The Lost 2 Hours

the Lost 2 Hours

can be only expressed
in metaphors
and contours
outside of context

With eyes mapping my continent,
I'm unfolded between sheets
like an early draft
My axis is rotated
front to back

deep tissue massage
sheds inner thoughts....
sensitivities are tossed
aside
along with victoria's secrets.

Wearing nothing but a smile,
your fingers inch up my spine as if climbing Jacobs's Ladder
my back manuscripted
in hieroglyphics
I began to take Shape
and Form...
silent scriptures on my lips

You got me open
I want to close my eyes
to forget

how dizzy I am
as paradigms shift.

Tensions ease as fingertips
climb steeply up my back,
trailing down my neck
across my collar bone
leaving delicate caresses.

My hypothalamus is overstimulated.

Sweat beads my skin in little sequins
and drip drops like water
dancing over a hot stove

Tenderly, you take control
Your tongue steal my words
like a ventriloquist
suspending curses half-spoken

I'm lava yet motionless
becoming a slumped goddess
I crest and fall
into oblivion

as your fingers wade
through my flesh with lotion
erasing who I used to be.

I feel you kneading me,
needing to hold on
as my waistline is yoked
I wonder how long
can I sustain myself
as hands roam

strong, wild, and free
while mine grapple for hope

the deeper you went
minutes ticked
hands surpassed time
at the peak of intensity
I lose touch with the world.
stars realign
in two hours splendidly spent.

Poem

why some people be mad at me sometimes

they ask me to remember
but they want me to remember
their memories
and I keep on remembering
mine.

-Lucille Clifton

Remembering stories told from my past and in the course of my growth out of the abuse, my recalling of my past resembles little of the stories of how I was as a little girl and teen during my days of discontent, le sigh...

Autobiography in Five Short Chapters

Autobiography in Five Short Chapters

I.
I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I fall in.
I am lost . . . I am helpless.
It isn't my fault.
It takes me forever to find a way out.

II.
I walk down the same street.  
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I fall in again.
I can't believe I am in the same place
but, it isn't my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.

III.
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
Isee it there.
I still fall in . . . it's a habit.
My eyes are open; 
I know where I am.
It is my fault.
I get out immediately.

IV.
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.

V.
I walk down another street.

~Portia Nelson

Invictus

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me, 
Black as the Pit from pole to pole, 
I thank whatever gods may be 
For my unconquerable soul. 

In the fell clutch of circumstance 
I have not winced nor cried aloud. 
Under the bludgeonings of chance 

My head is bloody, but unbowed. 
Beyond this place of wrath and tears 
Looms but the Horror of the shade, 
And yet the menace of the years 
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid. 

It matters not how strait the gate, 
How charged with punishments the scroll, 
I am the master of my fate: 
I am the captain of my soul.

Spoke 'n Heard

Rarely do I remember the poetry at open mics but two in particular, last night at Java Monkey, stood out for me. The first guy, began with a disclaimer that he isn't a drug user nor condone its use then spit a piece aptly titled 'addiction' so blazing, it got praise well after he sat down. In the poem, he spoke of the madness when genius and art collides, how they go hand in hand with, it seems, some of the greatest minds who died (or live, in the case of Amy Winehouse) at the fate of drugs and/or the abuse of them...from jimi to elvis to janis to curt cobain to edgar to the more recent, keith ledger. I can't remember all the names but it got me thinking. Sometimes creative genius drives artists down dark tunnels that find them face to face with demons they can't outrun and somehow artisitic expression provides that outlet yet still not it's enough to shake them, so drugs become the chosen route of escape. When I think of this, the greatest parts of art and music history (basquit comes to mind), this troubling trend seems true. "Ya' never seem to survive, unless ya' go a little crazy" by Seal fits. The other poem was real cool because the guy's I guess a songwriter/singer so he imagines what it would be like to front a band with all the great religionist philosophers...god, gandhi, mohammed, jesus, buddha, krishna with each all playing different instruments in a jam session in modern-day set-it-off. Oh, it was masterful and brilliant they way he brought each personality to life. Amazing, to say the least. And very entertaining. I felt lifted.

