And the word is...

[autolycus]

Once upon a time (http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/14474)
There was a wax stick,
Stuck in paradigm
Of non-ignition
By a bare matchstick,
Normal condition.

Came afar, a day
When observation
Careful trumped dismay;
String theory appalls
By consummation
Heated as it falls.

For this thread of fate
Waxed throughout its length
Does soon explicate:
Without wickedness
Fuels in any strength
Will just make a mess.

[ampoule]

I never give you my pillow,
I only send you my invitation,
and in the middle of the celebrations
I break down.

—Lennon/McCartney, Carry That Weight, Abby Road


You would not stay,
in this story between the light and the wall.
What is grotesque I know is only what I make
with my hands, and the sound is how I breathe here.

You are here nonetheless.
When I say, then your hair rose up like clouds,
I see you, the wind moving your beauty
from a cliff over the Pacific to this place,
where you wait outside the door, or wave
from a shore you’ve chosen cautiously.

Intimacy does not join us. Here you are alone.
There is always the space between us
and our shadows, even as we embrace in the light.
This is why I write you my dreams, or wake you,
waving tirelessly over the waters, shaking the bed.
What can we do otherwise, when the space narrows,
and the shadow envelops our perception?

Here, the face of a stranger is who turns in the crowd,
and I am crying because it is the place where I cry, or
someone, something shadowless awakens me as I sleep.

This is so incredibly beautiful. It should be 'out there', in the regular threads. I'm afraid people will miss it.

And autolycus, how cleverly done. Thank you for joining us. Maybe you will choose the next word for us??
Anyone else for the word, candle?

[autolycus]

Thank you, ampoule (that's a beautiful word too)!

Hmm. The next word is... 'desk'. I'm into the poetry of practical things these days... *grin*

[firefangled]

Time is in the unseen spaces,
and where the children are kept in rows
by the desk runners, the freckled girl turns
her head around quickly,
as the boy behind her retracts his hand
from her hair. The look in her eyes is frightening
to him for that second she is not there, the second
of the tree falling, the mill sounding
like a wind she once heard, the penknife that etched
a heart, the way the path was made from yesterday
to the desk, second row, her eyes focused on him now
the way lightning pauses before you hear it.

[ampoule]

A Girl and Her Desk

She was young,
can you forgive her?
She was care less,
or at the very least,
unobservant, the office
closing down, going out
of business, signs posted,
everything must go.
She never wondered why,
never concerned herself
with the dreams of owners
or food for the employees
that would be let go, no,
she had lust in her eyes
for a bargain, the heavy,
solid wood, six-drawer desk,
complete with coffee rings
and scratches and history,
carried home atop a car.
So many hours, so many
changes, typewriters to
computers, rotary phones
to caller ID and blinking
phone messages, and this
desk, as big as a bed,
causes her to pause at last,
so many years gone by,
wondering who and where
the people are who set their
coffee cups down, who left
their marks, their time.

ampoule, May Second, TwoThousandEight

I love my desk. Can you tell?

[Sarasvati21]

It will be old, forgotten
Neglected for
Music stands and
The outdoors;
Places where
Not even the
Pristine cleanliness
Of the window
Glass bars the way
Between the poetess
And the great world--
The “real” world
Outside the ones she
Has created here
At this place they
Call her desk--
Someday…

[ampoule]

Fire, Sarasvati, I love your desk poems. Okay, Autolycus.....

[firefangled]

so many years gone by,
wondering who and where
the people are who set their
coffee cups down, who left
their marks, their time.


I love my desk. Can you tell?

I can tell by this poem it is a fine desk. One of those big enough for life to feel at home on it. A very fine poem, Amp.

[autolycus]

Firefangled: time, love, and the elements of life

Ampoule: personal narrative and human interest

Sarasvati: argh, poetry and metaphor


This is not an easy contest. But I am a victim of mythology and hence must bow to the superior symbolism of Firefangled despite the valour and beauty of all the submissions. There is something in there about the raw elements of the human heart, something primal. Lightning, just before it strikes...

Shudder.

Firefangled, it's all yours!

