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Thread: "TWELEVE-Shirt" Poem Contest

  1. #21
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    What about:

    The T shirt poems took longer to write?

    The T shirt poems are always in the moment?

    The T shirt poems represent the "now bronte"?

  2. #22
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    Default Two Hints for Tweleve Tee

    "The T shirt poems represent the "now bronte"?" from 12pm...

    "My quote".


    best,

    bronte
    Deep in Blue Dog's eyes will always lurk the hopes and longings of a melancholy people, but, like the Cajuns, who always trained their eyes on the future, Blue Dog must move forward.
    ~George Rodrigue fr 'Blue Dog Man'

    He must have a truly romantic nature, for he weeps when there is nothing at all to weep about.
    ~Oscar Wilde

    From sumthyngness into givyngness unto the given.
    ~fr 'DAR' m.s

  3. #23
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    Ok bronte...

    Your looking back.

    Times have changed.

    Your forced into change.

    Nothing ever changes.

    Time is the enemy.

    Growing apart.

    You want your questions answered.

    You want to know why.

    _______________________________________________
    A husbands job is to have the same mental breakdown.
    LadyHope

  4. #24
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    Default Lady

    "Nothing ever changes" is hot as an iron....

    Now, with that information, answer the question...

    "What is the diff between t-shirt poems and other posted verse fr me?"




    best,


    bronte
    Deep in Blue Dog's eyes will always lurk the hopes and longings of a melancholy people, but, like the Cajuns, who always trained their eyes on the future, Blue Dog must move forward.
    ~George Rodrigue fr 'Blue Dog Man'

    He must have a truly romantic nature, for he weeps when there is nothing at all to weep about.
    ~Oscar Wilde

    From sumthyngness into givyngness unto the given.
    ~fr 'DAR' m.s

  5. #25
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    Default Re: Lady

    Quote Originally Posted by lucynymph
    "Nothing ever changes" is hot as an iron....

    Now, with that information, answer the question...

    "What is the diff between t-shirt poems and other posted verse fr me?"




    best,


    bronte

    With the t-shirt poem you get a TWELEVE t-shirt. With all the others you get a SQUAT t-shirt!!
    The only token I found was SQUAT!!!
    http://www.tweleve.org/upload/squat_token.jpg

  6. #26
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    Default T-Shirt Poem #1 moved The Art of Love as Absentmindedness

    You say in stained-glass, sandbox light
    In one-way windows littered with wrens
    That you are a knight in shining armour
    A myth, a stereotype, a cool cliche
    Jazzy mandala, comparing yourself to Lancelot
    The insecure, impotent, intelligent monk
    Who gave up love and love for love
    You say to me, childlike in my baggy overalls and newsboy cap
    Scrunched up knees, juice-box fingers playing cats cradle with shoelaces
    That as a lover you could be nothing more than a bandage
    For me; you would choke my mouth with stunt of growth and pickle
    My emotions; inhibit my imagination so the moon hangs elsewhere, now?
    As a friend, your promises to give me all, by holding me inside
    A stenciled shade, a cob-webbed keepsake, yesterday's caloric lunch
    Are as light as the cow, jumping over the moon.
    What am I to make of this...
    Who are you to me, my giant-guarded gemini. Hold me once, today.
    String-bean reader, naughty narrator, crimson connoisseur of conch
    Photographer, philanthropist, presenter of keys to the first amendment
    Kleptomania-tic keys which I will surely lose when I leave.

    Stranded sandman, sprinkling my forehead with salad, shadow dreams
    Holding me - a burned-forest bear
    Reintroducing me to nature through your upstairs picture window
    As I bite back the tears, the tears that explode like bubble juice
    When I am next to you
    You, who'll never cry in front of me. The matter is one for the gods.
    Nevertheless, you have helped me build caverns inside myself
    Fragile fortresses of stalagmite ice and aladdin sand, crumbling with one
    Word. One breath. One lie foretold and realized; a pail of snails.

    I fear my death, a great, grey lip of beach when I leave you
    Hold my hand, trust in me as I trust in you
    Father, brother, mentor, lover, you are my three-stepped kiss
    Blood flows fast when I am shut in your room of pastel paintings
    Chalk on my shoes and envelope tongue
    Take me to the ocean with you, to the trite tide, the sweatshirt
    The mountains, the woods, and the ivy cafes; cool my lips with coffee
    And stain me, guide my lithe greenery.

