I was chatting with Kritter last night. I would like to see more of the creative side of forumites. In that spirit I will present a poem I wrote in 1984: I am concerned how it will format-we shall see. Rush Hour:

They move in small, quickening circles blurs of twos, threes, and more stumble Clumsily up and down unrelenting stairs. Out of the doors they fall, flotsam of buses and trains unsuspecting plankton in a wave of freshened flesh and pressed cloth Which breaks at all angles through cracks out into the street. The undifferentiated, coagulated lumps of wax sport drooping faces divining for coffe.

Out they rumble into the streets, hopscotching from corner to corner, human pseudopods stretching between cars and bicycles filling avenues and sidestreets with trivial chatter.

In its frenzied march from home to phone the amorphous mob carves A living sculpture A model of skin and steel joined in the disordered gyrations of a psychotic ballet.

Soon In perfectly shaped cubicles built into the sky Chairs fill, cups fill, the throng of legs and arms dwindles and suddenly, among the thrusting, jutting structures The world comes into focus.

-- FutureShock (gray@matter.think), June 16, 2000

Answers

OLD ORCHARD

Once it was an orchard

These battered trees did burst in white bloom

when hope was the season's song

and bore sweet fruit when the air was chill

amid thanks for miracles

Now they labor to yield a leaf

and bloom is a warbler's nest

Their only fruit is the dappled shade

that feeds an old man's rest

-- Lars (lars@indy.net), June 16, 2000.

On clenched heat

we chafe away

our lives to tunes

that really can't be sung

well

I've enough of that...

A core somewhere

to suck the sores

soothe the itch

lick raised fur wet-tongued

and cool the bitch,

I'm going to find

slow silence.

-- Normally (Oxsys@aol.com), June 16, 2000.

The Backroom:

Iv'e found the perfect home

it was custom made for me,

I don't have to take my truck

to go out socially.

I call it my estate

though theres no chandeliers

but it has a walk in cooler

full of my favorite beers.

In the Backroom

of a bar room

is where I hang my hat

it's not hard to find me

ya'll know right where I'm at.

I can go out on the town

ten feet from my door

in the back room

of a bar room

livin' at the liquor store.

I know it's almost funny

I know in ways it's sad

but I'm savin' loads of money

and I got a real cool pad.

Iv'e not got alot

but I gotta cot

an amp and my old guitar

at nights I play to an empty house

with full run of the bar.

Iv'e got cable TV with CMT

a nice big ice machine

not much responsibility

just keep the ashtrays clean.

One wall is made of wiskey

another made of wine

just please don't evict me

from this home sweet home of mine.

In the backroom of a bar room

is where I lay my head

and you'll know I was a happy man

if ya walk in and find moi dead.

-- capnfun (capnfun1@excite.com), June 16, 2000.

How did you guys format? I do not know how to do the line breaks without using periods-so my work is not in the format I desired. Any clues?

Thanks for your contributions. Good stuff!

-- FutureShock (gray@matter.think), June 16, 2000.

hit return twice

no period needed

-- (easy@as.pie), June 16, 2000.

I can't believe this came out of me just now:

The tapestry of souls

wrenches my hold

on what perception says

reality MUST be.

Dead they walk &

Dead they talk revealing shallowness -

mass graves should be dug & filled immediately.

Illusion, delusion, Maya  the Veil;

Seek seclusion from the firestorm

of inconsequential nattering,

serenity-shattering

waves of vibrations crash upon me.

simply sated yet sullenly situated

upon the throne of purpose 

There but for the sake of God

-- Bingo1 (howe9@shentel.net), June 16, 2000.

A Y2K Haiku Soon I watch you drink
dog piss from rusty hubcap
It won't be long now


-- (hmm@hmm.hmm), June 16, 2000.

2nd try... A Y2K Haiku Soon I watch you drink
dog piss from rusty hubcap
It won't be long now


-- (hmm@hmm.hmm), June 16, 2000.

oh forget it. LOL.

