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Memorabilia: My first poem.This is the first poem I ever wrote. It was in 2000; I was 16 and my father and I were homeless, living with a friend. I had a brief young tryst with the girl across the street, and amidst the spacious days of a dropout, I dreamt this one afternoon. I woke up, polished it, and wrote it down. It shows some promise, I think, though it's immature (and steeped in Tennyson). It's passionate in the way perhaps only teenagers can be. Everything is the end of the world. Now I can't read it out loud without laughing. Mutatis mutandis.Memorabilia: My first poem.
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Orange-Blossoms
O! These men and women, These harlequin hearts,
by ~baffledkingcomposing
15 Haiku115 Haiku
your eloquent hands are nothing like spring fireflies: yet still they blossom.
your eloquent hands lie curved and fierce like wheat: a silent evening.
we kiss the last time: love flickers by like fireflies: the summer lingers.
4
winter rain relents: the scent of oil on asphalt. you are not with me.
5
we choose with reason; our hearts, the reason for choice: o choiceless reason.
6
your body breathing, still on a sunday morning: lost parabolas.
by ~baffledkingcomposing
press muteto be verseless in the morning in a sacramento sunrise is to be voiceless in a choir. the great conductor rises and taps his baton on the sierra nevada: and the steam sings, and the plain sings, and the sky sings, and i am silent: without a tune. the curve of hills and endless mist are the mute in my mouth.press mute
that fox there has my voice instead: ask him.
by ~baffledkingcomposing
near bakersfieldtangled vines dry for winter red as a redheaded dog. a russet finery for the stubbled earth. moon fat as a silver dollar sitting stubborn in sunset fog. angled bones of groceries stretch nude against the stones: all musk and ebony. against seafoam rows of spinach, chard, parsley, grazing sheep: slow-turning marker palms, the evening's muezzins. quiet: - let the world's adobe sound itself under sediment rain, chemical rainbows, the cattle-thick pnear bakersfield
by ~baffledkingcomposing
Favourites
cinder and smokeHe makes her want to shed her life, leave it behind in a heap on the ground like rose clippings. He calls, and she answers, wary and helpless as a wild deer. Autumn thrums through the trees; yellow leavescinder and smoke
are falling into her footsteps.
Hands linked, the whispering of fingers and the
fireworking of the trees in the wind are the restless symphony of change. Panting, they arrive—the hill beckons, and from its top the land spreads in every direction. Later, with the clear eyes of time, she will remember another hill:
All this could be yours if you would
by ~last-train-home
10/09
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Devious Info
- Current Residence: Los Angeles, CA
- Interests: Music, words, movements, and images
- Favourite movie: Amelie *or* A Man for All Seasons
- Favourite band or musician: Bach, Shostakovich, Bob Dylan, and Death Cab.
- Favourite genre of music: 900CE-Present
- Favourite artist: Kandinsky
- Favourite poet or writer: Rilke, Rumi, Frost, Shakespeare
- Operating System: Mac, finally
- MP3 player of choice: iPod nano
- Skin of choice: Yours, if you're her.
- Favourite game: Life
- Personal Quote: "Be Yourself: Imitation is Suicide."
- Website: http://www.myspace.com/dsch
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"hallelujah."
--
there's only us, there's only this
forget regret, or life is yours to miss
no other road, no other way
no day but today.
hallelujah indeed.
--
"Simplicity don't need to be greased." - Billie Joe Shaver
--
*achoo*
--
"There is no way a beautiful woman can live up to what she looks like for any appreciable length of time."
- Kurt Vonnegut, Timequake.
&& I'm going to watch you.
--
the wind turns loose all the boats
that last night were moored to the sky
Neruda
--
the wind turns loose all the boats
that last night were moored to the sky
Neruda
--
the wind turns loose all the boats
that last night were moored to the sky
Neruda
Pacem.
--
"Simplicity don't need to be greased." - Billie Joe Shaver
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