Some people might be slightly offended having someone "edit" their work. I personally know of quite a few writers on here who do not spell or grammar check their work because standard checking doesn't allow for different meanings/spellings/interpretations.

Well, I would be (am) anyway.

If you were a house,
What kind of room would you be?
That excluded one
closed door
unmade bed
scattered sheets
and pencils that almost
started that letter,
or maybe
that cluttered one
books tossed about
you never finished -
couldn’t read
because you didn’t like
the ending.
In any case,
it isn’t public
it’s the faucet dripping
unchecked, pooling and
irritating, and when wet
I walk away breathless.

((H))

Too bold, too bold

those strokes irritate

and the medium rebels

against the brush and color

-especially the color!

The surface is deep sanguine

and sky metallic blue

a moving, energy memory,

looking for a nouny place

to exist.



If he holds the brush lightly

He can glide it over,

ignoring the lines

(Watch the lines)

and ignore the darkness

and light errors, the friction of

delight and lose the way.



He could write coldness and light

carrying those sentences away

in little wagons of form,

He could stir the clouds and air

into rapid signs.

But, his

Paint brush is down,

He's looking

covering his eyes at the mistakes

another failure of light.

Mostly, he wants to write on someone

painting one figure at a time

drowning himself in texture

and that pure, piaster of paint

He managed to place without

pigment.

Thank you

lavos
Mirror
Harold
Bill

How can I write a poem
when it will reveal my thinking
each line a blushing declaration
of what I need keep silent?

How can I write a poem
when somehow a word will render
me just that much too naked
too open to your eyesight?

How can I write a poem
when I am all to transparent?
what was once my habit
is now something I must fear.

How can I write a poem
that could determine feeling
make me all too revealing?
your eye might find me pathetic.

Wonderful (((H)))

Thinking becomes a hindrance
when thoughts of you keep looping
I want to prevent the grouping
of smiles that speak your name.

dreaming becomes a problem
when my saucy mind goes wandering
the possibilities I’m reluctant pondering
the trembles give me notice.

I know this pattern is growing
my longing is a repeat sinner
as my reluctance grows much thinner
I whisper your name like candy.

I try hard not to linger
on tender thoughts unspoken
my heart has sudden awoken
I am a fearful dreamer.

Thank you (((pkd & H )))

Amazing as always, MsWiz

Beautiful write, Mom

Thank you

Roco
Mirror
(((H)))

Wonderful pkd

He wanders close beside me
not touching my hand with his
as if I cannot tell he wants to
by the leaning of his posture
silly man...grab my hand.

He smiles at me and lingers
my eyes caress his fingers
and I think he is somewhat clumsy
which makes me like him longer
a million years might do it.

He tilts his head and ponders
oh how that man's mind wanders
much like a hazy picture
much clearer every moment
I listen with my smile.

He shuffles his feet in shyness
no sense of hello, goodbyeness
but endless I should try this
echoed in his pausing.
I should just grab and kiss him.

In our sleep we make love,
as if Hypnos, God of Slumber,
were a voyeuristic mapmaker,
marking tantric nighttime tracks for us to follow in the dark;
as though Eros, God of Love,
sung to us from the blue-black wilderness,
and we, in that waking moment,
allow ourselves pulled by his impassioned plea.
My heart never pumps harder than when I come
to consciousness at your trailblazing touch,
the tha-thud-tha-thud-tha-thud
beating against my chest
like the balled-up fists of hungry armies
banging
at Ares’ command.
Beyond midnight and time,
our rhythmic movements together are enough
to bring deities
down from their mountain,
down to their knees,
making myth
as unnecessary as dream

A name can be unknown
to its owner. “This is me”
holds nothing necessary.
A name is not a guarantee.
Meaning happens suddenly,
accidentally – in the bank
billboard’s Halloween
spider imploring you to
buy and borrow. In the
stranger’s “**** you!”
as the bus pulls away –
tributaries of self branch
like cracks in a broken
windshield.

