I Saw Your Soul

mmm, I love a little poetry after supper ...

At last, another poetry day. For a while there I was hardly writing. I think there are these certain levels of anger I have to be within to write poetry and I was beyond the upper limits. Now I think the kingdom is back in order, that or my tolerance level has risen. Either way, here are some poems I wrote during my recent travels.

Get Behind Me

I walk with this limp.

I cannot remember

any other way.

When you get so used

to picking up the extra weight

what difference does

today make?

But I will not carry it tomorrow.

That's a new day

for new pain,

and you've burdened me enough.

Tonight I Am A Transylvanian

Pale, reclusive and coveting;

her dark eyes

pierce man's soul,

her luminous teeth

a man's carotid

so she never wore lipstick.

But they still came.

Whether for her skin

or life

she never asked.

When they'd remove

her lace

they were always entranced

by the white and subtle pink.

As a mister's hands

found her garter,

she would find a throbbing

neck

willing to be taken.

A disregard for pain

at the prospect

of her body.

As she wrapped her legs

around each,

her fangs broke

past the barriers of their

veins.

Going

It's not just a road

we're on,

it's a direction,

it's a choice.

I'm on

a dirt road, going

80.

I don't care if

yours is paved

or fucking gold;

I love my dirt road

and can't wait to see

where I'm headed.

109 In Arizona

My thighs

are so heavy

in these tight jeans.

They swear

if I don't free them,

I'll suffer

consequence.

We Met For A Few Seconds In Utah

You played

the guitar on the front step,

caught up in

years of thought,

frozen to that

chair

by all the cold.

Hair pulled

back to where your neck

and short sleeve met.

The wind pushed your chin

and lifted

the miles between us.

For a few seconds

I saw

your soul.

To Practice Any Art . . .

In the past 9 or 10 months I have been working on combining flat space with 3-Dimensional space in my art work, which has pushed me to work on developing abstract pieces and works with strong repetition of form. As you saw from my post On To the Bedroom! I recently created a large abstract painting to go in my bedroom. I combined a lot of elements and different applications of the paint to come up with a work that I really enjoy.

Just this past week I completed another abstract work in which I added the element of symbols (in this case: words). I used a line from a poem of mine and translated it into 4 different languages, rewriting the line over and over. I would tell what it says, but, well as I was told recently after receiving a message in Spanish (that utterly confused Google Translate) just enjoy the text for what it is: symbols. Maybe that isn't how that person actually meant it, but what matters more is how I took it (and ran with it, and eventually came to the idea for this piece I am showing you today).

This leads me to my final point before the painting reveal. Let things in your world inspire you. I feel that so many of my peers get caught up in using their internal eye only, putting down only their deep, personal thoughts. Be inspired and stirred up by what is around you! I don't mean making hundreds of propaganda posters for whichever presidential candidate you will vote for this upcoming election . . . but I do believe that when you let the world around you soak in a bit more, that internal eye sees a lot more. It's like stirring up the debris at the bottom of water: maybe you can't see as far down any longer but you can see a lot more that was hidden in that water now. 

I'm actually reminded of a verse, Proverbs 18:4 The words of a man's mouth are deep waters, but the fountain of wisdom is a bubbling brook. I honestly have no idea what that means and have been pondering it for some time, but was repeating it over and over to myself as I wrote this post. So do what you will with it, and enjoy my painting:

all taped off before the final touches! 

Thought on Inspiration: Do one thing everyday that scares you. ― Eleanor Roosevelt

Enchanté Moi

Life is confusing and often times angering, so I write poetry to deal with it instead of slapping people. Generally speaking I write my blog about the ups, and I write my poetry about the downs. I don't know why it works out that way for me, because I know plenty of people who write poetry about the butterflies and trees of life but it's just not me.

A tip on how to read these: I write poetry like prose, as in you shouldn't pause at line breaks but only at punctuation. I usually want my line breaks instead to give emphasis to meaning or feeling of a word or phrase.

