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Gord
2016-08-18 12:00 am
Nothing of a light inside, No desire for burning fire, No mercy or desire, already alight, Stammering as you admonish, Changing that astonishing, Changing again as you end, Foreshadowing verbiage you admire. Only my wendigo sees my ambitions, And only others fear my desires.
Gord
2016-02-02 12:00 am
The mired child, spoiled Mildly retarded by choice. Spends his days locked inside. Wishing wildly of days gone by, Punching the god of his desire, Cursing the men of his design. A life not spent fighting, as it appears to the self. Shuffled between arenas, Destined for the cell.
Gord
2016-02-02 12:00 am
Sun shining, Days simply spend inside, Producing music, mp3 and wav files, Meanwhile I see my Aunt smiles, Her son shining shoes up in a crack house. I'm pretty sure she's looking for my 26 thou, So i ask her in the heat of the night. 'Tell me, How does the world look so bright, through dirty sheets and a black gown?' She replies down.
The Sophist
2015-09-21 12:00 am
Three loveless dynasties divine. Providence in sheep inside. Bleeding, 'Treating to be blinded. The Feigning Suicidals. Three peasants covering their eyes, Not displaying thoughts inside. Blinded, 'Treating to be bleeding. A hopeless heart reciting. Bed made and three pillows aligned. Love lost 'tween a bout and twine. Meaning, Ends of never starting, Twelve sorrows between two hearts. Twelve hearts; Their grief imparting. Twelve stars align to follow charts. Cosmic games of skeet in the dark. Teeming, Conducted by the stars; An opera of three parts. The loveless damned to be confined, Only singing chorus lines. Finding love within their sources. Slamming on their desks with sore fists. Bed tossed and our feelings opined. Love found 'tween a tackle and twine. Value, Still, But still restarts, Twelve griefs of an ardent heart. Earnestly, Your soul departing.
The Sophist
2015-09-10 12:00 am
Day 1: No stoic women and no false metal, Living the life, Inside of a kettle. Hopping and jumping, Trying to escape. Grinding my teeth, While the symphony plays. "Does it feel great?" "Yeah, it really feels great." "Now what should I do?" "I'll cry the next day." Weeping, Watching the moon start to settle. Disappear too soon below false nettle. "With such regret I will miss when I die, So I dream to escape the world I deny." Day 2: I sleep; The moon and my mind both settle. I no longer jump; Steam fills my kettle. These stoic women; Fawns for false metal. Living my own life; Fit in fine fettle.
Bhat Naieem
2015-04-20 12:00 am
Whenever i open My wallet And have a glance Of your angelic brow I gaze and gaze And keep gazing, Floods rise In my eyes My heart overflows Emotions and pain, Deep inside, cold wind Of need and desire blows, And the flashes Of all past memories Conquere My mind, And my emotions flow thru my pen So, I'm caging The days Of your gracefullness And my heart In the immortal words of my poem And after centuries While they Read me They will see You Beatiful And young , For my heart And my Words Would never Let you Grow grey Bhat Naieem All Rights Reserved
The Paraffin One
2014-09-18 12:00 am
A bridge too far is a bridge too far. Simply put it goes beyond. Unnecessarily a player struggles, To play an off-key yawn, Play chords, save the trouble. Nobody listens anyway inside of a bar. Bridges that lead to beyond, Then abruptly end in the sea. Why turn from sea so calm? You could jump to freedom.
The Sophist
2014-08-20 12:00 am
All that follows may be cheap. A 'squito bite from a 'siah kiss No mas, this mass a mess, 'Spose we're 'spose to say we're bless', Well bless it ought to fess, A feeling for a million fools, Is wanton for a prince. Yet elegant amiss, Fools dancing on the Sun's drying lips, As though it were a tryst, Forcing Cosmos to a fit, Perhaps the sun is but a tool, Reflecting light, Projecting an abyss, Perhaps there's dimensions we can't see, We dream beyond 3D, Yet teach it in our school, Rest inside to silence screams, Our origins never will be seen, Although it would be cool, All that follows may be cheap.
The Sophist
2014-07-15 12:00 am
Belly poked by intrauterine demise - infanticide - now I can poke her in her thighs. I fantasized that maybe the baby would have cried, or that I would have stopped it, crazy by the pain I feel inside. Now I swear there's nothing there. I lost the key to the divine. I dreamed a life of orgies but my sex life is austere. Who cares? I drink nightly, and dream of an affair with a tryst. I jot prose for love not there and recite them to the one that I declare. I'm sick from life; to levy death is fair. I'm too sick to spread my sickness. Give them death, who fucking cares?
