lips like that won’t shatter glass
lips like that will get stuck to your ass
slipping and sliding down a mine
tumbling and wondering if you’ll stop this time
serve me pennies serve me pills
serve me a manner of different ills
hide me safely in the dark
cushion me with your glossy smile
a luxuriant version of a holy kiss
I’ve really come to say
is as from today
your childhood’s closed
all your memories
will be locked up
melting on my tongue
a devil’s brew never to return
so you wasted the most precious in you
the freshest, flashest, the best of you
and your lips will never shatter the glass
and all the bottles are still there
and the pills with no name
hidden in your underwear
of all things to lose
and remember of none
youth seems the one
that hurts the most
for devil you came
in such a good disguise
with your enchanting
s m i l e
As Chevrefeuille says, the goal of this CD-Distillation is to “distil” a haiku from the long-poem in this case “In Flanders Fields”. It’s a challenge of course, but even the classical haiku-poets used parts of other poems in their haiku … so it’s a classic way of writing haiku to distil haiku from a long poem. Why don’t you join in, dear reader, if you haven’t yet! http://chevrefeuillescarpediem.blogspot.fi/
In Flanders Field
by John McCrae
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
on the crosses sit the birds
that watch over the fallen of Flanders
from where the poppies grow
image by Martin Stranka
like a flapjack bought at a highway store
undressed from plastic on a flat top
and ejected at a reststop
I found freedom to cruise
crushed by second hand truckers on table tops
numbed by the candy I had to suck
leftover from someone’s pockets
I had to choose
barefoot on route 66
if I make it to the west coast
before 5 o’clock
you can have my ass
San Fransisco’s Golden Gate
on the back of a Harley Davidson
or maybe it was all a dream
flushed down a toilet at the rest stop
another coffee at the counter
another evening wasted almost masturbated
in this small town that’s just a dot
on a map at an old egg yoke pitstop
for magpie tales
He died in Afghanistan.
I was always the wild one, but you know what they say about opposites attract. He used to read me beautiful poetry. I used to shout slogans for our cause. He bailed me out of jail. I’d told him we deserved a bailing out party.
“Your pompous patriach and his anti feminist flunky are gone for two days!” I told him.
Probably my idea to put toothpaste in the ice cream too, and then to have the ice cream fight.”That’s the last straw!” his mother had shouted, arriving home. “The military for you, son!” said his father. Wrong war, you bastard.
For FF 100W stories – run admirably by Rochelle picture by the incomparable Renee – extra picture of ”narrator” taken of a FEMEN activist for women’s rights, on location, the only ‘Feminista’ group I wholeheartedly support.
three cherry blossoms
barely cover your modesty
ah! what joy in spring!
Finland, 1968, photo by George F. Mobley
they let the balloons go
on jagged branches
in the tumbling snow
on the jagged edges
of jagged stone
were let loose
from the palms of our hands
from the psalms
of our defunct books
so much was left unsaid
by too much innocence
too numbed by cold
nothing to say
before we passed
the real tests
moved to our caves
let our balloons take our stories
far from us
in sunset skies
and jagged branches
where even the snow had dried
and we wonder
if we ever really tried?
Feast in the House of Simon, 1610, El Greco
If Jesus was a woman
and not a lesbian
Would there still be feminism?
Would religion start to make sense to me?
And would she have worn a bra?
Could she possibly have had
Along with line in fine lingerie
for those seeking salvation
in the arms of a woman
Would her twelve disciples have been women too?
Would they have cross-dressed
or simply just had more style?
And would she have hung from the cross?
And would Peterina
Upon arrival in Rome
have been hung upside down?
If the Buddha had been all-woman
would she have sat under tree so long?
If Stalin had been a little girl
from somewhere deep in the Urals
would the gulags have functioned so well?
Its only Mick Jagger
that would remain the same
if history could be changed
To be herstory
And of course me
I would be une Lesbienne
-as I secretly am
The goal of this feature is to write an all new haiku which starts with the given first line.
.This week’s haiku has to start with the following first line:
a shooting star
a shooting star
¤ ¤ ¤
I used to hate
when I was a slave to society
but now I see them
for who they are
our holy warriors
slaying dragon cars
appearing just on time
to lay down a beautiful fine
their little sword a pen
but oh don’t be mistaken
its a mighty weapon
and their shield the simple note pad
which such style they wield
Yes! Oh yes!
…oh thee of tight uniforms ankles bare
our proud holy warriors
marching in your ranks
to my eye you bring a tear
the dobermans of an Orwellian animal farm
and part of our war against terroni
on behalf of nations and corporations
yes hail the heroes who set us free!
they are veritably our kindred kind
how I’d love to put my arms around your neck
advance fair until a car be found
or hope for a delivery truck
to which an orgasmic ticket written
feels better than a …Original Sin
Lappland leaf carried by a breeze from Italy – (please click on Semprento’s name above to see poetry by my beautiful, graceful Italian poet who whispers words into the breeze)
the wind speaks
There should be no doors to a church
No nails to a cross on which a victim is hung
In order for us to chant a hymn
No priest in sacrilegious sacraments
No virgins to satisfy the inability of some
There should be no lord no saviour
Except a deep understanding of nature
No flock to follow
Deaf, blind and dumb
No teacups or mugs
With the picture of the pope
No creedence to the belief in any holy goat
No masses to join to whitewash any guilt
Stop believing someone from a fantasy they call history
Has a role for you
Spend a little time in the freedom of natural rhythms
Do not be tamed into becoming sheep
Do not be shamed, into becoming sheep