[PrinceMyshkin]

I remember the first desk I had,
a bar-mitzvah gift, I think it was
and the hope it represented
to my parents of a splendid professional career
ahead of me and I remember how,
when I married we moved that desk,
for some reason, to my wife’s family’s
country-house and how, when she and I broke up,
I had no more access to it and wondered
what secrets my kids might unearth from it.
The desk I have now - cherrywood veneer
–has a hutch on it on which sits my computer screen,
the elegant paper-covered in-box
we brought back from Japan, assorted articles
from my past.

[ampoule]

Firefangled: time, love, and the elements of life

Ampoule: personal narrative and human interest

Sarasvati: argh, poetry and metaphor


This is not an easy contest. But I am a victim of mythology and hence must bow to the superior symbolism of Firefangled despite the valour and beauty of all the submissions. There is something in there about the raw elements of the human heart, something primal. Lightning, just before it strikes...

Shudder.

Firefangled, it's all yours!

Ooops, Auto, this particular thread is not a contest. I was hoping you would have a poem for us.

I like yours too, Prince. Shortly after I was married we bought a Zenith stereo system that sounded sooooo good. I vowed I would never get divorced for fear of losing it in a custody battle. LOL

[Sarasvati21]

Sarasvati: argh, poetry and metaphor


:idea: ...Isn't that part of what poetry's about?

[autolycus]

*Grin* yes, it is, which is what made it such a hard choice; yours was equivalently but not identically as powerful as the other two in form and style...

[autolycus]

Oops. I was wondering how to pick someone to hand off the next word to...

I'm sorry for making it look like a competition!

But there's no poem here from me, only a quotation:

"When is a raven like a writing-desk?"

[dibyendra]

Ageing (I)

A wall clock,
rooted to the wall suspended,
though its arms ceaselessly marching on
with the unceasing time,
is resonating tick tock every second,
like a heartbeat reverberating,
no matter if day breaks out
or darkness encroaches, howsoever,
just keeps carrying out its chore,
even though it seems bored
of its mechanized behaviours,
but don't really make a fuss
until it's famished,
and keeps on beholding the ageing world,
ageing people, ageing surroundings,
and is aware of its own ageing
on the one track lane of the time,
but remains bold and calm
knowing nothing in this world is perpetual.

[Beautifull]

all of us
the old surround us,
either in the mind or the being,
but all of us reach that point where we do,
then those arround us are saying...
the old surround us

[ampoule]

Ageing

I think I remember you
Do I
Remember you
It was a long time ago
Wasn't it
Or
Maybe it's just now
This second look
But
Anyway
Nice to meet you
Again

ampoule, May Eleventh, TwoThousandEight

[qimissung]

My Fog: The Moral Cleaner

I sat by droplets licking the light of a sunset's glean;
It dubiously trickled, then quickly took form,
On my shoulder's, in the guise of compassion it waned my forlorn,
And just like a friend on whose shoulder you lean,
When adversity is the visage of all that you've seen,
It seeped out my woe in the form of an evil conformed,
and hurled it in the crest of a volatile storm.

My heart was set free in a verdurous green,
My sockets of fog-lifted pupils now showed,
Life in creatures and redolence for what it was,
the last frost on the end of a dead tree bow,
a silver-limped collection of mushroom villa-fuzz
the rebirth of green from a seed moist sowed,
and a pollen adhered bee irradiating every petal with its buzz
while I sat by droplets licking the light of a sunset's glean


I really like your poem, Adolescent09.

[ampoule]

I'm not sure which word qimissung has chosen for us to write about so why don't we go with the word....FOG.

[ampoule]

Fog

Like the Coast Highway,
He was afraid of my bends, my curves,
The way I settled over him,
Leaving a wet chill,
He begged me to stop, quiet, not a sound,
At first, then the crashing waves,
I kissed the sweat on his brow,
His heart beating so fast,
But my kindness, like the sun,
Began to burn through and when he rolled
Over to the side, I let him get out.


ampoule, May Twentieth, TwoThousandEight

[firefangled]

Very clever and nicely done. Loved the gray.

I happen love those PCH bends, particularly the ones where I get a little dizzy from being so close to the edge. ;)

[firefangled]

In morning’s last darkness I found you out
on your way home, under the full moon,
through a shroud of misty air. You did not know
it was me, the soft white night that enveloped you,
lying moist against your vibrant skin; it was I,
who could not speak, who drifted lightly to your lips
and gently rested there, then played and sparkled in your hair.
Caught within your motion, for the moment captive there.
Unseen you carried me inside your house, and I watched you
take petal from petal of clothing and could say nothing,
and could no longer touch you, could give no sign of love
you would see, but for one small tear, unnoticed on a chair.

