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 on: October 15, 2017, 04:52:46 AM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
A song is not like a ballpoint pen
It pours from the throat, not the hand
It comes out in rhythm, not stuttering care
Itís not carved on paper, but air.

The pen, it was mighty when still just a quill
Dipped in ink and then blotted
The song does not splatter, it never did
Did not need the modern improvement.

And still there is might in the thin pen
Though its work must now be translated
Some virtual keyboard must sop up its work
Thereís media now for its output.

The ink blackened printer may out of a job
To read the typeset backwards
But itís all in typeface, the modern world
The pen is sheathed in its dribble.

But still the song is different from that
It may turn up on YouTube
But itís the ear that hears, the heart that moves
Typeface still needs eyes to read it.

 on: October 14, 2017, 12:00:04 PM 
Started by Higgs88 - Last post by Higgs88
Sun-splashed ground heats up under my feet, morning dew drying up, beads of moisture roll down my waterproof shoes I squint into the distance, hands chalky and dry, breathes heavy like waves rolling on the shore of my chest. My throat feels thick, peanut butter clings to the insides of my mouth I wash it down with water. The crunch of my steps on dusty rock echoes for a split second. I feel my blood being oxygenated, elevation high enough to thin the air. This is my Everest, my Olympics muscles rebel and scream--     

 on: October 14, 2017, 11:45:43 AM 
Started by Higgs88 - Last post by Higgs88
Right on. Thanks!

 on: October 14, 2017, 04:58:05 AM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
They must be there, below the earth
The bones that hold the sinews
The shifting soil ends at last
In the deep, the river bolder.

Up north they scatter on the land
The sun grows lichen on them
The castoffs of a glacier gone
Ice sinews decayed and melted.

The mountains too, roll them down
Their stream beds a tumble of them
The roar of water without end
Their broken edges soften.

Bones of earth between the soil
Older that the forests
Buried now beneath the frost
Untouchable, unmoving.

Those roots no longer reach you now
The dirt accumulated
Buried deep and then sometime
Youíll be bent again to bedrock.

Itís all broken and reformed
The forests burn, the grass returns
The animals shed their bones
The bolder just sinks deeper.

 on: October 13, 2017, 05:36:45 AM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
They call it english, the backspin on the ball
Skidding across the felt
Striking the three ball then hopping away
Roll back whence it has come.

They call it english, the subject you teach
As you talk from your wheelchair
Cracking open the minds of young men
To feel whatís written there.

They call it english when the learning tree
Comes open in a studentís heart
When you roll up on him and ask him just right
How that story can be pulled apart.

The wheels, they roll and sometimes they slip
On the polished floor of the hall
And maybe by spring theyíll be used to it all
A teacher who canít even walk.

A teacher who knows how a thin book
Can open eyes, heart and mind
And shares is with those who still seemed surprised
When he rolls up from behind.

They donít call it english when wheels skid
And take a car off the road
But somehow in english a teacher can stand
For the meaning behind it all.

 on: October 13, 2017, 05:08:18 AM 
Started by Higgs88 - Last post by Chris Dudley
Definitely there with you in this one. Nice.

 on: October 12, 2017, 12:38:07 PM 
Started by Higgs88 - Last post by Higgs88
Glossy red fingernails scent of acetone and Chanel no. 5. It's a brief exchange, a split-second glance. My eyes catch on her like a fly to an electric trap, mesmerized. The cool evening, the dim lighting, the dull breathy chatter of dinner conversation and cutlery clinking. It all fades, like suddenly I'm outside on the street under an orange pale streetlight and there she is batting her perfect eyelashes at me. My stomach tightens, I gulp and attempt a smile. I can smell the Pinot Grior on her soft lips... A man comes up behind her and rubs her shoulders. The moment passes and suddenly my clothes feel uncomfortable and shabby. The lights come back on, the same Norah Jones song purrs in the ambiance. I sit down, stuck in a time lapse---   

 on: October 12, 2017, 05:20:37 AM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
Rack for tears, display for sorrow
Eyelashes holding the drops
Lids close down, squeeze out the wet
On lashes that drip on the cheeks.

They feel thicker now, watered this way
Like green grass gathers the rain
Theyíre thicker now, known to the lids
Eyes reddened around their gains.

Thick eyelashes, watered with tears
The mirror shows the shudder
The breath caught back, shoulders heave
Sobbing comes under control.

Thereís a smell of the sea in streaming tears
The eyelashes a kind of seaweed
Those are the pearls that are the eyes
The brine has changed everything.

Eyelashes grow thick, eyelashes grow dark
In their brine of sorrow and fear
Fear of loss, fear of the end
Of friendship, of loving, of care.

 on: October 12, 2017, 05:06:37 AM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
Lying forgotten, you need it no more
The key in the bottom of the cabinet drawer
Thereís string and gloves and a few tools
Coupons and other expired stuff
Accumulations that wonít be used anymore.

A spare key to the front door
It used to fit on a ring
A ring that jingled in your purse
It lies now neglected, no reminder of the worse
Day that ever happened, reminder of the curse.

Itís sensible to have a spare key
Someone might visit, a neighbor might feed a pet
But this one keeps itself hidden
No reminder of the past
Who wants visits from anyone after that?

Thereís string and soupcan clippings
The school will never use
With dates that expired years ago
Expiration is just the word for that key right now
A use-by-date on long faded love.

 on: October 12, 2017, 04:50:33 AM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
If your storyís in a stained glass window
Youíre getting close to the life of a saint
You could be head down like Peter
Or Francis with birds to preach.

And you know your story will not matter
At first when the light breaks
A collage of color, not an image
Dazzle before story for saints.

And itís just the same in the cathedral
The carvings mix with the pillars
Give an impression of giantness
Before the story is told.

The light casts across the wooden pews
Itís colors mixing back to white
Itís the touch of the stained glass window
Just temporary on the light.

And still in the contemplation
Of silence in the carven space
Your story breaks out in its meaning
A Saint lost in Godís praise.

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