poetry

reflection

there’s a long road ahead
headlights vibrate news back
to me through the windows
and contours of night

there’s a raindrop kissing the glass
it feels heavy underneath
fragile eyes and folded hands

something’s gotta give
make room for the aftermath

 

PhilosopherPoet

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poetry

drifting

two warm bodies pulse
into the black night
two brains
shimmer in between veins
of streetlamps

tonight he straddles
the fuel tank
underneath its engine
gurgles and mutters
like an actor
lost in monologue

they pour onto the freeway
four eyes pump and ignite
with ecstasy
the road stretches
like a careful corpuscle
headlights and cabins of steel
shuttle past them

her arms are woven into him
he feels stronger when he rides – she says
they share a heart
they share the air
crawling through the arteries of their egos
and slowly it will coagulate
into the depths of their minds

when it’s over the purr of a heart
continues through chapters
of slumber
two chests rise and fall to
the rhythm of dreams

By Kalen Bloodstone

By Kalen Bloodstone (Click on the image to go to Kalen’s DeviantArt profile!)

PhilosopherPoet

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poetry, Reviews

winter succubus. | WritersCafe.org

she ekes at my psyche 

trailing icy fingerprints
through the hallways of my heart,
while whispering the truths that hurt –
the ones i know better
than to acknowledge…
she knows the chinks in my armour,
after all, she cut them all out
in the first place
in winter months
her thoughts hold sway
and i recede
lost
quiet
huddled within the safety
of my trusty bolthole
she prowls the perimeter
keeping watch
and while her insidious murmurs
can slide through the floorboards
or between the planks i nailed
over the only way in
(or out)
she herself is unable
to ghost her icicle touch
along my pale flesh
now if i can only hold out til spring…

© 2010 jenniewren (J.W. Bouwman)

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poetry, Reviews

We Silly Proletariat | WritersCafe.org

The following is a poem from a good friend of mine. Her work is always authentic, and a rich read. 😉

We Silly Proletariat | WritersCafe.org.

I.

The caterpillars chew

the garden ivy to a delicate lace,

browned and unrecognizable under August’s sun.

 

And the tree spiders spit

their webs into summer’s humid sigh:

the silky tendrils coat the sidewalks

coat the wooden door frames, already swollen

from exposure like grapes 

bursting from the vine.

 

We silly proletariat only pay notice

to the electrical storms 

that steep along the western horizon.

 

II.

We grow bored with garden parties

and decide to leave together,

driving out of the city, through back roads.

Knees to chest, I sit in your passengers seat

replaying “Oh Comely”,

 screaming my favorite lines out the window…

 

“Know all your enemies.  We know who our enemies are.”

 

We park at the top of the bluff,

which over looks the nuclear power plant.

Heat lightning stretches across the sky

purple and quick, flashes of a summer

we only knew from inside weak hours

with backs to the sky, hands to the wheels

which turn and churn.

 

We know nothing of happy vaporization.

 

III.

The thunder is loud

rattles your windows, shakes the floorboards.

My stockings are wet from sloshing

through puddles I thought were not deep.

 

You offer tea.

You bring sugar and a dry shirt.

As warm as I am, this night will end.  

Day will come.

 

When you realize I am crying,

you place one hand on my knee,

and the other on my soft belly.

 

I inch away, stating,

“It’s not that kind of crying.”

© 2010 Ms. Gruye

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poetry, Thoughts

pre-ramble

If I’m not a modern man,
then I’m just a
post traumatic heretical fleabag,
a rebel with a cause, just one that’ll
involve a plate load of legal tendons
and a chance to cut
the argument to the bone.
Nature should feed itself with the slow
decomposition of human consciousness. Even
Queen said ‘who wants to live forever’ and
right now they’re still a bunch of fags, all
grey on top and wrinkled in the middle, their
seams slowly splitting.

I believe in the unbelief that binds us to our
inner systems. Religion has it’s own
dark matter, it’s a beast that does not come
to slay the world but rather rot the fertile
minds from the inside pages of their own book.
It’s like that time when the string of a yo-yo
snapped in the middle, it could only spin
and weave through the world at half the speed
until it staggered to an abrupt halt in
a foreign hand.
 

I’m off drugs for the most part. I mean the ones
that really dirty the exhaust pipe of time. We’re
not clever to use water in cars, so why should I
stop smoking? The last time I checked we were still
making fast food inflate those fat fuckers, and cheap
enough to fill any hungry beggar with a dizzy dose
of carbs and maybe a tearful of vitamins.