    Yes, oh yes, I will paint for you, roll a colour you have never heard
    Painfully I invent the images of immortality
    I think of you, I long for you, I belong to you.
    But first, to the world; a gardener, an undertaker
    Repetitively being carried, then swept away, a vivid pile of leaves
    Consistently innocent, a wild rose that never dies and never grows
    I never know, my heart keeps time, my limbs, ladder climb
    For a fairy tale, mortal and impassioned, quite out of print
    I will not partake of the wine and bread with you
    The childish communion, the lost supper, clandestine cocktail of rock candy
    My art, the only bridge of iron to carry me now
    Unconfidently, to my cheval glass convent of creativity
    That is the letter you left me with.

    Without you I am lost in the wood and crumb-less
    Tangled in ivy, ankles bleeding, desperate and looking-glass back
    Back to your climactic, cool, caffeine room of creme and pens.
    I adore you
    Abhor you
    But never do I underrate you
    Although your hold on control tears at my heart like hungry birds.



    *In keeping with the spirit of troving on this forum, I have hidden a clue of sorts in this poem. Think of it as a chapter head from BTG; a question. A clock. First one to post a legitimate solve will win a "tweleve" t-shirt from cafe express (and ya, that place is expensive so No hoodies :O)...Logistics of mailing prize, well, consult my lawyers Wink :O Good luck, trovers...

    best,
    Deep in Blue Dog's eyes will always lurk the hopes and longings of a melancholy people, but, like the Cajuns, who always trained their eyes on the future, Blue Dog must move forward.
    ~George Rodrigue fr 'Blue Dog Man'

    He must have a truly romantic nature, for he weeps when there is nothing at all to weep about.
    ~Oscar Wilde

    From sumthyngness into givyngness unto the given.
    ~fr 'DAR' m.s

  7. #27
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    Default T-Shirt Poem #2 moved For the Box

    I detest you, dust-lover, you equal me
    Every heated hologram you want does not deliver
    What you see
    You will see light in the darkness
    You will make some sense of this:
    The swell of my children's chest, like the calcutta cane in the river
    Recedes to a lapse, yet tempting low tide
    My tiny sister's moon tide, my red tide, dead tide, over my head soak
    You walk your old feet through my shore
    Always acknowledging the shackled pride
    I am wicked
    You are sick
    Feast with me, then still your fury
    For biblical chapters and plaster casters.

    A tree am I, an apple oak
    Uprooted to a foreign forest
    White worms cling savagely to my warm roots
    Goodbye greek god, goodbye to spain
    I'll never stab you in the rain
    The plain you know is not my plane
    Your manly choke I'll never know
    Exposed and rootless, watching you grow
    I am not for you, wind worm
    I won't be here to watch you squirm
    Sinking in an absurd sand-dune of banality.

    What is in those fawn, fanned eyes
    Reflecting thicket burning around him
    That thin-lipped, furrowed-brow surprise
    That makes me want to run like dripping honey
    What is the smell, the odour of you
    The deepest, thickest, secret dew
    That sickens and beckons me like an incestuous sister;
    Jambu-jaded.

    Tell me mailman, rainman, candyman, painman
    what helium heart string am I to you
    Tell me quickly, firmly for if you do
    I will, like a marzipan birthday cake, forget you
    Like a candle, a character, a cigarette, a screw
    Slipping from life, from the book, from the room
    A giddy gadfly gone am I; nothing to chew, nothing to cry
    With futility, clinging to O'Henry's last leaf
    Leaf stuck to someone's shoe.

    Please whisper softly to me like a woman
    Words I think I have waited months to hear
    Let me go, sift me through, sandy flour vessels through my funnel
    I've got to carry on to other soiled tissues
    new icy wrens, quietly littering my wet windowsill
    Never to forget your cold den; your foaming fury.
    Illness will settle in and then subside
    And I, in ripped sweatshirt layers
    Will embrace myself on the winding thames riverside
    Decrepid, canal creature
    If, oddly, I have nothing more secure to do.
    My saint, my nemesis, my never brother-lover
    Run swiftly to your mother
    Flee from here with your permanent unrest
    While you still can.
    Go as howard r., oh God, go a young man
    Grab your paints, your pens, your pants with paperclips
    Throw my still, jewel box; empty magic me if you are able
    Ashes to ashes, lust to dust.


