All posts tagged dverse poets

roam ~

do you taste the snowflakes,
holding out your tempered tongue;

just forget about that acid rain
for it’s hell pouring down,
drenching our smiles
flash freezing memories;

tame spirits cage the free
i died slowly beneath your feet;

sometimes I wander aimlessly
into alleyways searching for -
that cat I could never give a name,
that heart I could never quite contain,
and, that shadow, whose light remains

between us
filtering,

dust to dust
ashes painting these worn soles grey,
and I know, that burning flame (smoldering)
meant to destroy every bond (heart’s dna)
only soldered me closer;

your world, scented summer and lavender;
my life, (a game) a tar-filled heart-attack;
realities – ours never quite matched;

today, I forage through death’s path,
picking up a piece of life (here and there)
waiting (so waiting) to hear a drum beat roll,
leading me to where the wild things roam,
a dancer (a dreamer), finally
home. ~

*************************
Mark Kerstetter has offered a most wonderful post/prompt over at dVerse this weekend. If in need of inspiration, or just for information regarding art and writing within the “wild”, do visit,

This was my late night offering, cross-posted from my NaNo blog to continue my story. Eve’s poem will help to start another line of dialogue between two souls that got lost in the ‘wild’. ~

10 Comments
by angela on 2011/11/27  •  Permalink
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Posted by angela on 2011/11/27

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2011/11/27/roam/

blue room ~

Blue washed walls, undertones too deep to defend; a sunset couldn’t begin to break an arc of warmth in a sea of cool tones. Miles played through the static, speakers crackling (or was it the hiss of the machine). I sit for hours letting your words pour over me; no longer honey dripping, amber thick, warm from August’s sun; instead my mind swirled a drat of bitters, a metallic layer building slowly inside this emptied brain.

Drops of conversation creeping while sitting trying to remember when I last kissed your mouth
(or had I really ever tasted it, was it just a dream scene I painted upon a cloud, a luminescent world where everyone is everything). Matters not now, mind already drifting to your final text.

White wings flying me home again, life’s dead end. Replaying too many seventy-two hour conversational tributes to being alone, semi-lost in mist and tossed coffee grounds. Faltering in freedom’s footprints. Finding poetry pieces among broken sidewalks and mountain vistas. Swirling expensive wines, again and again, mixing vintages, poor and sin.

We begin to unravel our time spent, this path lined in feathers, in glass. A past mapping a present without a magnetic compass, or is it our visions that misdirect; disconnecting another line linking me to you.

One last smile falls watching amber leaves settle down for this final October night. Eyes closed to regrets, an inner calling to wicked spirits to rewrite words gone from tender bed sighs. Know not tomorrow’s sunrise while the smoke blinds me, sheet by sheet, I’m bound to burn every blessed written desire.

*********************
a bit of prose poetry to submit for open link night over at dVerse, a fine poetry pub for writers and readers. Visit, link….raise the bar ~

(this is also part of my opening for my much neglected first night of attempting NaNoWriMo…hmmm, 1700 words behind already! oy!)

10 Comments
by angela on 2011/11/02  •  Permalink
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Posted by angela on 2011/11/02

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2011/11/02/blue-room/

a world tilted sideways ~

steam rolls forth sending waves of expressed bounty;

who pays ravaged, calloused hands for this morning’s sipping luxury;

a world tilted sideways, a hunger tips the balance between want and need;

polluted poverty, well below water line, a stream never fills their empty vessels, hollow tanned hides of skin they live within;

sun rays pound a baby’s makeshift earthen bed of clay; yet a blink, a cry, never sounds from its bony face;

blaring streets, chaos rhythms to blinking lights;

an Xer mother raises designer water to the air; Lulu baby in her grip, balancing a Burberry, teetering on black Jimmys while still holding loaded

bags; a yellowed cab saves with foreign hands, plastic protected before skies plunder;

