Sat, 20 December 2008
(The pic above is actually my parking lot with a gorgeous sunset. This poem is a Sestina. This is one of a triptych--three sestinas in this case that go together....)
BALANCE It's easier to escape into a dead past than to walk the voluminous fence that separates his life from yours, to keep a precarious balance while you long for the solid feel of arms around you, a caress in the night. The most longing times are at night, but when you recall the past, it's a means of disarming a present -- that looks like a fencing match, a means of getting your balance. The past may be dead. But it's yours. And you can remember all of your hol-i-days: a canoe trip down a river at night . . . . . . learning to stand on one foot . . . balancing your checkbook . . . looking beautiful . . . and walking past a string of men sitting on a fence showing you their flexed arms. . . . The first time he took you in his arms, when maybe he loved you some time before the construction of fences . . . some time before you got lost at night . . . some time when you had no past together . . . when all seemed in balance. But the scales unbalanced. Words turned into arms -- firing up the aching past you'd divorced when you left your father's house . . . wounds reopened in the night -- until you had to build a fence to protect yourself, a fence built high and straight, loigs balanced. And here you are: alone in the night with only your own arms to surround you. Not much to look at in the dying past. Yet armed with the past You pull back from the fence Balanced for a moment at midnight (c)2008 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED |
Thu, 27 November 2008
a dishonest man is not a fun man he'll break your heart at every turn a dishonest man is not a fun man he'll leave you to cry and burn don't ever love a man untrue don't love a man who lies to you he'll break your heart at every turn while in the dark you cry and burn a man who lies is not your friend his love is fickle, prone to bend if he bends the truth at his whim face his lies: stay away from him save your heart for a man of gold whose word is good, whose word is true he's the man you can love 'til you're old the kind of man who won't betray you don't ever love a man untrue don't love a man who lies to you he'll break your heart at every turn leaving you to cry and burn (c)2008 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Category:poems
-- posted at: 3:45pm MDT
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Sun, 26 October 2008
Tired of being alone, you open your doors and invite people to press their feet into your carpets, drink wine, and talk about politics, movie stars, and the meaning of life. Alone again, you muse about how women and men long for extended seasons of love and how all you know of the world is asses braying -- a lion's roar -- garlands celebrating your house --that if your philosophy is skepticism, no one can dispute the words you spread out on the sand under the sun, that if you fill cups with water and feed hungry children, who will deny you your ambition? --that favors turn up in unexpected places. . . You meet a man in the road carrying luggage with foreign stickers, and ask him how things explode, to explain spontaneous combustion, to carry your grocery bags to speak plainly of plans, to sit down on your sofa to write a letter that talks about how hard it is to see the obstacles that lie in the desert ahead. And then you stand near the desert not knowing if the sun rises or sets, knowing only the time to cover your face from the drying winds. It's sleep . . . or . . .love . . . . or . . . God . . .you need. #### (c) 2008 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED |
Thu, 9 October 2008
I changed the template, and that messed things up. I will figure out how to repair it one of these days, but too busy at the moment to do so. You can still access everything, even if it's repeated.
Edit: Psssst. When you copy from Word to the publish page, please get rid of the crap code. Best Regards, Anthony.
Category:tallkin'
-- posted at: 9:49pm MDT
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Wed, 24 September 2008
In
the still dead of night, a fear takes hold, a
suggestion of giving too much, then being left alone. Time
breaks your heart, and you grow cold. How
many times have you yearned to be bold but
afraid the cord will break and drop you with a moan. In
the dead still of night, a fear takes hold. You
travel to the days when they tried to mold you,
dissatisfied with your natural skin and bond. Time
breaks your heart, and you grow cold. You
relieve the threat of getting ironed into the fold of
a cloth without txture, music, or tone. ]In
the dead still of night, a fear takes hold. Night
after night, the stories are told about
houses burning that you don’t own. Time
breaks your heart, and you grow cold. You
lose sight of the rainbow as the days unfold counting
the minutes you have yet on loan. In
the dead still of night, a fear takes hold. Time
breaks your heart, and you grow cold. |
Sat, 8 March 2008
The walls are so high Opportunity is perennial yet underground like a sigh Acquaintance with privilege Who truly are you? Behind those walls, what do you do? Or think about when moments are spare Or minister to with strong feelings of care? Acquaintance with privilege What matters to you? What are your priorities? In your life, what's new? (c) 2008 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED |
Mon, 4 February 2008
though i hear your words there is no action so why should those words mean anything to me? you've held your secrets you've hid in the shadows you claim that's your right and yes, yes it is you can stay in the shadows i'll not look for you there nor will i care what you say stay in the shadows it's your right but those shadows will hide the jewels |