All posts tagged relationships

city streets -

don’t say a word; write it down, mark it art;
ink a thousand verbs, bleed them into song;
don’t offer up a melody, unless it is amazing;
sing out this pain, block it red in silver rain;
stop this autumn sun, let the blues appear;
write it loud until our voices sing it out ~

I watched them walk away in a background lit by amber street paint and gleaming sidewalks slick with mist. Trees seemed to whisper around them, the leaves failing to meet dried blades together, gone lifeless in the breeze. Among their silence, two lives seemed to cleave.

Watching them safely, coffee smoking slightly, this corner cafe my nighttime company. Traffic horns; buses gasping brakes; cabs screaming all over the place couldn’t mask what flashed between them.

His open grasp lingered on her shoulder. A black overcoat kept his form, but couldn’t hide his shoulders as they slipped forward, hoping to still catch her.

A dark sari draped heavily, yet a halo of light seemed to radiate; a street lamp turned spotlight captured her face.

A lone light, this corner street’s angle somehow encircling their beings as hands, palm to palm, finger to finger, skin praying together, not letting anything else in.

And then, I watched them fall apart; arms falling down, palms to the ground, flanking sides, gone ghostly. Each turned the other way. The city continued her beat; feet stepped away. I watched until the crowds swallowed them up, a thousand different thoughts went past them.

A troubadour must right their wrong; write their song. A tune that will never get lost within the city where streets find love has left and gone.

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

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2011/10/02/city-streets/

wintering ~

Quiet beauty, Fall, Her dying, preparing;
crops gold to grey; waiting, until plowed, then
laying open, offering naked decay to Winter’s,
grace, newly born icy layers, crystal lace;

hand n hand, walking their autumn peace,
witnessing goldenrod still yellow bright while
milkweed cups have dried its caterpillar drink,
cattails sink, succumbing to cottony deaths.

a stolen kiss, among creaking hickories ignites,
stirring smoldering embers, awaiting familiar fires;
gathering wood slowly, splitting cords melodically,
hearing Her whisper softly from empty land,

are the bones ever prepared for wintering ~

2 Comments
by angela on 2011/09/26  •  Permalink
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Posted by angela on 2011/09/26

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2011/09/26/wintering/

“A” train, part deux & trois ~

He played, Take The “A” Train,
melody methodically swaying us
back n forth, rocking a box car over
nature’s frosting, november nightfall
white icing; we took our chances rollin’;

never opting for another train,
our lines remained swithchless,
directionless visions until dead-ending;

too many ghosts surfaced round us,
pouring freely, paper bottle dreams
oozing truth serum screams, lips
blowing out our hobo candle scene;

jumping tracks onto another line,
fightening out of hells kitchen heat
we rode on, busting out, the city beat;

a haunting whistle split our minds;
waining, orange moon on the rise,
traveling, winter coating our lashed
tight eyes; St Christopher descends,
despite him, we took a bridgeless turn,
our saintly end.

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

He played Take The A Train,
its melody swayed us methodically,
human bodies rolling back n forth,
rocking a wooden box spring;

never switching lines, our crossroads tested
directionless visions, we deadend one night,
too many ghosts came haunting from green
bottles oozing with truth serum juice,
lips parted in angry blows killing remaining
wax fueled light;

jumping tracks, we tried another line,
fought our way out of hells kitchen
bumping into patchwork territory,
taking cover on busted springs
peeking thru as we reached
an orange moon cresting,
shadows dancing our covered eyes;

tracking lies became our silent destination,
weeds entangled spinning wheels,
we busted through, thatching half,
fashioning a canopy to catch
falling dreams, some me, some you.

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

If you are wondering what the heck I am doing, good question. I realize this is poetry posting overload, but this is what happens when you become inspired, but your muse keeps taking you someplace else.

Backstory…dVerse poets had a prompt last weekend to write about trains. I’ve another train poem I now must find (fashioned after Poe’s Bells) but I wrote a new train poem on my lunch a couple of days ago in late response to prompt. When it came to rewrite, however the second poem came up (the first one I posted here). The final poem, see “train. train.” post is the one that I rewrote for the third time, it made the dVerse cut.