    bronte


    *the 'answer' to this poem is exactly the same as the previous poem I posted...good luck, poetic trovers
    ___________
    Deep in Blue Dog's eyes will always lurk the hopes and longings of a melancholy people, but, like the Cajuns, who always trained their eyes on the future, Blue Dog must move forward.
    ~George Rodrigue fr 'Blue Dog Man'

    He must have a truly romantic nature, for he weeps when there is nothing at all to weep about.
    ~Oscar Wilde

    From sumthyngness into givyngness unto the given.
    ~fr 'DAR' m.s

  8. #28
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    Default T-Shirt Poem #3 moved Imago Dei: The Last Goodbye

    What do I know of you
    Creature of city streets and stages
    What do you dream in your paisley bed
    Does your quilt dampen in the rain?
    Pebbles rapping against your window
    Do you startle, ghost-faced, gaunt
    Or do your lips relax when you realize
    That you are not alone, a God
    Imago Dei.
    Imago Dei.

    Your hair and hands resemble His
    You come and go, persona Plato
    Platonic philosophy has quickened the death of me
    And elevated you to the podium of Leonardo
    I die.
    I die.

    You crush my loins with lack of touch
    I long to eat you up for lunch
    A hungry wolf in shepherd's clothing
    To lay languid with you on cool sheets
    Naked, full
    White-curtained windows, passion's teacakes
    Thrive in the sleepy rain erasing pain of
    Fairs and fields and city farces
    Imago dei
    Imago dei
    Come again some butter day.

    In the city there will be no candlelight
    The women will reveal their west-end barrenness
    And you will long to see me one blue night
    And live again that slow and silent kiss,
    Imago dei
    You wear funerals in your eyes
    A cross inside your heart
    Just like him - do you cry?
    Do you like to make love and die?

    An artist with his tapered hands
    Fingers that wove whispers in my hair
    I see the resemblance
    I remember everything
    I have studied the 'madonna with child'
    And I hear your drawings scratching in my halls
    They are revealing, free, and yet they are not all
    And still the women come and go
    Panting like you were Michelangelo.

    Nature in my bosom, rapture in my hips
    I am Eve
    Poisoned well like Rappacini's daughter
    With the flower of your statue.
    Don't forget I rubbed against you once
    Cat-like, trembling, bone and skinless
    I felt the leaves like a bed under my feet
    I was liquid, I was lovely, I was woman
    In her sear and yellow leaf.

    Imago dei
    Imago dei
    Will you ever come and play
    Force the fabric from my shoulders
    Tremble tastebuds with my touch
    Will you ever meet the flavor of a
    girl from Massachusetts
    With viola's in her eyes
    And reindeer in her thighs?

    In his image you are drawn
    Now from mine I frown you, torn
    Watch you, want you, will you
    Crucify my deepest dampness
    Go from me, disentangle me
    Find another swimmer
    Another bard with water in his veins
    Seas tasting lickety-split like your ice
    Like my tongue against your face.
    Imago dei
    I will rust without you
    Surely freeze, become still-life
    Manet could have his way with me.
    Do the dead men come
    Imago dei?

    In shadowed kitchens reflecting Robert Johnson
    My linoleum lust leaks fidelity into the firmament
    This isn't right, this touching game
    This thrusting, throbbing, winter game
    Where is the summer of my puerility?
    Where is my champion with twenty-hand steed
    To challenge me, to make me bleed
    A warm winter wound has left me hungry
    Left me longing and to my own,
    Imago dei
    Somehow I am back in 1967.

    Imago dei
    Imago dei
    I worship your words and whirly-birds
    Bow to your voice and coffee doodled napkins
    Touch your cheek and become whole.
    I can still read Edgar Allen Poe
    And recall the eve you dried my tears
    At once, erasing hopes and fears
    My martyred monk
    Piper of peace
    I say 'goodbye' like keats to shelley
    And lay your fertile memory to rest
    Resist.
    Release your artisan hand
    And walk alone to London.

