Poetic Display of Whatever's topics - tribe.net

Rachmaninov Plays Rachmaninov

2008-08-06T15:37:16Z

The orchestra buzzes and blares
straining to be symphonic inside its tin box.
Here and there, molecules of sound are tweaked
until they are as iridescent as insect wings.

Who was there? Not I, but were you not there?
Before the radio flew away
were you there with eyes glued to our ears?

The mind warps eras
Michelangelo has gone to Hollywood
to sketch the Creation on a paper napkin.
Rachmaninov is too immeasurable for the glitter,
his hands too large for the cul-de-sacs
of dignified minds.

The piano is clearly painted, deep brittle
and booming. He pulls 1940 out of its belly
serving it up as fresh as deli ham.

His percussive fingerprints slam-dunk.
A tintinnabulum quakes through time,
painting the chimes of Russian bells
a vast vesper outgrowing each decade
locked now within a CD, only millimeters thin.

(C) Eric Ashford August 08

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do

2008-08-05T21:26:55Z

Shall we walk away
leave the dust of our lives to
settle,
then become a patina of metaphors
that swirl and curl
within the mists of forgotten rhymes
an arabesque that was,
of a never will
rusting in the junkyard of unlit dreams
shelved with the unwanted ties
from the last giving-day

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The Librarian

2008-08-05T15:00:15Z

A glow of freckled comeliness
ot young not old
a little thick set
like a mature cat.

When we pass a book
between us
our fingertips withdraw
scalded by prehension.

The room is crowded
but far away
like a story in a closed book.
We are alone
beyond the codex of morality.

We both know
that I want to lay you down
on this tiled civic floor
to imprint a blaring desire
upon a mute press.

There is an understanding;
a regard
that fast birds
and slow elephants have
for mutual journeys.

I envision
your creamy thighs
lofted high,
your sensible skirt
pulled over your head
as we grunt sotto voce
between aisles K to Q.

(C) Eric Ashford August 08

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flyin' on a whim

2008-08-05T03:01:49Z

i fly on a whim
the winds constraints are mine
not certain if i'm searchin
is my game
or if i'm being played

one thing's for certain,
no land in sight.
so i soar and i swoop
but still come up short.
flyin' on a whim...

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Sour Milk

2008-08-04T20:13:52Z

I was afraid of them,
the kind of fear that tastes
of stale milk.

A sour fear
that stayed with me
as I churned over
the convent playground.

A new friend-
Jenny, six years old.
One-step beside me
chattering away---little sparrow.

The nuns could not abide
sparrows
or anything unyoked
from a creaking guilt.
A sin they bound
like yellowed parchment
to their parched breasts.

How could we have known
about that dark triangle of theirs
that drove them to watch us
as if we were
small pink bombs?

One day our intimacies
were gleefully undressed
by a fervent bride of Christ.

Bottoms were lashed,
thrashed with an ecstatic zeal.

Afterwards
they made Jenny
confess her spilt milk-
but finding none
they simply curdled her
instead.

(C) Eric Ashford August 08

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Ode to the Misses of America

2008-08-02T18:42:23Z

Ah Miss America
the wonders of her splendid pageantry
her radiant prance
her sculpted lofty golden coiffe

Ah, these 51 well trained steeds
arrayed in their vast glitter and glory

Here ye blossoming nubile miss
Here ye spritely slender young wisps:
Divert your gaze from these frosted parched sparkley specters
Cast it instead into the breeze, down the street
amidst a less packaged lot --
the non-wanna be's

Let's ponder for a moment this kindly keen fox
her frank high refinement
her dignified walk
emblazoned with the fervor of nobility of soul
There is nothing spurious in her easy august saunter
gracefully galloping into her own wild blue yonder
Yes, let's confess
this elegant gallantry is something to bless

Next let your eyes caress this hip hot hop shot
full-on in her fleshy fashion
ownin' it honin' it into a fine art
dolled up in duds infused with her madcap moods of mind
her fresh clever rhymes
her fancy rhythms and cock-eyed chimes
Damn that girl is fine!
Yes, let's confess.

Next.
The undercover romance tramp
quietly thrumming her wild fancies
lingering in perpetual ponderation
loitering in the vaulted holy chambers of her vast imagination
Her silent elegantly formed excursive cursive
flourishing in the pages of her journal
We might have to read it to see how her beauty plays
It's not always written on the face.
Touche.

And let's not overlook this benevolent sage
her countenance soft and kind and loosened with age
enshrined in the lines of her journey through time
her eyes glisten with echoes of stillness
silver eyelashes tinged with merriment
Listen closely -- there are pearls of wisdom tangled up in her rambling fancies
and in her tales portals to profound curiosities
Let not her hard won laurels of living languish in obscurity
She has outstrode us all in her reverend antiquity
Her life -- a vivid rich tapestry
and she the distillation of it's vast beauty.
All hail this queen please!

So dear sisters -- let not the moral pass you by
It would be behoove us to de-sanctify
notions of beauty that defy
the Truth that shines before our eyes
It's high time we consort and issue forth an edict we can all stand behind:
Let us
aspire to admire ourselves
d e e p and w i d e

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Blind Date

2008-08-01T14:04:12Z

Hello, pleased to meet you
sorry I am late.
I had to take a moment
to check for goo
and other biological residue.
To scan for
the unsightly stains
of pornographic links
but it seems
I look the same as ever.
Reasonably turned out
for an unadulterated monster
of a human being.

(C) Eric Ashford August 08

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listless....

