I am an apple hanging fat upon the sighing limb. Hard as a planet, with eyes enough to drink the sky, I only have to speak and the entire tree listens with all its pointed ears. But one slip and I am face-down, mumbling to myself, beauty gone, with only a worm's tongue.
I Could Have Been On That Bus
which left the bridge and dove toward the afternoon street; I lived on that route. I could have sat up front and watched the statement on the shooter with his oiled gun; could have seen the driver fall out the open door as he tried to take the steering wheel with him, could have watched him fall. I could have watched the calm young man point the gun to his own head and pull the trigger; could have watched the great bulk of seats and wheels ballet down the air; faced my own death. I could have.
I am warming up on the cliched head of a pin though the pin keeps getting smaller and these acrobatics bend my limbs unnaturally. "Can I stop now, friend?"
The tedious season of my brain has begun. To write a poem is Promethean now; such a steep ascent requires more than I have. I squandered ink and vision to reach this plateau.
I deserve a bronze medal for getting out of bed, the gold for remaking it, all the ends tucked in.
Long after the lithium dissolves in your bloodstream, the black eye of night will still open upon the bruised sunrise, the blue ache of day.
Blame me, daughter, for passing on this savage gene that eats away at our good times, that feeds the bad. If you are at war with yourself, it is my fault.
I couldn't keep it to myself. Life is lonely when no one speaks your language. I wanted someone to talk to; I chose you.
I wanted someone who could stay up for days on end. I wanted someone who could hibernate in caved silence besides the bear and me.
Your mind's rhythms will become slow, and you will never be completely happy or completely sad again.
I lie flattened by the heat; all the covers abandoned to the floor. The fan in the window does no good; I crave water, any kind of shore.
A swim would help no matter if the moon's bland face guarded or I'd find a splintered skiff pushed into tall reeds, oarless.
Let's say I found myself on a lake. If a crowd began to gather on the lantern shore, I'd paddle by, my hands in cool water.
If I saw you walk towards me, a starlit Christ, I'd turn away. Your body would have its old heat and I'd wake.
Teresa White: I began writing before the onset of manic depressive illness at age 18. Went undiagnosed for nearly fifteen years and bounced in and out of hospitals. I'm presently on disability and finally on medications that seem to help most of the time. I've had over 100 poems published in online e-zines, have one book of my early poems published, "In What Furnace," and am working on a book of recent work.
On shaky ground he stands. With trembling wilbury hands,    he holds his life-line            (with just enough rope left          for a hanging)
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN:    Listen to the words hidden here      as they roll of my tongue...”
Easy as the moon glows The river certainly knows    I have no form.
Blinded by the fright Seduced by the night    Drunk by the riverside
Saddened by the news Oppressed by their views    A nation dies in agony.
Wicked in the east We must kill the beast    Laughing in all of us.
When will words come? When will I ever learn? You can’t get anything worth saving without risking something.    Or everything.
All of my poems are Daily Suicides. Rebirth can only come when all thoughts are Words -- Birds in Flight.
Can anyone forgive me now? Can I resolve my past? Can you? Can I?    the dog is foaming at the mouth,      big, ugly, sniffing at my feet,      begging, worshipping
Part II: “Calling to the young...” The radio is moaning a thousand songs calling to the young: “Forget what you’ve learned Or what you’ve been taught. It’s not too late to turn it all around, To find a new way or answer.” The world is on fire, fueled by the red sun. I will not go. I will not go      ‘till I’ve had my fill.
To awake in a strange house the dogs Children playing with guns Ancient artifacts The television newsman is talking aimlessly. Telling tales of the men who made him.
Dying man on amusement park ride Maggots eating at rotting eyes “Will someone stop this thing    and let me off?” On the end of town lives a reptile in love with a shrink. They said he robbed a convenience store and shot the cashier. Do you read the news?
Ride the current The electric wave A shock to the system
I am a rock’n’roll poet.
The preacher is leading his flock to the sea. Who will tell them they will all drown? But the children are in the know. They sense he is unreal.
Part III: "Radio Nites" Radio Nites City of Lights Hazy recollection of past impulses    Stoned    Poetry    Death games That Day At The Lake Nights we made promises sure to be broken
We escaped through the neighborhood    on the way to the mall And shot the bird at the slow-going car.
Now and if I leave this town    (from which I was born) Who will know me then? Who or what shall I be remembered? Men of Wisdom Wanderer of Souls Grant me my one wish: That those who knew me will...