Last night

I lay bare on white sheets. Words. I made love with nothing more than naked verse strutting the page caressing lines subject to a narrative of moving lips and fingertips stroked inside the margin arrested by metaphors contouring nouns and verbs predicated on a proposition. -karma

true measure

Because my memory's been dark as nightfall and it's been two years but who's counting the beat of my heart that's down 90 over 60 In the background I pull close and listen to chords you tell me are keyboard riffs. Tugging the phone tickling ivory pulls me too low to reach down inside the recesses of which only you could've known -karma

May day! May day!

"you took me riding in your rocket, gave me a star... but at a half a mile from heaven you dropped me back down to this cold, cold world..." -stevie wonder, 'rocket love' Help. Hear me. *weakly* SOS.

Three Haikus (Go)

I drift without aim; confused impulses take arms; I amuse myself.

Old ties rekindled, I revel in happy times. Memory is kind.

Restless spirits walk; I look at them absently. Their faces are mine.

---

by Yosef52

If You Forget Me

If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine

This poem fills me with melancholy and dissolves me in tenderness, at the same time, Pablo's craftiness with words display a genius that commands all my admiration. I love when a man can lay his heart out on paper. This here poem ignited a fire under my own fingers some years ago compelling me to unlock my tortured soul. Pablo words ring like little ripples through me.

Vindication

My mind is freed from all superstitions, yet, I form romantic notions a little singular, in thoughts of love and friendship, I would have first place or none; but, emotional possessiveness this too, I must let go as love collapses under the weight of a reality that an enduring friendship could not possibly withstand held tight like a fistful of sand that fall through the split seams of my fingers and leave a trail along a pebble-lined path. Original stories from real life we could tell lay tucked in our minds they sometimes travel through nightmares startling even our own illusions that upon wakening would yield to a legacy of a past that would become our future of righting wrongs but no matter how long we desire the endless search for a new beginning or the perfect word or line to express our song we continue to wear understanding like the fashionably educated, forge ahead in our stories even though seeds are rooted if only in our heart waiting to unfold -karma

Fear of Falling

Dangerously close to the edge, I skid right off a cliff You swiftly lift me, swallow the floor from under my feet. My chambers open up into your arms like folded wings, maybe your heart is the trapdoor where I tumble into a deep sweet abyss. I hear your song and swear you have seen inside my soul. Your depth is the boundary between me and gravity and the possibility that the secret of flying might be revealed; to where the physical world disappears. I would just as soon launch myself towards the ground and miss if there was never-not ever- a firm foundation beneath my feet even if I did not have as my heart the cushion to land, I'd still let go, open my hands to meet yours or suffer the consequence even if my natural reflex is to tuck and grab. I suppose there's a chance falling may turn into flying if I throw myself, take the plunge catapult myself into that long drop into nothingness hoping the skies don't close like a fist or maybe, just maybe my own wings will unfold on the hunch I might hit a boulder or the bull's eye either way I'll just keep falling until perhaps I get it right -Karma

Suicide watch

A long jog through Central Park a ride on the Amtrak in a white-tie tux through mazes and tunnels on edge convinced he is finished running in circles and rings ruining lives So resigns to walk the long distance to the very end of a short bridge -Karma

This is so very true...

Here's an excerpt of an excellent interview with poet Rose Solari by Abdul Ali: Read deeply and widely. Most of all, read outside of your comfort zone. Seek out work that frustrates and baffles you, as well as work you're already pre -disposed to like. Do a taste swap: ask a writer friend whose work is different from yours to recommend two books you ought to read, and do the same for them.