and I wonder, lifting muted coloured clay to pursed lips, feeling the enemy, tasting the rage beyond this glossed facade,

a window dressing of stylized colourful cling-ons while the caged box roars, reminding me, another world struggles on;

guilt, scalding with each sip, I allow your words to pour over me,

feeling burnt, I finally disagree;
it is this that I protest more ~

********************************************************
The bar is open, i.e. it is open link night over at dVerse. I’m not certain who is hosting, but it matters not for all that “man” the bar (and belly up to it) are worthy a read. Check it out, find a few links to follow and then settle in for a fine feast. Btw, don’t forget to leave your own calling card at the door.

10 Comments
by angela on 2011/10/25  •  Permalink
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Posted by angela on 2011/10/25

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2011/10/25/a-world-tilted-sideways/

the child ~

She catches a glimpse of me when cleaning the mirror, a glazed projection from weary blue flecks catching a fraction, a mere pinpoint when we were we;

quickly piercing, worn like leather, an eye cover that has accumulated years of summer, opening wide as she spies me through optic dark portals changing spherically, drawing closer, then closing down;

a blink, a refraction between dark matter, she thinks; stepping into memories, when ticking was a heartbeat, not her world’s empty drum;

then the darkness comes, her mind caves in, again,
sinking below the living’s surface;

our umbilical never lets go; the creative child never forgets;

regret fills each step; she turns away, a million fragments, a shattered smile dissipates down within this prison; cries bounce soundless upon our bone and skin;

nailed above her bed, a sketch, a world where we both lived, both died; charcoal swirls a secret, shadowing where the troubadour’s song was heard;

sandman calling, and I am, again, free; murkiness pooling, her mind slowly unwinding taking us deeper into a crystal sea,

drowning, holding breath, she dives to reach yesterday;
letting her go, I break surface, knowing then

we can start to live,
again ~

*******************
Mark Kerstetter, one of the wonderfully talented writers at dVerse, offered a creative prompt this weekend regarding Persona. Please visit dVerse for a full description as my poem doesn’t give the poetic term great service for I didn’t really stretch the limits. I did wish to try writing from a different perspective, however, so I composed this tribute to the inner child.

8 Comments
by angela on 2011/10/23  •  Permalink
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Posted by angela on 2011/10/23

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2011/10/23/the-inner-child/

chisel it poetic ~

Peeps keep askin’ “aren’t ya excited?” and I think, meh, it is, it will be…

indifference not born from expectancy, luxury of free money, writing this
on New Yorker’s $$$ issue, no cash just jangling around junk drawers,
thin pockets or fair-trade wallet, yet, three (or was it four) years since
San Fran adventure, I feel a need to escape, disregarding my fellow 99 percent;
‘cuz man, this lady’s spent, a job that pays rent but begs a leave before
attitude asks me to, so I take judgement, self-imposed recognizances;
tomorrow I roam cloud scape, a temporary home, calling Kurt’s old city
beat my own, searching cobbled Pioneer pathways for tossed pennies,
perhaps passing docks, dodging raindrops, wondering …
why am I here?

philosophically, metaphorically, metaphysically (redundantly)
enough already!

boarding that bird, human engineered, fly with these words, just
placate her, for muse has lost her flair; chipped shoulders slung
with Poetry, Blue Canvas, a backpack layered in black, ready to
attack this city, midwestern lungs breathin’ new air,

and, if I lose perspective, direction; just an hour down,
bent and torn, on my closet floor I found a cream coloured
card for food & bar, blocks from where my hat will lay;
don’t remember who gave it to me, or its longer story,
but somethings telling me cosmos are nudging me northward,

and, if it was only to crash and burn, no regrets,
chisel in poetic after splintered ashes been spread,

sweet serendipity always called her name ~

*****************************
Go ahead, get a bit dVerse, share your talents over at the bar. It’s open for business and waiting to pour words out into the digital universe so your voice can be heard ~