Death is life’s ultimate safety haven.
the ancient river runs through the graveyard the Indians drank from these waters long before Colombus took a wrong turn and the white man stole their land a railroad track, built in the mid-1870’s, still runs through the nearby woods the steam engines long ago gave way to diesel power “that was when the trains lost their virginity,” says an old farmer down the dirt road here his father’s father tilled the same land but his son won’t carry on the tradition he’s a big-time lawyer in some small southern town but the cows still graze the land although they’ve been dead for 20 yrs. or more and the steam engines still barrel down the tracks (if you listen hard enough, sometimes you can hear the piercing whistle just barely over the din of the textile mill in the distance) and the Indian ghosts still drink from the river, clear, unpolluted water from ancient times yes, the cows are withering, white relics with deep set eyes watching the cars go by while the passengers remain unaware of the secrets of this land and the ghost cows roaming the forgotten graveyard
To be real. Not to catch a star but to be only what you are. No God or Purple Phantom can show you until you know You, the way you feel without even a fly in the room. I used to believe in a Galaxy until it devoured me; now I believe in Something that takes me from the Northing. It is not a thought, it is without reason, as is as natural as the seasons flowing one into the other; it is a whisper, the falling of leaves, my baby's breath upon me - The Child within giving birth to its Mother.
The horizon is holding up the sun shining as a floating torch upon the sea; The moon is rising in the east pale as a see-through disc above the cliffs. Time is now both night and day, black and white exchange to grey and the tide moves uncertainly between a premature birth and a lingering end as the moment spreads into infinity upon the pastel sands.
Pigs in Clothes
I don't like dogs that talk pigs in clothes snakes that walk Or fish that know which way the wind blows. So baby     be real        be real baby           baby be real              with me.
Diane Laurie-Farmer: I was raised in Southern California and began drawing and writing at a young age. Being a child of the sixties, I was a flower child who took psychedelic drugs and went to Love Ins... By age 25 I was diagnosed with schizophrenia, which has been a lifelong illness. Apparently the tendency to develop sz was there, but I believe the drugs pushed me over the edge. Through therapy and medications I was able to earn a bachelor's degree in psychology. I then worked as a behavioral therapist with autistic adolescent boys who had severe behavioral problems. This was a rewarding and interesting job. However, my husband and I moved to Northern California, leaving our old lives, friends and family behind. I had a hard time adjusting to our new environment, but I'm now doing better and back in school studying computer networking
"Soundless as dots--on a Disc of Snow-" * I stood with hood up, galoshes unbuckled and my navy blue knitted mitten outstretched to catch snowflakes as I waited for you at the corner. The soundless dots covered the wool like the milky way covers the night sky. What mystified me was not the snowflakes but rather the spaces within them. For the first time I saw space instead of shape. Slowly the snow transformed to water droplets. My toes began to ache. Why didn't you meet me at the corner like you promised?
Lamb's wool graces his head. It's a porch-sitting kind of day. Invited by his metal fanned-back chair, he sits.
Only content silver backs still enjoy the porch. Brown eyes still sharp and bright. Veins protrude from his lanky arms and temples.
Long thin fingers clasp loosely in his lap, he reflects.
He has grown accustomed to his less able body. His small vegetable garden weeded for the day and all the produce nurtured to ripen.
Sheets flapping in the sunny breeze send clean laundry smell to his nose. His wife Vera from 50 years ago floats to him.
Eyelids heavy, his head nods for an afternoon nap. A pleasant memory returns to the ether to be captured on another porch-sitting kind of day.
Today is a mild tangerine morning. Peasant women stoop and brush the night away with stick brooms.
Maids soothe crying crickets as they light their laundry pyre. Cauldrons of steamed laundry paint clouds on the sky
Mourning doves pray night's return. White faced Geisha hobble down cobblestones, bow at each other in still perfect kimonos until they arrive home to rest, before lessons.
Silk rustles with the flowers in the morning breeze.
nothing more soothing, I was lost in embryonic sleep and I woke to surmount clarity and wounds too deep everything lighted up and blinded my grey eyes I slipped into the funnel to far-gone azure skies.
to be a mother of a thousand breaths was a feeling that throbbed under the skin and veins so healing bringing forth in code works the somehow lost notion of the cycle and the responsibility to its bounding motion.
we are pressed to the floor by ice shards from the waste land i saw that I am your fingers and you have become my hand dreams have faces that only on occasion will be divine and these occasions will set a theory that I can enshrine.
It's been an eagle-day. And people were scratching their heads, I got a cold from walking around moving from place to place, sleeping on wet clothes.
But that's a while ago now. Now I sit in my warm room.
I've scrubbed too many floors with the same water. Well, I don't think you want to throw up the expensive medicine.
See, I am not bothered by such things, that was all he said… …there goes the days.
Like brave new children jumping about on the field that's the end of the world, they are just playing in the sun making fires burning young love into the very last air
Well, I have been blind because this is the first time I see how the end looks like and it's a place where I'd like to stay and only because I know my hands will be warm and the air will be fresh on the field
The field is endless as a fargone asylum made to fill the empty hole of clean morning air inside the hole where I am aloof
Helena: I was born in 1983. I live in Copenhagen, Denmark where I am studying (high school).