Public Confession

today the government traced all my old emails back to you what a scandal and there I was on television defiant and denying that I loved you which everyone knew was a lie - E. Ethelbert Miller

Starving

Hurrying nowhere the day is one long hour of silence slept cold next to you and the other half is where you end up smothered in down comfort the sun comes and peeks through the window teases you with warm whispers on the nape of your neck grazes you with kisses and make-believe fairy tales of dreaming you dreamt arms nestled in blankets beckoning like butterflies fully aroused ready to hatch Instead you unlatch like a Frankenstein experiment and his last battle with bastions of sorrow, with a one-on-one tournament of unsettled truth, throw your legs over the edge of the bed, recoil from the cold water that stings your face your head cracking like a dropped egg your heart put through a Cuisinart set on puree and starving... starving while you stand on the cold floor with bare feet wondering how you arrived at the state of staring blankly in the fridge -Karma

Instructions in Case of Break-up

I tuck my body under sheets with no one beside me breathing needing no comfort of a cold pillow beside me to replace the heat from his body. With a new cut and newfound liberation and unike a budding writer peddling two-bit scripts or a virgin poet who doesn't know the difference between Plato and Play-doh, I rebuild my base stronger fortify it and for as long as necessary. I tuck his heart in an envelope mail it back first class with confirmation delivery as the order came defective with broken parts, parts unassembled, some lost in transit and translation the expiration date has expired. Gone. Went with the sideways looks and backwards glances. Gone with the soundtrack of silence on my IPOD. I tuck my heart in a poem with metaphors and stanzas as testimony because I can be alone without being lonely as I grow in wisdom with each lesson learned as each time I give 'me' away I rebuild better become the sentence structure for the sexiest story on the history of love. Period. These are the things I tuck in my mind with a pound of prevention and an ounce of common sense slipped in as I thumb through pages, playlists, poems, moments and memories and lines in between this one and that. I remove my heart tucked in a jar on display to break in case of an emergency or in the case of a break-up, download pure energy, pull the plug, recharged to full capacity, and peel it back like my daily orange opened up with the precision of a heart surgeon and anticipate the morning sun blaze across the sky like a cannonball, a citrus wedge wet on my tongue and where my smile becomes an instant facelift.

Sometimes Clarity Comes in the Dark

I turn my body to the side where formerly you lay asleep or whispering or hot where you are not now or ever close to me -june jordan

Came across this little diddy today in the comments section of the NYTimes... And provocative commentary too. I blinked twice and broke a smile when I saw the poster's name...it is especially a good thing when you come across a diamond amidst a pile of stones and rubble... "I think Sen. Obama has shown us that he is able to organize and inspire people to work for a common cause. His campaign is a perfect metaphor for what America needs to do. In one year he has done the seemingly impossible. If some one had said to me that Obama would be heading into Ohio-Texas with this kind of momentum I would have probably laughed, but the truth is by some secret magic that only a few people possess he has been able to get American our greatest possibility, “that we can overcome great odds.” We hear talk of experience as if experience was a job. The job of the president is not to have 50 years of experience, no, the job of the president is to execute the will of the people. The job of the president is to lead a nation with a vision that is far greater than that of the individual. The job of the president is to be the unifier of dreams, and that I think Mr. Obama has shown us time and time again. The most amazing thing about Sen. Obama is the fact that he is not pandering to our lowest denominator, no, he is showing us how to reach for our greater selves." — Posted by ainsley burrows (a prolific poet and spoken word artist)

Sand and Song

Wooshing of the wind is timed to the beat of her galloping skirt. Ears would materialize the silence of words as she fall back on memories, proof of her existence of chance beginnings proof of pain; the crumble of sea shells under the weight of bare feet, all sense of time lost all of it on her senses every fragment, ever tear lost, lost, lost. All the same. Hours pass like minutes into a listless fog while she wait for the black marauder who, for wily purposes return for a final bow from behind a dark curtain No, stone throwing not allowed. Only money, only flowers. Broken glass and sand spill through bloody fingers. Overhead, a flood of flapping wings applaud in unison; a crowd of memories like a cloud. She, dancing atop his feet a sole-to-sole sway, pressed limb to limb waters crept, now slowly creeps over hers only erasing steps and soft chanting lips as with the flood of wings flown northern, words that would've mattered time, wind, sand, song like a half-stifled sneeze now vanishes into ether pressure released -karma