Hi JILL!  Geeze, so sorry to miss your comment when you left it.  I'm not unappreciative, I promise.  Thanks so much for the stop by and the reply.

cheryl

---

Playing with apparitions and conjured
 visions, she falls asleep in shallow'd grave,
     awakens alone, eyes of hollow'd tombs. 

No eulogiz'd lamenting crowd;  no bells
tolling.  Black shrouded graveclothes lifted by
           the crooked fingered undertaker, who

taunts her darkly with his haunting riddles: 
'What quiddity you have is fantasy', 
                   and this kindly given epitaph: 

'Nuts and bolts are concrete certainly, but
forty winks won't discern tacks of brass'.

---

like fear in a lullaby
the way is laid, sometimes
     with traps and robbers

children, alike and different
same dust, I'm told
each from a different mold
     'nary a duplication

eyes carry burdens
a smile speaks comfort
     everything's alright



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©ca.leverette2009♥

'All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.' -Edgar Allan Poe

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
   Re: stones in a feather bed
« Reply #1 on: Today at 09:56:45 AM » by Tom Riordan
Quote from: ca.leverette on Today at 06:01:33 AM
like stones in a feather bed
or fear in a lullaby
the way is laid, sometimes
     with traps and robbers

children, alike and different
same dust, I'm told
each from a different mold
     'nary a duplication

eyes carry burdens
a smile speaks comfort
     everything's all right

Some beautiful writing, Cheryl. Ny nit (The Princess and the Nit) is title/L1. Seems out of character with child focus of the rest of poem, as I read it. Possible "pea" somehow in feather bed, but I must say the whole holds together well if it begins "fear in a lullaby." But there may be a layer to the whole poem (The Princess and the Egg) that is just going over my head.
You capture something about the inner life of children, or how we see it anyway, beautifully. Tom
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   Re: traps and robbers
« Reply #2 on: Today at 10:22:12 AM » by ca.leverette
Quote from: Tom Riordan on Today at 09:56:45 AM
Some beautiful writing, Cheryl. Ny nit (The Princess and the Nit) is title/L1. Seems out of character with child focus of the rest of poem, as I read it. Possible "pea" somehow in feather bed, but I must say the whole holds together well if it begins "fear in a lullaby." But there may be a layer to the whole poem (The Princess and the Egg) that is just going over my head.
You capture something about the inner life of children, or how we see it anyway, beautifully. Tom


Tom, thanks so much.  I really thought this was just my silliness, but at least I'm not the only one.  The penultimate should always be 'everything's alright'.

cheryl

---

---

It's more than a memory
looking through Mrs. Piccadillo's window,
her arm across my chest:

the woman is pretty
in a wild, peculiar way
eyes drawn like almonds
face heart-shaped
hair like creamed honey
dressed in a flowered shift
out-of-date and too big
for her thin body
and no underwear.
Dead granddaddy's
mustard sweater
covers her pointed shoulders.

Barefoot in the cold
she sits atop a tall ladder,
upside down v
-shaped part of the roof
over her head
-a letter L in the center.

She pounds the cement
driveway
with a wooden stick
the only useful part broken off.

Her left arm waves like a fanatic.
     Devil, I know you're out there!
     You can't have my babies!
     Can't have 'em!

Inside, are two small children
one just five
the other, barely born.

---

monday
high again, three lines
snort or smoke?
dope on a silver boat

tuesday
commercials
no way that guy's not high
one day we'll find out the truth
whole generation of geniuses
fucked up

wednesday
conscience is a wheel
spikes turn around inside

thursday
do another line
football season
listen to the tops pop
everyone drinks beer
eats fried bologna sandwiches
bump bump white line

friday
sick feeling
phenergan, anti-acid tabs
can't eat, hands shake
make mistakes
two in the living room
watching 'new jack city'
dealing drugs
 
saturday
paranoid, chest hurts
throat jumps, neck-spiders
hide the dope in the bathroom
in a shell, who will tell
mumble the truth
can't remember it

sunday
should be in church
cross a threshold
voice says, 'stop,
this has meaning'
what has meaning?
think i missed it
even on sunday

(poem before death)

world looks funny, cock-eyed
insane, triple-sec dehydrated
ammonia fumes slightly bent
hydrogen fueled twisted octagons
soar through an anhydrous sky
tongues lap over each other
shaped like crooked teeth indentions
flapping and slapping in faces
eyes like crocus
earth waxes crystal
quite bright at midnight

(heart stops)

it finally happens
i cave in
give up the fight
that's what my 'loved ones' cry
my placebo friends yelp
like dogs and say the same
gathered at a pot-luck reunion
in a park, feasting on my formaldehyde
some in white and pale white
others in gray and tainted gray
laughter explodes
sling me in brick, i say
life spins 'round anyway

(death-chuckles at the funeral parlor)

'she always loved poetry'
'yeah, a few limericks will do' :

calling curly crack pot
wonder if she eats snot
go shop for tissue, we must
gag when snot turns to crust
would rather kiss alot than not

one day walking home
crosses a long hair all alone
she screams and yells
falls for the pony tail
rides all the way home

he's not really tired at all
in fact, both have a ball
happy and free for awhile
till he winks, gives her a smile
she comes when he calls

come everyone, join the fun
look at the webs we've spun
if you forget from line to line
which ones should, never should rhyme
relax, still won't know when you're done
when you're done