Later, as you slept, I moved, silently, a thief enthralled,
through your room, feeling the residual warmth of your
clothing, touching what you hold dear, cherishing
each precious item as do you, becoming for the moment
the enveloped, letting you surround me as I had you.
For hours, hovering above the floor, so close with the fragrance
you had worn, like light against the morning breeze, I danced.
And then, glorious moment, I lay beside you sleeping, where
by your heat I lost all form and melded into you,
and slept as you slept, and breathed as you breathed,
then, in the fading darkness, became the fabric of your dreams

[ampoule]

Oh my gosh! And to think I used to complain about the fog. Oh fire, that is absolutely beautiful.

[AdoreroDio]

damp tentacles wrap
around each figure
enveloping
it in peaceful serenity
found only where the sky ends
and the fog
begins
where everything
is hidden, everything
is secret
no one is watching.
a freedom in lies
and covered sins
the fog begins
here
embrace it
do not fear it
it brings freedom

[ampoule]

Oh, I like that A-Dio....those tentacles, the secret....mysterious, just like the fog.

[symphony]

In morning’s last darkness I found you out
on your way home, under the full moon,
through a shroud of misty air. You did not know
it was me, the soft white night that enveloped you,
lying moist against your vibrant skin; it was I,
who could not speak, who drifted lightly to your lips
and gently rested there, then played and sparkled in your hair.
Caught within your motion, for the moment captive there.
Unseen you carried me inside your house, and I watched you
take petal from petal of clothing and could say nothing,
and could no longer touch you, could give no sign of love
you would see, but for one small tear, unnoticed on a chair.

Later, as you slept, I moved, silently, a thief enthralled,
through your room, feeling the residual warmth of your
clothing, touching what you hold dear, cherishing
each precious item as do you, becoming for the moment
the enveloped, letting you surround me as I had you.
For hours, hovering above the floor, so close with the fragrance
you had worn, like light against the morning breeze, I danced.
And then, glorious moment, I lay beside you sleeping, where
by your heat I lost all form and melded into you,
and slept as you slept, and breathed as you breathed,
then, in the fading darkness, became the fabric of your dreams

I remember this....
It was the first poem from you that I saw in this forum. Loved this then. Love this now. :)

[qimissung]

o
Fog

the cold damp touching
my hair and cheeks
like the moist fingers of small ghosts
awakened at bedtime and longing
for reassurance

lying
quiescently, subversively,
like an evil dragon,
coiled in a corner
awaiting his prey

swirling like smoke
from a chimney,
it wraps around my ankles
like a slimy monster from
from a childhood nightmare

shivering, I pull up my collar,
and hurry home to you


qimissung
May 25, 2008

Sorry for any confusion; I was just trying to pay a compliment, but your poems are absolutely beautiful. q

[Pendragon]

Fog

The white lady caresses
Her lover, the Earth—
Snuggling him in soft blankets
That hide their intimacy…


Pendragon
©5/30/08

[ampoule]

Wow, Pen, that is very very good.
I like yours too, qimi.

[qimissung]

Thank you, ampoule.
Excellent metaphor, Pendragon.

[ampoule]

NEW WORD....PASTORAL

[Pendragon]

Pastoral

The shepherd guards his tiny flock—
Is there a wolf among the sheep?
His gaze flies across the wooly dreadlocks,
Is there a set there that aren’t skin-deep?
A wolf within a coat of sheep’s wool,
Is still a wolf, a ravening eerie beast—
No place at all here for canine drool,
He must be certain that there is no doggy feast!
But the night is calm, and the sheep are safe,
No wolves around to cause them pain—
The shepherd collects a wayward waif,
Cuddles up the lamb and goes to sleep again…
The shepherd should sleep very deep:
It’s no problem for him to count sheep!

Pendragon
6/5/08


The word is: Fear

[ampoule]

Very good, Pen. When I was in a Disciple I class, we had to take bible passages from the old testament and tell what we saw, smelled, heard, tasted and touched. It was a neat exercise and your poem reminded me of that.