2008-08-01T02:32:15Z

listless...

lazy eyelids

a few numbers rattle around in my head

admiring a blue ribbon of smoke unfurling and curling in the afternoon breeze

twirling into thoughts of you

me

she

he

yesterday's we

a curious clank from next door's shore
a ghosty list of deeds undone

the toasty caress of the lingering sun

desires to dismantle time
desires to be a big long sigh

blessed to rest

free to be

i slip into dream

lazily.. . . . . .

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New Lover Drunk

2008-07-31T16:14:45Z

New Lover Drunk

By Christopher J. Jarmick

Yes, be drunk like brand new lovers

gulping too quickly on fiery passions

until exhausted.

Lie satiated with great big goofy grins

enjoying the sun, the clouds

laughing at the rain

and how time keeps moving.

Never forget this ecstacy but be a conoisseur,

so you will never settle

for any less kind of drunkness

then this one, borne of love and passion.

Bask in your good feelings

but get up and take a long walk

Pass on this satisfaction

the smile, your elation

to everyone you meet.

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A Woman on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown

2008-07-31T13:45:26Z

She thinks briefly
of killing him
as he orgasms again in her mind.
Behind her
she hears again his sob of pleasure
wanting that sound
to be not a memory
but something inside of her still.
She wants to kill him
beyond that moment.
Kill him for walking away,
his balls tender now
but his heart already
drifting beyond her.

One cigarette after another.
She draws the smoke in-
down into her lungs
then further
into her belly and womb
feeling the slow burn
turn into ghost images-
stillborn
but still curling within her
like a dead child.
She opens draws and cupboards
tossing out clothes
her clothes—anything that
has the taste of a life
before it fell apart
into smoke and smell.

A tear-stained mirror
its face sinking deeper into the past
as she looks within it.
She wants to write letters
raw accusatory letters
to his pride---his bullshit soul
but she cannot remember
why she loved him.
She dreams of following him
to his apartment.
Demanding her life back,
of holding his cock upon her stomach
as he came-
killing him tenderly now
with an inconsolable
and momentary love.

(With a nod to Pedro Almodovar)

(C) Eric Ashford July 08

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Glads

2008-07-30T14:27:43Z

You love
African Violets.

It was a surprise then
when you confessed
a passion for Gladioli

(I will learn
o live with them).

We bring home bunches
from Wal-Mart
-vivid, over-the-top
floral giraffes.

They dwarf everything
in the apartment

but provide shade
for the African violet.

(C) Eric Ashford July 08

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midnight marauders

2008-07-29T21:09:10Z

we galloped through the night on frank laughs and whiskey flasks
lost in fits of wild whimsy
beckoned by the milky madness of the waxing moon

we hurled jigs down empty streets
and painted them red with our revery

i kissed you
you kissed me
spirits flowing eyes rolling
rent asunder by waves of wonder and warm whiskey whispers

your feral fancies unbuttoning me under the black lace shadow of the trees
my body murmuring unnameable ardors in the midnight breeze

ripped stripey tights
squeals of delight

intertwined
rustling
foraging
plundering

you + me + these empty flasks of whiskey = yes yes Yes please

tomorrow ... well, we'll see.....

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Cello

2008-07-29T18:11:07Z

A hollowed out intimacy.

Dark flowers
grow from blind roots
to become the gloss
and depth of ambiguity.

A sorrow climbs
a roofless tower.

Thigh deep
genitalia deep
the weight of rain clouds.

~~

Shadow play
between storms.

Rue has no name
for such naked passions.

A weight moans
within a weightless artery.

~

Between exposed legs
a dragon climbs
towards a crooning heart.

okey umber
held to the throat
as a gravity of loss.

~

Fine hairs
stroked to arousal.

Black waves
churn the milk of twilight.

A drowning wrist
above a whirring hand.

~

A corded thrum
held tightly
until longing emerges.

A cambered bow strikes
to glimmer,
to lay bare darkness.
Hairs soften
on the up curve.

~

Pressure rubs sound
around saturated fingers.
The belly hums on.

A flutter gleams
before thunder
pulls it apart.

(C) Eric Ashford July 08

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the purpsose of art

2008-07-29T05:17:20Z

art is to provide
what life cannot
and so my lines
really tie the knot

'tween love and lost
real and not
what we want
and what we ought

no need to ponder
what i meant
or time to squander
for it brings contempt

do your duty
that's all we can
with style and grace
and show what's man

i know not what
may come of their plot
but know we amask more
than that lousy lot

we artists know more
than their schools can tell
we know our worth
we know it quite well

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Love Bones

2008-07-28T12:43:25Z

Bedsprings crochet bones together.
His back sutured to dreams,
gripes still stitched to gummy joints.

In the toilet avoiding the mirror
humming softly
shunning conversation with himself
the ceiling drips a sump of oily memories.

The park--- Frances revolves confused
“I don’t understand"
-a phrase with self-winding words.

A slight miscalculation
a turning away at the precise moment
she turned towards him.
An error of timing really.

Frances whirs on, "I don't understand."
He understands she overdosed.
He imagines this power over her life
to be his. It feels good being that lethal.

Time whittles cavities with calcifications.
Softly the spine of a storybook breaks;
where one stitch patches a sorrow
a spur prods and rips.

When he listens to the hollows
between the long dark vertebrae of his life
he hears a theory crumbling away
under slow grinding teeth.

(C) Eric Ashford July 08

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Touch

2008-07-26T18:19:25Z

In the half light
where love is blind
our hands fall
through sensation
blurring
as we migrate
to a place
seen
only once
within
a finger tip.