(after-dinner-fun at home of the dead)
'what-it's-like-to-be-dead' poem

spin like a top
faster and higher
the sun is a merry-go-round
and i'm riding

time is deceitful
doesn't have hands
and won't stand still
wings fly toward the heat
this road is so frigging long
and i'm tired of traveling
just spinning in circles
no clock tells the truth
today

i'm dead, they eat tables,
and tables of food
the bar in the kitchen
is on overload
hadn't had this much
company in years

no after dinner mints?
those were limericks
of course not
and there's no after dinner
they just keep eating, the pigs

---

a baffling prick
in my bed of roses
-a wrestler in flannel

life intoxicates
as you do me
like Samuel Adams Utopias

let me go
before i'm ready
-your turnstile attraction

---

Seems like I've been gone forever.  Feels like I've forgotten how to write well or comment appropriately.  I suppose I always take the low road when it comes to my own self assessments.  And yet I have these visions of southern poetry with illustrations and portraits.  Not every poet has an illustrator.  I do.  I feel like I have a lap full of gold and no where to spend it.  Or maybe I don't how.  Or maybe I lack motivation.  Surely it's not ambition. 

What is that anyway?  All I've ever wanted to do was write.

---

sea divides
those that thirst
walk through

sea re-joins
the un
-quenchable
remain

---

---

HOW TO KNIT A POEM

The whole thing starts with a single knot
and needles. A word and pen. Tie a loop
in nothing. Look at it. Cast on, repeat

the procedure till you have a line
that you can work with.
It’s a pattern made of relation alone,

my patience, my rhythm, till empty bights
create a fabric that can be worn,
if you’re lucky and practised. It’s never too late

to pick up dropped stitches, each hole a clue
to something that might be bothering you,
though I link mine with ribbons and pretend

I meant them to happen. I make a net
of meaning that I carry round
portable, to work on sound

in trains and terrible waiting rooms.
It’s thought in action. It redeems
odd corners of disposable time,

making them fashion. It’s the kind of work
that keeps you together. The neck’s too tight,
but tell me honestly: How do I look?   

© 2007, the BBC
From: How to Knit a Poem
Publisher: BBC Radio 4, London, 2007

---

---

He tells me: 'I opened a door
so you could express yourself. 
The damage was already done'.

Suddenly, odd things become
important like roses and youth.

He ignores drops of blood
falling from from tear ducts
like shiny red pearls. 
I ignore his scowl.

Reveling in pain, he confuses solstice
with searing; complains about heat passing by.
His eyes are muddy as forbidden soil
a hard poison of nightmares and betrayal
rambling about lofty visions and silky dreams.

But bones break
sinews lengthen
revenge deepens.

And always, after the cracking:
'What does it feel like to break?'
he asks. I tell him: 'First, the melting--
volcanoes erupt inside dividing all the petrified
parts in search of the last hard rock
clinging to sanity and passion'.

He waits for the finish, but there's no ending.
I'll never rest: 'Sorry, the riddle is Universal
and you've been chosen to solve it'.
He beams proudly.

Eyelids fall like iron curtains.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Cheryl,
This is a powerful beginning.  IMO it needs
trimming as some of it is repetitive.
You could eliminate S1 for starters.
The last two stanza's are very strong.
Some of the in-between, I think only
serve to clutter the poem.
An excellent theme here that you
can work into a great poem.

MarionReply | Reply with quote
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It aint easy to be simple.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
   Re: Could've been a nightmare
« Reply #2 on: Today at 10:26:43 AM » by ca.leverette

Quote from: Marion Alice Poirier on Today at 10:22:21 AM
Cheryl,
This is a powerful beginning.  IMO it needs
trimming as some of it is repetitive.
You could eliminate S1 for starters.
The last two stanza's are very strong.
Some of the in-between, I think only
serve to clutter the poem.
An excellent theme here that you
can work into a great poem.

Marion


Thanks Marion, tis done.

You mean you actually see the theme?

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Quote from: ca.leverette on Today at 10:01:24 AM
He tells me he 'opened
a door' for me 'to express
myself--the damage was
already done'.

Suddenly, odd things become
important like roses and youth.

He ignores drops of blood falling
from from tear ducts like shiny
red pearls.  I ignore his scowl--
cloaking his face dramatically
like a shroud.  Bones break,
sinews lengthen, revenge
deepens.

Reveling in pain, he confuses solstice
with searing and complains about heat
passing by.  His eyes are muddy
as forbidden soil, a hard poison
of nightmares and betrayal.

He rambles on about lofty visions
and silky dreams as I lay in fragments.
The cracking and snapping stops
and he wants to know what it's like
for me--to experience brokenness.

'What does it feel like to break?'
he asks.  I tell him, 'After
the melting, volcanoes erupt
inside, dividing all the petrified
parts in a search for the last
hard rock clinging to sanity
and passion'.

He waits for the finish, but
there's no ending.  I'll never rest. 
'Sorry, the riddle is Universal
and you've been chosen to solve
it.'  He beams proudly.

Eyelids fall like iron curtains.

