Shoutbox - 41 comments
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child of the burning heart says:
Be My Heart
Be the one I long for,
the one who sings me to life beat by beat.
Dear One, be my Dear One,
mine for months without end,
your never-leaving face my way
and mine toward you, over there over me in me.
Be my life, my blood.
Be the chambers where I hide.
Come find me. I beg you.
Come hide me in veins, then carry me
toward that pure flow.
Breathe in so I can breathe out.
I take two fingers and touch the source in my neck.
Be that source. Pulse me forward.
Be that red that turns my night to your day.
Be the one I need, for
I need to be in need. I want.
Want to hunger, yet hunger still.
Oh consistency!
Rush me.
Run me.
For to be satiated is to be dead.
So drown me instead.
(10/06 by Hollie Stewart)
posted Apr 4
Bradey Daeland Feil says:
SMOKE MOUTH by Bradey Daeland Feil
Blow smoke out the mouth and come down with your saddle-broke stories.
Well hell, from what I can tell the man must have been down and out, though damn good at talking.
Darling, I know we're a few quarters down but you've still a half bottle of wine.
Blow smoke out the mouth and come down with your saddle-broke stories.
Keep me up all night, I'll keep you without three sheets or dreaming dandelion blown kisses.
Run 'round and about with hands tight held, you ain't need no bottle of wine.
I've been a runnin' and a stumblin' and you've been a pleasant surprise.
posted Apr 2
Comment replies (2)
Edwin Bookshoppe says:
"3:45pm 2/29/07 Whats on my mind" by Armando Peralejo pen name Edwin Bookshoppe
You manage to lift me up oh so very high.
I can see for miles over the highest mountains.
The breeze brushes nicely upon my skin.
You raise me up oh so very high...
But, this is all for when you decide
to drop me so it feels
oh so very worse.
not my usual style but i've felt a new feeling today.
posted Mar 29
Comment replies (1)
Sonny says:
I believe I have felt that one myself.
there seems to always be a rush
involved with expectation
a soaring of possibilities
anticipation
a crash when reality
rears it's ugly face
and scars
that leave us
better writers
and poets
but hollow men
posted Mar 31
Tiffany says:
Joker House by Tiffany Butler
Joker house,
I'm scared to see you there.
I've played it in my mind:
The door opens, the disease
That lurks there seeks me out
(It's in the furniture.
Twisting pine to knots,
Tightening armchair legs
To spindles).
You wear your birthday hat,
A decaying circus act
Set against peeling paint.
(The paint tries to escape too -
A layer sheds away
And bares the rotted wood
Beneath).
What did we have?
So much she says
Yet the Grandma
Dies inside -
She spoke to herself
When no one else
Would listen.
I chant, I chant.
This is not where we're to be.
Reverse, erase -
Your coin in the slot
Is your medicine.
Sip it slowly so as not to
Overdose.
Keep the door locked
So as not to touch the others.
So innocent, transparent.
I am afraid here.
Afraid to drink your water.
Breath your air, afraid to eat
Your food.
Night swallows me.
The moon glows in her aloneness.
I am awake again.
An energy stirs me -
My house must be set right
(Only cherry wood here,
Smooth and glossy,
A heavy finish to keep the
Impurities out).
posted Mar 25
Comment replies (1)
Bradey Daeland Feil says:
This is interesting, but to be honesty I don't really understand it. It's not really something I would regularly read.
posted Mar 26
themanlouisianaface says:
untitled - by me
It dances seductively about, cold, dark, and deep
Tempting me to rejoin its ebb and flow
In regular oscillations, the gulls come and go
But go it does not, wanting eternal sleep
I see it's every move, despite its attempt to creep
A lone constant, my only true friend
Backs all turn, even with emotions I extend
It's all I have left, yet I do not weep
Tiny sandy legacies erased by a gentle leap
Like nothing ever happened, a clean slate
The end of a cycle, a peaceful final state
Leaving, having gotten all it came to reap
posted Mar 25
I'm a hero says:
A Refusal to Mourn the Death of a Child, by Fire, in London. by Dylan Thomas
Never until the mankind making
Bird beast and flower
Fathering and all humbling darkness
Tells with silence the last light breaking
And the still hour
Is come of the sea tumbling in harness
And I must enter again the round
Zion of the water bead
And the synagogue of the ear of corn
Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound
Or sow my salt seed
In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn
The majesty and burning of the child's death.