(C) Eric Ashford July 08

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The Year of the Turtle

2008-07-25T12:48:19Z

We carried them home in a salty pail
the bones of a monster.

Freddy lived
in a ramshackle palace
hard by a softly tilting beach.

He said it could be an alien,
his dad had seen one of their ships
high up in the sky like a shiny sixpence.

When we tipped the skeleton out.
Seawater sloped onto the floor.
For a moment the bones swam.

I wondered if it was a mermaid
or a mermaid’s child.
Freddy poked it with his foot.

“Don’t, you’ll crush it”

“Look at its head” he said
“it’s got no teeth.”

That settled it. We agreed
it was a space-child---possibly drowned.

That night by the tides rolling ebb
its beaked jaw opened and sang to me
of far away shores.

(C) Eric Ashford July 08

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Curls

2008-07-24T16:23:51Z

It’s not what we do or say.
It’s not your fault or mine.
We are holes sometimes,
places to fall through.
When we go somewhere
like children
expecting nothing
we arrive back
under the curls
of a familiarity.

Our hands purring
as if we had never
been lost.

(C) Eric Ashford July 08

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The Fairy Dell at Buckton

2008-07-23T19:06:14Z

The stream
rills through
a gully
polishing stones
then tumbles
into the dell.

You feel
a spell, binding
water, rock and air
an aura.
lighter than
the sunken weight
of time.

For a moment
your life
is a charisma
bounding after
a fizzing sylph.

A burden
slips its leash
while the beck
twirls a leaf
in an eddy
of silvery songs

that you had
forgotten

once to sing.

(C) Eric Ashford July 08

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Geese

2008-07-21T14:33:28Z

Geese slalom
across an iron dawn
sliding through
the black furrows
of invisible stars.

A magnetic pulse
pinions
the sky to their compass
they draw
a seismic arrow
cracking thin ice
into a flotsam of flames.

This dormant day
may feel a rousing
of fiery seeds.

An upheaval blooms;
a melt erupts
on the rim of tomorrow.

(C) Eric Ashford July 08

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Estuaries

2008-07-20T13:13:09Z

It is not a small thing we do
this mutual art of speaking
like softly glowing lamps
in estuaries of desire.

It is a depth
for hollowed-out shapes
where words (like boats)
carry spices and flavors
toward silence.

(C) Eric Ashford July 08

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junction road

2008-07-19T12:17:15Z

At number 32, just across from the cottage
where the man trades used gumball machines
was a house once, now
only bare red clay crossed with bladed ruts
She stood out front most times in summer
the woman who rented,
small shorts on too large a frame
ropes of midriff and a high water mark
showed her style
but she always smiled, said hello to those who would
Some said that was her stock in trade
If you know what I mean,
they walk the other side
those sayers, them who always know
nod heads and whisper only their own truths
I was away for a time,came back to
just that red sticky mess of clay
No sign of where the house was
nary a trace of her
though I’d s’pose not anyway
just those three dead trees, fingers grasping at the leaden sky
Meanwhile,
Winter rain left a thousand diamond buds
tipped on dry stick branches as
jewelled fruit hanging, waiting for the wind
Whilst the vacant lot hungers for a soul
Its fate an icon,or
then simply a descant for gossips

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At a Quaker Meeting

2008-07-18T12:58:21Z

We gently steam
shucking raincoats
shaking umbrellas.

A small foyer
between the busy road
and the peony perfumed hall.

A petite lady giggles
as she topples
over her discarded handbag.
Then we file in.

Chairs and cushions
are arranged.
There is a deference here
a willingness to let be
as we walk away
from the crowded boulevards
of our thoughts.

The Quakers are silent
but I (damp and distracted)
fidget-
my mind still toppling over
its own baggage.

The hall drips slowly
into meditation

and the peonies-

the big, bold, flamboyant peonies,
they keep the peace
like the bouncers of heaven.

(C) Eric Ashford July 08

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Ludlow(UK) Anglican Church

2008-07-18T10:22:44Z

dusty glass heavy with
criss-cross lead,
beneath this unloved mirror to the world
ancient frettted stone
so old ferns have root hold
and in desperation fitfully
cling to life in soft lime mortar;
red peony roses blinking
in the struggle sun,
on the lintel
a carv'd gargoyle head
tongue extent
grinning a chesire smirk,
lettr'd crooked higher still
'the manse'
fading numerals read,
1365
rector : simon makepeace
there were signs he still thereabouts
satellite dish drooping from the chimney
in silent witness
downloading the latest word
from that other place

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Movie

2008-07-17T14:49:13Z

You return in parts
like a movie once seen.

I recall scent and texture.
My senses turning to
drinking birds.

Your golden triangle
the opiate of drenched blooms.
The smell of soft moments
astride driving passions.

Looking back,
reprising scenes seen
from close-ups too near
to be put together.

Not seeing your face
remembering only glances, flexures

but the body responds.
Your hands read me again
in a book thought lost.

(C) Eric Ashford July 08

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. . . And So It Begins

2008-07-17T06:13:01Z

And so it begins . . .
by Christopher J. Jarmick

She opens her body
vulnerable, not so afraid of him
but of herself, willing to give anything
at least this time, to a lover
she is still getting to know.

The feeling is both exhilarating
and scary, exciting, daring
and utterly necessary.

She slides past yellow lights
believing something or someone is
watching over her, protecting her
and if not, . . .
well too late to worry now.

She lowers her eye lids
purses her lips,
a smile,
almost a dare to her lover
to explore her as he desires,
to show her what he has got,
to take her as he pleases.

