Gord

2024-07-29 10:13 pm

Vermilions, Amber,
Vermin, red, in anger.
Verily, yellow dances,
Keep dancing, he says,
And slaps her.

Verify me a fact, liar,
Orange becomes vermillion,
So what will yellow become, 
Tallow or cum on the skin? 
Life, wears thin, and dives.

I think upon green, yellow presides,
Beyond the goddess worship, lies,
Anger. I think a lot about their side.

I think they lie about their sides,
I think a little red should suffice.
Vermillion, yellow, a bit of pride,
Call me coward, feed those ideas,
A million bits, red and canvas mine.

Gord

2024-07-25 10:38 pm

Shine bright, diamond,
Beneath the veil, skin.
Brimming, a stage kiss.

Iris, it irritates, 
The yellow exists.
Blind, tulips remiss,
Four lips but a mess.

The beauty, she says,
Is when you miss me, she says,
Things about empathy, grace,
My other exes, she says,
My friend, she says,
In the end, she says goodbye,
But that was her intention,
She says.

Gord

2024-07-21 08:49 pm

Yellow, and a bit of blue,
Both, I, and you. Purple, 
Lilac, I just care not for it.

Just like you never cared for me, 
Or any of the things that I thought. 
Fetch mother, friends, for comfort. 
Tell your co workers, or consort.

I, no longer for dramatic concert,
Agriculture of the hallway, march,
July, august or months of autumn,
Yellow, burst into skies of orange.
See If I toss and turn about it.

Like, he drives a porche, owns gold,
Fire and opal in his coat pockets.
Like, the eyes of horses see god,
They see not much beyond carrots,
Understand little of soap, clothes.
Like, maybe you cared for poems,
Little for poets, less even for prose.

Gord

2024-07-18 04:48 am

Forewarnings, foreboding, more, of the same,
More...
For: wants, colors, change, can mean more,
Foreign from yesterday, and for tomorrow.
For you, though, it meant ropes, choking,
No more prose, or poems about fucking,
Though, for you I wrote a few of those.

To cast a shadow like Gord's gamboge:
Wars at home, wars at the coast,
Wars over gold, wars over posts,
What is war, when you fight it alone?
Yellow mustard that stains your soul.

Gord

2024-07-16 01:39 am

Gold ochres, yellow turns to orange,
But the yellow never changes in you,
Does it?

Thorn forest, there grows roses.
Though tulips, begonia warn you,
The world is full of your kin,
Thoroughbred horses,
Who rub their backs in shit.

You are a squid that inks, then drinks it.
I never was no poet, caged like a rabbit,
Trapped, nor boxed with lines, unknowing.
You are a skunk, stinks, and eat begonias.

So, though two lips beg on, like au jus,
You toot, toot toot, greasy after the booze.
I've seen a world full of your kin: Fools...
Whose blue oceans brown in pollution,
Tulips by piss puddles, without allusion.

You are a fun person, is my conclusion, 
Maybe red can change to an orange, 
Blue, though, can never be less blue,
You can never really be a better person,
Just accept yourself, I love you.

Lynn

2022-08-19 12:46 am

ceaseless, i wait here in my hall of stone.
my continuous, meditative, monotonous vigil only broken by the sound of a camera shutter or the scratch of charcoal over rough paper.
my silence never ends, since my marble knees do not know the hour when they will straighten and carry me away, nor my spine knows when to crack and unfurl my body tall, higher than the skylight under which i am displayed, nor my dainty dress knows when to settle itself more comfortably over my shoulders.
so here i remain, forever more statue than woman.

one evening, out of the blue twilight the night guard saunters in, bold and butch and self-assured
(her footfalls give her away)
without warning, she leans in close, shining her beam in my placid face, and i cannot blink away the yellow light
(and never would, just to glimpse once more upon her lovely face)
hastily she whispers in my ear, instantly transforming my marble to rose quartz
and slowly then, she kisses me, soft and earnest and fleeting
and suddenly i am more woman than statue.

