Help hold close to keep it out
hide your face from th' wind
wind your fingers in the yarn
where mind windows have been
Hold help closer than your own
and only breathing out
skin the skein with skillful stitch
know what they are about
About above across along
and after all is and
know nothing when no thing is said
'though structure trees are planned
What is it we look for?
Truth?
Does truth live there- seeping in
like pollution, soot and smoke and asbestos
from the policy-makers
the PA systems- the voice of the people
infects poets' brains like a terrible, beautiful cancer
so what they have written and said-
-despite intention- says something
that is more than the weight of it's letters
More to who? To the world, to the word--
not to the one
to the one, it means more to mean
just what it says-
the silence between does not cry foul
to the great wide sky
but whisper breathy words that aren't
Did you ever know one to hold his tongue
between his fingers and thumb
in a feeble attempt to completely prevent
and withhold information
that's already been sent (it's not what he meant)
His bones and his skin
to keep ev'rything in
when a moan and a shout
have found a way out
his mind says to his heart,
don't you even start-
you know it is best
to hold out 'till the rest
is in place- yet you race
to fall feet over face
with little to show
I don't know I don't know
but we'll see when we see
until then, you feel free
to keep it all down
A Philosophical Question by savethmoosen, literature
Literature
A Philosophical Question
If naught is real, and nothing true
Then who has painted heavens blue?
Who decided smell of sky?
And who has taught the birds to fly?
Nothing is as nothing seems
We dream in sleep, we live in dreams
It's all a farce, a parlor game-
True and false are both, the same
Terror, hatred, power, pain
Inconsequential summer rain
Yet if these things are all a ploy,
What are love, hope, truth, and joy?
If naught is real and nothing true,
Then what am I?
And what are you?
You turn to see me standing there
If naught is real and nothing true
With halo-light about my hair
Then who has painted heavens blue?
I say a prayer from where I sta
Remember?
Remember that once when you and I
just us two drove home in your car-
after sledding all afternoon, chilly
and wet and soaked down to our socks.
we drove home in your old blue buick- with
the broken door handle.
Remembering is such a silly thing- I don't
remember the cold.
I remember your arm slung over my shoulder
uncomfortably. until I pushed over
across the long bench seat, kicking
the CD player on the floor with my
fleece-socked foot- and sat beside you,
your arm down by my waist, hand on my
sweatered stomach, my hand
curled around yours, both watching as the world blurred by
(you really do
drive much too
Am Are Is- Was Were Be by savethmoosen, literature
Literature
Am Are Is- Was Were Be
Am, Are, Is, Was, Were, Be
To be is a very sad business. To try- to slip on suit after florid suit of who- when- never why, only after- it is on and discarded, or worn until the skin is houndstooth, black and white, until it frays a bit at the edges, where only the tailor looks.
To be- always seeing the new, familiar, foreign face in the glass- trying to make it your own, ending up just like someone else- caricatures of who you aren't or who you never wanted to be. But who dressed you that way? The fingers can point, the mouths say, oh, look, though, when I was young and moldable like silly putty….
That is very true. You and I and we and t
I don't like writing on the first page of a notebook. A notebook is for many writings- some banal and trivial, like biology notes and grocery lists, and some intimate, like love letters and grocery lists. The problem with the first page is, it's too abrupt. Some colorful cardboard, a chart (that no one ever uses) and then -bam! Innermost thoughts. Because in writing, you say what you mean. And whether you mean you need to pick up milk and eggs, or you love how the glow of his eyes in the moonlight make you feel alive (even though you've been holding your breath), it is there to see.
Between the pages, revelations are hidden. Secrets are lost
Help hold close to keep it out
hide your face from th' wind
wind your fingers in the yarn
where mind windows have been
Hold help closer than your own
and only breathing out
skin the skein with skillful stitch
know what they are about
About above across along
and after all is and
know nothing when no thing is said
'though structure trees are planned
What is it we look for?
Truth?
