Plan B Forum

if this closeness were preserved
by accident or design
held perhaps in a camera's glance,
what could we say
we who observed it
knowing the truth
living the time

pointing out the passionate
i remove the passion
and through distance keep it all
between the thought
and the action's fall

almost i reached out then
you knew
almost i reached out

Roses are red
Violets are blue.
The General wrote a pome.
I haven't a clue.

eta: actually, I do....a very poignant statement on life's mis-interpretations there, Meade.

He's been reading Gob too long

The abreviated version:

I saw a dog fall down...

after he lifted his leg

That unabreviates it...

It don't rhyme....

I am sorry
I sat down to write you a poem
and found only more apologies

OK Dales there's the part where the leg gave way...

hanging north in graceful dales

there is snow out in the air
delicate drifting flakes of suicide
against walls and broken windows
there are feathers in the hair
of yesterday's cold bedroom
and musty hedgerows

i dream with others on music and drink
all fixing time's unsterilized needle
for a backward glance
pass on disease in sorrow's habit
of several rooms and severed friendships
painting chords in a long lost dance

files of patient soldier memories twist
in ordered chaos and we shoot them down tonight
oh how we shot them down
to fall like snow and feathers
in dead heaps on the carpet
with our cigarette butt gravestones
casting shadows all around

Meade's Dilemma

I stood in a field of sheep
The scent of brain farts
Passed through the tree leaves
And rested below on golden sand

Holding a rusty cross
In my hand
Felt the years pass slowly
Until they faded

Looking upward as
The sky parted
Leaving empty clouds
And restless heartbreak

It was then I found
Nothing left to do
Or to say that's truly understood
So I fled to Plan B

That's where I found purgatory
And lived scrappily ever after

A Plan B'er Epiphany

Alone, Alone
With My Thought
Am I

Is It That
I am Alone
Or Is My Thought

Alone?
A Rare
Occurence
Without Singularity

A Thought
Not Thunk
Is Not
Worth Thunking.

Lest on
The Stool
Of Knowledge

Upon The Porcelin Throne
I am alone
Just My Thought
And I

her face, reflected in diamonds

dance, dance weary changer
twisted light soft
shatters splashes
a fallen star into the sea
as if a cliff
were weeping ice

parchment
thirsty
for meaningful ink

Tintagel?



unless we change by then

dark they were and golden eyed
with time's past memory engraved
in granite lines
on leathern skin
tall they were and kindly smiled
at all the smallness of our voice
and followed down
to where we stood
calm they were and wisely gazed
upon our offerings
still they were and bloody red
when we smote them down

across the miles and years of space
we had not come to find our betters
nor could we leave and know them there
behind us

Close!

Pordenack.

Where were you in August 1966?

OOOOOPS forgot to do a pome.

Lands End Is Green
The Ocean Blue
If You Don't Like The Pome
Then ____ You!

dales wrote:Where were you in August 1966?

Living a mile from there .