Integral

I've always valued integrity

but have only just realized

it's always been the lack thereof

that's driven me from other guys.

I tell you that you've got it

and you just bat your eyes;

I never thought we'd be here

where you force what you want under disguise.

You can't set me free,

but you can make me despise

your efforts to give me what I have.

You've let the water rise,

covering everything you want to show,

but no matter how you try, you can't devise

a plan to actually not care.

At some point you also will realize

how much you like being with someone with integrity.

Control

She let life wash over her

like a huge tidal wave

and as the ocean held

her body and choked her lungs

she could die happy

because she didn't have to fight it.

Please Hear Me

Over and through

I repeat it in my thoughts

I shape it with my tongue.

Words I long to

whisper in your mind.

Words I mean

to do to you, as they have to me.

But how might they be mailed

or conveyed through the wire?

So instead they are willed

to your wintered

thoughts.

Enchanté moi.

Little Swimmer

She swims around

with a tiny pink Speedo lifevest strapped

around her teeny ribcage.

Dark skin,

dark hair,

dark eyes.

She is beautiful

at the age of three.

As her father instructs

her, she splashes hard

against the water,

singing in a little, strong voice

with words of her Indian heritage.

Little eyes are alive with joy.

Lovely woven gold

earrings struggle to shine

as brightly as she.

Golden glints

from the sun

strain to be as rich

as she.

Then she's slipping the smallest sandals

on as her mom helps her

into a light pink robe.

She stands

for a moment

between her makers,

sipping a water

sized for her hand

with the hood of her robe pulled up.

She looks as

the world's smallest boxer

between her trainers

after her best workout of the year:

confidence is her robe,

the Word is her water,

love are her jewels.

And though she is little,

she is fierce.

So Difficult To Tell Me You Love Me

The days when I get the most angry

at you are the nights

when I cry to God,

asking “What is so wrong with me

that no one can love me

wholeheartedly?”

Prayers like these

have always made me cry

and this day is no exception.

I want to give up on you.

10 days without your voice.

No letters at all.

You won't even be my friend

and yet for some reason the little voice

within me keeps crying out:

“he'll come back . . .

if he could just keep seeing how much you love him . . .

he'll come back . . .

if you can just keep showing him your love.”

But I'm beginning to hate that little voice.

I'm beginning to hate thinking of you.

But you've already yelled the same at me

so I know you wouldn't care even if you knew.

You've been happy to hurt me and I've been loyal.

You've been quick to cut me out and I've worn your clothes.

You have taken off my necklace

and I have carried the miles between us.

What have I to show for it now?

A month-old letter

marked Return To Sender

that might end up being my last to you.

I wish everything to be the last to you,

but only God and time

will tell whether the little voice crying out within me

will be snuffed by your big thumb.

Sexy Books

Well today is another day for poems, my friends. These are a few that I have written in the past month and are mostly about relationships and self-reflection. I mostly write when I am having weak moments, so these really don't represent my every day state of mind. Writing really is a great outlet for me when I feel overwhelmed and hopefully they will help you too. Please let me know what you think!

I Only Need Your Love Because I Gave You All of Mine

I cannot know

what you need now,

so I give you

time.

What bigger gift

could a person

give?

Yet it scares you more.

You need to know

that which scares you

(my emptiness)

comes only from being

so full

I had to dump my purse.

Now you have

my coins,

and instead of refilling me

you run.

Can I Kiss You?

I should have said yes

when you asked

so innocent and delicate

what held me back

I had never been asked before

only pressed

by any parting lips

whose fancy may have been

what was so wrong

that I said no

not now

not any day

because I ruined your

beautiful question

of can my lips

touch yours

My Robin

I walked right along

and so also did he

I thought that the robin

was walking with me

but it seemed when I moved

so also must he

until I moved too much

to stay comfortably

then he fluttered away

my robin from me.

#6

How do I look when I'm mad?

Only you'd really know.

Do I look like a child,

a girl who can't have her way

or do I just look tired

of arguing all the same?

