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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/books/item_id/830415-Mushrooms-Splinters-and-Thorns/sort_by/entry_order DESC, entry_creation_time DESC/page/3
by Joy
Rated: 18+ · Book · Women's · #830415
a journal with poems written on the fly without much ado
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Just a journal
with everyday verse
mushrooming all over

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Read at your own risk. The poems here are of personal nature, more about me and of what is around me than those in other books and folders. They are usually written in a very short time with practically *Laugh* no poetic intent.
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February 9, 2005 at 4:06pm
February 9, 2005 at 4:06pm
#327489

I could… but

I could write this
in bloody italics
to revile the silver light
of a rambunctious moon
for hiding the dark repute
of the world.

I could repeat the affinity
of petty scenes
and damaged dreams
in a realm rendered
by decaying scripts.

I could declare myself fulfilled
through my conceits,
other shortcomings,
and the bodies I felled
into a rhetorical abyss.

I could… but I won’t,
since I’m the one who broke
the bricks of Babel
and laid my fancy
-as if rose petals-
at the feet of
a few ailing words.



Cryptic Blue

Whoops! A cranky gal,
possibly a klutz,
with a knack for
listing knotty problems
of the cryptic blue
computer screen…
she tried to kowtow
to the powers that be
and kindle a flame
under service aristocracy
that a company might have;
yet, to no avail.

I wonder, who could that be,
this woman so disturbed
as to bother the ranks
of outsourced geeks,
for a motherboard
gone kaput?

Now, in her style, she casts a spell,
thinking, “No more laptop for me,
rhyming with hell,
nor from any other patentee,”
and she loops her neck in surrender,
because
“the shipwrecked man shrinks
even from calm waters.”


Meltdown

(An amnesiac who just now woke up this morning with “total recall”)

Morning lights wipe my eyes
to make my sight beam like silver
polished anew by the zealous hand.
of a holy patron.

Truth, definitely truth,
is coming to me
and soaring to the summit of certainty,
while a gallimaufry of recollections
-as if contestants in a race
to trammel putrescent myths-
rush through the length of a life,

Call it a reconnaissance trip,
since the forefinger traces,
egregious and haughty.
inside a tangled roadmap
a flagrant route scrolling down
to a self-portrait shockingly grandiose,
obsessed, selfish, bitter;
one who is cast so low.

Alas, I urge the mind to forget
and close its lid on memories,
for I don’t want to know,
now, I don’t want to know.

February 7, 2005 at 11:45am
February 7, 2005 at 11:45am
#327022

Gossip

Another weekday afternoon in the making,
the hours seep out in faithful rows,
crowding over stalwart desks,
as resentful voices coil
around the water cooler with
bodacious gossip
whispered in loyal circles
about the quirky burnout
punching the clock,
punching the file cabinet,
punching the boss,
in the emptiness of
what he was running away from.

And my annoyance tries to clear out the rubble,
by hitting the keys with gusto,
as if this will save me from his fate
and this tittle-tattle under dimmed lights;
one ludicrous incident in fickle February
no heavier than dust on the bookshelves.
February 5, 2005 at 1:31pm
February 5, 2005 at 1:31pm
#326653
Until a few years ago, in factories where dried shrimp were being prepared, "shrimp dancers" were hired to tramp on the shells with special shoes.

Shrimp dancing on dreams
to crack open their shells,
those dreams birthed in me,
lucid, unspoiled, untouched, undeveloped,
whether in sync with the earth or otherworldly,
I watch my dreams,
I dance my dreams,
as if wanting to get away
without a passport,
in an attempt to weed out
the ghosts of want and illusion,
to the sound of my last bed’s embracing sheets
as if multihued autumn leaves rustling
in winter’s fluttering shade.





February 4, 2005 at 5:24pm
February 4, 2005 at 5:24pm
#326515


Solace in Scars

In front of Riverside Church
on Riverside drive,
you glanced in my direction,
your eyelashes piercing through
the frigid wind,
your lips curling in crisis,
two rattlesnakes
ready to strike,
and I felt the icicles in my bones
since it was mid-January,
retrospective, in white.

Your rage is poetry,
a kind of lust,
or sadness,
maybe…
but there’s solace in scars
and I’m not troubled,
for you got no one left
to dishearten now.

What was there is a clich├ęd blur,
a memory alien,
for the scenery’s changed,
I’m no longer the same,
no more stuck in Woodstock,
vulnerable with faded pride,
no more sagging deep
with visible pain.

After all, I had to learn
a trick or two to survive
and I ride the changes now;
although, no place feels
far enough away
from you.

February 3, 2005 at 6:48pm
February 3, 2005 at 6:48pm
#326312
Inept

My billet could be my undoing;
me, a hunchback with Bacchic joviality,
trespassing on holy men’s grounds,
and my phrases in mass migration
escape through slits in hordes.

Still, I walk
on stilts of baffling words
to reach out to scrub the sun
as if from the tower of Babel,
for I crave to bate the mad muse
who hides in the bedlam
and lies on lines of unruly sheets,
refusing non-chalant to give me hint..

February 2, 2005 at 11:01am
February 2, 2005 at 11:01am
#325997
Spring Will Come Again

With chafed skin,
I wallow through
an offending flurry,
to defend
a flawless credence,
as the cretin wind
blows.

To amend my clouding breath
and the colors lacking,
I depend on
the recurrent hints of the sun
and the creed of change
through the comfort of time:
a pretend game
ascending to hope
that the sap will reach
my roots
once more.

February 1, 2005 at 1:48pm
February 1, 2005 at 1:48pm
#325814

Yoda

Exposed jewels of light,
eyes, in darkness shining,
sparkling in command,
ordering with superiority
to put all problems on hold,
beating out a rhythm of purrs,
content, with perfect timing.

This intractable complexity,
garish, pompous,
spun from feline feats
of long proud history;
whittling at my wits,
an unsaddled spirit
inside an opulent fur.

His pattern, a fierce stealth for strangers,
those alien parasites, house guests,
whose names he doesn’t care to know,
whose faces he doesn’t need to see.
At the other hemisphere of the living room,
leaping on a stiff-backed chair,
his altar of consolation.

One miraculous jump,
a Siamese taking in the landscape,
to do largely as he pleases,
as if a sun stealing in under my skin,
to make a gift of his warmth,
then to shrug and turn his head impulsively away
out of affection.


Indecision

A futile word
or a silence wise,
she’ll hate herself
it’ll be her demise.

The confusion’s mine,
reversing the blow
to sickness in me -the ire-
since her two-timing man
will set her on fire.

A futile word
or a silence wise,
she’ll hate herself
it’ll be her demise.

but this torment is hilarious,
a tattletale or not
I’m a sweating rag
for either way
I’ll be the hag.

A futile word
or a silence wise,
she’ll hate herself
it’ll be her demise.

August 1, 2004 at 12:19pm
August 1, 2004 at 12:19pm
#300556
Let it rain....

Let it rain,
we’re still out, running
with muscled thighs
and cannot be caught.

Let it rain,
while we can still enter
a million battlefields
alert and awake
and elation filters through our skin
to ring in young ears.

Let it rain
before the earth takes credit
for each breath
and repossesses
what is his
by birthright.


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