[Gilead]

Fear

She blinks, knuckles alabaster
White against her dark clothing
She breathes out
Tendrils of fear, twirling, wafting
Psychedelic in all their glory
Rivaled only by the dark fog spilling over
Outside. Watchful, with eyes
Replicate in the darkness
Waiting for your next mistake

[ampoule]

Very nice Gilead. I would suggest you post this under Personal Poetry so more people can see it. This thread is considered a 'poetry game or contest' and the current word is pastoral. I just don't want your beautiful poem to get lost. Welcome to the LitNet. :)

[Gilead]

Sorry about that, ampoule. A misunderstanding on my part.

Pastoral

It is twelve in the afternoon:
The clouds are docile and
Lazy in drifting where the wind may blow
To set themselves afloat in the sea of
Magnolia

It is twelve in the afternoon:
The trees stir and
Murmur in anticipation
Of the sun that will cast their shadows
Empty

It is twelve in the afternoon:
The sheep whisper and
Talk amongst them
Placidly waiting for the kill
Still

It is twelve in the afternoon:
The day is hazy and
The sun is high
Nothing moves and all things hang
Uncertain

[CdnReader]

^^^ This is beautiful, Gilead!! Welcome to the LitNet Poetry Forum. :)

[ampoule]

Absolutely no need to apologize to me Gilead. I just want everyone to see your wonderful poems. You have captured that moment so vividly.

[Pendragon]

Absolutely no need to apologize to me Gilead. I just want everyone to see your wonderful poems. You have captured that moment so vividly.
Very lovely poems, Gilead! :thumbs_up

Um. Amp, did you miss that I changed the word to "Fear"? Gilead was right the first time! Of course, then we would've missed a great poem... ;) :) :D

[Gilead]

Thank you all for your encouragement!

[PrinceMyshkin]

Sorry about that, ampoule. A misunderstanding on my part.

Pastoral

It is twelve in the afternoon:
The clouds are docile and
Lazy in drifting where the wind may blow
To set themselves afloat in the sea of
Magnolia

It is twelve in the afternoon:
The trees stir and
Murmur in anticipation
Of the sun that will cast their shadows
Empty

It is twelve in the afternoon:
The sheep whisper and
Talk amongst them
Placidly waiting for the kill
Still

It is twelve in the afternoon:
The day is hazy and
The sun is high
Nothing moves and all things hang
Uncertain

Welcome, indeed. Wonderful work!

[firefangled]

When the swing holds me
with its slats of air,
the blossoms in the orchard,
and the uphill breeze
give me motion not unlike
the clouds sinking
over my front porch roof
into their blue sea,
and I into the ocean of perception.

[TheFifthElement]

Aeons ago, or so it seems (I think it was April), firefangled posted a theme of Candle and I thought of this line, a poem, and for some reason I just couldn't seem to get it down. And today I did. Isn't poetry strange? So, this belongs here, really, not quite really finished, but kind of.

By Candlelight

His hands are as steady as the rain
falling through the cracks in the porch roof.
Slow light from the candle.
He cups the flame; the trembling stops
though the after-effects linger.
I shiver.
Wax drips onto the table
and hardens there, a swollen pool.

His breath is the sound of the wind
rattling the door as the storm breaks.
We are alone here,
together,
surrounded by night, the storm,
and somewhere out of view, the stars.
The flame flickers. Our shadows
on the wall melt, amalgamate.

His mouth is as soft as the clouds
pressed into the hills and the dark sky.
We find each other,
fluid, formless as light.
I think: this is how we enter the next life.
Sliding into warm openings,
breathless, hungry and searching;
soft light, a steady light calling us there.

His body is the flame of the light
burning where his skin is touching mine.
We are one,
together
moving like the storm;
destroying, creating the world over.
The candle shudders and dies.
In the damp sky, dawn light pools on the horizon.

[firefangled]

You may keep these up now that you are back, but under no pressure from me.

I'm just happy you are back and with such a sensuous and brilliant poem. I for one could have waited longer in the dark, knowing you would be here eventually. What comes comes when it comes.

Good to see you Fifth.

[TheFifthElement]

Thanks firefangled :) good to see you too.

[TheFifthElement]

Impressions of the square from the monument

“To the memory of the following officers non-commissioned officers
and men who fell in the war in South Africa 1899-1902”

They died for this: stone at their feet,
and beyond a bustling summer market.

