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Thread: An Ecumenical Thought House

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    Default An Ecumenical Thought House

    Here you go, Kat - a new thread for a new year's worth of poems. Enjoy, everybody!

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    Me first, me first

    The wind it blows and howls
    As if it were a wolf, it reaches
    Out as if it were a hand, and
    Swoops under objects and
    Makes them go flying,
    The wind it screeches
    And screams as if an angry
    Voice, and kicks you around
    By its foot as if you were a ball,
    The wind it could be nice
    Just don't annoy it by
    Polluting the air, there
    Could be no wind at all
    By it sleeping, giving
    You a break, and will
    Soon come back another day
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    Default

    bump

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    The scraped glass of the black in oaks
    ridicules me before its mass exit:
    alone is alone is alone.
    And I find myself arguing with the downdraft
    of a thousand birds' wings,
    'no, it's not like that'
    scoffing their lift and rise,
    like a suspicious eyebrow permanently arched upward,
    unforgiving in its pious assault.
    Yet somehow the sound is comforting,
    reminding me that chaos is temporary
    and often disappears of its own accord,
    so I sit on my brick steps
    among the crows' rolling cacophony,
    grateful that the misplaced laughter
    provides a warm brush against my cheek
    on its way,
    away.

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    Default missing my book

    you don't need me like you say you do
    i'm a shoe to hide your toes and stained hose
    that 'camel girl' on a whirl-winned billboard
    or flashed past through a rag in your astrologer's office.
    your cracks, sidewalks don't bellow toward my girls'
    i disappear against the white of a financial circus
    grass skirt gifts are toffee to temper us
    we stomp, we march, we skip, we romp in wired luau
    but dance wild and alone in our beds.
    craving painted pere.


    i don't love you, don't even love 'love'
    i refrain from disgrace and hang ethics
    raise, pray, rely, buy, renounce, realize, create eggs
    but there is no dripping from me
    the lure of the faucet, the toilet, the pond
    i crave like the cold bird, wet cat, and boxer need a towel
    there are no smells of shaving cream in this old rinse
    no dark slippers, no shirts to wear to smell; no tulips.
    just the starvation of a medicine cabinet pantry hip.

    i want the wild things back, where Are they? your reading?
    i shall go to sleep without my dinner, without a raucous.
    every night.
    for just the odour of max, back. a max. my max. max.
    his keys in the door to kiss me like i am vital and musical.
    the fork to remind me why i tick and make it all hot again.
    reheated, even; strolling toward the eternal.

    but i am not real. my voice is only a camera, a campaign
    my chickens just dressed up for halloween
    i am the jewel box you take down to dust for company
    worthless without the key.


    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

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    Default The Collector's Piece

    Sitting on your shelf,
    I catch a cold from the porcelain
    that surrounds me.
    I get a rash
    from the crinoline that
    that presses against me.
    Coughing from the dust
    of inactivity,
    I can hardly hear you
    as you say that
    you love me.
    Do you know what I think?
    I think that you
    make me sick!

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    Default Re: missing my book

    Quote Originally Posted by lucynymph
       
    his keys in the door to kiss me like i am vital and musical.  
    This is one of the best lines ever, Kat. A direct hit for me.

    Carol

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    The flowers came by e-mail, just a photo
    of some shop with exotic colors I've never seen.
    He wished he could buy me a bouquet, but this must do.

    I stifle a cough so that I can hear his description
    of the belly dancer's backbend and how
    all the men stopped talking, but kept drinking.
    "I think it was to hide their drool."

    Oh, I know I have no right to feel this way, but I do.
    I'm sad and I'm scared and I'm cold. 

    Late at night, when I somehow make a spot warm enough
    among the flannels and the quilt,
    I'll think of you and your endurance run,
    for as much as I ache, body and soul,
    I know that you hurt more.
    Have I been a good enough friend?

    By day, I'll chart the Motrin on the pad by my calendar,
    even though there's no chance for double dosing now,
    and work for a fevered giggle with my Marvin Gaye impression.

    I'll play Carmen San Diego and pause at the phrase,
    'Where in the World?'  because I know where: not here.
    I'll drone through the pediatrician, the cleaners, the grocery, and
    the pharmacy, and work, again, and again, and again,
    and I'll snuggle with one under a down blanket and watch
    Jimmy Neutron, and be secretly glad of her overwarmth,
    and help the other with her moldy science project,
    and I'll cross off another day that passes without him.

    Absent love, I am a very different person.
    But I believe, no - I know -
    that which is missing from our lives always,
    miraculously, also makes us whole.

    Somehow the routine will carve us a path,
    perhaps back to our beginning,
    when his offer of a simple white daisy was the start
    of together's comfortable heat.

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    Default within the fig there is dour fiction

    In the cold I must question my motives
    You are not a 'slip-over sweater' nor
    Me a mannequin. Our stain is within.
    We never did anything, merely gazed
    Barely grazed like sheep on shepherd's pond - god
    Won't you call me, papa, no more, how you know
    I must alone to write. Is that what I get, muskrat?
    Clammy knuckles, sticky keys, and someone's no one
    To frown the throne of your acrobatics.

    I lose, you both win
    I am alone
    Like the last leaf
    A femur
    The last supper
    A goldfish
    Edgar Allen Poe
    My edge.

    But jay-z, ya, mu ledge
    Don't fret, I have million dolla stamina
    A thrive that won't quit, a bag that grows ribbons
    And then i am swept back to that night:


    "What are you doing here? I'm so glad he's here I pull up my jeans and wipe my mouth. God, I had such a time getting here. You want a towel, a pillow, a beer. Can i use your phone? Phone, sure. Are you really here? I'm here; i'm hanging up the phone. For real this time? Shhhh. I can't wait to sleep on your shirt. I can wear it later...shhhhhhh. Are you glad? What? Are you glad you're here? No, but I'll lie 'yes.' Thank you; I have coffee now for the morning. Please be glad. I'm nice enough for now, tighten up. I am a cradle. I'll squeeze fresh fruit... At least you're here.


    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

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    Default

    Have you ever stepped outside your door and peered into a soul sunken in darkness?
    The night supposedly banished centuries ago.
    You have seen eyes only kind, full, light.
    Your doorstep is centuries ahead of my doorstep.
    Yet your today is still my today.
    Have you ever listened outside my doorstep?

    Have you ever heard a man shouting silently?
    In pain, in hunger, in fear?
    Have you ever listened to the deep peals of suffering
    That radiate from his Eyes?

    Have you ever heard the bellow
    Of pride, of anguish,
    In that one glance,
    Mouth closed, but
    Soul continually shouting its pain?

    In a corner of the world
    A corner of a ghetto
    A corner of a bus stop
    Tendrils of pain emanate, invisible:
    Gnawing stomach
    Hollow cheeks;
    Cracking the pavement, shaking the ground
    Trembling the stale, putrid water collecting under his legs
    Have you ever felt those tendrils wrap around your soul and squeeze you tight?

    Have you seen a vortex , so deep, darker than a black hole?
    Not black, but red.
    The power, strength, borne in his gaze.
    It reaches inside, and twists.

    For one moment, only darkness
    I see what he sees
    I feel what he feels
    I endure the same glances, fears, hopelessness
    In that one position everyday
    Above the puddle of putrid water
    Everyday until death.
    My soul screams, and I pull back
    His dark eyes still staring
    And the tendrils of pain: invisible, silent
    Brighter than ever.
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