-- (hmm@hmm.hmm), June 16, 2000.

LAKE SUPERIOR

The wind cuts fresh and wet from Canada

faint with the ripeness of fish

White caps stud the restless gray

and waves pound the red boulders

broken from the ancient quartzite that stretches to Nova Scotia

There is no beach

only stone rubble and

twisted, drifted pine branches

in pools on algae covered rock

Gulls wheel and cry, picking death clean

From a pool, I gather a handful of beachstones

each worn smooth and unique

Some memories last forever,

whole and distinct from the blur

These I can carry

caressing old faces,

savoring the weight

A beachstone in my hand

-- Lars (lars@indy.net), June 16, 2000.

Wow-I knew there was talent here. Lars-quite the wordsmith. Bingo- That spontaneous work sounds oddly like your soul's response to the death and humiliation thread. Here is another one of mine:

AFTERMATH

Tingling, tangled, twisted limbs twitch

Writhing in the fantastic, ecstatic flames

of orgasm oozing through flesh.

It is over now.

The bodies pulsate in the aftermath

Satisfied nature has been fulfilled.

The penetrating God lies withered

Blood subsided, crinkled orbs descended.

Swollen, inflammed flaps of skin

Shrink, settle down in sullen neglect,

electric triggers untripped.

The act is done and the shrivelled

warrior basks in the glow of ego.

His receptacle showers feigned shivers

of delight, soothing the depleted soldier.

Underneath the bodies liquids seep out

irrigating the cold flatness of sheets.

Wriggling in death throes

millions of lives fizzle out-

Their graveyard a patch of dried substance.

Psoriasis of the bedroom.

-- FutureShock (gray@matter.think), June 16, 2000.

al-d spies FS poem

swallows tongue

St. Peter signals him onward

-- Picture Painter (Haiku@for.you), June 16, 2000.

Life is like an onion,it can taste so good or it can make ya cry.

Do ya'll prefer happy/funny,sad or esoteric stuff?

-- capnfun (capnfun1@excite.com), June 16, 2000.

FS,

That has to be one of the most sexually driven without being sexually enunciated pieces I have ever read,mayhaps you should send it to Penthouse? Wanna rassle? At this rate I will be stuck to the bed ; )

-- capnfun (capnfun1@excite.com), June 16, 2000.

Hey Cap - did it move? (cheap Seinfeld reference)

-- Bingo1 (howe9@shentel.net), June 16, 2000.

Bingo,

Uhhh.... I don't watch teevee(very,very,very little tv) I know who Seinfeld is and have watched a little,but I don't get the nuance.Sorry : )

-- capnfun (capnfun1@excite.com), June 16, 2000.

cap,

"Do ya'll prefer happy/funny,sad or esoteric stuff?"

You mean there's a difference?

-- flora (***@__._), June 16, 2000.

Flora,

In my mind there is a distinct differnce,kinda like a menu : )

-- capnfun (capnfun1@excite.com), June 16, 2000.

FS--

Thanks, I liked your verse too. But I do hope you overcome that post-coital depression. 12 Step group forming......

"Normally"--

I hope you found your "slow silence". I did, finally.

-- Lars (lars@indy.net), June 16, 2000.

cap,

No matter what's on the menu, my plate seems to wind up with goulash.

-- flora (***@__._), June 16, 2000.

LOL, flora. My mixed bag is your goulash. It all merges in the digestion, and all nourishes as well.

-- Bingo1 (howe9@shentel.net), June 16, 2000.

Lars:

Sometimes I find the slow. Sometimes I find the silence. But never the sweet alchemy of the two.

-- Normally (Oxsys@aol.com), June 16, 2000.

FS,

LOL,that should have read "wanting to rassle?" ie. you sounded particularly amorous in your poem.