The Sophist
2014-03-12 12:00 am
Seek introspection elsewhere. I'm here to burn my hands on incense smoke, Telling God stories of my trysts, Of all the times he missed. To a world I doubt is there I'm yelling my plans to an absent bloke, telling God stories of my dick, Of all the dames I dream it chokes. Vocals crack on air, The priest is watching alone. I stare the beast in his eyes, and keep yelling despite. I draw a circle, a square, Triangle, circle, and begin to invoke, Two homunculi inside, The smallest circle defined. Behold, contrast and compare, Presenting the Philosophers Stoned, Their knowledge is blinded, And wisdom unwound. Priest still watching me stare, I rub ash on my forehead and go, To the front of the alter, No foot dare to falter, I scream and still nobody's there. <img src="https://www.aspoet.com/src/img/avatars/philosopherstone.gif" height=300 width=300></img>
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
* The driving force within - I don't know the meanings, I just feel the feelings * The kick inside, Gives the reasons to write. It's the sign of the writer, Not the fighter in me. Or maybe it is. It's all here. That which has been written, Honed and pared, To give timbre to the tomes. The fears and frustrations, The high days and holidays. The black days and the blank days. The literary diamonds, the golden nuggets. All the bum lines and the b******t, Of poetic wisdom, and otherwise. Dusti Rodes (1997)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
Jazz Duellin' "Some people spend their whole lives, and not hear the sounds stored insides 'em. Forgits the notes, jist plays the music. We's alls gots 'em. Black notes, white notes, notes that's been done stretched, even bent ones. Theys orl ins there. It's hows youse use 'em, that's the trick! Whethers you beats 'em, till they is blue; or you coaxes them out gently likes fine wine from a bottle, it's up to youse. Some folks puts 'em in orders that mosts don't even finks of! And that's olrights too. It's up to youse. Jist gotta finds your own ways o' makin' 'em sounds... It's orls I kin tells yer..." He hadn't played the piano in a long time. Disillusioned, downed by the drugs, That ran riot in the community and company that he kept. He had drifted away. Somewhere. Anywhere. But there. Harlem could frighten even the strongest of souls. And he'd never claimed to be that. They called him Cajun. A remnant of time spent in New Orleans. The honky-tonks, the seedy bars and the backroom bordellos, That he had often frequented while down there, In what seemed now like a hundred life-times ago. But he was back in the old neighbourhood. He'd come for the funeral. One of only a few true people, He could call friend. Word spread like wildfire, as it does in these times, That he was back in town. At the graveside some of the old crew ambled over to him. Asking the usual stuff. How's he doing and the like. Told him they were holding the wake at Creole's Place that night. And would be sure pleased to see him there; The brother being a friend and all. When he walked into the Place that night, He was greeted by a sight he had almost forgotten. The air was thick with the smell of stale beer, Rotgut rye whiskey and weed joints. The lights, they were turned down real low. But people saw him standing there, And still took the time to say hello. He hadn't even been nowhere near a piano, In a long while. They had seen to that. Six years in the slammer cramps a man's style. Lithe fingers, gone fat. The used-to-be so supple sinews now taunt. He flexed 'em. They fought back. The spotlight on the stage area, Reminded him of those damned searchlights, That had sent their searing shafts of light skyward. Cutting into the darkness outside his cell, Night after night. Robbing him of the only escape available, To the inmates of the hell-hole. Where he had been incarcerated .... Sleep. Creole, the 'Fatman', on bass fiddle, 'Bleedin' Lips' Murphy, blowing blues horn. 'Skins'Duval, up there on drums. The Fatman called out, coaxing for him to come up on the stage. Most folk never really hear the sounds inside them. But some can't help but create, The music they were born to make. Cajun was one of those. He hears the roar rising from the void within. Like a volcano. Molten music, Stirring deep in the depths Of his frame. That must come to the surface, Like lava, straining to escape the confines. A piano is made of wood 'n' wires. Hammers big and small. Ivory keys that need gentle, Or sometimes even firm coaxing; To give their best or better. To some, it's just a piano, A boxful of sounds. A mechanism for making music. For others, like Cajun, It's an extension of the soul. The drums, they spoke something. Grumbled, mumbled low. Real low. The fiddle responded with a taunt strain. The horn blew for all it's worth. The note long and very low down. Somewhere deep, deep in the depths. They were having a conversation, Wanting Cajun to join in. To leave the safety of the shoreline, And strike out for the deep water. Then Creole started beating the box, With his waxed bow. Stacking the blues. Coaxing, urging, Cajun to take up the thread. Waiting for him to do things on the keys, That showed he was wading in the water with them. And Cajun answered them all. With authority. The dialogue became a monologue. The piano was doing the talking now. All everybody could do was but listen. In awe. The riffs and licks spoke with an urgency. They told of places, That none of the others had ever been to. Describing pain, that few else had ever felt. Diving to depths of despair, Unplumbed by mere mortals. But Cajun had been there. Seen the sights. And he was telling everyone. That which he had experienced. Reliving the roller coaster ride, That his life had been so far. And he took all those, Gathered there, that night. On the journey. Dusti Rodes (2007)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