Bennett, Bolton, Buckett…

Hot scent of grilled fat,
spilled beer and sauerkraut,
potatoes and bacon in two foot wide pans.
At the other end: wheatgrass,
strawberry smoothies,
hot vegan wraps, and organic hummus.

…Cooke, Cooper, Crinion…

Stone, earth and rocks,
bespoke silver jewellery,
handcrafted bags: overpriced, under-made.
Tulips from Holland, sharp local cheeses,
replica watches, almost the real thing.

…Lally, Lewis, Lindsay…

Jazz brass in the background
(Parker, Gillespie?),
bickering voices rise over the notes.
People rush by, my soldiers they see them
busily talking on their mobile phones.

…Stott, Sellers, Sutcliffe, Smith…

For sovereign and country: they died for this.

[firefangled]

Impressions of the square from the monument

“To the memory of the following officers non-commissioned officers
and men who fell in the war in South Africa 1899-1902”

They died for this: stone at their feet,
and beyond a bustling summer market.

Bennett, Bolton, Buckett…

Hot scent of grilled fat,
spilled beer and sauerkraut,
potatoes and bacon in two foot wide pans.
At the other end: wheatgrass,
strawberry smoothies,
hot vegan wraps, and organic hummus.

…Cooke, Cooper, Crinion…

Stone, earth and rocks,
bespoke silver jewellery,
handcrafted bags: overpriced, under-made.
Tulips from Holland, sharp local cheeses,
replica watches, almost the real thing.

…Lally, Lewis, Lindsay…

Jazz brass in the background
(Parker, Gillespie?),
bickering voices rise over the notes.
People rush by, my soldiers they see them
busily talking on their mobile phones.

…Stott, Sellers, Sutcliffe, Smith…

For sovereign and country: they died for this.


You structured this so well, the walk. I think the art of this is that you passed no judgement in the way it was worded. The reader is left with the whole question of what you have made them see walking beside you.

At first I was thinking disrespect, but then I read it again and is seemed all about freedom of enterprise and expression.

Well done, Fifth.

[TheFifthElement]

You structured this so well, the walk. I think the art of this is that you passed no judgement in the way it was worded. The reader is left with the whole question of what you have made them see walking beside you.

At first I was thinking disrespect, but then I read it again and is seemed all about freedom of enterprise and expression.

Well done, Fifth.

Thanks firefangled - you're right, of course, it was not intended as being in anyway disrespectful, more a reflection of the fact that their sacrifice allowed those who remained the freedom to live how they choose, good or bad. And also a thought, or a hope perhaps, that if they had lived they would have been right there, chomping on the hot food, listening to the jazz and, perhaps, dancing. Dancing would be nice.

[AdoreroDio]

What's the word?

[ampoule]

What's the word?


I believe we're still on pastoral but if you would like to choose a new word that would be great! :D

[Pendragon]

Hotel Insomnia

I can’t sleep, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have company.
I’m sitting here staring into an unblinking screen,
Surrounded by the ghosts of disappointed hopes and dreams.
Tried a sleeping pill, but I’ve had my fill of medical remedies.
Think I’ll go make myself a nice cup of Chamomile Tea.
My eyes turn into scarlet pits of human misery…
Why when you need it so, does sleep decide to flee?

Pendragon
© Saturday, August 23, 2008

[TheFifthElement]

*removed*

[ntropyincarnate]

I wrote this rather a long time ago. But whatev.

Insomnia
Lie awake,
Screaming headache,
White-hot tears
Follow fears.
I want a sleep
For dreams too deep,
But too many thoughts,
Too many knots,
To be able to steer
Away from my fear
For all the feelings
That I can't feel.

[firefangled]

Tell me shadows,
who
has hung the crescent
moon
so slant and golden?
Who
woke me and made this dream
ensue?

The cat watches by the lake, and
soon
stalks his prey among the branches.
Who
made this sleepless night?
Who
gave it to the owl and
loon?

[ampoule]

Tell me shadows,
who
has hung the crescent
moon
so slant and golden?
Who
woke me and made this dream
ensue?

The cat watches by the lake, and
soon
stalks his prey among the branches.
Who
made this sleepless night?
Who
gave it to the owl and
loon?

I want to sleep so I can dream about this. Lovely.

[TheFifthElement]

Lovely poem firefangled :)

[balehead]

The word still is sleepless isn't it??