The spider, the curse,
the arbitrary – press
buttons, turn knobs,
hammer gears in the skull.
The light box stammers
on. All the old negatives begin
to glow. The name

breaks from the inside. Pieces
of shattered shell are scattered
around the nest, Once legs ran
from teeth now they test flight.

Gliding, giving names, classifying,
the world becomes a library
of rocks. In the quiet, in the dust, each
stone is stamped with a fingerprint’s
grooved egg.

Categorize, catch space in sections,
push air through soap’s surface. Pressure
holds the clear iridescent spheres, tiny
ghosts of the great liquid globe.

Fragile as a bubble, the body always
floats down the road’s last mile. It
yearns for maudlin hours in the armchair,
incorporated armature, amateur handguns.
Skin seeks defense against time’s
incisors. But mind still pleads with
suffering: “Transfer your broken bones
to me. Crack my ankles, break my arms,
twist my knees. My fingers are cables –
send me your nerves’ frantic energy.”

Days pare down. Years carve
the retina’s curve. Torso, legs are
shaped by trial and chance. Arms’ length
is all passion and remonstrance.

As the crow rants listen for familiar
syllables. Recognize letters in the falling
spider’s trance tying line from gutter to
ground. The prey’s vibrations excite the web,
echoes of energy shake through the filament.

Busy autumn insects will soon
be gone. Time to trip on slick steps,
slip on black ice, back slapping concrete.
Time to fall asleep in cold sunlight,
crimson leaves dropping. Dream of

living underwater where falling
is easier. The surface, a tall ceiling
spreading air’s light, sifting the sun’s
tension through a gray haze. Emerge,

frightened, through the sick tide
that climbs and drops. Lips sign
frantic denials. The beach is a smile
of debris. Eyes open in a moonless

void. The body needs sleep but the dark
is colonized by day. Night is mortgaged
to an early morning. Awake, thoughts
crest and break – hands around a pale

waist, touching temples, framing
a face. Awake, there’s an alarm
in someone’s car. A motor skims
the toxic reservoir. In a loud world

quiet words forage to survive.
Whispering is digitized, wire-bound,
bounced from ground to satellite and
back. Senders and receivers wait alone.

Mind paces in its pit of bone. The tap
of a nickel flipped from thumb to palm
expires before it rises to the ear. Nearly
all the noise

is poisonous. The clamor of engines
is constant. Stuttering explosions
wreck the calm. Those on high buy
silence. Those below are assaulted

by television and radio. Every song
that’s played is known. Lyrics are
laced with petty wants. Ears hunt for
terror’s trace, the tremble of a haunting
line, notes of the implosion. Vision

escapes, looks past the atmosphere to scan
galaxies, elopes from Mars to Jupiter’s
bloody eye to the bloom of a solar storm.
Rope it back. Turn the telescope on this

tiny distant room. This house cages electricity
and heat. Close the window, bring the lens inside.
Outside the cold grows thick and heavy. Frost
frets from roof to lawn. For proof, toss the lamp

through the doorway. Watch hot glass explode
in frozen air. Now the chair, the teak table. Cram
the couch through the front door. Make the yard
a burning disaster. No more dusting, no more

taking care. No more porcelain figurines
for masters. No one will starve and call
it living. No more forgiving the command
and calling it freedom. No more strangers
watching strangers from house to house.
No more paying from week to week and
calling it making money. Home is

another country. Weekends are a foreign
holiday from the scent of toner, the comfort
of dust and paper clips. At home the fridge
is broken, the faucet drips. The week is only
hours away. Vermilion clouds clap and march
at the edge of a dying Sunday.

Wonderful, (((Harold)))

I have a new obsession,
and my hands won’t cease their shake,
i am in my closet –looking for regrets,
but atop each set of bones is prettily perched a face.

My newest madness,
to dig through things i worked so hard to forget
and tell myself “how terribly you’ve suffered!”
but yet I’d do them all again.

There are shadows cast,
the skeletal outlines of the people in my past
grace the wall behind the empty hangars
and a set of old drapes.