Lots of strong images in here, Cheryl. The "I'll never rest" a great high point. I don't get the value of some of the repetition, like the triple repeat here:

                  ..I lay in fragments.
The cracking and snapping stops

and he wants to know what it's like
for me--to experience brokenness.

'What does it feel like to break?'
he asks.

Again you're reminding me of Lucinda Williams - one of my favorite (song-) writers. TomReply | Reply with quote
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   Re: Could've been a nightmare
« Reply #4 on: Today at 01:48:36 PM » by ca.leverette

Quote from: Tom Riordan on Today at 10:53:07 AM
Lots of strong images in here, Cheryl. The "I'll never rest" a great high point. I don't get the value of some of the repetition, like the triple repeat here:

                  ..I lay in fragments.
The cracking and snapping stops

and he wants to know what it's like
for me--to experience brokenness.

'What does it feel like to break?'
he asks.

Again you're reminding me of Lucinda Williams - one of my favorite (song-) writers. Tom

---

---

 'sweaterpointing'--d.e.h.

my sweater points at you
   hope you feel the prick

      hips sway your way
thighs easy on the eyes
 are heaven in the hand

i cock my head
bat dark long lashes

your eyes grow large

as other things
begin to swell


and if you're in denial
or just can't face
                 this poem is over             
here's an
alternate ending:
                  it wasn't my fault
         blame it on the sweater

---

Flight Record::Operation Alpha/Omega

(prompt:  Tom's 'Badland Guardian')


Day One:
Whirling clime, clustered clouds
I'm small on a mountain top
watching humans fly with man made wings
flesh and bone are brave;  wings, beautiful
I hear rushing noise--great mechanism like a large fan
steel blades blow wind and power
keep the courageous alight
glide through the day, glow at night
First development of written language
Solar atmosphere:  darkness follows light
Questions:  Does everyone fly?
Answers:    None

Day Two:
Transportation to another world
here there's intellectual engagement
I see both birth and destination of flyers
With abnormal burn patterns, terrain
is hard dry mud, dusty, nondescript
Atmosphere:  light follows light
Questions:  How many watchers?
Answers:    None

Day Three:
Man in awe appears at my side
I'm shouting at him, he can't hear
He gapes at me, glances this way
looks right through human flesh (mine)
A second man appears
His question stuns:  is this prison, the camps?
Clear verbal language is developed
Atmosphere:  darkness follows darkness
Questions:  Does humanity disappear?
Answers:    None

Day Three:
I begin fashioning wings
Charting my course, design a direction
prepare ground for take off
Measure depth and length
There are concave electrical distractions
floating scrap metal slices impact other pieces
sounds like cathedral bells
Musical cognizance arrives
Atmosphere:  light follows sound
Receive first message:  prepare for end
Questions:  Is this real?
Answers:    None

Day Four:
I'm flying heavenward
toward my destination
I lengthen arms, stretch fingers
experience freedom, auto-liberty
Empathy is installed
I see and understand suffering
in creatures below, appearing as ants
Light kindles in real time, delivered
Colors inherently mix, also delivered
At once, the mundane is overcome
Fear is deciminated
Atmosphere:  light follows darkness
Questions:  Will it last?
Answers:    None
       
Final Day:
What appears to be an alien flight
heads toward mate-ship
like the lightening of visual drums
or deployed solar arrays
Mate ship enhances discovery
and study of oral history
Atmosphere:  sound follows color
        We have seen the beginning
              Will prepare for the end

   Transformation successful
Silence has been significant:
                    Armies gather

---

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

     I can't help. You did what
     you did, the chips fell
     where they fell,
     and things go on, no?
          -T.Riordan Gaucho


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

O wise Shepherd!
Thou hast herded the swine and the cow
Thou hast mounted and been mounted

Thy harp hast strummed Thy mottled tune
Thou hast gathered sheep
Thou hast slapped the flank
Poked the hole

Thou hast hung Thy strap
Round necks of unbridled maidens
Thou hast pricked Betsy the milk-cow
Goaded Lily, the tender lamb
O Cowboy! do not leave Thy flock just now!

All-seeing Vaquero!
Thou hast wrangled with wolves
Protected thy herds, punched the bull
Busted the fox, tormentor of hens

Thou art surely a Rough Rider!
Thy great range a vast field
Where thou hast bred with the best
And still so many left!

O Buckaroo! lay not down Thy handy horn
Thou canst rest! 
Thy cattle and sheep,
Thy hens and bulls
In adoring suspense, await only Thee.

---

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
   Hoodoo Eyes
« on: October 25, 2009, 03:39:46 AM » by ca.leverette

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

beguiled
by our own fantasies
we become architecture

peel-away eel skin
swimcaps in green pea
wetsuits shiny and red

totally slick
on our way to delirium
fresh art and fresh skin

our audience a gallery
the shine and glitter
of hoodoo eyes

 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------



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'My dad kept his maggots alive and warm under his lower lip....he kept silent and looked into the river, worked his tongue, like a thought, behind the bait.' - Raymond Carver, 'Bobber'

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
   Re: Latex Gallery
« Reply #1 on: October 25, 2009, 09:13:23 AM » by ca.leverette
Suppose this little poem will be a good introduction to the project I started in workshop.
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'My dad kept his maggots alive and warm under his lower lip....he kept silent and looked into the river, worked his tongue, like a thought, behind the bait.' - Raymond Carver, 'Bobber'

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
   Re: Latex Gallery
« Reply #2 on: October 25, 2009, 03:36:05 PM » by joseph lofgren
Love it. Beautiful. I was tugged along with the creative process of your mind.
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   Re: Latex Gallery
« Reply #3 on: October 25, 2009, 04:29:09 PM » by ca.leverette
Quote from: joseph lofgren on October 25, 2009, 03:36:05 PM
Love it. Beautiful. I was tugged along with the creative process of your mind.


