Poetry / Poems

In watermelon sugar the deeds were done and done again as my life is done in watermelon sugar.


This is just to say ... I'm reading an old paperback copy of this sweet-paged book, written as it is on shingles....

Oh, and that thing he says about "rivers" -- believe me you, we've got that very same way of talking here in New Mexico!
 
Boundless Love
(A Polyamory Song)​

I have no chains to bind you,
I threw them all away.
Does that mean I don’t love you?
Please hear me when I say:

My Love for you is boundless,
As boundless as the sea.
That’s why I don’t feel jealous.
I want you to be free.

I want you to be happy
Because my Love is true.
So when you’re loving Others,
I'm happy for you, too.

I love you when you’re with me:
No less when you are not.
True Love is free and generous:
It can’t be trapped or bought.

For me, True Love is not a cage
To put you in and lock the door.
Your song is sweeter when you’re free;
I love to watch you soar!

Oh yes, my Love is boundless:
Not limited to you.
There’s room for Others in my heart,
And to each One I'm true.

Don’t give me any stingy love.
Give Love with all your heart.
’Cause if you try to cage my Love,
The bars will burst apart.

But if you ever left me
For some love “all your own”,
I'd rather have a broken heart
Than have a heart of stone.

If ever you should leave me for
Some love you think more “real”,
I'd rather have a broken heart
Than have a heart of steel.

- Jimmy Hollis i Dickson
(from "Other Poems" http://jimmsfairytales.com/islands.htm, reprinted by permission)
 
I haven't written poetry in a few years... I do have some works in development, however my inspiration has been sorely lacking with all the drama in my life stealing away my creativity...

This however, is one my favourites that I wrote during the breakup of my marriage.

Dragonlove.

I lay there in the moonlight
my sword beside me dimming
my breathing ragged
my soul is battered
my power waning
my fire is spent

i feel them coming
the pack is gath'ring
their slavering breath
fetid upon the breeze
my moan of despair
floats lightly in the night

i take up my sword 'n'
stumble to my feet
their teeth are gnashing
their eyes aburnin'
they surround me
with naked hatred

my spirit falters
my swordtip lowers
my heart it slows
my knees they buckle
my head bows
i surrender to my fate

then help is coming
i feel you in the ether
your heat is scorching
your fire raging
my heart is leaping
my courage growing

i feel your presence
standing beside me
your gaze is turning
the beasts that mire me
burning their souls
an' filling them with fear

the danger gone
you still are with me
my heart is trembling
i feel your hand

you touch my face
you smooth my hair
mine eyes are crying
your touch is burning

my lips are parting
i feel your breath
your hands caressing
my back is arching

i feel your lips
burning on my skin
my fire burning
i pull you in

my lips are moaning
my body yearning
my spirit leaves me
an' entwines with you

a wildfire rages
my spirit rejoices
and with you
finds utter bliss

and now i'm laying
writhing in the moonlight
my breathing ragged
my spirit burning
my power growing
fire resurrected.
 
Kiss


Acknowledge the dark side of the phrase,
"Stolen kisses," for it is instructive.

The one doing the giving gave them freely,
But the other was picking his pocket.

Don't be so literal! There was no wallet or
money involved. There were hearts.

Well, one of the hearts was involved.
The other was a stage act, a bit of theater.

Now ... Strip the word heart away
from Hallmark Cards.

There are hearts which are not
pumps, which are real hearts.

That's what was in his kisses.
That's what was broken

in those kisses
But the break was

As all breaks are
temporary.

And after a time the
victim of this theft

Was ready -- having
been instructed

To have his kisses
healed

With
real
 
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TOUCHED BY AN ANGEL
By Maya Angelou

We, unaccustomed to courage
exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight
to liberate us into life.

Love arrives
and in its train come ecstasies
old memories of pleasure
ancient histories of pain.
Yet if we are bold,
love strikes away the chains of fear
from our souls.