Her guard is down
he can touch her,
pinch her,
nibble on her
anyway he likes.

And when he does,
she responds with meows,
and purrs and coos and moans
and deep sensual breaths.
Her eyes roll, her tongue slips
out our her mouth.
She is in this moment
a goddess of pleasure.

And he worships at her alter
being more careful then he needs to be,
almost more careful then she wants him to be,
but its a nearly perfect slow sensuous dance,
He can feel her body responding,
and he can imagine what she is needing next.
He takes a chance, moves in a way he never moved before,
touches in a way he never dared touch before,
and she floods him with juices
and squeezes him, like no one
he has ever been with has ever done before.

They look deep into each others eyes, vulnerable
in their heated passions
in wonderful, dangerous ways.
She smiles, ready for more
they both know

he has only just begun....

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Bastard

2008-07-16T14:23:26Z

they say I yelled
like a banshee
that day
under a tin roof
as the rain rattled down

she laid as if dead
on the bloody bed
already slipping
into indifference

the midwife
shouting
over the drumming
the priest humming
a prattling good prayer

I imagine now
my gummy mouth
screeching blue murder
while that hole
of a filthy cellar
was swept of affection.

(C) Eric Ashford July 08

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from her morning walk

2008-07-16T07:54:13Z

A shoe in the window, or it's a cat
She seemed to say, with her mouth half open
Pointing with both hands. See. There. Look at that.
Face damp with spray (or tears from the ocean.)
"it came out less than I intended,"
She said clearly, I could hear. Both eyes
Look at me. The cat...
"I walked there," making coffee,
"Couldn't see the point," she said,
"Clearly." The soft grey in the corner.
And curled around her ankle.
Faint moaning in the distance,
She shakes the droplets from her hat brim.
A little cry of hunger from below.

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Lamina

2008-07-15T11:50:59Z

We listen

through the fine
hollow bones
of hunting angels.

When sleep comes

our voices tangle
like sea fronds

ears thimblerig
shells of sound.

(C) Eric Ashford July 08

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Airborne

2008-07-14T13:44:03Z

One is a dragon on the wing
the other a butterfly.

Each reaches for the sky
all the way home.

While I pour wine
you watch them
as you would jets
flying over the airbase.
Your eyes seeking
daring arrangements
aeronautic maneuvers.

At night
moth wings
take off from their stems
heading for
Wright-Patterson.

(C) Eric Ashford July 08

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Cul-de-sacs

2008-07-11T15:59:41Z

roads slip
into driveways
canyons of silence
where cars
run out of places to go.

Saturday morning in Ohio
the burbs bristle
with a sheen of unseen.

Hours wander off
become confused
are led back
by a marshalling sky.

Occasionally there are whispers
from the bottom of the bag
where wild flowers skirmish.

Success here
is anything
we can quietly
hold on to.

(C) Eric Ashford July 08

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how many of you..?

2008-07-11T15:44:42Z

how many of you feel
you never have nor
ever will write your best poetry?

my best stuff always escapes
my pen.
it's always when i'm off
by myself, walkin or,
sittin' smokin'.

sometimes it's long and
clear though mostly it's
fleeting and only
you'd understand it anyhow...

oh yeah.
it's late evening here
in seattle.

the sky's blue like
a full bottle of bombay sapphire.

..too bad mine's empty

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Undone

2008-07-10T22:24:58Z

I am undone
by his poetry
his shoulders
his arm and his cock

his words unlock me
unwind me
beguile me
undone

undo me
I'm undone
it's thru its' over
and I'm undone

my heart beats
my breath quickens
his words thrill me cause they're for me
I'm undone

I want him to want me
I'm undone
reach for him
into the depths of me

want him to have of me
I'm undone
all of me
done

mefr 07/05/2008

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After-Crash

2008-07-10T13:35:05Z

I can’t tell you how it happened.

It was a consequence.
It flowed from “What the fuck!”
Careening onward
into everything that happened after.

We survived, but for days
the present stared whitely
from behind
its locked wheel.

(C) Eric Ashford July 08

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Strange

2008-07-09T14:58:37Z

For a moment you are strange,
a peculiarity.

If I close my eyes
your face disappears.

Spectral threads
must be twisted together
just to bring you back.

Smiling you raise your head
above the laptop.

The inexplicable
peers over
a familiarity.

Our history comes back
in sparks and dimples.

(C) Eric Ashford July 08

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Painting in the Dark

2008-07-08T14:18:38Z

You bruise easily
symptoms of lust
become signs, the stigmata
of our cages opening inwards.

What the bloom perceives in the bud
that will be our intimacy.

Climb over me, luminous and quiet.
Our bodies will talk
at the edge of their knowledge
like children and hermits

in the etched syllabary
of blind artists.

(C) Eric Ashford July 08

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McKean Institute

2008-07-07T14:02:22Z

A python uncoils

to the banshee songs

of the trees. Lushness

sinks downward

to bare stalks.

The week ends in confiscation.

Fingers and toes pruned

taken away.

The gnarls and stubs

go to the red headed vultures

that abide like dogs

close to our heels.

In the Thai language

'never mind' (mai pen rai)

is a three word song

within a wry smile.

Leper town is in no hurry

it has seen death miscarry

inch by inch.

No one counts

nubs and stumps.