16 Comments
by angela on 2011/10/18  •  Permalink
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Posted by angela on 2011/10/18

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2011/10/18/chisel-it-poetic/

polite society -

Normally, I’d share this at the end, but for this one, I believe I shall
warn in the beginning. dVerse, a fine place for writers and readers to gather,
offered up a challenge this weekend to write a poem about a taboo matter. While
working this weekend, my topic came to mind, but didn’t spill onto the page until
now. Not the best write, but no time to ferment, just to post. Shall warn, however,
no roses shall fragrance this one, just an honest telling of one thing polite society
cares not to talk about ~

could you read a poem about what you did, aloud;
could you read it to a child, your blond haloed angel,
twenty years from now, as she soars into this warm
world of opening doors, opening arms, opening…
(what is that next word)
harm?

do you tell her at eighteen, sportin’ skinny jeans & white sweater,
to not fear new opportunities, just don’t fraternize with the enemy,
a fraternity mate, whose sole mission is to party, earning As in
exploratory biology, pre-med; all twice wed doc daddy’s vision.

wait? not a fair story, you say, you were only twenty…twenty-
one?

tell someone who cares; who wasn’t merely sixteen, outfitting
Lennon’s Imagine for the great wide open world; how it shrunk
in one fell swoop under jeering mouths and caging hands,
one-hundred proof creating many fools, but to …

harm, violate – do we call it almost rape?
what? can’t stand to swirl that word round
your aging mouth; thinking, not really, just
boys playing to the bass banging in all our heads;
forcing hands down an innocent’s pants in a
public place wasn’t a violation, it was …

now she listens to blues, or get lost playing Tori Amos,
beating the piano til its frayed; she plays that cold dread
creeping like a lover’s hand, hearing an echo scream

remembering as it comes a haunting round cobwebed
corners of her brain, questioning….

was it REALLY anything?

what a society we live in when we sing
about sex, baby; bandy it around with fuck,
wear it like a badge; yet, we cringe to hear
real taboo, fashion a beat to it unless
its set digital glam, one crashing decibel
as her broken vessel screams, raging in chains;

just another world gone buried, like this warning
you will fail to sound, thinking it will scar her
innocence, a youth still unbound ~

16 Comments
by angela on 2011/10/16  •  Permalink
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Posted by angela on 2011/10/16

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2011/10/16/polite-society/

Gadgets

Gadgets

A smartphone

A square in its metal silence, silently boasting its greatness; a subtle reminder that silence makes us appear smarter when we remain mute. Its beauty is in its being, a silent humming as my palm wraps around it cold exterior releasing a vibration that someone, somewhere wishes to no longer be silent.

iPhone

A smartphone beyond smart, a phony replacement for a heart calling us silently in its ability to propagate unconditional love, silent bleating. Smarter than that doctor silently holding while waiting to be beamed an x-ray already fading to grey.

iPhone to a world beyond where droids roam, thinking, no silence means nothing. Gadgets run beliefs. Run. Run.

**********************

dVerse is offering up a challenge today to create a poem based on another poet’s work. I had a bit of fun fashioning this ditty after Gertrude Stein’s, Tender Buttons, which can be found in its entirety for free at Project Gutenberg. Tender Buttons was monumental for Stein as an artist, focusing more on how a poem read, i.e. how it sounded. If you read the portion called Objects, you’ll find that she used repetition and word play to formulate lyrically clever pieces.