Clear as mud? If you take the time to read all of them, bless you. Perhaps this is a bit over-the-top, but I guess you could say I was very inspired. That said, in a few hours, I shall post a train related 55 for G-Man… ~

4 Comments
by angela on 2011/09/22  •  Permalink
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Posted by angela on 2011/09/22

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2011/09/22/a-train-part-deux-trois/

blue valentine ~

what happens when memories bleed empty;
no you, no me; we breathe separately under
cold waters turned dead; this love bled
out into winter’s white landscape; wrapped
thinly in loneliness; escape, following a
moon path upon mother’s bridal cape;
ice crystals warming frozen soles
tripping over spilt dreams lost long ago;

a field opens herself wide, offering a
blanket of chipped diamonds built from
solemn tears;
too many years living hollow;
too many fears overflowed;
false laughs filling a dollhouse home;

early spring, you’ll spy a set of bones,
uncovered in a brown expanse turning;
waiting for rusted metal disks to plow,
to bury death, nature’s detritus; me,
a forgotten valentine turned blue.

Blue Valentine is not for the faint romantic. If you cannot handle gritty real life, you shall not dig this flick. I didn’t quite know what to expect when I popped in this DVD tonight, but, in the end I was pleasantly surprised. There was no “Hollywood” ending; no tidy bow, no ah-ha, but a silent hmmmmm as I stared at the credits rolling by wondering “why?”.

Why do we fall in love.
Why do our paths intersect with some and not others.
Why do we seem to then gravitate back to the beginning when we have not found an ending.

I place no question mark at the end, for it seems to overstate the question. I oft think that we know the answer, but pretend that we do not. We are human, after all. We’ve been given the ability to choose our path; our fate via ‘free will’. But will we actually listen to our inner voice that knows which fork in the road to take?

Blue Valentine’s characters know what is toxic. They know what is love, plastic or real. Sadly, they get caught up in the rat race; fall to their own limitations without lashing to the other to say, “please, help me up”.

If we love just to love then what of love other than the word. If we love those that help us discover ourselves at a level deeper than we began then we shall begin to understand what the divine had planned all along. If not, we run the risk of finding ourselves lost, gone wintering, perhaps never to find warmth from the cold.

>>>sidebar: the poem and summation are not reflections of the actual events in the film. this is in no way a spoiler. truth, I need to watch again, but I still don’t think I could tell you how it ‘really’ ends ~

1 Comment
by angela on 2011/09/10  •  Permalink
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Posted by angela on 2011/09/10

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2011/09/10/blue-valentine/

a broken smile ~

a broken smile…
and she will be loved…

I hate to be with the masses, but when it comes to music, I just am and I accept that for the most part. I am ordinary in that respect. I love some of the kitsch that hits the waves today. One example is Maroon 5′s “She will be loved”. This song just resonates within me. I”m sad that I don’t have it on my ipod to run for I know that when the song comes on, I would become another soul within the free float of the universe. The action of running, for me, in combination of a song that I embrace as theme, makes me one with the air. I believe that if someone filmed me while running and a song, such as this, came on, the difference in my whole body would visibly change. I can tell–I become free, I forget the process of running and instead I’m the song… I am the girl with the broken smile searching for that one who wants to be asked to stay a while.

Truth, I was driving home from work an hour ago and this song came on the radio and all I wanted to do was write about how it made me feel. I imagined myself running to it tomorrow in a throng of peeps for Race For The Cure knowing that in that throng, I would feel me and not the crowd if this song were to play. Why? That broken smile is mine and I ask for no cure. I’ve earned that smile, I’ve fought for every ounce of freedom within myself to express those days that are minus rainbows and butterflies. A person knowing another person’s secrets is not enough to stave off the pourning rain. Anyone can make you feel beautiful, but if the beauty isn’t felt within, that same person can shatter the beauty with a word.