----

Sleepless
A fearful eternity of haunting nightmares and images,
The covers tossed from the bed by a writhing and impractical body.
A candle burning brightly is blown out, and relighted. Blown out, and relighted.
Again and again, in a nervous continuum of threatening silence.
The drama plays itself out, and the suns first rays strike hot and burning,
Eyelids finally closing ...
Closing ....
Awake!

[Zeniyama]

Sleepless

I sit in my chair,
A glass of whiskey
Adorns my hand.

The fading glow
Of last nights embers
Scarcely concerns me:

The advancing sun
Gives more than enough
Light.

I read,
Quietly whispering to myself;
Tales
Of adventures:

Romances, lost
Beneath the waxing
Tides of time.

I feel that,
surely,
I must suffer
A similar fate:

My life,
too,
Must be enveloped
By time's cruel waves...

Advancing across the world
Like the sun's
Golden rays.

---

Whenever I stay up too late, I always find myself becoming very ponderous about philosophicle matters. So, even though my poem doesn't have much to do with the fatigue of a sleepless night, it has alot to do with the contemplation that comes with one -- for me, of course.

This is, of course, not a very modern day poem, and I, of course, do not have any type of study.

[ampoule]

thank you balehead and Zeniyama. Very nice. I haven't been around for awhile so I missed these. Thank you.


NEW WORD.....APPARITION

[PrinceMyshkin]

In primary school they taught us addition
as if to hint that everything in life
would grow irrespective of attrition.

Later, when we learned of nuclear fission
we wondered what the point of all that erudition?
Wasn’t it better to focus on acquisition?

Or, taking heart from the Buddha,
conclude that much of life
is merely apparition?

[ampoule]

May I bring this back? It's been awhile and some of us had fun with it. Hope you will too.


Perhaps this has already been done, but I was wondering if any of you would like to write a poem about the same word. I don't really consider this a game, but rather, a way for us to 'see' each other.

So, if it is okay to proceed, I will choose the first word. Lucky me. :D Tomorrow, being a special holiday for the U.S.A., I have chosen the word Independence, not necessarily for the red white and blue, but for you.

I am working on mine but PLEASE post yours as soon as you have it!

SPECIAL NOTE TO LATECOMERS: If you come late to the party and you see a word that we have already done, but you would still like to use that word for your poem, go ahead but let us know which word. Thank you.

The new word is 'dilute'.

[YesNo]

Diluted and maybe refuted,
What’s left? A mathematical guess.
Is it here or lost there? It could be anywhere.
Though it works the wave feels like a mess.

[cacian]

dilute
a thought
that leads
you goad
let it go
float
what remains may word
a new thought
to gloat.

[ampoule]

He was heavy in his life,
Like sludge he oozed into his days,
So concentrated, sometimes barely moving,
Then she came and stirred him with her lightness,
Thinned him with her laughter,
Reduced him to streams of consciousness
Never before allowed,
This delightful solution for his dilution,
Lightheaded as she swirled him around
Her finger, dipped in his now water-colored life.


ampoule, August TwentyFirst, TwoThousandFourteen

[ampoule]

Thank you YesNo and cacian. Anyone else? Or give us a new word. :D

[cacian]

a new word?
how about:


habitual.

[YesNo]

Habitually I take a breath
And then another one.
I take one more and let it be
With wonder overcoming me
Until that breath is done.

[free]

Nothing is habitual any more
After meeting the one I adore
His kisses, like a ritual
Drive me out of the habitual

[Pendragon]

Can something be habitual
And still not be a habit?
Something that you always do
And are just not aware of it.
Like moving your lips while reading a book
The expression you get with a good hand of cards
The little twitches and motions you go through
A million times a day. It's hard
To call them both habitual and habit...

[cacian]

nice pieces :)

next word: breaking up

[YesNo]

I’d like to split those two apart
But they are too entangled.
They will not split,
Won’t think of it,
Old-fashioned, not newfangled.

[ampoule]

nice pieces :)

next word: breaking up

Breaking Up

This frozen relationship, now thawing,
Like the great tundra of the north lands,
Holding contests to guess the first crack,
Is breaking up, soon to float away,
A floe bobbing in a black sea of emotion,
Leaving crystals in its wake.