Ode to Martha My muse, a Harridan hag? I don't think so! Some have familiars, in the shape of cats. Others have Spirit Guides, Which are Red Indian warriors. I don't do all that PC stuff, And say they are Native North Americans! Me? My muse is a wizened old woman. I was killing time, standing outside the Hospice shop, Waiting for my watch repair to be ready. One split second she wasn't there, I swear, The next she was! She appeared from nowhere, I'm telling you! The encounter with the woman in the grey shawl. It took just ten minutes that was all. But it will last a lifetime. Mine. Was it real, or was it a dream? Was she a witch or a wraith? Merely a ghost or a gregarious goblin, In disguise? The situation certainly had all the makings of a mystery, And all the trappings of a thriller. The people I tell just stare at me strangely. Who wouldn't? I ask myself. I'd probably do just the same, If it wasn't for the fact, That it had happened to me. She came from the North, or so she said. Irmerston is a name I recall her using. More than once. Or was it that she had relatives there? Was I really 'touched by an angel'? There was definitely ' a laying on of hands', As in the biblical sense. Could this have been an encounter of the Fourth kind? Hebrews thirteen has a lot to answer for. She said she was eighty five. And had been a Mormon since she was forty. But in some lights I would have sworn she wasn't yet sixty. In others, she had a face that had seen more than a thousand summers. I've heard of shape-shifters, I never thought to meet one. Many say I talk at tangents, And maybe they are right. I do waffle on a bit. Never keeping to the same subject for long. Fleeting thoughts, Forever fluttering, Like a butterfly in its short life span. Over the last couple of years, The diagnosis of my chronic atrial fibrillation, Has caused me to consider my life expectancy. And to realise it may be seriously shortened At any time in the near future. But she spoke confidently and authoritatively, About longevity. Quoting several incidences of people living to a good age. Katherine Hepburn living to a hundred. Her long relationship with Spencer Tracy. And made it sound so matter of fact, That Katherine had given him a cup of tea, Shortly before he finally died. It was as if she had been there at the time. Her opening gambit had been to draw my attention, To a boxed set of Frank Sinatra records. Displayed in the shop window. As I intimated earlier, I'm sure I was alone outside that shop. And the sound of her speaking to me had startled me, Into realising she was standing beside me. She started by saying Frank had a daughter, Nancy. And a son, Frank Jr. She talked about his Mafia connections. When I retorted that rumours were rife, During all of Sinatra's life. But that he had never publicly admitted to the allegations. She intimated that the reason being was, That Frank had not actually done anything 'bad' so to speak. At that moment, she gave me the distinct impression, That she might have known him and his family intimately. But how could that be? I was becoming afraid of the enormity, Of the developing situation. So I made my excuses to leave, And she let me go wishing me well. We parted. Me going my way, she hers. I picked up the watch from the menders. It must have taken all of two minutes. When I suddenly realised the terrible mistake I had made, In cutting our conversation short. I began searching the town. Shop by shop. Each individual lane up and down. But to no avail. Seeming she had disappeared the same way she arrived. Suddenly. It wasn't till I was on the bus travelling home. Feeling thoroughly desolate. That I heard her voice again. But this time it was different. She was inside my head, talking to me. She said artists, of all kinds, Needed inspiration from time to time. And she would be mine, if I let her. I know now I made a mistake, I thought I was her 'mark' in the town, And she was just getting ready to put the sales spiel on me, To buy her that expensive bottle of sherry. That she said was the only one that she drank. She'd talked about many things, And how everybody had vices. Drugs, booze, cigarettes etc. She said how hers weren't too bad. Just a tipple now and again of the sherry, That could be bought in Tesco's. (Which had been across the way, From where we had been standing) At nine pounds a bottle. Here we go, I'd thought, Here comes the pitch; “Hard times 'n' all, for an old lady. You seem a nice person, Could you see your way clear to buying me a bottle, maybe?" This is why I had up and ran. But instead, here was she offering me the gift! Some writers have residencies. I am hers. Where we will go from here, is any body's guess. Just watch this space! But I do suggest you don't waste your time, Standing outside the Hospice shop, In the vague hope she might just amble along. Because she's mine, And I'm keeping her! Dusti Rodes (2006)
Gord
2014-02-28 12:00 am
In defiance, with pious hands; To work like the common man; but with plans more defiant; Losers to immolate in self-defense; Slingshots no longer topple the Giant; Fire deep inside her wished to deny it;
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