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| | | From: gypsy (Original Message) | Sent: 10/22/2008 7:02 PM |
Vining through your vowels
I lure your budding tasteless tongue
to bite into the cinnamon. Upward to the twine that roots within
developing dark rooms
I clip celluloid ribbons. Collecting unread pages
memory has no ink to blot
but whiteout calcium deficit. Precious coral promises
steal the red
from patriotism. Starless independent banners stick out warped heads
of make-believe. The cuckoo winds its own clock
and swings in or out of tune
with others’ beat . . . until it stops. gypsy |
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i will say this was pretty ripe and good i thought.
i was reminded of a book. "the wind-up bird chronicles" by haruki murakami. not only the cucko winds its own clock. one of the more important characters went by the name 'cinnamon'. he was the son of nutmeg.
ws |
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nice tight poem---well crafted
Jazmines en el pelo y rosas en la cara,
Airosa caminaba la flor de la canela,
Derramaba lisura y a su paso dejaba
Aromas de mistura que en el pecho llevaba.
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| | | From: gypsy | Sent: 10/22/2008 8:55 PM |
Jazmines en el pelo y rosas en la cara,
Airosa caminaba la flor de la canela,
Derramaba lisura y a su paso dejaba
Aromas de mistura que en el pecho llevaba. excerpt from a song by Chabuca Granda--she was a family friend turned legend.. Thanks for the tune of jazmines. WS, you kill me! I hate it when this happens! I love coincidences, but not of this kind, even though it was an impromptu, a sneeze, now I feel I need to inhale it all the way to flushing it down the toilet. ha
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a big room. for the three of you. |
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| | | From: gypsy | Sent: 10/24/2008 3:13 AM |
gypsiwind, where might this room be??? northampton county asylum??? |
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| | | From: gypsy | Sent: 10/24/2008 3:21 AM |
Written in Northampton County Asylum
| | | | | I am! yet what I am who cares, or knows?
My friends forsake me like a memory lost.
I am the self-consumer of my woes;
They rise and vanish, an oblivious host,
Shadows of life, whose very soul is lost.
And yet I am—I live—though I am toss’d
Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dream,
Where there is neither sense of life, nor joys,
But the huge shipwreck of my own esteem
And all that’s dear. Even those I loved the best
Are strange—nay, they are stranger than the rest.
I long for scenes where man has never trod—
For scenes where woman never smiled or wept—
There to abide with my Creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,
Full of high thoughts, unborn. So let me lie,—
The grass below; above, the vaulted sky.
John Clare
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