Pages: 1 [2] 3 4 ... 10
 on: August 14, 2017, 03:54:17 AM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
Thereís a boy in her mind, talks to her all the time
Heís her creation at the kitchen table
An orphan like Oliver, heís got some hidden power
He emerges in the writing of each hour.

When Charles Dickens wrote his stories in chunks
A magazine publishing each chapter
Is that the same thing as kids waiting in line
At a bookstore in the predawn hours?

Harry Potter dies, the boy who lived dies
Thatís the story, Iíve given it away
A slaughtered sacrifice who returns for the fight
End evil for another day.

That story have been told for a thousand years and more
A magic that draws many to the fold
Tell the story once again in books the children love
Tell the story of the boy who lived.

 on: August 13, 2017, 12:04:00 PM 
Started by AlohaAlex - Last post by AlohaAlex
I can't wait to see you tonight.   When you walk through that door with the full weight of the world draped over your shoulders, I'll be waiting.  My internal clock is as spot on as yours.  I know that you are day dreaming right now about my soft curves, edges fluffed to perfection, just the way you left it when you left.   Let the whizzing, whining cars weave in front of you, beeping with anxious hesitation.  Let them suffer as you take solace tonight upon my body.   Life two giant arms holding you, rocking you to sleep, your head rests against mine.     Free fall into me, and let the honey like lavender puff into the air, sweet enough to taste as you gently close your eyes, burned by the days ravenous energy.  I'll always be there for you.   Shut the blinds, cause tomorrow you're sleeping in.  They close as a drawbridge to the castle you have created.   I can feel your heart slowing down, a relaxing beat to doze off to.  Goodnight sweet prince.

 on: August 13, 2017, 04:32:18 AM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
Hinges are smooth on the cupboard door
No hitch as the hatches swing
The cups and the platters stacked on the shelves
The glasses and saucers and things.

All in a readiness for a feast
Or just a simple snack
The plate then the food on the countertop
To the table to pull out a chair.

Hinges are smooth, oiled for squeaks
The door is balanced to swing
Hold its place open or rest still closed
With the influence of gravity.

New cabinets have hinges that hitch with springs
Springs that break down over time
Theyíre set to be definite, open or closed
Wonít let the cupboard doors just swing.

Like the drawers on rollers and sliding rails
Bearings buried down where they roll
Where wax once worked to make a drawer slide
The mechanics have added a layer.

 on: August 12, 2017, 07:39:41 AM 
Started by berkley84 - Last post by berkley84
   Thereís this wonderful old sketch where a guy works at a sausage factory, brings sausages home for his father, falls in love with the new girl, under the watchful eye of the 1984-like factory manager.
   Never knew anyone else who loved that sketch like me till the end of my Junior year, beginning of summer and the beginning of my real life. I remember the sun hanging heavy over us, a refreshing beacon of hope while we sat in our yards, walked around town in aimless circles, drove nowhere until we found a hill or some railroad tracks to go over at 60mph. Consequences be damned, this was freedom, and we werenít going to waste it.
   Absorbed the TV shows, because isnít that how we relate to one another? An appreciation of comedy, kettle corn, and music. That sketch about the Sausage factory, the one about the guy who borrowed his friendís ďart,Ē or when those dolphins were revealed to be the supreme beings of the planet. Sinking into a couch in a humid mustiness, surrounded by VHS tapes and board games. Feeling a little bit empty, sure, but feeling at a truce with time. Finally not at war.
   Of course, this was all shortly before 9/11, and in retrospect, there was some ďcalm before the stormĒ stuff going on. And everything changes and time is never really standing still, but perception is funny like that. These ten minutes fly by in the morning, while the ten minutes after stick around like a pool of blood. Personally, I donít remember the taste of sausage and I do my best to avoid the smell. I wonít touch it unless I absolutely have to. Iíve done my best to do right, but I donít always feel that itís necessary to do so.

 on: August 12, 2017, 05:23:32 AM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
Venison sausage made with goose grease
Thatís this butcherís specialty
After the hunt on the water
After the deer season rush.

They still work outdoors
The refrigerated trailer an extra walk in
They dress the deer, mouths hanging down
The hides pulled down to the ground.

Three hours they need to butcher a hog
Just a pair of them working along
Theyíve got it down most of the year
But they close when deer season comes.

Cause itís work all day for a crew of four
So much of the meat is donated
Itíll go to food pantries around the county
The steaks and the roasts and the ground meat.