Wow, thank you so much Mr. Lofgren.  Much appreciated!

cherylanne


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'My dad kept his maggots alive and warm under his lower lip....he kept silent and looked into the river, worked his tongue, like a thought, behind the bait.' - Raymond Carver, 'Bobber'

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
   Re: Latex Gallery
« Reply #4 on: October 25, 2009, 08:08:44 PM » by Tom Riordan
Quote from: ca.leverette on October 25, 2009, 03:39:46 AM

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

creative partners, we are
in front of webcams
under keyboards
fresh art and fresh skin

on our way to delirium
peeling away eel skin boots
we make points sharp and quick
wearing swimcaps

in smorgasbord green pea
wetsuits shiny and red, totally slick
we squeak and squeal
onto our cyberstage

seminudes in the background
architecture we've become
galleries of shining eyes, bleary lids
a mere blush away

head to bed
watching the world
watch us
through fetish-eyes

Not sure what to focus on in this poem, Cheryl. I read it, it reads fine, but nothing comes out and grabs me, then it's over. -Tom
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   Re: Latex Gallery
« Reply #5 on: October 25, 2009, 08:37:53 PM » by ca.leverette
OK well, this sounds like a good way for me to learn something. 

The focus should be on 'we've become architecture', or a stage set.  A cyber drama on a cyber  stage with 'we' the characters center stage to a captive audience--each other, and anyone else obsessed with cyber culture.  The cyber stage separates drama from real life;  acting as a door or portal to another world, a way of escaping real time.  Normally the audience comes to the stage--here the stage is computer screens and web cams.

Well, explaining that helps me a little, I'll see what I can change.  But please advise me if you have any other thoughts.

cheryl


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'My dad kept his maggots alive and warm under his lower lip....he kept silent and looked into the river, worked his tongue, like a thought, behind the bait.' - Raymond Carver, 'Bobber'

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
   Re: Latex Gallery
« Reply #6 on: October 25, 2009, 09:21:41 PM » by ca.leverette
Quote from: ca.leverette on October 25, 2009, 03:39:46 AM

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

our portal to another world
escaping real life in real time
beguiled by our own fantasies
we become architecture

seting the stage
a cyber-compromise
in front of webcams
under keyboards

we make points
sharp and quick
in peel-away eel skin
and bizarre costumes

swimcaps in green pea
wetsuits shiny and red
totally slick
on our way to delirium

fresh art and fresh skin
our audience is a gallery
of shine and glitter
under bleary lids

watching us
with fetish-eyes
 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Ok, I think I may have cleaned that up a bit.  Hope it makes more sense and sounds better.  Please lemme know, Tom, anyone.

cheryl

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'My dad kept his maggots alive and warm under his lower lip....he kept silent and looked into the river, worked his tongue, like a thought, behind the bait.' - Raymond Carver, 'Bobber'

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
   Re: Become Architecture
« Reply #7 on: October 26, 2009, 09:25:05 AM » by Tom Riordan
Quote from: ca.leverette on October 25, 2009, 03:39:46 AM

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

our portal to another world
escaping real life in real time
beguiled by our own fantasies
we become architecture

seting the stage
a cyber-compromise
in front of webcams
under keyboards

we make points
sharp and quick
in peel-away eel skin
and bizarre costumes

swimcaps in green pea
wetsuits shiny and red
totally slick
on our way to delirium

fresh art and fresh skin
our audience is a gallery
of shine and glitter
under bleary lids

watching us
with fetish-eyes
 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There's definitely more stuff in this version that is hitting home, for me, Cheryl. The L4 idea that we lend ourselves to be architecture for other people's fantasies is quite eloquent. The eel-wetsuits-delerium sequence nice, because of the shadow of "aquarium". Calling the practitioner's mind "a gallery/of shine and glitter/under bleary lids" also eloquent. Tom
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   Aquarium Eyes
« Reply #8 on: October 26, 2009, 05:33:58 PM » by ca.leverette
Quote from: Tom Riordan on October 26, 2009, 09:25:05 AM
There's definitely more stuff in this version that is hitting home, for me, Cheryl. The L4 idea that we lend ourselves to be architecture for other people's fantasies is quite eloquent. The eel-wetsuits-delerium sequence nice, because of the shadow of "aquarium". Calling the practitioner's mind "a gallery/of shine and glitter/under bleary lids" also eloquent. Tom


Thanks Tom.  I like the 'aquarium' idea & didn't realize the poem was leaning that way.  Thanks for that.  Just to see how it works, I deleted alot of lines.

will see what happens and if it works,
cheryl




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'My dad kept his maggots alive and warm under his lower lip....he kept silent and looked into the river, worked his tongue, like a thought, behind the bait.' - Raymond Carver, 'Bobber'