Bingo,

Now I get it,I would still not have ever connected the two.Duhhhhh : |

-- capnfun (capnfun1@excite.com), June 17, 2000.

The shock

to hear my waitress call

another man "hon"

-- Lars (lars@indy.net), June 17, 2000.

Love that last one, Lars. Here is my entry for the day:

GET UP

From the deep burrows of sleep

come tinkerings of light-

Consciousness fighting unconsciousness

as day slides out of night.

And slitfalls of the sun break through

shrouded windows, entering eyes

not yet ready to come alive.

It is that gray zone, twilight

of mind between dream and thought.

--Push the snooze button and

Put it off-the inevitable fight

to meet the light and face the day.

In and out

it goes-

Is it 7 AM? Roll over;

Just five more minutes PLEASE.

Time passes in strange ways in

Wee hours; cat naps fulfill

early morning weariness. I roll

over again, 7:15, the news,

Smiling eyes blurting out traffic, weather

the latest murder...

A reminder to pop into that shower,

the magical transformer-Its water

breeding life into deadened nerves-

soon the process is complete.

I think I'll go back to sleep.

-- FutureShock (gray@matter.think), June 17, 2000.

OBVERSION (1982)

Lord, at times I seem to be

an oblique prism in a Stygian sea;

a battered brass horn on the pawnshop wall,

a broken pencil

an empty hall

Yet-

I could bend a rainbow from random light

and the music in me would heat up the night

There are words and designs 'til I run out of pages

and a place to shelter the lost and courageous

So near to home, so far to go

A man makes his own

Fortissimo

-- Lars (lars@indy.net), June 17, 2000.

There once was an Hysterium for Doomers
Who all hoped the world would end sooner.
They bleated and yelped
Claiming only to help
But in the end Ed bailed on them for several months, then Chuck tried to be fair, until his wife cracked the whip (taking away the pants and a couple of testicles to boot...), and the Ed "stealthily" returned, but didn't realise one of his former sysyops was secretly communicating with the a moderate polly who (to this day) continues to pass doomer "insider" emails to the rest of us - but then again Ed was really really wrong about soooo much; and Kevin (music mixer [too bad you had to change that one, Stinkmeister]), Lian, and Liane stroked each other's egos about as much as they spun the increasing evidence that their little precious meme was doomed (and nothing else...).

Vindicated Regards,
Andy Boy

-- Andy Ray (andyboy666@hotmail.com), June 17, 2000.

Example of a devolving pentameter?

-- Normally (Oxsys@aol.com), June 17, 2000.

Andy,

Give me a quarter and I'll call someone who gives a shit.

-- (nemesis@awol.com), June 17, 2000.

Lars,

I liked the last one a lot. Nice. Very nice. It really flows at the end.

-- I'm (grinning@again.com), June 17, 2000.

At the risk of turning this into the Lars amateur poetry thread, here is some more. FS, it's all your fault.

DON'T MISS IT (1999)

So much is happening

Watch the clouds as they billow,

trees bend in the breeze,

behavior of birds,

postures of bodies,

color of eyes

Listen to

locusts in August

the rustle of leaves

thunder as it rolls

the laughter of children

sighs at sleep's fall

silence

So much is happening

-- Lars (lars@indy.net), June 18, 2000.

My guru

gores me.

God, He

gores me.

Sits and waits

and stares

and floors me.

Kills me, dying

Greets me, flying

Meets me, trying

trying, trying

to get free ...

(He adores me.)

-- Normally (Oxsys@aol.com), June 18, 2000.

Palindromically speaking--

A garret Sam, a goy, a guru rug, a yoga master raga.

-- Lars (lars@indy.net), June 19, 2000.

Lars that's simply masterful. Bravo!

Oxy, bullseye.

-- Bingo1 (howe9@shentel.net), June 19, 2000.

HAIKU AT THE CORNER BAR

How pretty she was

By the amber light

Of Heineken

-- Charles Bukowski (barfly@cirrhosis.com), June 19, 2000.