11 Comments
by angela on 2011/10/14  •  Permalink
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Posted by angela on 2011/10/14

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2011/10/14/gadgets/

p.p.p. ~

bumper to bumper
a snarl of brewing environmental
venom, I watch them as I spin
lugging my weight, a labor
dripping in sanctimony, but hey,
i’m no fakin’ wanna be hippie
sportin patchouli and designer dreads
only to travel two miles cushioned in
calf leather, steering an H3, thinking,
“so cool, drivin’ this tank, carpooling”

oblivious fool, your beastly burden
might be semi-forgiven if you buy carbon
credits, givin’ green back for every mile,
a true emmisons of sin;

riding, watching pseudo tin, halt and grind,
almost collide, bumper stickers come to
mind; Carlin had it right, make sure you
have your reading materials for your fellow
man; sadly, we fail to see truth, humility,
a bumper reflecting excess, selfishness,
slapping the backside beside the fish
saying something like this:
my faith got me Jesus AND
a Lexus, ain’t I blessed?
praise the power of prayer
p.p.p ~

*********************
dVerse had a cool prompt about bumper stickers this weekend. I just caught wind of it tonight, so, as I drove home (I know, I do bike to work but not when I work late) I couldn’t help but have some fun. I apologize for any cheap shot that may make you cringe. I will admit freely that I’m not a fan of Hummers, at all. Someday I shall have a t-shirt that has Just Say No with
a slash through this resource sucking vehicle not made for city roads.

Sidebar…I do drive an economy car (I would drive a Prius, but I cannot afford).

5 Comments
by angela on 2011/10/10  •  Permalink
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Posted by angela on 2011/10/10

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2011/10/10/p-p-p/

unadulterated ~

Nary a leaf
danced,
a rare
midwestern stillness
caught between stormy
sunsets, clouds draped
mauve tinged skies
bathing hungry eyes in
golden flames;

lips teased tastes of
current and plum
from ruby globes,
heaven knows
this twilight
a gift,
a reminder of bliss;

kiss me
before night falls
to thunder, for
I smell the wet;

least we forget perfect nights such as this,
a silence dressed in jazz, playing romance,

yes, please, shall we dance?

our last immortal sin,

unadulterated ~

**********************
Dear me, is it Tuesday already? Claudia is tending the bar over at dVerse, a fine place to find poets from across the globe sharing their voice for the price of your comment, or two. Link up tonight, dVersify…. cheers ~

15 Comments
by angela on 2011/09/27  •  Permalink
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Posted by angela on 2011/09/27

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2011/09/27/unadulterated/

train. train.

a hollow whistle splits opaque atmosphere, skies sigh
heavily, waiting on mother’s lace to drape vapid land;

blow. blow. before that snow billows, metal boxes roll,
rusted rails a rumblin’, blowin’ like Ellington takin’

Strayhorn’s “A” train home. Roam, empty alleyways,
cutting through shanty riddled yards, housing busted

babies donning broken smiles wearing beat up guitars;
envisioning western starlight, skinny Guthrie wannabes

wishing Tennessee waltzes ‘em off frozen lines
into feathered comfort toasting a roaring fire;

boxcar willie hands with a youth’s grin a shinin’,
roll. roll. sunrise burning off last night’s whiskey bed,

slide doors wide open, bleary eyed; frosted countryside,
mountain’s crystalline divide passing, pullin’ em back;

winter’s shiver settles in and they wait for Cali light;
sleep wiping yellow eyes; rail weary but ready,

conductor’s whistle sounding final rights, blow. blow.
jumping tracks seeking angels, prayin’ some miracle

sings em right; no more busted ties, just a steady
ride where future rolls wide open; train. train.

roll ‘em home before heaven shines its light.
roll ‘em home before hell becomes the night.

train. train. your whistle will sing ‘em home.

*******************************
It’s link up night over at dVerse pub. It is a fine place to linger over a pull of stout or a glass of cab while reading the stylings of so many talents. All are welcome to visit & link. ~ cheers

As an aside, dVerse had a prompt this weekend regarding trains. I missed it, so I thought I would do mine tonight. I grew up with the local rail running behind my house. There is nothing more beautiful than to see a train barrel through a snow-covered landscape at the pitch of night. There is also nothing more haunting than a train whistle when it splits the night.

19 Comments
by angela on 2011/09/20  •  Permalink
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Posted by angela on 2011/09/20

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2011/09/20/train-train/

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