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
   Re: Become Architecture
« Reply #9 on: October 26, 2009, 05:39:27 PM » by Tom Riordan
Quote from: ca.leverette on October 25, 2009, 03:39:46 AM

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

beguiled
by our own fantasies
we become architecture

peel-away eel skin
swimcaps in green pea
wetsuits shiny and red

totally slick
on our way to delirium
fresh art and fresh skin

our audience is a gallery
watching us
with fetish-eyes
 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I like the short, Cheryl. In last S, you could say that the new L3 an improvement, but the new L2? Tom

our audience is a gallery
watching us
with fetish-eyes

our audience is a gallery
of shine and glitter
under bleary lids

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   Re: Hoodoo Eyes
« Reply #10 on: October 26, 2009, 07:40:38 PM » by ca.leverette
Tom, this is confusing.  I just now saw this reply.  I think you may have commented while I was in the middle of changing things--sometimes it takes me forever. 

I can see how your idea might be the best.  audience indicates eyes & watching.  maybe 'gallery' too.  but I also remembered you saying once (this is not the first time I've submitted this poem, but this time better I hope) that you were fond of the word fetish.  Thought there might be a good reason, so I looked the word up & found out it also means 'charm, amulet, magic and hoodoo' -- love that word, although I may not need it.  I'll try it.

But can always nix the last stanza

What do you think?

cheryl


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--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
   Re: Hoodoo Eyes
« Reply #11 on: October 26, 2009, 07:45:19 PM » by ca.leverette
now changed to last line.  darnit.  this may be one of 'kill your darling' things, eh?

well I can do it.

cheryl
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'My dad kept his maggots alive and warm under his lower lip....he kept silent and looked into the river, worked his tongue, like a thought, behind the bait.' - Raymond Carver, 'Bobber'

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
   Re: Hoodoo Eyes
« Reply #12 on: October 27, 2009, 01:33:23 AM » by joseph lofgren
where's the original? I am coming into this after originally posting, and I'd like to see the versions in question!

Joe
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   Re: Hoodoo Eyes
« Reply #13 on: October 27, 2009, 01:36:05 AM » by joseph lofgren
Oh. I see. You took away your beautiful rhythm! It sounds more like someone's idea of your poem, which is a different poem entirely. A different version...there was a beautiful organic nature to the first post...and I mean it as no disrespect to Tom, but rather as an illustration that women write quite differently than men.

Joe

---

Good. I often suggest polishing - at the expense of the original voice. Tom
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   Re: Hoodoo Eyes
« Reply #16 on: October 29, 2009, 12:53:42 PM » by ca.leverette
oops after all that forgot to change it.  Thanks Tom, for the reminder.  Your 'polishing' suggestions have never failed me, as far as I'm concerned.

Sounded funny though, just ending with 'hoodoo eyes'.  So I added a couple of words.  Hope this is ok too.

cheryl

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   Re: Hoodoo Eyes
« Reply #17 on: October 29, 2009, 01:23:57 PM » by Christopher Dallas
I had to look up "hoodoo eyes."
I've heard the phrase here and there over the years but never bothered to look it up.
Maybe I heard it in song lyrics from the 70's. Maybe Jimi Hendrix and Voodoo Child.
By definition, "hoodoo" is Haitian/Caribbean witchcraft and can mean either "bad luck" or "healing."
In one of your versions, I associated "hoodoo eyes" with being sucked into a monochrome monitor - a now very-much retro presentation. I work with people who were born after VGA displays.
Monochrome is now steampunk or retro.

There is a large risk in writing about technology or pop-culture. Technology is especially volatile because of its exponential growth. What you write about today may be incomprehensible in months. I say this as an IT engineer and devotee.

Rent the movie Escape From New York. I recall watching it at the time (1981) and marveling over the presentation of a "3D topographical display" in the protagonists airplane.

Three examples to live by when writing about SciFi or technology: Star Wars IV (the original 1977), Alien (1979) and 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968). These three movies have survived time and technology because of the focus of the story. The creators ran with the premise that technology was there, that it was merely a tool/vehicle and there was something greater going on.

This is why your faithful readers have seen/not seen what you intended. We have perspectives based on age and exposure.

I like monochrome green, eel skin (electric), swimming, slick, semi-nudes (cyberpunk), architecture (the Net), shiny hoodoo eyes,  and fetish. You have engaging concepts. You might throw in a "construct", "node" or "trace".

If you find cyberspace and Film Noir interesting, give William Gibson a read. he's considered the father of cyberpunk and his novels may give you direction. He's written quite a bit on romance/interaction in this stage setting.
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   Re: Hoodoo Eyes
« Reply #18 on: October 29, 2009, 01:43:29 PM » by ca.leverette
Chris, your suggestions are invaluable, as always.  I removed 'cyber', web cams, 'keyboard', and changed to a sort of 'aquarium' venue. 

I love the words you mentioned, but not sure where to go from here, regarding your remarks.