Gord

2019-10-17 12:16 pm

Asparagus, are you aspirant plus,
A spare, or pair of gloves, 
Au Pair, in a pear of groves,
As parallel was, as it will grow,
Outrageous, as pairs will go.

Beans of green fielded, ate,
All the others upon my plate,
Clean, of childish readings.
Late, all the others,
Plate clean of childish things,
Like television and admirings.

Gord

2018-02-08 05:06 am

A poem written in jest,
Forgive my candidness.

Live life a person kinder,
Man damned and woman candor,
Sky full of condors, vultures,
Even politicians disgusted.

Red lines and yellow subjects,
Life full of candid sculptures,
Culture vulgar, Butler colored,
Abreast cigarette smokers,
Who vote for nothingness.
A king of the foreward,
And cowards who sit home.

Gord

2017-02-28 12:00 am

Mace in my eyes,
Ire in my heart.
Desire at the port,
Ships cause divide;
Yellow violets field,
Uplifting and stealing.
They never were blue,
Banking on healing;
They dye red his suit,
With hope of upheaving,
He dies in it anyway,
The price of believing. 

The Sophist

2014-05-29 12:00 am

For you my love, 
A katana and five white chrysanthemums. 
The highest honor in a land of comfort women;
Bukakke warrior yellow cabs.
For you my love,
Crazed stalker and a madman,
Advance radionics will make you love me too.
Or see how I love you,
For you my love,
Peacefulness,
Awareness,
All of this was made and arranged,
For you my love,
Tiffany

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-05 12:00 am

Postcard from Spain

The deep blue Med,
Bleeding red,
With green seaweed.

Ten thousand immigrant flies,
Travelling in on the wings
Of the Sirocco;
From north Morocco.

The power of the Siesta Sun,
Making the sand in my shoe hot.

Luscious lips, not bruised
Neither battered nor burnt,
Grappling with grapefruits.

Paradise Beach,
Paraded with parasol palms;
Waves breaking
On a wind-kissed shore.

I may be bathing later,
I am still not sure.

A lone bathing beauty,
From the Lone Star state,
Ear to the phone.
Southern Belle;
Listening to Western Bell.

Had to go and see
My mountain,
Standing stark
In darkest Dakota.

Aqui,Casas de Lujo.
Here, Luxury Houses.
Cornish Cream,
Mandarin Palace.

Urban graffiti
In an idyllic setting.
Perfect paradox.
Jet plane trucking
Leaving tyre tracks
In the bright blue sky.

Sun-kissed shingle.
Sitting on a man-made rock,
The sea has shaped
To blend in with the shoreline.
Concrete clusters;
Indistinguishable,
From indigenous icons

Seaweed green, but yesterday,
Bleached red,
By the unforgiving sun today.
Granite granules,
Marble monolinths.
Sculptured saline symbols.

Yellow bouys bobbing,
Effortlessly.
Looking like a line of sweet corn,
Positioned precariously
On a willow patterned plate.

To my right,
A multitude of people,
To my left,
A hundred more.
But I sit here,
Surrounded by the solitude of silence.

Alone, with only my thoughts,
For company.
'Cept for the gentle breeze,
Whispering words of untold wisdom.
Gleaned from eons of eavesdropping,
On its many invisible travels
Around the globe.

The unseen listener of many conversations,
Keeper of Confidences,
Storer or Secrets,
Librarian of Lies,
Treasurer of Truths.
Spreading the gospel of God,
By the Mediterranean Sea.

I went away
And wrote.

Warm winds,
Helicopter hovering,
Gentle gyrations.
Drenched dog,
Bedraggled by brine.
Dappled writing,
Caused by the sun
Through the brim
Of my hat.

Beach-combing bum,
Scouring the shoreline,
With a plastic bag,
because of the hole
In my pocket.

Gone is the moment
For forced photography,
A thousand photos,
But only one picture.

Stranger on a foreign shore,
Leaving only footprints
In the sands;
Taking nothing
But memories.

Beached rowboats;
Wooden rafts,
Made from discarded
Wine crates.

Dusti Rodes (2002)