I’m pre-packed with pathos. The pub does that when
you’ve been there long enough and watched that fairy
in the glass, not the one of allure, but the one telling
you there is a wife at home with a warm body buried in
bed, and a toddler climbing through the clay in his head.
Maybe it’s time you had one more gulp to saturate the
sobbing behind your eyes, only the real people can see.

Every night I get home that rocking chair on the porch
greets me. I can imagine my old man sitting there watching
my poor choices and smoky clothes. Parents can look at you
in a deeper way where time slows down to a syrupy slur. I
only see him at night when that house opens out it’s
gentle vernacular of foibles and whispers. I like to
think it’s helping me grow into that armchair of life,
and leave behind a smile for the photographs.

 

PhilosopherPoet

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Prose, Uncategorized

A message from my sister…

(NOTE: The following story was told by my half sister, I’ve simply interpreted what she said – via my step mother – the scribe.)

*The Crystal of Love*

By Trinity Ballam-Smith

Chapter 1

One day there was a jungle girl named Ellie. She lived in an island named Hawaii. She was sooo happy there. One day (while trying to find some grapes) she spotted an elephant. She didn’t know that she could speak to animals. But when the elephan tried talking to her…Ellie listened.

They were very confused because they didn’t know they were sisters. They went to the elephant Cloud Princess and she said,

“Do you know that you two are actually sisters?” and she was amazed that the elephant princess had old her story.

She replied, “”Did you know, a long time ago King Rothbart turned me into an elephant because he was so angry. I didn’t let Rothbart go, so he strangled me and he took all my powers away. I only have one power left, and Rothbart doesn’t like me any more. he put me into a dungeon, but luckily I broke through.”

She paused momentarily, and continued.

“Rothbart takes all my powers away, and doesn’t gove me anything. So I moved into the Cloud Kingdom, and I needed to live all by my own.But luckily I had some animals to speak to me.”

Rothbart came every single day to check on the Cloud Princess, but eventually she fought back to get more powers. The world changed and all the trees were dark around her…and there was no pollution in the air. the Cloud Princess and stopped all the pollution.

Ellie (the Cloud Princess) said, “Bye-bye” to the Cloud Elephant, and ran off to find the Crystal of Love. She told them about a wand, and a ring of love, lying in the dark depths of despair. To find the Crystal of Love, Kindness, and Helpfulness you must go there.

“Remember,” she said.

“The Crystal of Love, is the more important than all the kindness in the world!”

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poetry

Leaving

By Sarah Frost

How sad that it has come to this
my father an old man driving me and his grandson, asleep in the baby seat,
through the Eastern Cape interior to the airport
from where we will return, as if we were swallows and the holiday a winter,
to our warmer home, and he will make the two hour journey back
to my mother and the sea
alone in their big white car, a craven gull.

I whirl the dial of the iPod
with my forefinger, scanning on screen the music he has downloaded.

Songs were always the antidote for our unspoken conflict, pooling like snake venom in the blood, lyrics too –
I remember him, skinny, young, passionate, finding Dylan Thomas’s ‘Fern Hill’/ /reading stanzas, jubilant, from the bath to me in the next room;
‘nothing I cared in the lamb-white days/ that time would take me/ by the shadow of my own hand/ up to the loft where the moon is always rising’.
It is still the only poem I’ve ever memorised.

I ask about the Stones’ ‘little Red Rooster,’
he replies, ‘it reminds me of dancing at raunchy parties’.
Nothing irresistible about you now Dad, smaller, greyer, with every year,
fishing surreptitiously under your seat
for the last turquoise Smarty from the box we just shared,
your hand unsteady as it was when you reached for mine
and held on to it as if it were a rope,
and you the one falling, wrenched away.

We were watching the documentary on Dylan (No Direction Home)
on my laptop. I remember you, visiting, just you, on a summer’s night
cradled with the iPod in the hammock on my verandah,
crooning with Dylan ‘she’s got everything she needs/
she’s an artist/ she don’t look back’.

Your inexplicable and therefore frightening fury
as you told me about our ancestors, and how to write well
I had to honour them too.

My great-grandfather, stern, distant, a stranger, wrote to me
on pale green Croxley paper
his writing frail against the formality of the black-inked lines.

In the troubled departure hall,
you kiss us both goodbye and I turn away irresolute, unforgiving
to walk through the X-ray arch,
your gaze on my shoulders a faint touch for the child you forsook,
the woman you call your daughter,
who, angry, the damage done, carries your dwindling fire into the future.

The man standing at the side of the woman writing
had an indelible tattoo of loss etched onto his face
every needle prick a leaving.

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