 

---

Before you tell me what I've done wrong;  allow me
to apologize.  Please, consider justice and listen.  My defense
is that my inner eye is blurry with worry--conjunctive apparitions, surprise evidence against my crime, which is always to appease you, and to relieve your anxiety, your comfort my distraction--the door I attend.  Allegiance
to you guards my inhibitions, for with too many words, I'm profound

yet a voice unlike satiny satire is savory, proper for
your demands, flawlessly insane, suspicious, clandestine--
an astounding inner dialogue, forbidden surplus society
disdains--I'm adverse to fit in, ascertaining my innocence
an affinity for seclusion, agony a cruel and gazing crony
in elaborate fabrications of factions which impute mutiny on
my bounty, a perception I defend, with your stalwart security
unfolding with openhand, here's my guilt and propitiation.

I know what you're thinking.  Before the mountain moves
remember my mind is opportune to accept your oration; you
marshal these thoughts of verbal ruminations within your
mosque of magic and macabre.  Do consider my ascension.



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Before you tell me what I've done wrong;  allow me
to apologize.  Oh, end this atrocity!  Herein prepared
is an explanation of my actions before I knew my
own behavior.  Please, consider justice and listen.

My defense is that my inner eye is blurry with worry--
conjunctive apparitions appear, their emergence
surprising evidence against my crime, which is
always to appease you, and to relieve your anxiety

I become antisocial, paradoxical as it seems, you'd be
better without me.  Your comfort is my distraction--
the door I attend.  Allegiance to you guards my
inhibitions, for with too many words, I'm profound,

yet a voice unlike satiny satire is savory, proper for
your demands, flawlessly insane, suspicious, clandestine--
an astounding inner dialogue, forbidden surplus society
disdains--I'm adverse to fit in, ascertaining my innocence

an affinity for seclusion, agony a cruel and gazing crony
in elaborate fabrications of factions which impute mutiny on
my bounty, a perception I defend, with your stalwart security
unfolding with openhand, here's my guilt and propitiation.

I know what you're thinking.  Before the mountain moves
remember my mind is opportune to accept your oration; you
marshal these thoughts of verbal ruminations within your
mosque of magic and macabre.  Do consider my ascension.

---

Some of us stoop
by exposing flaws.

Some stoop
with a hi-five
a good ole boy
because we can.

Some levitate
in silence.

---

---

Last night
I dreamt
of a very sad woman
with one solemn eye.

When she cries
each tear
is a different face.
Yet the woman
has no face.

Instead, she has
many arms and hands
many legs and feet
spread out and swirling
in different directions.

She feels lost--
doesn't know
who she is.
After all
she has no face.

Her hands
reach up to heaven.
She feels pleasant now
even lovely to look at.

But she doesn't care.

---

"A dinner which ends without cheese is like a beautiful woman with only one eye."
Jean-Anthelme Brillat-Savarin (1755-1826)

---

---

---

Social networking crisis:

at 9:30 pm, next Friday
I'll be with a man
in a hot tub
surrounded by the scent
of Honeysuckle tendrils

hanging so low from Solar Panels
that we can suck the sticky sweet
honeydew from the stamen
as we pull it gently from the pistil

along with frosty
Champagne glasses
of Pinot Meunier
and huge, ripe strawberries
dipped in rich, thick chocolate.

The last time I was in a Jacuzzi
I pressed all the buttons
gripped all the knobs
played in the froth and bubbles
and felt the hard spray
of hot water on my skin.

I've never been with a man
alone in a hot tub before.



Crisis passed.

---

---

This is halloween
I'm not scared
Are you scared
There are spirits out there
that wish we were all scared
but if we show them we're
not, we'll win one more time.

---

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Sir, I admit your gen'ral rule that every poet is a fool: but you yourself may serve to show it that every fool is not a poet. - Alexander Pope

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   Re: Mean Peeps
« Reply #1 on: October 31, 2009, 07:56:32 PM » by david haase
Raven hair and ruby lips
Sparks fly from her finger tips
Echoed voices in the night
She�s a restless spirit on an endless flight
Wooo hooo witchy woman, see how
High she flies
Woo hoo witchy woman she got
The moon in her eye
She held me spellbound in the night
Dancing shadows and firelight
Crazy laughter in another
Room and she drove herself to madness
With a silver spoon
Woo hoo witchy woman see how high she flies
Woo hoo witchy woman she got the moon in her eye
Well I know you want a lover,
Let me tell your brother, she�s been sleeping
In the devil�s bed.
And there�s some rumors going round
Someone�s underground
She can rock you in the nighttime
�til your skin turns red
Woo hoo witchy woman
See how high she flies
Woo hoo witchy woman
She got the moon in her eye


- The Eagles

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Writing poitry is like having cranberrylemonjuice dysentery when the hemmorhoids are in full bloom. 

-troutparadigm

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   Re: Mean Peeps
« Reply #2 on: October 31, 2009, 08:07:53 PM » by Tom Riordan
There are spirits out there - really like that line, Cheryl. Would like to hear more about them. Tom
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   Re: Mean Peeps
« Reply #3 on: October 31, 2009, 08:28:48 PM » by ca.leverette
Quote from: Tom Riordan on October 31, 2009, 08:07:53 PM
There are spirits out there - really like that line, Cheryl. Would like to hear more about them. Tom


Would you really?  What would you like to know, cause I can sure tell you about them.  Cut my teeth on good and evil.  And I suppose I know a little theology as well.

