12-16-2011, 05:52 PM | #261 |
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Shoveling Snow
by Kirsten Dierking If day after day I was caught inside this muffle and hush I would notice how birches move with a lovely hum of spirits, how falling snow is a privacy warm as the space for sleeping, how radiant snow is a dream like leaving behind the body and rising into that luminous place where sometimes you meet the people you've lost. How silver branches scrawl their names in tangled script against the white. How the curves and cheekbones of all my loved ones appear in the polished marble of drifts. |
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12-24-2011, 05:39 PM | #262 |
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Gift Wrapping
By David Wagoner Already imagining her Unwrapping it, I fold the corners, Putting paper and ribbon between her And this small box. I could hand it over Out in the open: why bother to catch her eye With floss and glitter? Looking manhandled, it lies there Like something lost in the mail, the bow On backwards. And minutes from now, She will have seen what it is. But between her guesswork And the lifting of the lid, I can delay All disappointments: the give and take Of love is in the immediate present Again, though I can't remember myself What's in it for her. |
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12-24-2011, 05:52 PM | #263 |
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Virginia Shoffstall
Comes The Dawn
After a while, you learn the subtle difference Between holding a hand and chaining a soul. And you learn that loving doesn’t mean leaning And company isn’t security. Kisses aren’t contracts and presents aren’t promises. After a while you begin to accept your defeats With your head up and your eyes open, With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child. And you learn to build your roads on today Because tomorrow's ground is too uncertain And the inevitable has a way of crumbling in mid-flight. After a while you learn that even sunshine burns If you stand too long in one place. So, you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul Instead of waiting for someone else to bring you flowers. And you learn you really can endure, That you really do have worth. You learn that with every good-bye comes the dawn. |
12-28-2011, 11:49 AM | #264 |
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Under These Circumstances
When they dig deep for what is considered
the most horrifying adjective, when they come on to you in the street when they tell you (and they will tell you) that you are a sick cunt and perverted bitch whose dyke face they would like to (in so many words) smash when they invite you to suck them off-- it will be important to remember the night the rain came through the window and you licked the drops from her shoulder and they were sweeter than the ripe, wet pears glowing in the grass how you woke up longing, wanting this woman too much, how she could make you suffer in the dark whether or not she was there. Try to recall the way her voice broke when you touched her just the right way, how learning to touch her the right way was all that ever mattered. Bring back your own nakedness against her rowdy jeans, her torn sweatshirt stained red & green, the way she held your wrists as you strained to come. Under these circumstances it will be an inspiration to recall her Fuck Off walk, perfected in cruel streets and other corridors of ridicule, all meaningless to you now that you no longer fear the rain coming through the window; lick the drops from her shoulder. ~ Brenda Brooks |
12-28-2011, 01:46 PM | #265 | |
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I love this. Thanks for posting it.
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12-28-2011, 01:50 PM | #266 |
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12-29-2011, 05:34 PM | #267 |
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why things burn
My fire-eating career came to an end
when I could no longer tell when to spit and when to swallow. Last night in Amsterdam, 1,000 tulips burned to death. I have an alibi. When I walked by your garden, your hand grenades were in bloom. You caught me playing loves me, loves me not, metal pins between my teeth. I forget the difference between seduction and arson, ignition and cognition. I am a girl with incendiary vices and you have a filthy never mind. If you say no, twice, it's a four-letter word. You are so dirty, people have planted flowers on you: heliotropes. sunflowers You'll take anything. Loves me, loves me not. I want to bend you over and whisper: "potting soil," "fresh cut”. When you made the urgent fists of peonies a proposition, I stole a pair of botanists' hands. Green. Confident. All thumbs. I look sharp in garden shears and it rained spring all night. 1,000 tulips burned to death in Amsterdam. We didn't hear the sirens. All night, you held my alibis so softly, like taboos already broken. ~ Daphne Gottlieb |
12-29-2011, 05:51 PM | #268 | |
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Exquisitely gorgeous. I want to hear it read.