Does truth live there- seeping in
like pollution, soot and smoke and asbestos
from the policy-makers
the PA systems- the voice of the people
infects poets' brains like a terrible, beautiful cancer
so what they have written and said-
-despite intention- says something
that is more than the weight of it's letters
More to who? To the world, to the word--
not to the one
to the one, it means more to mean
just what it says-
the silence between does not cry foul
to the great wide sky
but whisper breathy words that aren't
Did you ever know one to hold his tongue
between his fingers and thumb
in a feeble attempt to completely prevent
and withhold information
that's already been sent (it's not what he meant)
His bones and his skin
to keep ev'rything in
when a moan and a shout
have found a way out
his mind says to his heart,
don't you even start-
you know it is best
to hold out 'till the rest
is in place- yet you race
to fall feet over face
with little to show
I don't know I don't know
but we'll see when we see
until then, you feel free
to keep it all down
A Philosophical Question by savethmoosen, literature
Literature
A Philosophical Question
If naught is real, and nothing true
Then who has painted heavens blue?
Who decided smell of sky?
And who has taught the birds to fly?
Nothing is as nothing seems
We dream in sleep, we live in dreams
It's all a farce, a parlor game-
True and false are both, the same
Terror, hatred, power, pain
Inconsequential summer rain
Yet if these things are all a ploy,
What are love, hope, truth, and joy?
If naught is real and nothing true,
Then what am I?
And what are you?
You turn to see me standing there
If naught is real and nothing true
With halo-light about my hair
Then who has painted heavens blue?
I say a prayer from where I sta
Remember?
Remember that once when you and I
just us two drove home in your car-
after sledding all afternoon, chilly
and wet and soaked down to our socks.
we drove home in your old blue buick- with
the broken door handle.
Remembering is such a silly thing- I don't
remember the cold.
I remember your arm slung over my shoulder
uncomfortably. until I pushed over
across the long bench seat, kicking
the CD player on the floor with my
fleece-socked foot- and sat beside you,
your arm down by my waist, hand on my
sweatered stomach, my hand
curled around yours, both watching as the world blurred by
(you really do
drive much too
Am Are Is- Was Were Be by savethmoosen, literature
Literature
Am Are Is- Was Were Be
Am, Are, Is, Was, Were, Be
To be is a very sad business. To try- to slip on suit after florid suit of who- when- never why, only after- it is on and discarded, or worn until the skin is houndstooth, black and white, until it frays a bit at the edges, where only the tailor looks.
To be- always seeing the new, familiar, foreign face in the glass- trying to make it your own, ending up just like someone else- caricatures of who you aren't or who you never wanted to be. But who dressed you that way? The fingers can point, the mouths say, oh, look, though, when I was young and moldable like silly putty….
That is very true. You and I and we and t
I don't like writing on the first page of a notebook. A notebook is for many writings- some banal and trivial, like biology notes and grocery lists, and some intimate, like love letters and grocery lists. The problem with the first page is, it's too abrupt. Some colorful cardboard, a chart (that no one ever uses) and then -bam! Innermost thoughts. Because in writing, you say what you mean. And whether you mean you need to pick up milk and eggs, or you love how the glow of his eyes in the moonlight make you feel alive (even though you've been holding your breath), it is there to see.
Between the pages, revelations are hidden. Secrets are lost
Life is good.
I love this space where I can leave my mark, and share my lovely babies. I'm also loving the comments. I always want to share my poetry with others, but I either feel presumptuous or I feel like the poem is too personal, and my feelings will be too transparent to share with the people who know the context. Here, I can share them as what they are: bits of me, lovely little works that shed a bit of light on who I am. And I'm not being presumptuous to share! Hooray to DeviantArt for such a great site!
And now off to some food. Perhaps a sandwich? Ooooh. Nutella!
So, I'm pretty tired, and this may be gibberish in the AM, but if I dont write now, I wont.
Today was a good day. I was in a writing mood, but it conflicted with my socializing mood. And the social won. Good thing, too. Cause those people are pretty awesome.
I wish someone would read my stuff. I just think it would be nice. I mean, I like it. And I like to share it. Maybe I just need more stuff.
Night.
So, I'm pretty good with real journals, but crap with online ones. But I shall try, and here goes a try, in honor of my new deviousity. Deviousness. Devious-naturedness. Exactly.
I thought that my writing was going to waste in my notebook, because I was writing and loving and learning... then losing the book or putting it on the shelf to bend and tear next to the rest. Here I hope to share and to learn and to enjoy deviation from the norm.
So, look out. I'm coming. And I don't quite get the concept.