What about when I'm depressed?

Are my eyes all puffy

after hours of crying

and your gentle hand on my back

and soft song over my fears?

On the Same Page

Your hand is around

the top of my hip

but you're grabbing

me like a book.

Flinging open the cover

and stealing all

the words, the ideas,

the big picture

of my pages.

You finger the leafs

with soaking, trembling hands

that rush

to the corners

as you smile

at me trembling too.

Your eyes melt 

the print with speed

as you consume

every breath

that ever held air

in my plot.

I am used and beaten

and tattered

but your body knows

that inside of me

is still

the same story.

About poetry: A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. - Robert Frost

Poems From the Deep

Today is a poetry day! Hooray! But really. I'm not Dr. Seuss or Robert Frost but I have been writing poetry ever since I can remember and today for the first time I would like to share it with you for the first time, unless you are in my close confidence in which case you may have already read them. As for background on my poetic tastes, I am a fan of Shel Silverstein, Emily Dickinson, Robert Burns, TimBurton, Lemony Snicket, Robert Frost, Edgar Allan Poe (of course) and Dr. Seuss (who doesn't).

By the time I got to high school I was only writing poetry when it was assigned and almost quit altogether in college. Last spring I enrolled in a Creative Writing course at Findlay and could not be more thankful I did because wow, did I miss it! Of course, considering I walk around thinking about wording conversations, sayings and excuses I will give my teachers about work that is due, I guess I never quit. I now thoroughly understand though why writers walk around with pen and paper close at hand; inspiration strikes at the strangest times. Not even random times. Inspiration sits and waits until your ultimate moment of inconvenience for the day: crossing the street, trying to sleep or in the middle of a cross country bike ride while pursued by wild dogs . . . whatever the day brings.

I guess what I am dancing around, is here is a glimpse in to my wandering mind at its weakest and strongest moments. Let me know what you think in the comments!

The Eyes In The Corners


Where the walls meet
there are perilous eyes:
two for each corner.
Four pairs waiting,
watching warily over
my naked body.
Their lust forms skanky
mouths that flash
nashing whites.
Where are they?
My eyes quickly stab
from side to side
trying to catch the thieves
who'd so quietly steal me.
I know they see me.
They taste me.
They know my fear
of their finding me
defenseless.



Marriage


Does it really mean more?
Together is together
but there's a certain
separation
until
until what?
I want his mark
his claim on me.
It's already there.
I want mine on him.
Is this not too
already present?
Comfort.
Protection.
Does joining together
for others to see
in a dusty, worn
march
really prove your
hope,
admiration
and recognition?
Or is it just
a grope of beaten fingers
toward
toward what?
I want commitment,
engagement
beyond the title.
In motion.
I have obtained
what I
sought.
Allowing the farce
of society
my only foothold
seems like letting a
wedge drive
between the who's
of who I am.
I want so badly
to use that same
wedge between
what I want
and what I think I want.
A stand
for internal motivation.
Not defiance.
Pure
uncaring.


On the Way Back From Hocking Hills


As I ride, I stare down
a lake.
A pond really.
But in the reflection
of the world
in this small body,
I see the trees and sky are
more alive,
like the water has
stolen
them from the world
and made them brilliant.
I want to
plunge
into its realm:
for it to take me too and
make me glow.
What death
must I endure to be there?
It would start in my lungs but
infect the rest
with soggy beams of radiation
until the still waters
reflect me also.
Shining.


Your Moon


I am the marker
to which love is measured,
but none had ever measured
their love for me.

Alone and too bright
to be welcomed in dark,
every person would rather
close their eyes to me.

One day one man
took to the waves
but I did not know
I had made them for he.

He looked at my face
and did not blink,
for the knowledge of it
was special to he.

Into the sea he rushed,
paddle in hand,
and in the darkness
it was only we.

He opened his mouth
and called me by name
with the heaviest breath
as we became we.

All watched in horror
as we could not stop,
but you have named me your moon
and by no other name will I be.