Above the febrile glands

of the jungle

below the uncoiling night

we toss back beers

laughing-

forever broken.

never mind.

~~~~~~~

Footnote: McKean Institute is a treatment and rehabilitation center

in Chiang Mai, North Thailand.

(C) Eric Ashford July 08

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Residue

2008-07-06T14:43:05Z

Some late falling leaves
are too dark to be visible.

They crash through the night
as you lay deafened by frost
or the creaking doors of the sky.

Train wrecks happen
when no one is watching.
People fall out of planes
into empty fields.
Life collides with its own loneliness
is nullified
into countless zeros.

You can fall
into a dead space unnoticed---
where you would expect to find debris
dark leaves tumble unseen.

In the morning
you sweep up your remains
closing a door softly behind you.

(C) Eric Ashford July 08

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A Thai Market

2008-07-06T14:36:52Z

the dawn finds its face
above a fluid intersection
of misty paths

the market people
settle beside the Ping River
like birds

girls’ squat
over straw hats
brimful with chilies
or dried anchovies

they are not from Chiang Mai
they ride in on bicycles
through the night

small amounts of fish
are for sale
bundled in newspaper
and tied with pink raffia

we exchange a few coins
smiles

some mutual recognition

of the significance
of crossroads

(C) Eric Ashford July 08

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 2 replies

Afterwards

2008-07-04T13:39:12Z

The two open mouths
of her shoes
one face down like a drunk
the other
lopsided and gaping.

Her smudged face
in the bathroom mirror
seen from the bruised sheets.

Headlights strafing curtains,
her dress shipwrecked.

Images that stay tucked
under his pillow
in the half-light
after she quietly leaves.

(C) Eric Ashford July 08

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 0 replies

in case i spammed

2008-07-02T13:41:30Z

i'll delete the spam if their is some kind of delay for posting atm....i ha spelling errors and wanted to delete the poorly spelled posts

my apologies ...i will check this tribe posting as it appears nothing posted atm.

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 3 replies

as i see it

2008-07-02T00:21:05Z

As I see it
The universe is imploding
Perhaps it is gearing up
For some apocalyptic orgasm
I wonder if we are situated
In the groin of it all
Waiting for the meteor
Or asteroid
Or both
To show up
As the polar ice caps
Melt

as religions find their messiahs
propose their justifications
For cosmic conditions
For extremist deeds
As cyclones of thought
Tsunami’s of fear
Line up as foreplay

with earthquakes that just fall off
Into some kind of
Volcanic ejaculation
That spread legs
consciousness
sunsets
unexpected misalignments
that appear as perfect chaos
doing a striptease
at the galactic equator
where a quick fix
shifts perspective’s
a tad enough to call it
even
when it is odd

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 0 replies

The Beauty of a Dying Flower

2008-07-01T03:53:20Z

The elegance, for a moment
falls upward
then a withering poise
unfastens a gesture
into one last spray.

A courtesan
fades before us.
Simplicity returns
a beauty is unmasked,
an intimacy disrobed.

The petals curl
into neonatal arrangements.
Moths cling to veins
wings closing over emptiness.

The shedding
belongs now to a heart
that is sinking
into a plasma of surrender.

An invisible engine
absorbs its appearance
revealing only the pulse.

The throb of dissolution
cascades above contracting tips
in showers of loss.

A bouquet beyond the seen
blooms once more.

The eyes register
a fluttering breath
borne aloft-

a slow pavane
tumbles into the grace
of ruin.

(C) Eric Ashford June 08

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a tree in the forest

2008-07-01T01:36:46Z

a tree in the forest
grows only toward its potetial,
it merely follows the sun.

i am no different

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 1 reply

Adobe Church

2008-06-30T14:37:11Z

Deeply dazed,
deeply hinged to the humming blue hymns
of the burning sun
an antechamber, where dust
becomes clay
becomes flesh
kneeling or sheltering
from the heat, the anvil of light
the closed breastplates of the sky.
Adobe walls as white as
the face of the Holy Mother
who gazes down
from deeply raftered shadows
like a tree of succulent fruit
within the mud temples
of our faith.

(C) Eric Ashford June 08

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 0 replies

a ball

2008-06-30T14:20:35Z

in 'polski' or polish it's "pilka",
down in rio they'd call it "bola"
yet they're both talking about a ball, yes?

is it any different with religion?

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 1 reply

A Bird Flies Into A Window

2008-06-29T14:03:01Z

A brief scrape of claws
over glass,
a commotion of wings
then the dead sound
of a broken life.

An unseen falling-
a soft flutter as it recoils
and crumples into death.

I lay there
not wanting to hear.
Not wanting to listen to
the blind beating
or imagine its small body
shattered in the wreckage
of an illusion.

When the sun rises,
I will go to the window to look.

Perhaps some fatal shadows
are swept clean by daylight?

Perhaps the dawn chorus
will not seem so breakable,
so blinded by light.

(C) Eric Ashford June 08

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 0 replies

A Hidden Death

2008-06-27T13:44:52Z

A glissando of sun and wind
reminds me of you
and I am back again
on a distant street.

Your memory turns to me.
You tell me about the miscarriage.
It matters to you
that you share this invisible fact.

Our affair also ended in secret.
You say that you will leave him
but I know you won't
death binds people more than life.

Back on the sidewalk
I turn to you
as if you are still here
the same question between us.

A ghost-child
(a rill of sun and wind)
answers
from the far side of time.

(C) Eric Ashford June 08

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 0 replies

Gestures

2008-06-26T12:13:28Z

On the way out
he turned to me
arms raised
hands clasped above his head.

It was a brave gesture