We are weaned from our timidity
In the flush of love's light
we dare be brave
And suddenly we see
that love costs all we are
and will ever be.
Yet it is only love
which sets us free.​
 
stone song

- for d.p.

the nearest ancient poem
too near to see or hear
nearer than voices or ages
nearer than kisses
neither silent nor spoken
is the rough stone
of every poem
the root of the heart
sky dark and sky bright
earth worn and artless​

j. river martin​
 
Thanks, Charlie.

It's curious that so many of my attempts at poetry become poems about poetry or the writing of poems. That one assembled itself in about six minutes or less. I just tried to get out of its way.
 
Not sure if I posted this one here before or not:


Touched by An Angel

We, unaccustomed to courage
exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight
to liberate us into life.

Love arrives
and in its train come ecstasies
old memories of pleasure
ancient histories of pain.
Yet if we are bold,
love strikes away the chains of fear
from our souls.

We are weaned from our timidity
In the flush of love's light
we dare be brave
And suddenly we see
that love costs all we are
and will ever be.
Yet it is only love
which sets us free.


~ Maya Angelou




.
 
Because I said I would.

I told you that I would do anything for you,
so when you asked me to give you the end of the world,
it seemed like a simple enough gift to get.

But when we woke up in the morning,
and the world was still here,
I lied and said that I had gotten up early

and made it all again.
 
Everyone Wins
by Shel Silverstein

I will not play Tug O' War,
I'd rather play Hug O' War;
Where everyone hugs, instead of tugs,
And everyone giggles and rolls on the rug.
Where everyone kisses,
and everyone grins;
everyone cuddles,
everyone wins.



To Have Without Holding
by Marge Piercy


Learning to love differently is hard,
love with the hands wide open, love
with the doors banging on their hinges,
the cupboard unlocked, the wind
roaring and whimpering in the rooms
rustling the sheets and snapping the blinds
that thwack like rubber bands
in an open palm.

It hurts to love wide open
stretching the muscles that feel
as if they are made of wet plaster,
then of blunt knives, then
of sharp knives.

It hurst to thwart the reflexes
of grab, of clutch; to love and let
go again and again. It pesters to remember
the lover who is not in the bed,
to hold back what is owed to the work
that gutters like a candle in a cave
without air, to love consciously,
conscientiously, concretely, constructively.

I can't do it, you say it's killing
me, but you thrive, you glow
on the street like a neon raspberry,
you float and sail, a helium balloon
bright bachelor's button blue and bobbing
on the cold and hot winds of our breath,
as we make and unmake in passionate
diastole and systole the rhythm
of our unbound bonding, to have
and not to hold, to love
with minimized malice, hunger
and anger moment by moment balanced.​
 
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On Freedom


And an orator said, "Speak to us of Freedom."
And he answered:


At the city gate and by your fireside I have seen you
prostrate yourself and worship your own freedom,

Even as slaves humble themselves before a tyrant and
praise him though he slays them.

Ay, in the grove of the temple and in the shadow of the
citadel I have seen the freest among you wear their
freedom as a yoke and a handcuff.



And my heart bled within me; for you can only be free
when even the desire of seeking freedom becomes a
harness to you, and when you cease to speak of
freedom as a goal and a fulfillment.



You shall be free indeed when your days are not without
a care nor your nights without a want and a grief,

But rather when these things girdle your life and yet you
rise above them naked and unbound.



And how shall you rise beyond your days and nights
unless you break the chains which you at the dawn of
your understanding have fastened around your noon
hour?

In truth that which you call freedom is the strongest of
these chains, though its links glitter in the sun and
dazzle your eyes.



And what is it but fragments of your own self you would
discard that you may become free?

If it is an unjust law you would abolish, that law was
written with your own hand upon your own forehead.

You cannot erase it by burning your law books nor by
washing the foreheads of your judges, though you pour
the sea upon them.

And if it is a despot you would dethrone, see first that
his throne erected within you is destroyed.

For how can a tyrant rule the free and the proud, but for
a tyranny in their own freedom and a shame in their
own pride?

And if it is a care you would cast off, that care has been
chosen by you rather than imposed upon you.

And if it is a fear you would dispel, the seat of that fear
is in your heart and not in the hand of the feared.