I shall not murder
The mankind of her going with a grave truth
Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath
With any further
Elegy of innocence and youth.
Deep with the first dead lies London's daughter,
Robed in the long friends,
The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother,
Secret by the unmourning water
Of the riding Thames.
After the first death, there is no other.
posted Mar 24
Bradey Daeland Feil says:
WINDOWS by Bradey Daeland Feil
from above,
the planters looked like
honeycombs.
i am not sure what they
looked like on the ground
because i haven't seen them.
there are six chairs against a wall
on the deck of a house.
yellow and blue.
yellow and blue.
i probably won't ever sit in them.
posted Mar 22
Sonny says:
PERSPECTIVE ~by Sonny Carder
So there he was
three sheets in the wind
every pore smelled of whiskey and rot
The moon was blotted from the sky
The witching hour had long past
Stumbling along the median
the treacherous path
between this road and that
His bare feet reddened by the stinging cold of snow
Alas, he feels it not
Hair madly swirling in the bitter, snowy wind
The pelting ice batters his bare skin
The stinging hand of winter has no affect
Around him moves angry, glowing eyes
They march past him unblinking, white and red
Like a many-eyed dragon
slithering past
armored scales flashing
Wailing it's warning
He cares not
He covers his eyes with one hand
to shield it from the angry light
And shakes his fist in defiance with the other
No fear, no reason
The menacing dragon continues to pass
But his attention has been captured elsewhere
His eyes are now transfixed
There SHE is.
Standing before him
shimmering in her own heavenly light
She is tall
thin
And like a siren she beckons him
Like an angel she assures
Suddenly he begins to feel the cold
Not from the ice
But in his soul
It penetrates blood and bones
With new strength
from the hope she beams
he stumbles forward
Eyes never leaving her light
He leans into the storm
He wills his body move
As he draws closer
He feels her warmth
She radiates her promise
His heart quickens
His feet find sure places
And he now stands before her.
He feels her smile
Her acceptance
*** "Come" her voice fills his head ***
Nearly blinded by her light
Feeling the promise of her fire
He wraps his arms around her
In complete
And utter
bliss
****Newspaper headline the next day****
Naked Man Found Frozen To Light Pole
copyright 2007 Sonny Carder
posted Mar 21
Comment replies (4)
Bradey Daeland Feil says:
Where is "Three sheets in the wind" taken from? I've heard it in a song before and I am wondering if it's in reference to a book or something of the sort.
posted Mar 22
Sonny says:
Hmmm. not sure about a book.
It is a very common reference to being very intoxicated.
Do you remember the song?
I'm not placing it.
Did a search on wikipedia for a quick reference
came up short
sorry.
posted Mar 22
Bradey Daeland Feil says:
It's a song by a band from Calgary called The Rocky Fortune. They are on here at www.virb.com/therockyfortune, they might have their song Three Sheets for download.
posted Mar 23
Sonny says:
Gave it a listen...
Not a bad sound.
"Three sheets to the wind and she's beautiful again"...
Interesting concept. Is he saying that by "raising your glasses"
she becomes beautiful? Was she really ugly?
A modern beer-goggle story
with a Wizard of Oz line about
"clicking one's heels"?
Not sure I get it but it still reinforces the alcohol connection.
posted Mar 24
Edwin Bookshoppe says:
HEY EVERYONE. Check out my portfolio, click the about section for some of my old writings. edbook.carbonmade.com
posted Mar 20
Bradey Daeland Feil says:
THEY CALLED HIM ELIOT by Bradey Daeland Feil
he stayed in the stable 'til the horse died,
even a little while after.
while his father washed up for dinner,
he played with the dead horses hair.
singing to himself,
"if i could forget this would be easier.
bless this horse i rode on.
if i could forget this would be easier.
bless this voice i sing with."
he was a boy that knew of long tales,
of jackknives and of swans.
he ran from the stable to house,
and washed clean his hands.
his name was eliot, your name is eliot.
posted Apr 8