which for a moment
waved away
the shadow on his lung.

I did something with my face
it might have been a smile
or a scream.

My mind already walking
through its glass door.

(C) Eric Ashford June 08

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 0 replies

Downtime

2008-06-25T15:17:08Z

They rolled him
into the back of the ambulance.
I heard his feet drumming weakly
on the steel sides of the gurney.

Then I saw the blood on the road
where he had kept
sawing open his wrist
until someone finally noticed.

The second parking ticket of the week,
a finger flip from a smart-ass kid.
Then, only that morning
a telephone-recorded voice
that eighteen people were ahead of him.
told him he was on hold-

Eighteen months out of work,
Months spent queuing
in-between moments of hope.
The queue had formed
an endless circle now-
he could see it on his wrist.

He thought he could see numbers there
numbers that subtracted
more than they accumulated
as his downtime continued
to bleed away.

(C) Eric Ashford June 08

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 0 replies

Dead Cat

2008-06-24T14:44:29Z

There is something too sad
about a dead cat in the road.

Of a sudden, the world
seems an alien place to die.

Our pets imprint us.
We feel our own worth
in their responses.

A dead cat-
its corpse tossed
to the side of the road
has all the tragedy
of any broken relationship.

A piece of us
is mislaid
each time we drive-by
untrammeled
by some personal loss.

(C) Eric Ashford June 08

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 0 replies

The Best Northfork Has To Offer

2008-06-23T23:01:36Z

In the graveyards & parks in town, sex & drugs are ingrained institutes of the youth.

Sit on bar stools waiting on the combination of a few drinks and a friendly face.

Your right as usual but this time everyone else agrees. Long pauses of silence is not

meant to mean you harm. Surrounded by friends you've out grown. Over charged on life

again. Rotting in your own acceptance speech. No I'm not married and yes the job is still

dead end. One gun, two hands, three seconds to decide. Its either me or this town.

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 0 replies

Standing Stones

2008-06-23T13:19:37Z

They inhabit positions
which the land
has long since
shied away from.

Standing stones
point to the bulldozed path
to buried visions
along the sloping sides
of horizons.

Like dead trees
they are bones
for the sky.
Scaffolding;
an idea the wind has stolen.

(C) Eric Ashford June 08

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 0 replies

Soul

2008-06-22T12:32:20Z

Rocks, like us
carve out their own interiority.

You can see the labyrinths
and cavities of their thoughts.
Their concentric muse
their stoic laminations.

If you split a stone
you can see
inner ears growing-
whorls and hollow spaces
where the world
seeps through
as an engraving of resonance.

There is a velocity
in the utterly still.

If we really have that interiority
that patina, some call soul
it will look like
the carved striations
of river rock.

From the outside
it might appear
as the feathered ears
of a seabird.
As fronds of the wind

but inside
it will be sculptured
and motionless
like a stone
slowly whittled out into art
by what it can endure.

(C) Eric Ashford June 08

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 0 replies

Sasquatch

2008-06-21T15:37:18Z

He is the man few have seen.
He works alone
in stockrooms or as a night watchman
guarding unwanted things.

He is never behind the counter
nor in the kitchen.
He is the man
who has the social skills
to fill containers and racks.

Occasionally
he is found in defunct depots
that have long since
been depleted of function.

Inexplicable sightings
in forgotten corners
give him a mythical life,
a twilight existence
that leaves

foot shaped shadows
where it has crossed
our small-minded paths.

(C) Eric Ashford June 08

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 0 replies

October Burrows

2008-06-20T15:05:02Z

The mossy spheres are opening.
Strewn foyers, vestibules
beneath littered thresholds.

Crows gather to gossip
about murder. Black shadows
preen into winter drifts.

The wind is barelegged.
Halloween will be late this year
the dead are still dying.

Groundhog will go under-
nose twinkling
among the dark hollows.

(C) Eric Ashford June 08

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Coddle Therapy

2008-06-19T14:42:08Z

Gather in the sleepy ponies
from the chill tundra
feed them.
They don't have to be real ponies
maybe they are
starlight and spiced rum.

Take your heart out
kiss its dark face.
Coddle yourself.
Exaggerate your own importance
until you laugh out loud.

Keep nudging your thoughts
one inch away from humdrum.

Be a blessing to stray cats
they don't have to be real cats
any velveteen caress
on two or four legs
will do.

(C) Eric Ashford June 08

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 0 replies

The Girl

2008-06-18T14:06:46Z

She is perennially human
pliable as grass.

She has lived
a captive of love
in the open
where bullets
inaudibly chill.

She is strong
like a little girl,
her heart
refusing any color
but green.

She lets herself in to you
with the key you lost.

(C) Eric Ashford June 08

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 0 replies

Bald Eagles Over kelley's Island

2008-06-17T12:58:21Z

We came to see them.
The sky was so unsheltered
the air so towering.

I think I saw one
circling the horizon.
Really just a shadow,
like a national myth
exiled, emarginated.

We wanted to experience
a wilderness majesty
but the cameras and binoculars
captured something else

a ghost in the lens
a distant symbol
flying towards legend.

Something rare now
but free at last.

(C) Eric Ashford June 08

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 0 replies

Redemption

2008-06-17T12:35:52Z

Blows exchanged
in-between dreams
do not count.

The body is too intelligent
it understands reality;
how it can slip
in and out of your skin.

Toss and turn
make out with yourself,
recriminations only crease
the appearance of emptiness.

Only forgiveness matters
and forgiveness
matters not at all.