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12-29-2011, 05:59 PM | #269 |
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12-29-2011, 06:11 PM | #270 |
Be the Fearless Bunny
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Yes, *that* Suzanne Somers...
Extra Love
~by Suzanne Somers Sometimes I wonder If there's enough love to go around. All the people I know grasp for it The ladies whose husbands drift away The men whose wives have forgotten to care The children standing on their heads to be noticed And, well, I might as well admit it Me--how about me? Sometimes I wonder if there's enough love to go around With all the pain and longing. But one thing is sure: If anyone has any extra love Even a heartbeat Or a touch or two I wish they wouldn't waste it on dogs.
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12-29-2011, 07:12 PM | #271 |
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Stars - Emily Bronte
Ah! why, because the dazzling sun
Restored our Earth to joy, Have you departed, every one, And left a desert sky? All through the night, your glorious eyes Were gazing down in mine, And, with a full heart's thankful sighs, I blessed that watch divine. I was at peace, and drank your beams As they were life to me; And revelled in my changeful dreams, Like petrel on the sea. Thought followed thought, star followed star Through boundless regions on; While one sweet influence, near and far, Thrilled through, and proved us one! Why did the morning dawn to break So great, so pure a spell; And scorch with fire the tranquil cheek, Where your cool radiance fell? Blood-red, he rose, and arrow-straight, His fierce beams struck my brow; The soul of nature sprang, elate, But mine sank sad and low. My lids closed down, yet through their veil I saw him, blazinig, still, And steep in gold the misty dale, And flash upon the hill. I turned me to the pillow, then, To call back night, and see Your words of solemn light, again, Throb with my heart, and me! It would not do - the pillow glowed, And glowed both roof and floor; And birds sang loudly in the wood, And fresh winds shook the door; The curtains waved, the wakened flies Were murmuring round my room, Imprisoned there, till I should rise, And give them leave to roam. O stars, and dreams, and gentle night; O night and stars, return! And hide me from the hostile light That does not warm, but burn; That drains the blood of suffering men; Drinks tears, instead of dew; Let me sleep through his blinding reign, And only wake with you! |
12-29-2011, 08:07 PM | #272 |
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Look it up
*The Cold Within* was written by Richard Kinney - I won't post it here - but do look it up...Very deep....
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12-30-2011, 02:31 PM | #273 |
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Climb Inside of Me
I told my woman,
I said, Woman I ain't in the mood for no girl to girl love the kind that's only made when the moon is full, and the cat is fed I've been waiting for you on the edge of the bed, there is a stairwell to the left a ladder to the right, take any route you like but, you hurry and climb inside of me, I need to feel your body weight pressing into mine, as I tear at the flesh on your round behind, Please Now, don't go P.C. all over me I want to hear you call out my name, along with God's, Jesus, and all twelve apostles let's not wrestle with semantics there ain't no other way to say it there ain't no other way to claim it, except to say, I need some woman to woman love some of that sweat pouring, politically incorrect arching my back taking no prisoners neighbors banging on the wall, kind of love need you ready and willing, to come and climb inside of me. ~ Doris L. Harris |
01-01-2012, 05:22 PM | #274 |
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The Clock
by Dennis O'Driscoll With only one story to tell, the clock strikes a monotonous note, irrespective of how musical the bell, how gilded the chimes its timely conclusions report through. Time literally on hands, it informs you to your face exactly where you stand in relation to your aspirations, stacks up the odds against your long-term prospects, leaves your hopes and expectations checked. Keeping track of time to the last second, it gives the lie to all small talk about your reputedly youthful looks, sees through the subterfuge of dyed hair, exposes the stark truth beneath the massaged evidence of smooth skin. |
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01-03-2012, 03:43 PM | #275 |
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Love Poem for a Non-Believer
Because I miss
you I run my hand along the flat of my thigh curve of the hip mango of the ass Imagine it your hand across the thrum of ribs arpeggio of the breasts collarbones you adore that I don’t My neck is thin You could cup it with one hand Yank the life from me if you wanted I’ve cut my hair You can’t tug my hair anymore A jet of black through the fingers now Your hands cool along the jaw skin of the eyelids nape of the neck soft as a mouth And when we open like apple split each other in half and have seen the heart of the heart of the heart that part you don’t I don’t show anyone the part we want to reel back as soon as it is suddenly unreeled like silk flag or the prayer call of a Mohammed we won’t have a word for this except perhaps religion ~ Sandra Cisneros |
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01-03-2012, 04:25 PM | #276 |
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Longtime and all time favorite
Emily Dickinson : One Need Not be a Chamber to be Haunted
One need not be a chamber to be haunted, One need not be a house; The brain has corridors surpassing Material place. Far safer, of a midnight meeting External ghost, Than an interior confronting That whiter host. Far safer through an Abbey gallop, The stones achase, Than, moonless, one’s own self encounter In lonesome place. Ourself, behind ourself concealed, Should startle most; Assassin, hid in our apartment, Be horror’s least. The prudent carries a revolver, He bolts the door, O’erlooking a superior spectre More near.
