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Old 03-04-2014, 04:13 PM View Post #1 (Link) sbenzing and Keladry
sbenzing (Offline)
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She finds hope in the oddest of places,
cross-legged in the grass behind her house
running fingers along the glistening curves
of yellow petals not yet bloomed.
Budding still in the chill air,
and hope is found in the fact
that even in her yard
second chances are being given.
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Old 03-04-2014, 08:29 PM View Post #2 (Link)
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Metal chain-links the cracked earth to the threatening tips of the barbed wire
that confines me like a chicken who once squawked with clenched fists and
harsh words. Now I stand, arms crossed, as silent as one who knows
what is coming when the eyeful farmer approaches, his hands on the cuffs,
his eyes roaming the meat of the flightless bird.
But I am eyeful, too, and I see a weed with yellow petals peeking upward,
pushing through dull grey clovers that block its journey to the sun.
I brush my fingers, gentle, against the tender bud and take pride:
even in the prison yard, a hardy flower stands a chance to reach for midmorning's light.
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Old 03-05-2014, 01:26 PM View Post #3 (Link)
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Those days confined
imprisoned,
feet dangling off the edge of the hardwood stage
or sitting in a circle intently discussing these pages
of misplaced words scratched out and new words,
better words, thrown in to replace them.
Maybe they could scratch me out, find someone else
to read these pages over and over,
find someone else to take these shoes and make them
their own, stepping one day at a time into a character,
scuffing the toes, wearing down the tread
until they're slipping around.
Maybe someone else could capture these lines
like a hunter sweeping the horizon for his prey
as my lines soar into the sky and I search for the right
inflections,
tone,
mood,
volume.
And I take them down one by one,
but what if somebdoy else could make a better job of it?
But she told me
that they fit my feet the best.
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Old 03-07-2014, 07:17 PM View Post #4 (Link)
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They come in like a lion and roar with mighty shouts
eager to learn, to pounce, and to play.
They rough-house and tumble in the mud,
they shred paper to pieces with scissor-claws.
But something changes along the way: hunting growls
are scratched out in red ink on report cards and replaced
with calm voices and quiet feet.
Circle time and stories become “read if you have time.”
Once, perhaps, a teacher saw potential
but now they come out like a lamb.
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Old 03-10-2014, 06:55 PM View Post #5 (Link)
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There's a distance in my poems, a layer of
dishonesty between myself and you
dearest reader.
Like a mesh screen in a window frame,
only the thinnest layer separating
you from me, or even myself
from the truth.
Or perhaps even a condom, a rubber,
we're still so close and intimate my friend
but not all the way you see?
No I don't trust you enough to crumple
the paper in my hand and tell you
how I really feel,
to create poetry for you in the moment
and forget the pretenses
the logic of it all.
No, I don't trust you enough.
Not yet
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Old 03-12-2014, 04:47 PM View Post #6 (Link)
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I don’t think I’m ready—
in fact, I know I’m not.
I see the footprints in the sand,
mine so little and yours own the sky,
but the wall of fog is rolling in
and the truth behind that curtain scares me.
Let the tornado pass me by,
let me stay here and build
sandcastles and innocence
and ignorance (and fear)
just a little longer.

I’m not ready, not yet—but maybe for when I am,
will you let me hold your hand?
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						Last edited by Keladry; 03-12-2014 at 04:55 PM.
					
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Old 03-12-2014, 07:36 PM View Post #7 (Link)
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I don't think I'm ready -
in fact, I know I'm not.
But waiting for inspiration is like
sitting in a boat at six in the morning
just hoping that the fish will float to the surface.
It takes work, writing line after line,
piecing together stanzas late into the night,
working for it.
It's my biggest mistake, thinking that inspiration
come free. Ha!
No, she is more than a cheap whore on the street,
my muse is more like
a fine woman with milky white breasts
firmly wrapped in purple satin
hung below a secretive smile
that quirks the corners of her mouth.
She is expensive, and her trust is hidden
behind a wall and must be climbed,
scaled to the fullest.
She wants a lover, a gentelman,
someone who is worthy of her
inspiration.
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Old 03-19-2014, 01:57 PM View Post #8 (Link)
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I wish I couldn’t swim.
I’d fall into the water and terror would grip me.
I’d break through the surface easy and dig down deep,
further than I’d ever meant to go and the water
would surround me, not the seductive siren’s arms
but the roar of her temper, pounding in my ears.

I wish I could choke
and my tears would go unnoticed, dissolved
into the sea until finally I floated,
pallid face and still. More silent than I ever was in life.
A poetic, peaceful end to the suffering.

Except I do know how to swim,
and rather than diving deep I hide in my boat
and skip across the surface.
I hold my breath in mimic now, to imagine how it feels.
Would the water invade your skin, I wonder?
crawl into your lungs? Or is it more a case of fighting it,
weary muscles still pulling toward the light. Or maybe
it’s about the sense of hope that never comes
and leaves you to flail at the darkness instead.

I force myself to inhale bathwater but
I cough it out before it works, and anyway
it’s not the same. I’m still afraid to drown.
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