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   Re: Mean Peeps
« Reply #5 on: October 31, 2009, 09:01:38 PM » by ca.leverette
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ai8_eIWV-FY (The video's owner prevents external embedding) (External Embedding Disabled)


well I'm very upset that the external embedding is disabled & determined to fix it but I guess it needs the Holy Ghost cause it won't behave.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ymh1o09vRWE (The video's owner prevents external embedding) (External Embedding Disabled)
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Sir, I admit your gen'ral rule that every poet is a fool: but you yourself may serve to show it that every fool is not a poet. - Alexander Pope

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   Re: Mean Peeps
« Reply #6 on: October 31, 2009, 09:24:35 PM » by ca.leverette
Quote from: Tom Riordan on October 31, 2009, 08:07:53 PM
There are spirits out there - really like that line, Cheryl. Would like to hear more about them. Tom


C.S.Lewis (Chronicles of Narnia)::

"if the universe is so bad, or even half so bad, how on earth did human beings ever come to attribute it to the activity of a wise and good Creator? […] The spectacle of the universe as revealed by experience can never have been ground for religion: it must always have been something in spite of which religion, acquired from a different source, was held". But, where should we look for the sources?

The "experience of the Numinous", a special kind of fear which excites awe, exemplified by, but not limited to, fear of the dead, yet going beyond mere dread or danger, is the first source; the other is the moral experience; and both "cannot be the result of inference from the visible universe" for nothing in the visible universe suggests them.

 

---

at first look
she caught him
unaware
spells

she caught him
unaware
at first look
and one

look since
she caught him
unaware

twice

she caught him
unaware
at first look


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   Re: 1/2 found poem I got tired of trying to write
« Reply #1 on: November 03, 2009, 03:07:32 PM » by ca.leverette
Tom, now you're famous.  Someone has 'found' your poem and tried to write one just like it.


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   Re: 1/2 found poem I got tired of trying to write
« Reply #2 on: November 03, 2009, 04:25:29 PM » by Tom Riordan
For some reason I got this vision of this poem, and mine, and hundreds more similar, walking the earth on two feet like penguins or something, just repeating themselves obliviously.
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   Re: 1/2 found poem I got tired of trying to write
« Reply #3 on: November 03, 2009, 04:34:38 PM » by ca.leverette
Quote from: Tom Riordan on November 03, 2009, 04:25:29 PM
For some reason I got this vision of this poem, and mine, and hundreds more similar, walking the earth on two feet like penguins or something, just repeating themselves obliviously.


Laughing out loud, for real, here.  This reply is hysterical.  Awesome.  hahahahahaha

---

---

When Daddy died, I was speechless,
and sad.  I saw the birth of babies,
and tiny humans yet in the womb.

Those short eternal glimpses contained
all the different ways I'd looked at life--
and none of them included death. 

Daddy was strong and his presence
grew bright;  and at the perfect time,
revealed my unknowing--
that the living are made complete
in death.

---

speechless and sad
I saw babies
alive and dead

so many ways
to look at life
so many ways to die

---

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Like this stylistic departure, Cheryl. L1 refers to both dad in title or I in L2. Not sure what I think of L5. It has punch because it's terse and in voice and direct, on the one hand, but on the other hand I wonder if there isn't a more specific image that will make the whole poem unfold more. Tom
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   Re: when my dad died
« Reply #2 on: Today at 05:25:19 PM » by Lavonne Westbrooks
Perhaps this needs expanding.

Look at this set of poems from the Front Page Archive for ideas:

http://www.poetrycircle.com/index.php/topic,6040.0.html

---

Lavonne, Adrienne's poems are powerful.  Can't get anywhere near that.  I do remember the day I saw those images, though.  Adrienne wrote her poems 4 years later.  My Dad has also been gone 4 years now.

Brainstorm:  A day or two after my dad's funeral, I was searching images on the computer.  For some reason I came across a beautiful picture of a fetus, tiny but perfectly formed.  The post was about abortion and reasons not to.  Most of the time I avoid images like that.  But my mind was raw and my thoughts on life and death.

From there, my imagination took over.  I could easily view tiny babies who had been aborted and those who had not.  All I could think about was life, and how my dad's death represented life as much as the birth of those tiny babies. 

My dad's death had completely changed my view of life and death.  I wasn't afraid anymore to face the possiblity or the horror of the death of an innocent baby, because even in the death of an innocent, there is life

---

you travel through your day
as if days were slick tunnels
custom designed for you

casually, you drop by
offering me a pail of water
I can dangle my feet in,
with water so warm
it never freezes

all of it,
a causeway
for stimulation

from nothing more
than a two-fingered
pull of my wrist--

the risk
in knowing you

once the truth erupts
between us
the risk
will be yours


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   Re: Your Cause and Effect
« Reply #1 on: November 05, 2009, 03:52:45 PM » by Tom Riordan
Cheryl, I like that "two-fingered/pull of my wrist". S4 hard to navigate, and don't get the slick tunnel having a canyon in it in S6. Like first and last 2 lines of last S -- turning the tables threatwise. Tom

---

At the train station restaurant:

     Are you ready to order, ma'am?

Not really.  When I order, I'll have to eat
and when I finish it will be time to leave.
I'd like to sit awhile longer.

     So, you have enjoyed your stay?

Yes, I have.  It was unexpected.
Last night I received a letter
telling me
I'd be leaving today. 
I'll be given directions
on my way out.