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.......... In the depth of winter I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer. ~Albert Camus
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01-03-2012, 05:05 PM | #277 |
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Late Afternoon
Carry me down into that liquid place again where we meet without talking, even though sometimes we're talking, where we laugh without making a sound, the punchlines floating off untethered and the corners of your mouth tilting up like commas around some beautiful phrase we don't have to try to remember. Wedge your knee between my thighs and slip your fingers into me again, let them be glazed with human light and lift them to your lips, let them tell you what they found. I'll kneel before the sunset of your skin, its pale tone beginning to blush, evenly, every cell inspired to read, pushing toward that ruddiness of purpose, that sigh. My hands will wrap around the tendons of your wrists to hold you here, lowered over me like clouds before a storm, the enormous thunder and then the rain. ~ M. Fisk |
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01-04-2012, 12:49 PM | #278 |
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The Snowshoe Hare
by Mary Oliver The fox is so quiet— he moves like a red rain— even when his shoulders tense and then snuggle down for an instant against the ground and the perfect gate of his teeth slams shut there is nothing you can hear but the cold creek moving over the dark pebbles and across the field and into the rest of the world— and even when you find in the morning the feathery scuffs of fur of the vanished snowshoe hare tangled on the pale spires of the broken flowers of the lost summer— fluttering a little but only like the lapping threads of the wind itself— there is still nothing that you can hear but the cold creek moving over the old pebbles and across the field and into another year. |
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01-04-2012, 02:00 PM | #279 |
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sexy balaclava
I tried to rent the movie
about the protest, but the store didn't have it. In the film, the underdog wins. That's how you know it's a movie. They are passing a law here to keep people from sitting on the sidewalk. Poverty is still a crime in America and I am looking more and more criminal, by which I mean broke, by which I mean beautiful. Holy. Revolution is not pretty, but it can be beautiful, I'm told. The protest was dull. There was no tear gas and there were no riot cops. Nothing got broken and nothing got gassed and nothing got smashed. There was no blood and the world was not saved so we went to the movies. In the film, people kissed at the end. The underdog won. That's how we knew it was a movie, a pretty lie. Revolution is not pretty but I don't care about looks. Set the dumpster on fire. Break the windows. Don't kiss me like they do in the movies. Kiss me like they do on the emergency broadcast news. ~ Daphne Gottlieb |
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01-04-2012, 02:15 PM | #280 |
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The Raven (Edgar Allan Poe, 1845)
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. `'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door - Only this, and nothing more.' Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore - For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating `'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door - Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; - This it is, and nothing more,' Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, `Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; - Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!' This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!' Merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. `Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore - Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; - 'Tis the wind and nothing more!' Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door - Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door - Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, `Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven. Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore - Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door - Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as `Nevermore.' But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only, That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered - Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before - On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.' Then the bird said, `Nevermore.' Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, `Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore - Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore Of "Never-nevermore."' But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore - What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking `Nevermore.' This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. `Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! - Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted - On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore - Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore - Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting - `Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted - nevermore! |
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