It is what you forget
that saves you.

(C) Eric Ashford June 08

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 2 replies

A Very Human Plague

2008-06-14T09:36:12Z

In Warsaw
some lived in the city sewers
Jews and resistance fighters
along with the rats.

That was back then
now the rats nibble through time
and pop-out headfirst
whiskers twitching expectantly
as if waiting
for the next genocidal outbreak,
the next zombie shuffle
in new loafers
or old jackboots.

The rats have to eat.
We can resist
but the sewers are always rising.
The madness always there
swimming rat-like towards us.

Sometimes you can see
pink naked paws
hiding in carpet slippers,
slippers that shamble
over linoleum floors
until pronounced sane-

or until the sewers overflow
again.

(C) Eric Ashford June 08

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 0 replies

Hyperbole: the Search

2008-06-13T17:13:01Z

Are you the one for whom I searched?
Scratching the surface of the skin for hidden stings?
Poking in places where I did not belong?
Have I embarrassed you?
Made you blush and turn away?
Are you aware how long I've looked and lusted
After the traces of your scent
On the gentle breeze of evening.
I've torn down houses looking for you ,
Mowed down old forests like they were merely men.
I've drunk whole oceans,
Thirsty for the taste of you,
Only to find myself dizzy and belching
On the shores of a dead sea.
Do you know the mountains i have moved?
The deserts sifted, grain by grain of sand?
And how many answers have I found?
Your name written in the mist?
You calling out with the voice of the wind?
A flower exactly like your skin your lips your eyes?
A bright spot of sunlight shifting on the forest floor?
A star that died in eons past
Whose light only now begins to twinkle in a corner of the sky?
What are your names, the first and last?
How should I call you?
Is there a number for you?
I can reach across space and time,
But only so far, so long.
When I find you again, will i know?
It has been so long,
Am I still searching
Or merely waiting
For the end?

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 2 replies

Bulk Buying

2008-06-13T13:51:51Z

I brush myself off.
It is midday
at the Asian hypermarket.

Red clouds of curry powder
are settling over rows of
Mung Bean paste and
bottles of oyster source.

The little girl behind the cash register
has seen me jump backwards
as I flapped at the miasma of spice.
She is sixteen going on fifty.
She frowns-

I am the Incredible Hulk
running amok in her narrow aisles.

Weak smiles and gestures
don't cut it.
Its five after twelve
and I am cooking blindly now
throwing ghee and gelagor
into the mix
as I stumble and reel.

I close burning eyes
and within me
a lumbering giant howls
for the humdrum simplicity
of a Big Mac.

(C) Eric Ashford June 08

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 0 replies

A Paranormal Evening

2008-06-12T13:23:18Z

Having nothing more thrilling to do
me and Terry Seville
(he of the curly blond hair,
huge Adam's Apple and acne)
went ghost hunting.

Bungee jumping
had not then been invented
and the term `extreme sports'
meant playing soccer in the snow.

We adenoidal pals
would shout at the devil
in old vacant homes
with only a flashlight and a whistle
between us and chilling fear.

In the movies, people in haunted houses
always separate and are picked off
by evil hands one at a time

but me and Terry stayed together
until our joint overheated imaginations
rose the dead
from toilet bowls, old flower pots
and even broken cupboards.

We found ghouls everywhere
and they followed us home
chattering,
excited and playful now
now that they had found
two true believers.

(C) Eric Ashford June 08

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 0 replies

Flowers

2008-06-11T19:30:30Z

Something is getting larger.
It's not this apartment
with its transparent womb
so full of salty visions.
It's not the porcelain pig
where I keep my stash.

The hours are still as narrow
as school corridors.
The twenty-four hour cycle
still runs
on thin (much-patched) tires.

Yet if I close my eyes
and rock back a little
arms cradled behind my head
to support
a carefully planted moment.
I see a garden expanding
upon those bright frond-tips
that create optical storms
on the surface of vision.

I see flowers as big as planets
blooming on the head of a pin.
A cosmos is budding
spilling over old walls,
pushing through concrete
like the unbridled dreams
of sunflowers.

And that floral arrangement
is getting bigger.
The blossoms more open
and unrestrained
as if mind itself could expand
like a seed full of stars
or like a peony of light.

(C) Eric Ashford June 08

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 0 replies

The Jet Set Omniverse Arkestra

2008-06-11T19:27:15Z

All of my ancient objects,
pull into me
Asking for a piece of energy
Playing their harmonious accords
Seducing the better reaches,
of my soul
What they don’t understand,
is that my needs
are just as great
as their wants
They dance their little circles
Around my orbit
In worship of my power
But I am grateful,
for their continuous return

They are my:
Company
Friendship
Family

They keep me:
Useful
Happy
Content

I am their parent
They are my children
I live,
so that they may exist
My love unto is unconditional
I couldn’t survive
Without their transposed gravity
Tugging at my heart,
asking for just a little more

When their seasons set and subside
Little tears of joy
Fall from my face
Onto the finger tips of my flared arms
I am overwhelmed by the maturity
Exhibited through the elliptical nature,
Of growth displayed
Allowing for true life
To spring forth
In their oceans
In their soil
Under their ice-sheets
Through the guidance of my messengers
Implanting orbital kisses
Deep in their mantels
With violent explosions
Bringing forth the pains of wonderful birth

I am their center
And they are my outer reaches
Just as the great black (w)hole
Of 100,000 light years
Gives me distance to travel
We live as orbit within orbit
Within universal order
Born and breed from chaos
We are part of all the tiny bubbles
In a Multiverse floating freely
Creation began but it will never end
