ALL RESPONSES |
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A god, carved in stone
A man, conceived in heaven
Heaven, beginning and end of All
shaped by hands of dust
chiseled slowly, sanded, polished
broken
on a bookshelf, arms
on a table, head
heart, lungs, liver
encased in art
those who posed
lost no souls
but gave us their youth |
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Without legs to run after
nor arms to embrace
nor pretty words wooing,
what good, though divine,
is an unmoving heart?
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Greek Theatre
Those statues in Greece, standing in empty, light struck
rooms seem about to shout, like Prometheus, fire-bringer,
arms pulled behind, chained to rocks, his face strains forward.
He cries in agony, anger, immensity rising from a deeper place.
His voice, the stone’s voice, his words, an ancient language,
all meaning its own.
Above us stars. Below, small island city, music and vespas
Lining the schoolyard a barely visible line of satellites.
In front the play. Prometheus shouts to the universe
as do the eagles poised to eat his eyes, his heart, and we,
plucked from our world by language, slide silently
down time’s throat.
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Watching my father square up to home plate,
his feet shifting slightly in the dust,
his hips anchored, the bat, waiting like a horse
at the gate above his shoulder, ready
to break free. As the ball spun through the air
his coiled torso flexed and released.
Cutting the grass, shirtless, his tennis shoes
stained green, I remember the way his flesh
clung to his ribs, how the shape of each muscle
in his arms and back shifted as he pushed
the mower in ever shrinking squares.
And the way, when he breathed, his stomach
contracted. I loved to watch him peel off
his T-shirt, loved to watch him breathe.
Sometimes I would run from him,
make him chase me, from the elm tree
to the lilacs, to the vegetable garden,
sprint away over and over again, until
he stopped, put his hands on his knees
said girl you are something.
In our backyard, the grass trimmed and neat
he stood there with his hands on his thighs
trying to catch his breath. I’d watch the air
go in and out of his body, watch his heart pound
For me.
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(i)
this only means
i love you & your life
and life is only life
if you are with me
even if only half
of me believes
(ii)
life glorifies within,
even if i cannot
see, nor cannot walk
away from the aches
within me
i write these words,
even as my arms, my
fingers detach
let forgiveness fall
to its knees and beg
(iii)
the flowers you left
have died of remorse
nothing lasts,
not even
a loved man |
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Truncated like a poem
with several stanzas
chopped off. All
we can read
is the middle,
muscular, turning
in dance. Who’d
ever think a belly
button had such allure?
Let me kiss it.
My eyes water for more.
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| Another great Northography poem has been submitted! |
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this is a poem
about missing
*
about arms needing to reach
out to brush grass from your back,
telling you everything you will ever
need is still here, will always be
green & budding like spring
and you not quite believing this
*
about a voice, a throat pinked
and smooth and still working,
speaking of Betty, the dancer,
clicking her heels at Bar Harbor
to Rosemary Clooney’s “Beautiful
Brown Eyes” or Johnnie Ray’s “Cry”
I am 1951 your voice says, I am
and you still listen from another
room like a womb at the edge of water
that evening your life was born
*
about feet moving, tiptoeing across a glass
floor, bubbles being thrown above your head,
and you believing the evening’s nothing more
than a little box filled with tinsel & triangles
*
this is a poem
about missing
*
about eyes picturing a ripe summer, telling
her she is beautiful without speaking, thinking
of a rose, instead offering a white daisy
“love,” you say, “is all about opportunity”
*
about words that are so far apart they are
more like fireflies, blinking short messages
like after the music stops, let’s go lean
against my car while kissing or better yet,
let’s look at stars until we both go blind
*
about tongues and red licorice, and how they
go together and how they sweet and curl
and how you still liked both, even after
forty-seven years of marriage
*
this is a poem
about missing
all these things |
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SHE:
In the back seat at the drive-in,
I drink his six pack, slam it in me,
spilling popcorn in confetti kisses
strewn across his bare torso.
My tongue finds each one, nibbles in
shadowed valleys between muscles.
HE:
Tomorrow, I’ll tell all the boys:
Man, she spread like a butterfly,
gave up her virginity eager, an easy
sacrifice to my Grecian love god.
I was as hard as stone and she broke
as pebbles skipping wind
and was so happy, she cried.
SHE:
But he’ll leave out, my fingernails
digging deep into him when he held me
and the way my shriek diamond cut the air
slicing open the wounded silence
between each potent beat of his heart.
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My friends Harry and Caroline set me up with Leslie Thorsen, the only Norwegian-American girl in Savannah, Ga. I remember going to elementary school with her, that's all. I remember a dark-haired girl, friendly. When I went out with her, she was known for being attractive, and for her large breasts. Harry and Caroline took us to the hottest bar down on River Street; I can't remember the name; but it was known to have transvestites mingling with the partyers. The barowners may have even paid the cross-dressers or whatever they were to stand around for the sensation of promiscuity. That was 1975, and disco was played side-by-side with Pink Floyd. I think we went to Night-Flight first, where we ordered drinks. I don't know what the drinking age was then, but nobody cared. Leslie wanted a Kaluha and Creme, which I nervously ordered as Kahulan creme. Why the hell did she want to go out with me, anyway? Harry and Caroline set us up. They knew I was the aspiring painter, and she was the aspiring actress. I knew who she was, I wasn't about to turn it down. She really did have beautiful breasts, and lovely long dark hair, and sweet skin, and was very friendly. I was nervous.
After the drinks, we went to the transvestite disco bar. We danced. I could dance, yeah. I danced and danced with Leslie. There was even a disco ball, spinning; it's billions and billions of mirrors flickering like lost civilizations in the universe. I was gyrating my torso like a sophisticated Elvis, 50 pounds lighter than I would be 30 years later. The music slowed down, and Leslie held me close. I had no idea what was going on. She was in command, had total control. No problem. We danced slowly to the middle of the floor. They were playing a slow song. She placed her hand on the back of my head, and pulled my mouth to hers. I realized this meant she wanted to kiss, but there was a lot of apprehension for me to do that in the middle of the dance floor. The flashing lights were on us, bodies around us, young men wishing they were with Leslie. Our lips touched, my nervousness a memory like a kid sister. I had never kissed before. Not even a peck on the cheek. She stuck her tongue into my mouth, and we began kissing like lovers on the dance floor. Funny, never having had the experience of intimate kissing, how naturally it came to me that night. Even in a large group of people, on display, with a woman of divine beauty. It went on forever. The disco became oyster bar, tourists came and went, Leslie disappeared, and I woke up in Minnesota.
I googled her name. It looks like she was in a few movies in the seventies, then dropped off the map. I never saw her again after that night; the phone calls were never returned. Does she ever wonder about me? I don't think so. But this is my tribute. |
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What can a woman see in a man?
arms soothing in embrace
eyes aspiring to see the moon
lips tender to kiss
What can a woman touch in a man?
a heart submitting to love
a soul yearning for faith
a mind passionate for knowledge
What can a woman taste in a man?
rich chocolate from his mouth
sweet butter from his touch
thick honey from his gaze
What defines a true man?
one who guards more than moments for his lover
one who receives her with unrestricted grace
one who trusts her to love no different than he |
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an ancient stem of Grecian royalty
solidly pales like moonlight
on my eyes. This brace of human
strength, this craft of learning-
a ritual of history, a museum in itself
of innocent art. |
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