     How will you know which way is out
     if you don't know where you're going?

Men and women come and go here
all the time.  Some remembered
for the good they've done.  Some
for the harm, and others
who are forgotten. 
I'd rather be forgotten
than remembered for harm.

When I arrived, I was very ill.
The only tools I had were words.
I'm out of words.  I'm well now,
and it's departure time.

     Oh, here's a gift for you
     from the management.
     I'd almost forgotten.

The ruby with sharp edges
at each corner, lay perfectly
in her palm.

Now, I know where I'm going,
she whispered,
and left silently
through the back door,
without disturbing others
enjoying
the cuisine of a lifetime.


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   Re: Leaving the Train Station
« Reply #1 on: October 31, 2009, 06:12:43 PM » by Tom Riordan
Oh, I'd like to see the movie of this! Be a great short scene, like people do for auditions. Tom
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   Re: Leaving the Train Station
« Reply #2 on: October 31, 2009, 06:16:55 PM » by david haase
gulp

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Writing poitry is like having cranberrylemonjuice dysentery when the hemmorhoids are in full bloom. 

-troutparadigm

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---

---

   Re: what you loved all along
« Reply #1 on: November 13, 2009, 01:24:43 AM » by cheryl.a.leverette
something about this not right.  removed the first stanza, too simplistic and really not needed.  hope this helps.

cheryl
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'A man has only one escape from his old self:  to see a different self in the mirror of a woman's eyes.' - Clare Boothe Luce, 'The Women'

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   Re: αfяαіd ı мıssεđ ıŧ
« Reply #2 on: November 13, 2009, 07:01:07 AM » by maggie flanagan-wilkie
Cheryl, 

What if you started this from another place?

Maggie

our nonsense
is complicating complicated

or

the nonesense between us
is complicated

our nonesense
is complicated

it comes from knowing
each other so long

in different ways
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   Re: afraid i missed it
« Reply #3 on: November 13, 2009, 08:05:07 AM » by cheryl.a.leverette
Quote from: maggie flanagan-wilkie on November 13, 2009, 07:01:07 AM
Cheryl, 

What if you started this from another place?

Maggie

our nonsense
is complicating complicated

or

the nonesense between us
is complicated

our nonesense
is complicated

it comes from knowing
each other so long

in different ways


Thanks Maggie, another good idea.  Hope it works. 

Very appreciative of the time you take.

Sincerely,
cheryl


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'A man has only one escape from his old self:  to see a different self in the mirror of a woman's eyes.' - Clare Boothe Luce, 'The Women'

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   Re: afraid i missed it
« Reply #4 on: November 13, 2009, 10:26:47 AM » by Tom Riordan
Certainly a good read, Cheryl. There are these complicated contradictions at work, the complex sparks vs. the idea that the spark is gone, the comfort vs. that anxiety. Is there a way to let the contradictions be a bit more on the surface without losing their subtlety? Maybe not. Tom

---

on the outskirts
of your villa

we sit.

two-fisted suns
sink behind
unnamed mountains--

collect the day
and me

---

---

in a dream:
when the enemy attacks
don't fight back
or defend yourself
as children do
 
instead,
don't be afraid

like a child
cast yourself on Me:
I will be your defense

---

---

consider this:
that by being yourself
the good and the bad
you make a commitment
sign a contract 
meet the needs of others
with fear, distraction
aloofness, obscurity
 
never reading
commitments and promises
that are not there
into words or thoughts

it's not your issue
not your problem
but is an issue
for the one
who misunderstood 

dare i say
you're not the first
there are lines we cross
but they don't appear
until the crossing 
 
now it's time for bravery
in accepting
the courage to live
and what it means
for me
but only me 
never responsible
for anyone else 

consider
there are other people
in the world who realize it, too
whether or not our emotions
allow us to admit it 

deep inside
we know it well

---

tears--first notice holidays
  are here, not about how
         much money spent
              or gifts received

  such days are about you
    and you, and not being
                   judgemental

 not about blinking lights
or bright streams of holly

Christmas falls unreasonably
 lopsided, knowing what will
                             happen

           the cruel are kind
proud fathers ask for help   
    the hungry sit at tables
   lost mothers love babies

       not adding much
to the joyful greetings
  unwelcomed feelings
         will be accepted

---

Sometimes I wonder
what the hell
I'm doing. 
I don't understand

why people
are so friggin scared
for other people
to be happy,

like it's some kind
of great dastardly sin
if something
a little superficial

makes someone happy. 
Everyone does it. 
If anyone thinks he
/she doesn't,

she/he's in denial. 
And maybe
he and she are
just full of envy.

---

In a dress faded blue,
bare legs and men's shoes
unlaced, and loose

she stands near
what keeps her alive
with a promise of tending-
the whiskey pyramid

Grey birds sing
in this swamp
Not dead fowl
on a plate

more like monitory
melodies locked away

Wood and metal
smoke and steam
shimmy and shake
on the ground
near the flock

Jaded a leathery
is this picture
of a girl with a lock
in her grip, on a cage
near catbird throats
and the tree
where a rope hangs

What is and what is not,
all are invisible
like vapors
bound by the chirr
of her welcome song

(copy -- final now
in submit)

---