But one of these days, thereíll be a chance
To get back to the work of creation
A sausage to melt on the flat of your tongue
Goose grease softening the venison.

 on: August 11, 2017, 01:02:09 PM 
Started by Higgs88 - Last post by Higgs88
Looking down from my window seat, wings partially blocking the view below. Everything miniature. All I see is a sea of green land. My lips are chapped from 5 hours fake dry air the clouds roll in as the engine hums people sleep next to me but I can't, my brain won't. Soon big meals and warm claustrophobic feeling and smiling at people I barely know. People who's pictures have hung on my parents refrigerator for years, faces I see every morning when I make eggs. Waves of memories from younger times. My insides feel a little squeamish & my tongue is sticky and as we touch down with a few jostling bumps rain drizzles, running off the thick glass. Warm embraces and family jokes and breakfast at the original house of pancakes. It's tradition. It's all Relative.       

 on: August 11, 2017, 10:20:26 AM 
Started by jps0869 - Last post by jps0869
Cricket chirping in the attic black and shiny on the floor, small but I shrink from it still: it is dark and the ac exhales in the night and there is a white plastic jar full of stale urine in the hall--no bathroom in the attic. The sock monkey--I call her Georgina for reasons I know not--is grey and twisted and dirty and frayed, with cotton beginning to come forth from her wounds. The floor creaks like you would not believe and the sheets are crisp and a little itchy. The house is full of ceramic ashtrays in yellow and orange and brown--it is 1980, after all--with indentations for perhaps 20 cigarettes and two cigars. They shine like strange adapted corals. Thin, filtered old-lady cigarette buts--white from end to end sometimes fill them, Virginia Slims if I remember, and the smell of stale smoke settled into the carpet and furniture is now a permanent feature of the downstairs. I sweat from the Missouri summer heat and my bones jump with excitement at the smell of chlorine and sweat and suntan lotion at public pools. It will be my birthday soon. Their is the whistle of wiffle balls and the click of plastic home runs and the hum of the fan on the heating and cooling pump. Roaches scuttle about and I heard that they would pop if you stepped on them just right. The sting of a Hot Wheels track piece that we used to torment each other and the athsmatic wheeze of Tom Yalen as we would play and the taste of the bland garden tomatoes that Grandma would grow. The shake of the Yahtzee dice and the screams of elation and the smell of cheap pizza and the stink of the sewage river

 on: August 11, 2017, 05:28:57 AM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
Relax into relatives for more than three days
Guests and fish not the rule for them
The wealth of stories that come down the line
The branching of old families.

Talk it on back to Ellis Island
Or roots in a colony
The stories of grandparents that fought in the war
The big one before World War Two.

Wonder together with these historians
Of lives so significant
Of the paths in the past that lead to us all
In this room with a crowded breakfast.

Weddings and funerals gather us now
The same as it always has been
Long back before we ever were born
Our relatives gathered back then.

So remember your cousins, your uncles and aunts
Your nieces and nephews as well
You braid up a story from long long ago
The story only family knows well.

 on: August 11, 2017, 05:13:31 AM 
Started by berkley84 - Last post by berkley84
   Itís a beautiful summer day with the sunlight spread out on the long gentle river. Other families are sitting on the manmade beach with kids sticking their timid feet in the water. Mothers half-paying attention with books opened half-way, talking fully to their neighbors spreading out on colorful cartoon towels. Iím on the boardwalk looking at geese and ducks hanging out on the grass, minor traffic passing us by on their way to a shaded picnic spot. My aunt and uncle holding hands and talking about family.
   ďYou donít just marry the person,Ē she says, ďyou marry the whole family.Ē
   ďThatís right,Ē my uncle says. I donít know if Iím imagining a tone of warning in his voice. And if Iím not, then Iím not sure how exactly he means that to sound, as heís the one who married our family.
   Itís my cousinís graduation party on the corner of the island where she grew up. Her parents divorced when she was practically a baby. Although her father is happily remarried, there is still some everlasting feud between her biological parents that causes a rotten tension throughout this celebration.
   But I couldnít be happier. This is the day that my aunt brought me her record player, the perfect addition to my basement bedroom. Iím thinking about my parentsí record collection that Iíve never been able to dig into before. Iím thinking of the ideal life, sitting on an unmade bed early in the morning, drinking lemonade, eating cold pizza, flipping on a new record, letting the needle drop, and just letting myself be absorbed in the music.

 on: August 10, 2017, 12:53:34 PM 
Started by Higgs88 - Last post by Higgs88
I remember growing up in a house with more people than rooms. Old plantation walls with rickety porch steps-one wobbled every time you stepped on it- and paint receding like my dad's hairline, pillows and sheets built up in a fort against a corner of the living room. That was my bedroom for 3 months, a hideaway from the shuffle of gossiping sisters and reprimanding mother.

Clasutrophia was foreign to me back then, but I do remember feeling very cramped... Not quite like a prisoner in solitary more like a little boy hidden from the world with the side effect of less fresh air the fabric draped down like a pup tent and my eyes would strain at night as I read in the low light of my headlamp. squeaking doors and scraping windows were how I thought every window and door sounded--

Pages: 1 [2] 3 4 ... 10