Short Order by the real Bukowski

I took my girlfriend to your last poetry reading,

she said.

yes, yes? I asked.

she's young and pretty, she said.

and? I asked.

she hated your

guts.

then she stretched out on the couch

and pulled off her

boots.

I don't have very good legs,

she said.

all right, I thought, I don't have very good

poetry; she doesn't have very good

legs.

scramble two.

-- flora (***@__._), June 19, 2000.

Flora and Charles:

Thanks for your contributions. I liked them both.

-- FutureShock (gray@matter.think), June 20, 2000.

AUNTIE EM (1999)

Birds fly over no rainbow

No wizard will ever appear

We all live in Kansas, believe it

Don't leave it, love those who are near

-- Lars (lars@indy.net), June 20, 2000.

WIRED (1999)

Birds on a wire

words on a wire

singing

sassy

spirits in busted bodies

flying a line we cannot see

to an end we cannot know

I'm so glad you are there

-- Lars (lars@indy.net), June 20, 2000.

The Garden

You dreamt of a garden, though

You might not have remembered it-

The ground and the seeds

came into your hands.

And you dug and you sweat

beads across your smile

as the dirt covered your pride.

As you awoke

you walked with anticipation

put on your gown

and through the door you went

Praying seedlings out of the

Soil.

Your spirit grew in nurturing

One stem, another, and then

Many more reaching for the sun.

And each night you paused

Paused in wonderment and glory

as first Zinnias, then sunflowers

Started to bud.

What a great moment it was

To see you caress the first

Flower

To see you gather them

As they came

Breathing happiness wherever

You placed them.

Life, new life, came bursting

Through you

and who knows how much

Happiness

You gave to anyone who gazed

at your backyard paradise;

The Landlord's son

The next door neighbor...

The yellow of the rose

The purple, pink petunias

The vibrancy they lend

The richness of the sunflowers

Commanding the living room

Another Child of God

Breeding children of God

emanating his love

and making our home.

-- FutureShock (gray@matter.think), June 21, 2000.

FS--

A tribute to your wife? Nice, very nice. She has a gift to bring life to your home. And you have a gift to notice.

-- Lars (lars@indy.net), June 21, 2000.

Lars:

You are correct!

-- FutureShock (gray@matter.think), June 21, 2000.

GLORY LINE (1985)

It did not thrill me that dying day

The weltering sea in endless roar,

the horizon dissolving in night

It mirrored my inner shores

Then a file of pelican passed

Sailing low o'er a wave breaking fast

Surfers on a billow of air

Beacons on a linear prayer

Alas, we are not pelican Zen

masters booming a glory line

We must see the possibility

of line leading to line

through chasm and chaos

toward a distant light

Sometimes, by grace and grit, we too fly a line

like jazzmen bending to the rhythm rise

like hoopsters in the zone

or lovers on a stroll

a father falling through his daughter's laughing eyes.

We are fledglings yearning to fly

We know despair, yet there is time

There is forever

God beckons us to try

-- Lars (lars@indy.net), June 23, 2000.

This one I awakened with, a product of the past few days.

Here I sit in my lonely Tower,

Wiling away each lonely hour.

Thinking of you...

A freebird who takes to wing,

Outpouring of Wisdom, focused, Knowing.

Experiencing you...

A hint of a need & there you will be,

Prana is flowing, Heart chakra is glowing.

Thinking unselfishly of all...

Our connection undeniably bright,

Isn't it perfectly alright,

for two Souls to melt into one?

Duality no more...

And yet time & distance the foes,

Juice flows from Crown into toes.

Cells vibrate, Love incarnate.

Waiting for you...

Tears now flooding the pages,

Soulmates down through the ages?

Bread crumb trail, I toss off the chain mail.

(I Thank You...)

JG

-- Bingo1 (howe9@shentel.net), June 24, 2000.