tongue
that holds us earthbound,
we are free to grip
the wayward sky,
our muscles stretching
languid against
impossible odds…
and food, only a reach away,
is left to perish in the burn,
forgotten in the sensual aria
of milking nubile flesh.
We will die for that hold,
anguish ourselves to hunger
before reassembling
in the gathered heat.
We parade ourselves,
Stickman passion, breakable limbs,
Wrap the wild wedding-white
Dress around her, shroud-like,
Entomb her with our wishes,
We reach wicked, stretching,
For happiness. Push her to
Her future. Laugh at
Our hopeless shortcomings.
Parade ourselves, slender pixies,
Welcoming the bliss of wild white.
And the Polaroids for after,
Snapshots of a ceremony,
How we tear and remember,
With less than perfect recollection,
The happiness we sought.
How we sold her away, enticed her
With our imperfect rubies
Until she felt compelled to leave
Behind the world of wonder,
Wicked, we reached. Stretching.
Pushing with breakable limbs.
I’m looking for more writing related blogs to blogroll. If you have one–AND YOU ARE NOT ALREADY ON MY BLOGS I ROAM ROLL–please leave a link in the comments section of this post. Please…the only exception I ever make is the PHOTO blog. Only leave a link if your blog truly is WRITING RELATED.
Thank you.
