poMotion poetry

Archive for June 2010

The Whip in the Temple.

with 5 comments

He smiled

At the palms crushed

To stain by the calloused hooves of the stolen donkey

And wonders

“Was anyone

The faces each like a little flame

With their halleluiahs

Getting the joke?”

The faces each like a little flame

With their serious halleluiahs

That knot like rope behind his smile

Growing

Forced

He pats the good neck of the donkey and the sinews of the scrawny neck keep his back straight

And this is where I came in

Caught

Between praise and expectation

Between the users at my back and the used up at my fingertips

The song and the sacrifice

Caught

Between the desire and the consummation

Between the lash and the coins

Piled like fortune on the fragile tables

My hallelujahs to turning the earth into sky

My hollow eyes

And he was sick of parable when he twisted the cord

His hands itched with inaction

His hands calloused by wood and hammer

Itched with inaction

And he scratched them on the cord he twisted into whip

And strode with whip in calloused hand toward the temple’s selling

And sold faces

And the terror at the arc of the whip in his hand

Stood guard at the entrance of his tomb

By Noah West

Written by lickmypoetry

June 30, 2010 at 10:24 pm

Posted in poem, poetry

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What I want

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If you are asking…
what I
want…

Here.
In this moment…

Mostly
I want to laugh with you
way past midnight
in that space of time
before mornings greeting finds us
and last night’s passion
has exhausted us
after
you have claimed
every space of skin and
every nerve ending
I own
After
you have stretched me
past the point of beginning or ending

After that
I want to
laugh
with

my lover, my friend, my man.

by Julie McCurdy

Written by lickmypoetry

June 29, 2010 at 7:32 pm

Posted in poem, poetry

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Writing a poem

with one comment

Writing a poem
following assumptions
revise and turn
words

understanding massages
autobiographical attack.
reason doesn’t help
engage or praise red wheel barrow
skills

distance based on
Mondays
They flee the ruined mind
not complete

texture, craft
paint, crazy ode
colored light techniques
sneaks around
to your thinking

do not shut
the book

(this is a poem I put together for a poetry class I took using words found on the syllabus, i think it turned out okay )

by Brian Feist

Written by lickmypoetry

June 25, 2010 at 4:32 pm

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River Resurrection

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River breeds resurrection
No bridge left for crows
Construction ever more flowing
Levy holds debris
A bloated soul
Flesh picked by catfish
Set him free
Set him free
The dragline
Another victim to the whirlpool
Natures eerie pull
Newspaper reads: River claims fourth victim this summer
Families cry, as we fish and swim in her currents
Watching barges fade
A black snake and sweet tea
A packed lunch and a cashed bowl
Listening to her softly creep
We retreat to driftwood
Watching her rise without reason
Waiting for the mosquitoes
Building a fire
Settling down into our own
Set us free.
Set us free.

Written by lickmypoetry

June 23, 2010 at 7:10 pm

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Crying Shame

with 3 comments

Written by lickmypoetry

June 22, 2010 at 8:45 am

As Usual

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As usual, nothing remains as usual.

As usual, the knife has no handle.

As usual, the bloody hand cannot open,

cannot drop it, cannot cease to work on.

The carver just must be carved

by the carving, as usual, as usual.

As usual, the best and the worst

are behind us, now. As usual,

the worst and the best are yet to come.

As usual, the present finds us

as usual, awake and not awake,

certain and uncertain, ready and

surprised. As usual, the stranger

in the mirror, knows more than we do.

As usual, the friends and enemies

at the door love and hate someone

overlapping us who is standing slightly

to the left or right of us, like

an out-of-focus image. As usual,

this difference is a most profound teacher.

As usual, the many rich gifts

of love and hate pile up faster

than they can be opened. As usual,

the elfish hands of dreaming

go to work on the impossible task

in our stead, and then leave us

to wander, as usual, the pirate cave

of treasures and terrors named,

All My Own And Everbody Else’s Too.

As usual, we wake to being

everything and nothing, and

must stand up carefully. As usual,

we must then go to work giving

the impression that all is as usual.

But, as usual, nothing remains as usual.

For the tinkers have tinkered

and the meddlers have meddled

and the restless have brought unrest

and the smoothers have smoothed

and the thieves have stolen

and the givers have bestowed

and the makers are being carved

by their own knives, as usual,

and we are next, as usual.

The sun smiles a power-giving smile

and the cloud weeps a life-giving tear,

as usual, on all this.  The mountain

stands like a gift left by the stars

for the day and says, silently,

as usual, This is difficult and

this is glorious.  The ocean sways

and swirls and says, silently,

as usual, The sum of all tears is

the cradle of all things.


By Lance M. Loder

Written by lickmypoetry

June 20, 2010 at 5:14 pm

Posted in poem, poetry

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Work

with 2 comments

Last night our dreams made waking rough
Alarms ignored, we rest instead.
There’s time to spare. There’s bread enough

To help ourselves shake off the slough
And fill our uniform of deeds.
Tonight’s bad dreams will wake us rough

And blearily-eying the break for lunch
One hand to punch, the other bleeds
To kill the time. There’s bread enough

To throw away, grow stale and tough.
But still we’re tied to these machines
That haunt our dreams, and make us rough,

Give birth to goods, such sundry stuff.
And still we scramble, birds to seed,
Though time’s to spare, and bread’s enough,

Because they manufactured drought
To each a thirst to match his need,
Sequestered dreams, kept waking rough,
and let us starve with bread enough.

By Meredith Reese

Written by lickmypoetry

June 18, 2010 at 6:34 am

Posted in poem, poetry

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