So you
still  wonder
          sometimes

you have this toy, this shining
wriggling thing, poetry
and

you want to play.
Why not? But

you didn't really buy it
did you,
not
by a long shot.


   Didn't sweat through some
worse-than-others pain,
didn't hate your parents

didn't move through the hollow nights
in a haze of rage
                             and alcohol


you don't even
boast
a tattoo, or hide
    a roping
                scar.



  That's cute, now honey
come to bed.



Still,

this plaything's edges bite:

alive with
  choking hazards,
       lead, and fibers
        of glass,

sparkling.
        



 

He snores like an outboard motor
in the darkened room.

The birds, quiet in the cage,
tuck themselves into knots,
each feathered head on backward.

The neighbor's hound sleeps, too-
voice lost at last.

_{welcome, Sharon
good job.}





.

Engrossing poem, Sharon. Could "Still" substitute for "But" down toward the bottom, for a little extra clarity (if I'm reading this right)? Cut the last line? Tom 

nicely done.  you're a refreshing addition.

Thanks Dax, appreciate that..


Thanks too, Tom, and I so agreed with your suggestions I've already made some changes. Much obliged!


And thanks, John, means a lot..really like this journal board :)

Best to all,
S

Really enjoying these, Sharon. 'glass' rather than 'glassy' reads easier for me at the end of the first.

milner

Ta, Milner, agreed..have changed that now. So pleased you've enjoyed!

Best,
Sharon

I like everything up to the last line. I feel like you rushed to it, and it's contrived (the last line, that is), whereas the rest of the piece is not. Your sense of rhythm is enjoyable, though.

Why put this in journalese?

 Thanks Jay, appreciate your looking in! Hm, I see, re: the final line...will see what it needs.

It's in journalese because I just tossed it off, during my initial use of  the digital journal thread. Do people sometimes move a piece from journal to submit? Curious. :)

S

The morning stretches like
skeins of warm taffy, working
bronze fingers
through tassles of fir
and cedar.



With every shout, the crow
announces your laziness:


Get up, the hens
peck the earth, and
one another

waiting for you. Up,

the tiger lilies swallow the sun


and I have found the neighbor's dog
soft and dead,
beside a gravel drive.

<sub>good job, Sharon

wood
come down
fall

all maple &
sinus sympathy

portland
under the hood

bye, bye
there



ciao, ciao</sub>




.

Thanks Dax, enjoyed that dose   :)




Mother in law



I bring pasta salad and
fresh-squeezed lemonade, you  
greet me at the door, hands outstretched.

I wear my newest linen skirt.
My smile is spotless.

I don't forget to help
with washing up.

After, over coffee
we talk of children, knitting, gardens-
I almost say it then:



your son, your golden boy...

do you know what

he's

            capable of

love this, Sharon

Thank ye, T   :)

She's thirteen, and
all of that. Her hair a bright flash,
waist a willow whip and
yes, a magnet.

We drive to the mall. I don't wear heels-
there's always so much walking.

Rifling through the froth of
rightnow rightnow
there is a moment

pressed between the strobing glare, the
clearance rack
and noise

I watch her catch the quarter-view
of the almost-woman

caught within
the mirrored walls,
a thousand points of self:
blonde

     and blonde,
 
           and blonde.






*Note: yes, I'm still working on this. All comments/suggestions welcome!  
Thanks

Love S1, Sharon. In S2, is mall "cursed" for her too? Not sure of relationship between Danskos and a lot of walking; are they good for walking, or a pain to walk a lot in? Love S3 and "froth." Love how strbbe "presses" in S4, but find "pulsing" then repetitious. Love all the rest too, but if it's daughter catching view rather than N, is it a view of "daughter"? Great ending lines. Tom

Thanks so much Tom... I've changed a few  places based on your eye,   much appreciated!

S

Lay down your arms. There is no need
to slaughter every sparrow
singing out of turn, no bristled field
crusted crimson with enmity. Only
you and I, the clock and
this kitchen

and those shattered dishes
on the floor.