Verily all things move within your being in constant half
embrace, the desired and the dreaded, the repugnant
and the cherished, the pursued and that which you
would escape.

These things move within you as lights and shadows in
pairs that cling.

And when the shadow fades and is no more, the light
that lingers becomes a shadow to another light.

And thus your freedom when it loses its fetters becomes
itself the fetter of a greater freedom.



~ Kahlil Gibran
The Prophet, 1923



[/COLOR]
 
Saxophone

You come to me with an unwritten poem
in your pocket
in your pocket an unwritten poem
a poem in the air
and you say
i have a song for you
and you open your mouth
and you open your mouth
(your saxophone mouth)
and hand me the human touch
(silently)

i said (without speech)
man i had no idea
how thirsty i was
how thirsty i was

and you said
(without speaking)
Wow, your jagged stones
are all covered in rust
covered in rust

Fallen to dust
Open to trust

(Silent):
I said Man
I'm open to trust.
 
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Draft

A window opens and a draft blows in.
Children go off to war.
Rough things happen,
requiring--or seeming to need--polish.
Horses are hitched,
a very strange marriage.
Strong horses pulling a delicate
baby carriage!
Who left the door a jar
and set it down in Tennessee?
(What a jam, this uncorked show stopper!)
Was it the English or Pandora
who unearthed --
and wished upon --
this mystic amphora?
 
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When did I grow up

Been a bad day
The coffee machine is broken
When did I stop believing in magic?
There is no hot water
Where did all the dragons go?
The car wont start
Do fairies still exist in the garden?
The bus is late
When did I lose the address to Neverland?
Going to be late for work, again
When did I grow up?
Burnt my tongue on instant coffee
When did I lose my innocence ?
Slipped on the sidewalk, scraped my knee
Why was I in such a hurry to grow up?
 
The girl

This is one of my favorite poems that I wrote a few years back when I knew it was time to let go of all the pain, stop living in the past and start living in the moment.

The Girl

I am not the girl you knew 3 years ago
She is slipping away with every pill I take
She drowns alittle with every swallow
I don't know how to save her
I'm not sure if I can bring her back
I have taken women to my bed
But I always sleep alone
She has found peace in the arms of others
Where I have not and can not
She was the dreamer, the romantic
She saw all the good things that I can not
She was alive and care free
But my fear chain her up
Held her captive
She is slipping away
She will soon be a memory
I hope that I am enough to carry her name
I wonder if they will forget her in the years to come
 
Pie

I just wanted to make things,
that was all really.

I never wanted to hurt anybody,
but they just wouldn't leave me alone, goddammit...

And they were all so beautiful
and strong
and willing
and they all wanted to feed me
delectable things
from their cook pots
stewing in their kitchens
with perfect trivets
and homemade pie.

But I knew how to make my own pie.
My Mother, a librarian, taught me.
Her Grandfather, a baker, taught her.
And my Father's Mother's Mother,
a Very Old Woman,
taught me how to read
the pies off the menu
to her.

So, there was never anything for it.
Their beauty turned to frailty.
Their strength had no power.
Their desires could not keep up.
and it broke their hearts.

That last bit, actually, about the hearts, now that I think about it, that may have been my fault.
I didn't know any better at the time. I didn't want to hurt their feelings and
tell them the truth, that their
pie
wasn't as good as mine.

Where was I?
Oh, yes...pie.

I've even been teaching myself
how to clone pie...
it seems there aren't many places to go
to learn a thing like that.
Least, not where I'm from, anyhow.

Mom says she has, "...never been good with emotionally needy people...".
And that her Father was so excited
when sliced bread could be gotten in town.

I never asked for it
begged for it
paid for it
regretted it
or requested it.

I just wanted to make things, truly,
at the hand of god.

But they made a man outta me just the same.
It's how all men are made, cruelly,
at the hand of goddesses.

It feels now
so far from pie
that I have been found out
walking with my hands in my pockets
all to myself
thinking of the things I will make
with hammers and tires again
when the Goddess herself
tells me she likes my kitchen
and would I teach her
how I make my crust.
 
since feeling is first

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a far better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
--the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for eachother: then

laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis



ee cummings
 
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