Shadows creep across our faces; the fading sunset filtered through the screendoor, open windows. Fat droplets of sweat curve our similar faces, a sweltering heat even in the pattering rain outside. The house is quiet save the melding murmur of our voices.
Labels: beginning prose poem , early morning snippoems , memories , poetry , power outages , rain
A poet walks into a bar, drinking
already drunk and dizzily
searching for her muse
at the bottom of a fifth of Jack
or a six-pack of label-peeled beers
Labels: 1st , 2012 , comedic timing , drinking poem , July , morning commute , poem , poetical thought , poetry , unfinshed
Even now as I await the return of my Saturn, I an trying to understand what it is to be a woman,
to be a woman of color,
to be a lesbian woman of color,
to be a lesbian woman out color in influx in America.
Labels: america , early morning poetic thought , lesbian , poc , poemlite , tbc , unfinished , women
Because time is as relevant as money;
a figment of an imagination we think is real
we can trade either for more of nothing
or less of everything. We will never even have half of it all
or more than we need.
We will always be tightrope dancers
precariously balancing between falling up or flying
down. Never stable.
We lack the neccessary equipment to stabilize
We lack the neccessary desire to be "normal"
or wealthy or lazy
enough to let our time drain
and leave us wasted and wanting
more.
Darkness has been pitched
elongating our shadows
'til they become one.
Unwritten
I write you the story of us
as I dreamt it. The moon is an illusion,
a nightmare we had once that was overshadowed by the sun.
You are the memordream I always seem to remember.
His rough tongue drags across my neck, I cringe
unuse to unconditional affection. He is undeterred by my avoidance
he just wants fingers that scratch instead of fold into fists,
a voice that isn't yelling, a full bowl of food and water,
he just wants care...
the uncondtional kind he's always given.
We live in a pocket
little lintlings, next to forgotten coins and errant keys.
We worship torn receipts, loose buttons,
scrapped numbers scribbled by new strangers met
on side streets....
Labels: 2012 , April , mini , PAD , pockets , scribblings , snippoem , unfinished poemlite
She could be the dance or the dancer,
the muse
an inspiration
and I'll continue to be a dream as well your dreamer.
Copyright © 2008 Straight From the Pencil. All Rights Reserved.
Design by Padd IT Solutions - Blogger Notes Template by Blogger Templates
Copyright 2009 - Straight From the Pencil