The name of the game: glamour

and by glamour we mean fabrication;
all the pretty lies, cobbled together like
knotted tinsel. You won't have to be meat,
sinew or tissue- won't have to walk
the sterilized walk. Only scatter

these dustings of diamond, mother-of-pearl
and anything else that sparkles. The wind

will do the rest.

i like this.

tiko

Thanks, Tiko.. I was toying with the idea of putting it up for submit. Wasn't sure of it though.

S

confused me a bit, Sharon.

"cobbled together like knotted tinsel" - cobbling together means constructing to me, but who knots tinsel?

then "You won't have to be meat,
sinew or tissue- won't have to walk
the sterilized walk" - seems at odds with itself a bit, too.

Tom

Thanks, Tom...I suppose it might be a bit of a metaphor soup.  Knotted tinsel was simply an image, the tinsel may have to do something other than knot!  ;)   Then 'meat/sterilized walk' etc. meant to show do not have to 'be good', only look it (but you got that.)  Thanks for pointing that out! Will probably have to fiddle with it there.

Best,
Sharon

dear Sharon

i am enjoying tiptoeing through your journal.

a warm smile
silent lotus

~

<sub>me too, Sharon

splendid.


d</sub>



.

Thank you, thankyou, SL and Dax! You're kind to say so...   :)

Best,
Ronnie

He's
strewn across the bed like
yesterday's empty jacket, dirty soles
off the edge. She tiptoes

'round the footrail, the suitcase
yawns. His snoring
sands the air.

Her eyes,
dry obsidian- her
hands, steady.


The hum of traffic, through
the open window.


*meh. This stinketh, me thinketh. Needs work.. It's a draft, an embryo.

Oh Drizella




Mother says
we're invited again. She's placed
the engraved placard, with its gold
and platinum leaf

on the center mantle.
We are to wear our finest.


When blondie swept
that tiny foot
into the glass, I willed
it to crack and shatter-

saw the splints of crystal
slip into the pink skin,
saw the blood

on the servant's hands, the
floor planks- red

red, and beaded
on the velvet cushion.

Don't





tell me it's going to
'be alright', that all is
meant to be, or
for a reason. What

do you know
of twisting agony,
of swelling beyond
the skin's grace, of
threaded scars, re-stitched
and pulsing

on an innocent?

Of sitting watch beside
a tiny bed, where every breath
and machine beep
imprints a parent's soul-

Indeed. You take that smile,
pack it up along with
all that syrup-
hoist your
sanctimonious heft

down the hall, past the
nurse's station, beyond
the playroom, busy with
children and IV poles-

the exit is on your left.





.
.
My poems are so angry tonight.. *sigh...
Ps: deliberate use of the colloquial 'alright'.

Like this Sharon. Good anger!
"will be" to "is" near the end?
Tom

Thanks, Tom...so agreed!  Have changed it.
Much appreciated,
Sharon




.
.

Sunday
and I'm perfect again
I know

how to wrap this blonde hair
in a flawless updo

what length of skirt
compliments
which heel, and just
the ideal perfume
on my wrist
and

If
I clench my jaw
just so

you almost don't notice
the

rage



.

Where do you find that pretty music




with the wind stroking the sequoia
and that gypsy swallowing the sea?
When your ears are cushioned, deaf
to my rhythms, washed
and willing.
I want that, too.

Want the song of widows
wending through these silent
evenings, their lime and meringue notes
staining my tongue, my throat
my solar plexus.
Where did you discover

that Celtic knot of pleasure, pulled
beneath the foam, an incipient undertow-
yearning for the depths?

I want that,  too.

Lovely, fascinating read.

Thanks Tom :)

S

His plumage:
frightened flat,
or scattered-

handled
by rough palms.

Still,
flight shafts emerge:
new, pricking

bit by bit, beneath
the covert feathers.

Translucent, tender-  
blood
pinks each narrow straw.






.


He might escape again
or stun himself
against the glass

Yet each time
I grasp the scissors
and extend the wing

I wish I didn't
have to commit
such
a cliche

If still water
runs shallow instead
it still scalds
if it's six hundred
degrees




.
.
.

Right, he says. Write
but don't sound like it,
speak, but it better
be clever.

