poMotion poetry

Archive for July 2010


with one comment

“Though libraries are burned for the sake of truth
Fragments always survive in the necks of bottles”
-Doug Russell “The History of Beauty”

When the not
They shatter
In the face of perfection

The one who was never finished
Forgiveness there is
Much to forgive but no one to do it

I won’t finish
I won’t
Even try but I work my fragments
To the bottle neck naiveté and beg
For forgiveness

And it could be worse

The ones
Who finish
Won’t shatter they fall
In perfect arcs like polished stones

They burn
They never even
To beg

By Noah West

Written by lickmypoetry

July 30, 2010 at 4:27 am

Posted in poem, poetry, Random

Tagged with , ,

My Iridescent Green Slacks

with 3 comments

Stood on the bloody gold mountain
of war booty my young friends and I
were to inherit from our fathers’
wounds and our mothers’ wounds
and this world’s wounds.
Stood trying to think using my very own
government-issue army-surplus
olive-drab SS-number-stencilled
individual baby-boomer mind.
Stood on layers of bone yards
going back to the beginning of beginning.
Stood near the center of a new and
worldwide fortress named freedom.
Stood trying to make out
furious dying voices leaking whispers
from the edges of newspapers.
Stood trying not to believe
the miniature wars of the schoolyard
reflected the glacially ruinous
wars of this world.
Stood in my favorite
iridescent green slacks
that went so well with
my starry young nausea.
Stood and ached and ached
for any example
of how to stand up to all of this.

By Lance. M. Loder

Written by lickmypoetry

July 27, 2010 at 1:45 pm

Muse’s Misconceptions

with 5 comments

I didnt know

when I started

this thing…..

that success

in any form

would ask

for sacrifice….

deep down

belly laughter…

aint that a bitch….

since we all

grew up



comes for free

I thought

I already paid

wry grin


who knew?

That the same




my soul

into being

would let


force a choice

I didnt know



it would cost

to paint

my pictures

I only painted them

so their



sear my sight

I painted them

into the wind

in the way




to do

so their seeds

would sow

surrender and acceptance

to the healing process

i am

after all

a woman

we heal that way

in the whole

by helping

the next


in line

I didnt



but I

do know


right here

in the now

of things

and you know what

its ok…

and its

gonna be



I get over

the need

to hold on


the what


instead of


the what are’s

and there is



with liberation

in the

knowin now


I didn’t know


I don’t have to

be less than I am

for a man to love me

I am glorious and I am grand

just the way I am

just me

and so

are you

that m-dears

is a kick assed kewl place to be

By Julie McCurdy

Written by lickmypoetry

July 24, 2010 at 8:40 pm

Posted in poem, poetry

Tagged with , , , , , ,


with 9 comments

photo credit: halloween_mask.com

Muzzle me.
The binding of
words spoken,
Time to think
about things
that are not
relevant, or
even real.

A fine leather
muzzle distracts
the eye, leaves
jaw bones
aching and sore.
This game isn’t
fun anymore.
Can’t talk.
Just think.
World teetering
on the brink:
One unnatural disaster after another.

photo credit: wolftimbers.org

Nuzzle me.
The freedom of
touch given
So soft.
No time to think
of things
Just moments


Fine leather
muzzle falls to
The floor, leaves
jaw bones
moving silently
and shut.
Can’t think.
Just talk.
Nuzzle my nose
along your thigh.
One natural disaster after another.

By Sue Zalokar

Written by lickmypoetry

July 23, 2010 at 10:33 am

Heart of Wine

with 2 comments

Like many, my heart was made of wine,
my dreams were made of smoke, and
my mind was made of chopsticks.

Like many, my bones were made of flutes,
my skin was made of cake, and
my eyes were made of tomorrow.

Like many, my ears were made of heartbeats,
my genitals were made of memory, and
my nose was made of light.

Like many, my fingers were made of questions,
my toes were made of trouble, and
my tongue was made of strings.

Like many, my elbows were made of hunger,
my knees were made of restlessness, and
my forehead was made of glass.

Like many, the glass of my forehead
was made into wine, and
the wine of my heart was
made into glass.

Like many, the restlessness of my knees
was made into smoke, and
the smoke of my dreams was made
into restlessness.

Like many, the hunger of my elbows
was made into chopsticks, and
the chopsticks of my mind were
made into hunger.

Like many, the strings of my tongue
were made into flutes, and
the flutes of my bones were
made into strings.

Like many, the trouble of my toes
was made into cake, and
the cake of my skin was
made into trouble.

Like many, the questions of my fingers
were made into tomorrow, and
the tomorrow of my eyes was
made into questions.

Like many, the light of my nose
was made into heartbeats, and
the heartbeats of my ears were
made into light.

Like many, the memories of my genitals
were made into songs, and
the songs of my genitals were
made into memories.

By Lance M. Loder

Written by lickmypoetry

July 21, 2010 at 10:01 pm

The Dervish

with 6 comments

My son knows nothing of Rumi
He’s five he barely reads at all
I’ve watched him intone
The words of his beginning reader
Until the words are washed of meaning
Until a word like run
Each letter repeated lengthened
And smoothed into the next
Becomes like a mystic litany
He’s never worn a tunic that spun
And flared and danced around his knees
But today he pinned a towel
Around his neck and called it a cape
And as I clapped he spun
And whooped and laughed and whirled
And the air above his head
Was alive and bright with life

By Noah West

Written by lickmypoetry

July 20, 2010 at 9:59 am


with 4 comments

Preservation of thoughts and feelings is hard
Keeping the tradition while
Keeping up with the Jones’
Maintain faith in the history of life
When life’s are ending, memories forgotten
Does pain endure?
How about joy?
How does one package the sounds of three thousand people trying to sleep
People falling in love
People enduring
quote normal life unquote
Instead we keep copies of script
Pictures of people in places that are meant to invoke feelings of sameness or difference
But always missing the real point of feeling
what it felt like

By Brian Feist

Written by lickmypoetry

July 17, 2010 at 11:02 am

Posted in memorial, poem, poetry

Tagged with , , ,

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