I tire of those who’ve broken me trying to put me back together. Granted, I let them break me, but I also asked for the pieces, the glue and asked for some space to put me back together again. It isn’t to be mean, or to be a bitch, it is to repair what has been destroyed within myself in order to be one’s vision of an 18 year-old-beauty queen twenty years later. Beauty is only skin deep within many, but I refuse to be just a face. I’m not plastic, I don’t like plastic and it isn’t my game. Be my friend, be my enemy, but don’t be my prison guard for I have broken from the bars of deception in the name of truth, something you never quite understood in all those years.

Why am I a runner above all else? Why does it resonate within me as much as a song? When I run, in the right frame of mind, I am no longer me, but the sun, the sky, that maple tree in a beautiful shade of burnt umber. I am the rain that lays a mist, I am the doe that bounds across the rutted path, I am…one within the ether. God has blessed me with legs that can run not just because they can, but because it is what makes me understand the greater good of this world.

~it’s not always rainbows and butterflies–it’s compromise

****************************************
I pulled this post up from my old blog because I’m fortunate to go see these guys in concert this evening. I knew I had written this post a few years ago (October 2009) but don’t remember what I wrote. Two things have changed since this posting…I DO have the song on my iPod now (ran to it this morning), and, I no longer consider myself a runner. That said, I still become the music when I run… it sets me free.

~ have a fabulous weekend if you read this…I shall be at work ~

3 Comments
by angela on 2011/08/19  •  Permalink
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Posted by angela on 2011/08/19

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2011/08/19/a-broken-smile/

brutally honest ad -

Warning, I do believe that biking to work in this heat (all week the heat index over 100) has cooked my brain, let alone my funny bone. Ergo, read the ‘poem’ below with caution as it is snarky and without tactful humour. Inspired, in part, by a recent New Yorker article about the online dating scene. Ghastly, just ghastly, but it allowed me to have a bit of fun.

“Friends with benefits”, I wish that is what some chap’s tag
would confess amidst lines of “A hand to hold” or a
“Lug to love”. Please! What of love (I use That word loosely)
according to the New Yorker, an online smorgasboard,
a virtual buffet of mystery meet, their date of expiration
constantly changin’. Love the skin you’re in, or is it browning
to leather; but, don’t you wear it well according to that
ten-years-gone picture; forty, really, or is it time to retire
that photograph?

What of fate when the date comes via eBay, you won,
(or did he) highest bullshitter. Human merchandising gone
vulgar, a shirtless muscled machismo profile pic (Photoshop, I know)
on top that chrome dressed hog, so innocent with that smirk
and quote, “I like dogs”. And, I do, but I am no fool and refuse
to fall for that line regarding “A lifetime of memories to behold”.

Be Bold! Tell me you just swiped the hive looking for honey; a B….,
a bee,(a queen, indeed) will be less likely to be a drone if you just
be honest  when you say, “Just seeking friendship(and perhaps a lay)”.

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

8 Comments
by angela on 2011/07/21  •  Permalink
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Posted by angela on 2011/07/21

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2011/07/21/brutally-honest-ad/

undone

The fireworks were over,
our black sky smoking quietly,
not blowing hot or cold, our
backwoods path rutted, sharp-edged
words poking between polished
gems, fashioned to skip thoughts across
our waiting pond stocked for phishing,
those days grew long sweating out
sunny words while ducking reality,
you feeding greedily on honeyed: yes,
please, thank you for saving me.

Staring into sulphuric shadows,
a red-hot sparkling last dance;
the glowing scythe rising high,
gone golden, piercing the naked hour
when even bulls stop croaking and
cattails go silent in the gloaming;
a screech-owl roaming, she swoops
down to catch a runner, brown-white,
bleeding it for her young.

we’ve come undone.
words have turned pages red;
sheets twisted, bedroom battle field,
God gave us sleep for peace;
angry words will only conjure
bitter dreams thick with black
tar that sticks to white soles
soiling, holding, no escaping
the hollow bullet turned sharp
blade,a willfully worded weapon
for cutting down;

until that fog laced day awakes
a whisper: a soothing song
replacing the shouting drum:
imagine; abandon; a new run -
unhook those rusted chains,
attach these gossamer wings,
then find a cliff and step;
I promise, the life to write
has just begun.