You know, you give
it all away, free,
no fee-
for-service

bonehead
pro-bono, just
marshmallow; foam.
Go home

my girl, to your
cookies and curlers
you

shallow,
         shallow
                pretty little


thing.



.

Funny, vivid portrait in words, Sharon. I like what you do with the line spacing, unusual and I think it works to punctuate nicely. Tom

Yeah.  I like hos this one sneaks up on its ending.

Thank ya, Rick  :)

S

And thanks, too, Tom!  Didn't mean to forget that.  :)

S

She's leaving for Aruba








because the mass
was  radiopaque

and the cells
grinned under
the microscope

and the doctor made
that elevator face

while the nurses
fluttered with literature

little pamphlets
magic papers
websites

with the tuesday
beyond the window

brash, like a new-changed
Swallowtail

on the tongue
of summer

very strong, Sharon, the brash, capitalized Swallowtail becomes quite a figure!
I'd lowercase the opening "B".
"radiopaque" a great word in S1, and "radius" haunting in last S, but using both I'm not sure about.
tom

Wow! This is a fine write actually. I love the imagery in this one. Thanq

Thank you Tom, and Rohith! 

Tom, love the suggestions, have edited now...much obliged  :)

Sharon

He rolls the right words
in a chamois mouth-

polished, gleaming, they
click, rattle

against
the ceramic smile

before the jackpot
spills, a lacquered wonder

artful, haphazard, edges
rounded with use

I like this, Sharon - words as dice. Tom

Thanks, Tom 

S

I like this a lot Sharon - are you going to post this as a topic in it's own right?

Regards,

Roger

Thanks, Roger-

 I hadn't really thought to...it needs a bit of work (punctuation, etc),.just trying to get my groove back after a hiatus.  ;)

Sharon

It felt so good
when those keys hit my palm,
heavy, clinking.

Thank you.

Everything soft, in stages
of moist decay, green and velvet
with moss, with mold

and lichen. Rain rots
this place, woods swell
and slicken, rocks run bright

with slime. Even the three o'clock
sun must shine, lime and limpid
filtered through thick fir.

Sunday afternoons I might choose her lane, when
the '15 items or less' creeps into the frozen foods
and everyone's decided the pantry's been bare
long enough. If I have to.

Isn't it 2012? She can't even manage
the requisite retail grin. My mangos, my hummus,
my greek yogurt...all flash past the scanner under her furious fingers.

I'm sized-up, decided, dismissed- in one shrug she undoes
all the diversity tolerance training
management pounded into the staff last month. None of that matters, now-
I have the audacity to be a Christian. In her lane.

write one
about me
he said

and grinned a
Tom Cruise mile.

I can't recall if I ever did.
Well, had I done

it would be something with a
white tee shirt
a dead dog

and a crow.

bravo, Sharon
bravo


Thank you.




.

Thank you, Dax :)

Best,
S

Go ahead, shock me.

I'll find such art


maybe
slap in a filthy word
or two, especial if
two points!
it denigrates a woman
or anatomy

because that's  just
so funny

or



here's the ticket, sex-

O yah

that's
new

Thanks peterR lol!!! Sorry thought it was crap & second-guessed meself ;)

I liked it.  I've deleted my posts now lol

Sorry!! Lol but thx tho

...in the tender too-bads
or the two-dads,
the naughty nomads,
or the latest fads
in the hanging fashion of the lads

LoL Will.   You've got to be quick round here when you delete something, Sharon, or it's embosssed on the collective memory forever! ;-)

Lol Will! Great stuff.. Maybe I should just put it back up...  ;)

Ta peter, thats for sure!

With the deletion my post now seems...
senseless.
Will, laughing.

So I'm supposed
to write it all out. Somehow.
The counselor's roots show,
a line of ash against
the clairol mahogany. Yeah,
you are the black dog.
The dirt sandwich, too.

Her mascara has flaked
into the lines beneath her eyes.
It's four o'clock. I'm meant to focus

on what you did to bring
me to her knee. The door
is thick, and soundproof.

You are the yellow smudge of poison
above the city-
sour, permanent

a silent filter of filth
into pink lungs.