Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
"Don't you ache from all you carry? It could be light, easy."
A little kiss on the spine. A fractured sigh in the blue dark.
"Its become my whole body. Where on earth could I set it down?"
Thunder rolls up her silk stockings.
Rain lets down the fringe of her hair.
Somewhere, a reptile is unwinding,
its old skin left in the long grass.
"Love, let it loose. Give it to me."
poem from:
http://sincerelyjoanna.tumblr.com/
Always!*  
fall in love with a poet,
they cannot disguise the truth,
yet, soften it when needed, somehow,
for the only words they possess
are kindness and kindness...

Should you travel with a poet,
new ways of seeing will they introduce,
delighting you, and for ever in you, delight,
for every word that passes thru their lips,
gifts to keep, for the days of when...

There cannot be always good times,
poets know, so they write today,
for when tomorrow's intrusion is
the other end of life's continuum,
their words recalled, restore, revive...

Poets are the predecessors,
your torment, anguish, they have known,
so when they write today, it is
preparation when the future demands,
changes that require tissues, shoulders, arms...

Worry not about their torment,
t'is a seasonal change, comes and goes,
but in the winters of your life,
yours - warm fire, warm poets, summer kind words,
so, always, always,


Always fall in love with a poet...
A riposte to Mr. Hawkins of Canada
Ison,

you who are the sons,
this is addressed to you.

you who are comets,
you who are not,
cannot believe, you are
comet,
but are nonetheless.

You who awake and say,
I, Son
be whom you must,
pretend not to be
the son of...

no matter how many
millions of miles must be
traveled till you are visible,
no matter how brief your life,
you are more than Ison,
your are yourself, part son,
but all man, unique.

set your own course,
if to the sun you must fly,
set the course you choose,
and we will call you by your
name true,
I, Comet.
---------------------------------
http://online.wsj.com/news/articles/SB10001424052702303497804579240290630829078#printMode


Like Icarus, Comet Ison flew too close to the sun and perished. After passing near the solar surface on Thanksgiving Day, Ison vanished in a ghostly puff. Ice and dust proved no match for infernal heat. Next up is Comet Lovejoy, whose close encounter with the sun will take place on Christmas Day.

Here on the island of Nantucket, we know well the heartbreak of comets. In 1847, Maria Mitchell became world famous for discovering a comet from the rooftop of her family's home on this fleck of land 30 miles out to sea, the first comet ever found using a telescope. Mitchell's calculation of the comet's orbit showed that its trajectory would carry it away from the solar system, never to return. Within three months of its discovery, the comet had faded from view, beyond the light-gathering capabilities of even the most powerful telescopes. All that remains today is a memory.

According to Greek legend, when Icarus and his father, Daedalus, were imprisoned by King Minos on the island of Crete, Daedalus built wings of feathers and wax for their escape, cautioning Icarus not to fly too high because the sun would melt the wax. But Icarus was so overjoyed by his ability to soar and swoop like a bird that he forgot his father's warning. As he flew higher and higher, the feathers came loose and he fell to his death in the sea below.

Ison was once a prisoner too, held for billions of years in our solar system's dark netherworld, the Oort cloud, a place so remote it takes a beam of sunlight a year to arrive there. Freed by a sudden gust of gravity from a passing star, the comet began its exhilarating but ill-fated flight to the sun a few million years ago.
I long
                    like
something plush weeping
         into a pillowed hug

of empty oxygen

though I try the Brave Game,
                                         (and usually win)
               flakes of me run
           off my arms and face
and scrounge around the corners of the room
          
                                                           looking for your mellow sting.

supposedly,
heartache
is figurative.
                        But I definitely feel
a              s t r e t c h i n g
mush
right where
the Doctors say my heart
                       should probably be

a slight tremor
(      echoes      )
      through every joint
of my toy frame,
              like a thousand elfin voices talking
                      about your favorite foods,
                      and the color of your hugs.

    the tightening
muscles of my throat
        send their regards to your
amicable eyes

              2.5 is a smallish bird
when one observes
             the blue expanse of my ocean life
but it pecks my most tender tissues
                     when I sit [flat] inside Today.

I miss
      like
someone resized my skin

                                            incompetently.

though I am grateful
for your delicate absence
                      (the elusive Good deserves you most)

I feel as if
the petty bird’s wing tensions
        won’t be satisfied
with the look of my dappled shoulders
till you stroke them densely
with your matter-of-fact fingers.
Cyan*
has such a brackish mark
upon your passive visage-
it transfigures boldly, tempestuously
any average glance flung facetiously in my direction.

Dearest Rogue Element,
You invigorate all other
salient features.
Like the slip of a blunt knife,
you surge open your soul, compelling
any audacious personality to bleed through the wound of your
gaping irises.
You betroth yourself to
the Fascinating, the Creative,
and like the cascade of clearest french horn lamentation-
you stir my
emotions with a mournful compassionate caress.

And that’s the difference.
The mellow mahogany of my eyes
provides the most loving background for Light to
reflect her dancing valiance with reverent adoration.

But-
your Blue
will
forever
stride as the
arrogant foreground.
Commanding and eternally vexing, (captivating) me
with your gaudy juxtaposition
of angry intensity
and poignant serenity.
You say my name
like its a ***** word
and I scream yours
like it could save me.
poem from:
http://drunken-writing.tumblr.com/
Your teeth in my skin, my
shoulder in your mouth.
I wonder- am I sleek and
fragrant from all the poetry
I've marinated in? Does
the metaphor soften the
flesh, make it easier
to eat?
poem from:
http://sincerelyjoanna.tumblr.com/
Do not let him tell you that your mouth is made for kissing.
Your mouth is made for the articulate frenzy of revolution, for the
crisp shape of kindness, for lurching picket lines and your
solitary war cry in a law school classroom. It is made
for the brutal pucker of dreaming. Do not let him
cradle your jaw in his audacious hands and
tell you that your mouth is anything
less than the soft and violent
devastation of water, stirring.
The next sentence you begin with "I" -
don't you dare let it end in "love you."
poem from:
http://sincerelyjoanna.tumblr.com/
I wear father's
  disappointment
  like a dark dress.
  I look smaller in it
  than anything else.
poem from:
http://sincerelyjoanna.tumblr.com/
Next page