Veritable torrent of poetry
Sep. 8th, 2010 07:36 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
greenstormCatechism for a Witch's Child
When they ask to see your gods
your book of prayers
show them lines
drawn delicately with veins
on the underside of a bird's wing
tell them you believe
in giant sycamores mottled
and stark against a winter sky
and in nights so frozen
stars crack open spilling
streams of molten ice to earth
and tell them how you drink
a holy wine of honeysuckle
on a warm spring day
and of the softness
of your mother who never taught you
death was life's reward
but who believed in the earth
and the sun
and a million, million light years
of being
J.L. Stanley
Lines
Draw a line. Write a line. There.
Stay in line, hold the line, a glance
between the lines is fine but don't
turn corners, cross, cut in, go over
or out, between two points of no
return's a line of flight, between
two points of view's a line of vision.
But a line of thought is rarely
straight, an open line's no party
line, however fine your point.
A line of fire communicates, but drop
your weapons and drop your line,
consider the shortest distance from x
to y, let x be me, let y be you.
Martha Collins
2 A.M.
Under the covers, the winds of sleep
rock the poppies of your breasts
We close our eyes to this life
and open them to the other Next to the eager
ness of the fly, the wrath
of a flock of sparrows
and the saintliness of the horse
you fall off the precipice of the day's bridge
The teeth of winter
also sleep for a while
Under the bed, my shoes too rest
their burning eyes
At 2 A. M. God comes out to stretch his legs
and lights the cigarette of a whore
that struts in front of the drugstore
The plank of solitude
that spawns fraternities
—snake and hare, owl and mouse—
is dispelled when I exist in your dream
alongside with whom I was and will be
The night is a knife of diving dust
You arch a shoulder and office buildings collapse
when your knees point skyward
there's thunder in a desert
If you were to open your eyes now
you could mangle a continent
Ernesto Trejo
When they ask to see your gods
your book of prayers
show them lines
drawn delicately with veins
on the underside of a bird's wing
tell them you believe
in giant sycamores mottled
and stark against a winter sky
and in nights so frozen
stars crack open spilling
streams of molten ice to earth
and tell them how you drink
a holy wine of honeysuckle
on a warm spring day
and of the softness
of your mother who never taught you
death was life's reward
but who believed in the earth
and the sun
and a million, million light years
of being
J.L. Stanley
Lines
Draw a line. Write a line. There.
Stay in line, hold the line, a glance
between the lines is fine but don't
turn corners, cross, cut in, go over
or out, between two points of no
return's a line of flight, between
two points of view's a line of vision.
But a line of thought is rarely
straight, an open line's no party
line, however fine your point.
A line of fire communicates, but drop
your weapons and drop your line,
consider the shortest distance from x
to y, let x be me, let y be you.
Martha Collins
2 A.M.
Under the covers, the winds of sleep
rock the poppies of your breasts
We close our eyes to this life
and open them to the other Next to the eager
ness of the fly, the wrath
of a flock of sparrows
and the saintliness of the horse
you fall off the precipice of the day's bridge
The teeth of winter
also sleep for a while
Under the bed, my shoes too rest
their burning eyes
At 2 A. M. God comes out to stretch his legs
and lights the cigarette of a whore
that struts in front of the drugstore
The plank of solitude
that spawns fraternities
—snake and hare, owl and mouse—
is dispelled when I exist in your dream
alongside with whom I was and will be
The night is a knife of diving dust
You arch a shoulder and office buildings collapse
when your knees point skyward
there's thunder in a desert
If you were to open your eyes now
you could mangle a continent
Ernesto Trejo