    Imago dei
    Imago dei
    I will forever mourn that hand
    And in my convent of creativity
    I wonder, wildly, wistfully, will you
    Think of me erectly
    In the local bookstore.



    bronte



    *****Poem Three For Tweleve Shirt. All three recently posted poems have the same answer...this one s/b a dead giveaway.....
    Deep in Blue Dog's eyes will always lurk the hopes and longings of a melancholy people, but, like the Cajuns, who always trained their eyes on the future, Blue Dog must move forward.
    ~George Rodrigue fr 'Blue Dog Man'

    He must have a truly romantic nature, for he weeps when there is nothing at all to weep about.
    ~Oscar Wilde

    From sumthyngness into givyngness unto the given.
    ~fr 'DAR' m.s

  9. #29
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    Default T-Shirt Poem #4 moved Not Unlike Magdalene

    Most women will wash the feet of men but not all
    A few walk in front, heads filled with icecream screaming
    And television commercial dreaming
    Not all girls are angels like poor, sweet Gabriel
    Who visited Mary in her sixth month
    And brushed God's lips against her wrists
    Most women keep their wings clipped
    Their faux-leather shoes flat on the concrete
    Click, click.

    Most women will hang their house-worked, bed-jammed heads, low
    Folding fingers together, nettled and wrestling in cotton laps
    Repeating the words of men, perfectly, awkwardly, normal men
    Who pretend to be martyrs, wondering what happened to their fanmail
    Of yellowed youth
    These whipped women whisper the words of geese-like men:
    'Mankind has no pride!' and, 'More of Everything, it's the
    American Way.'
    Losing their simple, sheep-like way.

    Most women who become brides are damned
    A few refuse to be carried and run screaming into the streets
    Like rats, headed for the river where they will fatally baptize
    Themselves
    Knowing their red-lettered fate was preferable to a lifetime
    of laundry and staring at paintings
    Hanging Mona Lisas' on their bathroom doors
    So sweating ordinaries can turn a back to her when they piss
    Hiss, hiss.

    I am unlike most women but of course I am
    You knowing I would say this in my sanctuary
    My slippery security of swollen poets few bother to taste
    Of course I would wash your feet and bow to you and marry you
    You knew this when I allowed greedy tears to fall and separate truth
    And when I thought I was an angel, you branded me a moll
    But really, what is the difference
    Indifferent, proverbs.

    I am Mary, virgin and harlot, mother and lover or
    Were there really two?
    My red soul ripped in two by you
    Heart so brown and wasting beats
    Waiting for the artist who will bathe me in toilet water
    And finger my imperfect, peach-pit, poetry.
    I want diamond-dried paint under his nails to never fade
    I want a saint straight from heaven with wooden arrows in his chest
    To be blessed; to rest. To carry me, yes, but to the tomb.

    Most women believe in biblical names but not all
    A few, young and punished, pound the pavement seeking a God
    sucking in safety from a God who will not call them
    Anything at all
    I am blessed with a torturous, tablet grace
    A lined, stooped woman with two canes and four faces
    Saint Christopher, my guard and guide, pulls at my throat like a gull
    And I caw. And I call. And I wait.


    bronte





    *****This is a "T-shirt poem" peeps Smile
    Deep in Blue Dog's eyes will always lurk the hopes and longings of a melancholy people, but, like the Cajuns, who always trained their eyes on the future, Blue Dog must move forward.
    ~George Rodrigue fr 'Blue Dog Man'

    He must have a truly romantic nature, for he weeps when there is nothing at all to weep about.
    ~Oscar Wilde

    From sumthyngness into givyngness unto the given.
    ~fr 'DAR' m.s

  10. #30
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    Default New T-Shirt Poem with Hint: What I Knew

    I knew a man, like, Roethke, I
    Measure time by how a body sways
    He taught me moves my father tried to hide
    And touched me with a hand that drove a rake.
    He mowed, in more ways than one
    And in whiteness and cliches I realized
    That maybe Sunday sybolized
    More than just a roll in the hay.
    Host, dry.

    He moved in whiteness and again in whiteness did he move
    He taught me pain, erect egret
    I do regret I cannot understand his ways
    But who can count eternity in days?
    I lie.
    My thicket holds me tight in watered well
    And all my Sunday's bleed a river's swell
    I cannot measure love by how a body sways
    Although I know it well.


    bronte


    c. 1991
    Deep in Blue Dog's eyes will always lurk the hopes and longings of a melancholy people, but, like the Cajuns, who always trained their eyes on the future, Blue Dog must move forward.
    ~George Rodrigue fr 'Blue Dog Man'

    He must have a truly romantic nature, for he weeps when there is nothing at all to weep about.
    ~Oscar Wilde

    From sumthyngness into givyngness unto the given.
    ~fr 'DAR' m.s

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