God is generous and I am the Sun,
but you can call me RA
I am in love with all
Because the all is destiny
And destiny is nothing more than love refined,
aware, and peaceful
I am the Sun,
but you can call me RA

- My love is unconditional –

(Title used with all due respect towards Sun Ra - Le Sony'r Sun Ra)

{ written in the A.M. on Thursday May15, 2008 while listening to the soundtrack for “Into the Wild” while hanging out with my little Milky Way Sun-Eye (Tula) Annabella Soleil – my almost 2 yr old daughter }

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 1 reply

pool champ

2008-06-11T19:22:55Z

pool champ

he’s a big guy,
a regular
at pool and drink.

I know him
as well as I can
from shared complaints,
wedgies
and beer.

he holds up a little plaque
with great pride
showing me that he
was one
that helped gain
our shared bar
3rd place
in the annual
city pool league.

one of a two-man team.

I feel glad for him
mixed with a bit of pity.

I encourage him
trying to hide
how sad
I think it is.

I smile
and wonder
if there is no greater aspiration,
some larger reward
in his life.

I already know
there is not.

I do not regard this fellow
with disdain
or disregard
for he is a jolly
good fellow
indeed.

more capable
than I
of rejoicing
in the little things,
the tiny rewards,
the simple smiles.

still too young
to be damned
to his path
but there it is
in front of him.

20 years from now
I don’t know where
I will be
but I am fairly certain
he will be here
drinking
and trying
with all he has
to make his 3rd
into a 1st.

and as I sit in
hypocritical judgment
I am reminded
that no matter what

a man
needs a goal
in life

and that life
is a relative thing.

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 1 reply

easy for me

2008-06-11T19:19:10Z

i wish you were here
and,
i wish it wasn't so easy for me
to piss you off...

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 1 reply

How Come

2008-06-04T21:14:52Z

You see all these birds
Flying around
But rarely see a dead one
On the ground.

Where do all the dead birds go?
Does anybody know?

I figure they must
Go up or down
So I keep looking
All over town.

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 1 reply

the first

2008-04-20T20:48:33Z

oh Shirley
pirouette of my childhood
redgold autumn hair glinting in dusty sun,
you laughed and teased
spun dreams with indelible lies,
and bade me love you
for I did

warm memories of forever summers
and hidden fumbles
etched your heart on my soul,
as the days spread open
you danced your schemes whilst I segued my way
through each tangled web ,
then waited in weary eagerness for
night and sleep that were just another passage to the doorway
of your days history becoming my dreams

we watched the autumn dragonflies as they flew joined
in loves grace together , kissing still green water
then once , you said we could do that
as all innocents have and will, we did

perhaps it was then
when the taste of your saltiness awakened lust
I knew that this was where life began
the child had left ,
we had lost the icon of youth
summer magic became just a fleeting season
the days were simply numbered hours ,
sleep reclaimed the night
age overcame the reason

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 6 replies

come closer

2008-04-15T01:39:40Z

There is
the closeness
then
the touch,
light pressure,
gentle heat,
a sublime dance
between tongues
hungry and eager
yet easy
and calm
as the moist
emotion seeps
into each
in the awed breath
and the rhythmic
beat now
synced.

There is the
closeness
between breasts
and palms
and mouths
and thoughts
and fears
and worries
and wants.

There is closeness
strangling us
in this net
entangled
by our hands
reaching in desperate
hesitation
to hold
and pull
yet ultimately
only grazing the surface
only barely hiding
the turmoil
beneath.

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 3 replies

Dear Jimi...

2008-04-14T10:57:43Z

Oh Soul Mate, where did you go?
The mind plays tricks so how could I know?

Oh Soul Mate, where do I turn?
In my heart forever you burn.

Oh Soul Mate, I know you are the one…
But for reasons unknown, my love he did run.

With grief and despair, I cry in the cold night air…
Gazing up at the Moon, realizing you’re just not there.

Memory upon memory and I still talk to you in my mind.
But our love was not enough, you did find.

Oh Soul Mate, why push me so far away…
Without me, do you have a brighter day?

I feel so incomplete, haunted by this empty space and the loneliness I now face…
Everything inside me, feels so out of place.

And you claimed to be lost yet are running at any cost…
From a girl that loves you so…
Oh Soul Mate, why must you go?

(c) Ahna W. White
ArtCreated.com

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 0 replies

Writing Contest...

2008-04-14T10:54:37Z

The Contest – Hosted by Art Created and I Touch Roses

Are you ready to get creative? I am holding a contest to find a great poem or short story. Here’s what you do… go through my cosmetics store and make note of product names such as “Caring”, “Haunted”, “Day Dream” and “Soul Mate”. Pick any 7 and write either a poem or short story using these words, then send it to me. On May 19th, 08 – I will pick 1 lucky winner. You have a chance of winning a prize package that will include the following items that I create: 3 eye shadows of your choice, 1 foundation powder, 1 bottle of blended perfume, 1 hand carved candle, 1 big bar of natural soap, 1 jar of Skin Euphoria body butter, incense plus other goodies and 1 pair of handmade earrings with matching pendant in sterling silver. This prize package is worth over $200!! So, get creative and start writing.

One entry per person.
All entries must be received by May 18th, 08.
E-mail your entry with the subject “The Contest” to: Ahna@ArtCreated.com
Be sure to list the 7 words you are using. Choose the 7 words from my product titles from my cosmetics store found at: http://ITouchRoses.Etsy.com
No purchase is needed!!
The winner will be featured on the following web sites:
http://ArtCreated.com
http://ITouchRoses.com
http://EclecticJewelryArtisans.com

posted in Poetic Display of Whatever - 0 replies