NationStates Jolt Archive

Since I've lost track of the one Big Jim started and I'm tired of ranting about politics. I finished this one earlier today. Post your own.

Buffalo River, 2002

It might have been the way you yelped
at the paddle-splash of water
on the back of your neck, snowmelt crisp,
an April afternoon just warm enough

for us to steer away from cliff shadows,
from wind-rustled pines. Or the way
you shed shoes and hat to clamber
the sandstone face of Jim’s Bluff,

wet footprints diminishing, step over step.
Maybe the romantic sweep of dragonfly
skimming the river surface to light
on flotsam, but in the end I think it was

the way you bent into each stroke, pulled
river behind you, pulled us deeper into it.

Give it up
Certina.
the art of caring,
and of verse,

Is lost to those,

Here to often.

Lost in hate.

Where did the original go?

Lost
to unthinking
unfeeling

Machines

Here's a sestina I wrote a couple of years ago.

Antinomy

Jack is a bumbler, frail, knock-kneed,
exists in a world of camellia blossoms,
plays with his ladies to the sound
of an open screen door that slams itself
between the jamb and the retaining wall
that separates Jack from tide and time

and other persecutions. He has no time
for toys; he has his flowers and needs
the solace that headshrinkers call
ague. At night, his left eye blossoms
with camellias; he prunes himself,
and repots them, to keep them sound

and whole. They like to hear the sounds
of people and streets and so sometimes,
since Jack will talk only to himself,
and even camellias have the need
for human intercourse, the blossoms
blush their cheeks and slide down the hall

to the front porch to drink highballs,
smoke cigars and listen to the sounds
of prostitutes draped in cherry blossom
printed robes, laughing, checking the time,
mocking their johns: But I have needs
the john says. I want you to myself.

Jack returns, looks for himself
in the mirror, listens down the hall
and collects the camellias. He kneads
the soil in the pots, checks for the sound
of feeding aphids, wishes he had time
to cleanse each petal, each blossom

with his lips, to nurse his blossoming
camellias, ladies who waste themselves
on unworthy types who steal their time
and keep them in shadow. John paws
the soil, fondles the roots, finds them sound,
and contemplates what his camellias need:

fresh soil, calm, time and room to grow,
the sounds of passersby. John blossoms,
transplants himself, says: I need. I need.

The NationStates General Forum Poem.


Tired and bored, and still half stoned
Screaming in text at those whose opinions I cannot change.
Why do I do it, why do I care?
The steady clicking of a keyboard
The only sound in a still room.

Mindless sheep who will not hear
no matter how vital the truth may be.
My attention begins to wane
Succumbing to the late hour and the desire to relax.

The sound of distant cars slicing through the night air
From a distant highway, I wonder where they are going?
Still I rant and rail at words with names
Screaming in text at those whos opinions I cannot change.