*****************
submitted to OSP…all poetry welcome, follow link.

16 Comments
by angela on 2011/07/06  •  Permalink
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Posted by angela on 2011/07/06

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2011/07/06/undone/

blue moon

a thin-skinned ball, yellowing slight from repeated life exposure,
smoking shafts clouding thru splintering rafters; these black bats
circle bout chasing bitty beasts hungrily buzzing. we swat our beings,
as not to catch their disease, yet it only plagues poorly,
those who love blind, forgoing legalistic dollar lines on
conquest’s contract. what of that? do you devote despite no money-back
guarantee -or is it worn on that other foot, a silken slippered dowry deed.

i speed; racing around this track in black, blinders blocking,
seeing IS believing. spinning; your slap my back side, my only guide
toward the finish line. what was my photo time? stallions, ha!
a laugh to my lineage, this donkey done good as an ass only goes
so many paces without fuel; eunuch mentality bred for bribery.

a fool, i was for years as i followed Eros lofty forces.
a cosmic bellow from below now guides as I flow into vernal
pasture to posture the gypsy’s card found at a back-county
caravan carnival; midnight sight, the music swirls into dust,
moving a square thing to the metal root of a dead machine;
it read:
”this is the year to find that last true thing,
its truth shall follow the blue moon rising.”

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

Muse is being a bit silly this eve… shall get around to blogs late tomorrow as duty calls this weekend. 

3 Comments
by angela on 2011/06/26  •  Permalink
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Posted by angela on 2011/06/26

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2011/06/26/blue-moon/

Icarus flew ~

Around my fourth played a band of memories
with yellowed string wound tight to hold;
this circle growing wider; days are growing cold.

Bones rattle about my ashen skin,
pearls of wisdom drip down hollowed planes;
a girlish smile ghosting in passing when silver shatters rain.

They told me to settle this dream;
abandon this vessel as you did me;
but I fashioned my own feathered wings,
silken sail lashed to beam.

Oh, Icarus, you sought the golden light
on your father’s waxen wings;

my own Icarus flew to seek his sun,
faith built upon quantum strings;

Tonight, I walk the city beat, his graffiti upon my heart,
I hear his echo, his parting words, and emblazon with my mark:
Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew

as will I, as will you ~

**********************
I’ll admit, this is very much NOT a summer solstice poem. I fashioned it that way, but stanzas were cut (hell, the whole things was almost cut) BUT ever since OSP posted this Icarus graffiti I’ve been haunted. Today, I ran across two things that mentioned Icarus, ergo, I just had to fly with it (pun intended).

I’ve not decided if I shall post to One Shot Wednesday. All are welcome, though, to link up over at OSP. Share your poem with the community!

Photo by poet from OSP, Chris Galsford.

11 Comments
by angela on 2011/06/21  •  Permalink
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Posted by angela on 2011/06/21

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2011/06/21/icarus-flew/

unarranged -

thunder shakes the rafters while
screens slap back angry words;
your sail fails, a weeping match
attempting to light a farewell flame;
this house stands alone, silently,
swaying in the after rain.

I came to feel your smile wearily,
your oil to my vinegar, we shook
together easily, separating quickly;
our lightening brilliant as the moon,
but our storm, a prairie twister
upon the heartland tearing up
table leaves and family trees.

this banquet, we set for posterity
it wasn’t you, it wasn’t me, we
knew together, we’d be bound;
birds with broken wings.

Mother ripped the last woven
wound apart tonight; her hail fell
in icy shards cutting the final bind
from you to me; we fell free, finally;
unarranged.

*********************
I wasn’t planning on a poem tonight…long day in libraryland, HOWEVER, I read Shay’s piece over at OSP regarding “free verse” and I was inspired….the storm outside helped, too.

9 Comments
by angela on 2011/06/21  •  Permalink
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Posted by angela on 2011/06/21

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2011/06/21/unarranged/

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