Things I Done Wrote, What With All Them Fancy Words.

Discussion in 'The Workshop' started by Nocturne of Vladimir Jazz, Dec 11, 2016.

  1. Nocturne of Vladimir Jazz

    Nocturne of Vladimir Jazz And Hell's comin' with me!

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    This is the new "Vlad's Writings" thread. I'll update this one with poems and flash fiction.

    So! Here's the latest, fresh off the processor. This is called, "Tabernacle."







    Tabernacle



    God is in the attic,

    somewhere between the rigid mirrors

    and austere photographs of people who dreamed,

    in order,

    of wound watches keeping perfect time,

    of sleep and work and the embrace of a good chair,

    and who asked that they not be mourned.



    When I was a child,

    I would cup my hand over a flashlight

    and scan the hot glow with mechanical concern

    to glimpse a fickle spark of my soul

    between the blood and bone.



    God is here,

    hiding like a child who’s fallen asleep

    waiting for his imaginary friend to find him.
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  2. Nocturne of Vladimir Jazz

    Nocturne of Vladimir Jazz And Hell's comin' with me!

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    New poem!


    Greater Earths

    Man cannot embrace
    darkness. When exploited,
    it twinkles of desperation,
    of they,
    the cloying, ravenous breed.

    Below their islands,
    land rolls down
    and rises to lap
    the ridges of greater earths.

    A thought of darkness
    is the light of the mind.
  3. oldfella1962

    oldfella1962 light & lethal

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    not a big poetry expert, but it sounds better than what I see on the bathroom stall, often ending with "just gave birth to another state trooper".
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  4. Nocturne of Vladimir Jazz

    Nocturne of Vladimir Jazz And Hell's comin' with me!

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    New ones!

    -------------------------

    She;Soul

    Down
    at the White River, I see
    a little girl cast out
    a silver line--
    her mind reeling,
    anxious for a bite.

    What I see is lightning,
    arching like the line;
    twinkling strikes in her eyes;
    a billion bolts leaping;
    simple as salmon; terror-eyed and cool.

    Each strike is one word:
    Soul. And
    what of it?
    When the fish are all caught,
    the wet grey meat consumed,
    What of the soul?

    She does; she is
    Nibble like the fish; nimble like the bolt.

    I wonder, too,
    when the knuckles bend and cannot
    hold the line,
    and when the mind whispers--all catch and release,
    and when the ghost dusts off the crust of the eye
    and, stretching, severs the lightning shackles--
    for freedom!--
    then what of the soul?




    Opportunity

    Remarkable how a white
    mechanical light, cast over
    a bright red slide and swing
    in the middle of the night,
    slows the heart. The trite ping
    of June bugs against glass
    holds fast for the coming
    of a mate--the drumming
    of wings against a light breeze
    is all the effort afforded.

    And we wait, wait, and wait.
    And we, the solar-powered
    shelters of blacktop heat,
    we wait. With cracked skin
    and weathered eyes, thinning,
    we wait. The June bug mates,
    and we remember its name,
    but we wait, sad and angry,
    still.

    We ping like the bug
    against glass. We hover and steal
    the light. And until
    God weeps for us,
    we wait.
  5. Nocturne of Vladimir Jazz

    Nocturne of Vladimir Jazz And Hell's comin' with me!

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    Spinning, Quiet, Deep

    Many have dove
    at the moon, only
    to drown in a staring lake.
    Still,
    they found it,
    spinning, quiet, deep
    in the wild oblivion,
    where neurons pop:
    stars into black vacuum,
    bound tight into a single
    point.




    The Color of Joy

    If joy is the foil of fear,
    then surely its color is black.
    Though fear, like light,
    gives us sight to bear witness,
    at peak it blinds,
    and near so beneath that peak
    all is exposed,

    and there is first the shame,
    and there is second the blindness,
    and there is third the fall.




    Tear

    Do not fear
    the darkness, as it is
    the womb of light.

    The blind cosmos
    weaps stars, and it is
    mirrored in the eyes
    of Creation.




    My Love

    To hear it, you must be
    quiet. There must be
    silence. It is about the air,
    and is even
    pushed away by whispers.

    It tarries at the forest edge,
    whisked by the samaras,
    calm and unsettling.

    If you come to find it,
    do not groom yourself,
    as it desires asylum from
    the mechanics of vanity.

    If it hides from you,
    it is not of fear, but fasted
    because it has known
    its cousins whored
    in the city's humid caverns,
    bare and quivering,
    and embroidered upon
    the billowing sleeves of great performers
    whom appease you with thrilling lies.

    If you stand at the timberline,
    do not call it, but let it come.
    It will seep inside you
    and carry the weight
    of the world down
    into your shadow--
    to the place which birthed it.




    Happy Meal

    When they die they say for some
    that the future never comes,
    and I wonder
    is it the ketchupy red box
    with a wide, golden grin
    so focused upon
    that does them in.

    It isn't the salt of concern,
    but a barter from the din.




    Faces

    Don't think for a moment
    you can hide.
    There is no difference
    between the mirror and the child
    making faces.

    There are no better
    versions of you in a box
    in the attic.
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  6. Nocturne of Vladimir Jazz

    Nocturne of Vladimir Jazz And Hell's comin' with me!

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    And to Peter I said:


    "I would like to see
    your podium ablaze,
    the Pearly Gates in shambles,
    the golden streets boiling,
    the great glowing pillars
    in static image of the Lord
    burned to feculent cinders;
    to Hell with Heaven!

    I would like to believe,
    but such opulence is surely
    a seductive mirage
    dancing only head-high
    off the fruitless sand
    of the promised land."

    I need not explain
    that it is for the Lord I come,
    to know as he knows,
    and to know him as he knows himself,
    because the fruit of the ancient tree
    has given us in unequal measure
    knowledge of evil more prolific than good.

    I only desire to know good,
    as I am well acquainted with its naked and wanting foil.
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  7. Nocturne of Vladimir Jazz

    Nocturne of Vladimir Jazz And Hell's comin' with me!

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    Enabler


    A black fairy begs
    to visit again, and what--
    I should deny it
    and you, as well,
    who feeds it
    cyclamen petals and
    patronizes its Rorschach dance?
    You who licks its wounds
    it got fighting blue birds,
    and for some bewildering reason
    eating communion wafers;
    its only natural poison?

    No, it will
    come through the small hole
    in the corner of my closet,
    spewing its black powder
    across the floor,
    and you will weep for the shame of it
    just before reaching for a tissue
    only to find a handful
    of cyclamen petals.
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