This time alone, now gnawing,
Like a rat, stowed away, chews the rope, yet
Holding on with each heave and sway,
Is breaking up, little by little,
A moment here, a moment there of connection,
Leaving hope to heal this sever.

ampoule, September Fourth TwoThousandFourteen

[ampoule]

Looking around me I saw this word, perfect for the season we are approaching: TAILGATING

Hope a bunch of you will give it a go.

[YesNo]

You gotta love your car a lot
To party in a parking lot
With asphalt grass beneath our feet
We’re grilling till we’re full of meat
And full of beer before the game
And after too. It’s all the same.
And when there’s nothing else to do,
We’ll party till that’s over, too.

[tailor STATELY]

Tailgating means something different to me:


i love to drive

my car doubles as a bier;
can, when tailgated, speed,
or precipice perceived
breed anxiety; marrying
vertigo, hypoxia, and
palpitation - allowing
neuroses to caper freely

10/9/2014

Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor STATELY

[ampoule]

I love both of these!

[cacian]

new word:
DAWN

[YesNo]

Today began. The pleasant dawn
Awoke us before moving on.

[ampoule]

Stage door East,
I gasp at your entrance,
holding my breath
as you come further in,
spreading your arms,
holding the universe,
I, sitting there wide-eyed,
await your first line.


ampoule, October TwentySecond, TwoThousandFourteen

[Hawkman]

I was standin’ there in the welfare line
Down in Nome, Alaska, back in time,
When a man come up to me and said, “How do.
You know it’s mighty dark, this time o’ day,
And it’s real hard to find your way,
When the sun don’t come up here
Until round noon.

The dawn don’t break here, son,” he said,
"It more creeps up on you instead,
with twilight lasting longer than I’d like.
A bit like the breakfast show with Desperate Dan.
And though it’s true, I ain’t his biggest fan,
Y’ know, frankly, I can’t stand the man,
The time it takes the sun to come ’s a trial.

It’s cold an’ dark half the year round
And in summertime, or so I’ve found,
It’s equally cold, and although it’s light, it’s dank.
I dream of living where it’s warm and bright,
In a place where palm trees greet your sight,
All a swaying real stately in the breeze—
And Droppin’ coconuts… in bunches…

Now I know I’m buildin’ castles in the air
And life for folks just ain’t that fair
And I’m stuck here, just like you, for the duration.
I’ll still be here when the rapture comes
And I’ll spend my time a-twiddling my thumbs,
Until my time of glory leads me hence.
They’ll take me away in a snowmobile…”

Well I looked at him and said, “That’s sad,”
Although I knew the man was mad
I thought it best to humour him, this time.
I saw that he was smokin’ weed
He even offered to sell me some GM seed
Said he bought it off some crazy woman called Palin
By mail order…

But I declined, though it wasn’t kind,
For I’d already made up my mind
That I’d be moving on before too long.
So I took my dole and dug a hole,
And I’m diggin’ still, though I’m growin’ old,
But by now I gotta be getting’ close to Hong Kong.
It’s a long way down, folks…

[cacian]

very nice entries and reads
and the next word is:

romance

my entry:

romance
is a silhouette
of tense
too much
and it becomes expense
less is enhance
a makeup artist stance.

[ZacheirII]

An image built on mistake
A free-throw without disdain
melody of hex without refrain
always in haste to overtake

A keeper, not born as
A seeker, aims infer
A winner, hopes concur
A loser, fright invites

An end from the haste
A free-lance on May Day
willingness to faux pas
only wanderlust to TAILGATE

[YesNo]

Someone other looking out
Aware that we are looking in
Surprised that all there is to find
Is good enough and they don’t mind
To let the play begin.

[cacian]

nice pieces to read

and the word is;

jealousy


jealousy
you sound
fallacy
without
you
I can be new
without a care in the world
but true.

[YesNo]

The weekend’s magic had been spent.
They thought their spouses did not know,
But everyone knew where they went.
The way back home got trashed and bent.
What love was left refused to grow.

[ampoule]

Oh you terrible palette of colors,
Green-eyed monster, yes, but more;
Red-faced screamer, ready to rip and tear,
Yellow-bellied coward, composed, yet shaking,
Blue-hearted sulker, seeking sympathy,
Purple-fisted fighter, bruised black.
This ain't no rainbow slide.
I know jealousy.


ampoule December Fifteenth, TwoThousandFourteen