Tag Archives: consciousness

Stream of Consciousness #10

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the armory-

god, it’s this banging

the trodden are down on their heads and are spinning

and their spindly arms are touching the spout of where the sun should be

they are clamoring up on their tip toes and shouting

like bunions on my feet are like the road smelling sweet

what a treat to hear and to eat meet and to feel beat

like it’s nothing to know no one and to feel the nothing I’ve known all along

what was the air like in December morning

in the winters and evening sun and summers you took me and kissed my flowering mouth

like a soft petal of rain in the ornery bushes?

that singing…

what is the name of my gods?

they are changing

what is the name of my god, for Pete’s sake?

you churn butter and you tore the street apart but you never listen to me when i speak,

I am just lifting my arms and my spindly legs and I am crawling out of the earth whispering like a madman

you don’t need to call me that

you can just call me mother or darling

or kiss me like you did when the world was new and we had nothing to do and I was only three (or was I two?)

and you saw the stars as they shone through

and we were too young to know why I wasn’t me and you weren’t you

we were just satisfied to be fully ourselves

but the knob on the door was mine always

and I knew that love was never just around the corner.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

Stream of Consciousness #9

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I don’t think my hands have ever typed so fast! the rhymes literally poured out at a rate I was not sure to keep up at. i was possessed. utterly possessed. And I have just finished reading Joan Baez’s first autobiography, I don’t know if that helps…

 

Stream of Consciousness #9

who was who was pooh was greatly appreciatledy do

like whispers in summer

you were my love

like bouncing balloons on a string

you were my everything

like balls on bells on a summer day

you were my grass to my hay

my laugh to my chuckle,

my seat to my buckle

my trough to my stream

my laugh to my scream

my tie to myshirt

to my button

to my skirt

seam

you are were is my everything

like free lancing on the street

selling things so you can have food to eat

like strings on ropes and cords and strings

like my heart that constantly sings

whatever you do

you know you is my everything

like money in your pocket

like a chain of golden locket

like springs on balloons

and like the harvest moon

and like the trepidation s

or our silent meditations

and like the wind blowing at your feet and like having the stars to meet

like the wind blowing through the dust

like your mind saying, no , you must, you must

like this itch in my head that says you might prefer me instead

like this shallow of sorrow

that says there is no tomorrow

what’s the point of living,

I find myself saying

when everyone is already dead?

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

Stream of Consciousness #8

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Stream of Consciousness #8

the ice eyes is melted

it leaves the scum of the earth at it’s feet.

do you want to skip breakfast or eat meat

I love this weather it is better to stay and keep than to go aloft and die in the winter lights

I stayed at home watching telly

you like eating ham and jelly’it is smelly

who’d evah thought that I was the one with the sore leg and the sore foot and the Achilles heel and the swollen ankle and the cough and the sore thought and post nasal drip

hey babe lets take a trip

to downtown where the air is clear

bird near sun bright capo

lightened in the darkness you will find me

stuck in a lost corridor

finding my way up these walls

you can see me drifting like nobody’s business

like me soaring above every line

and singing away my heart

you ate the brownies and a tart

like an apple without a stem Mrs. Jaffet and Mr. Sem

CHEATING!

lucky they can get together on this sunny afternoon and not feel frightened by their certain doom.

like me, only wiser, and smaller without wit or any mental capacity

x x  x  x  x  x  x  x xx x x x x x  x x

I trudge onward, carrying a stick that I will pick to live a life of strange boredom.

your life is exiting, she said, she says quickly and then leaves.

i love you and this light is the strongest doll, isn’t it, aint it so darling aint that true aint it the truth my dearling dar. I wonder why thought your eyes are not the same as mine I wonder, then realize that that’s not what’s important, I mean, really, what was I thinking? It’s not my fault, I realize, it isn’t my fault at all. the lightening strikes before I talk, so as long as I keep on talking…

x x  x  x  x x x x x x  x   x x x x x  xx x x

right

he answered, the telephone rest was getting sweaty

he had not talked to her for months

and it was nerve-racking

“I’d like to have dinner with you shyanne”

he whispers, and then is silent.

on the end of the line she sniffs, then hangs up.

his mind goes back to the fist day of last summer.

It was nice then, he thought

it was for her good to get the fresh air and the night breeze and the swallow songs

but tonight I have only the humming of the water boiler and the squeak  of the oiled door hinges

it is  nice for to be just  alone.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

Stream of Consciousness #7

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Stream of Consciousness #7

likely she stood out

her silhouette  was my shadow

I lied in a company of two instead of five

I lived for one light fine and the voracious  beauty  which lied in my kin

i liked the manner in which she spoke

she was the woman of the Canadian wilderness

and second only to me,

I was the first in command

I held the rocks which by a sea she drove

and did not care what happened to me

long as I was free and held onto a part of myself that was undoubtedly me

and you kept it

you never let it go

you kept it in the palm of my hand

oh god who helps me

do you see me very foolish to want the same things for you  as I do for her?

x  x  x x  x  x  x  x x  x x x x  x x x x x

likely, she said, it was likely very likely. I will get back to you mister Morison  I love you mister Morrison give me that back mister Morrison mister Morrison call me Alexander misses,  alright call me Alexander .she says call me Aleka Alexander call me Aleka. I will call you says Alexander, I will call you by that name and that name only.

why does she muse about herself in another person’s shoes? she has nothing else to do, says her friend  it makes her cry, undoubtedly, it does. I love you mister Morrison do you want some coffee?

x x x  x x  x x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x

she listens to four classical stations

and her favorite tune

this one is his  theme song

it is derived from the word “Pig” in Latin

and it means the root of all evil lies within the soul of meat.

eat it now

or starve she says

why does his hair be perfectly combed

but he looks away and starts laughing

she laughs

she pulls the comb she pulls the trigger

she likes life, she likes it.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

Stream of consciousness #6

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I suppose you could say the village grave poem and this one are loosely related to Romeo and Juliet  since that’s what we’re studying in English class right now…

Stream of consciousness #6 

at the foot of my door sits a wench

whose legs are bent

and doesn’t speak a word to me

even when I whisper hello to her.

she minds her own business, I think, or at lest I think that’s what I think

you left me, like a wilted flower,

did I look like the woman there?

disheveled hair?

or was I a bundle of wilts

lying like a mung-root, crying my eyes out

simple, pleading, desperation?

x  x  x  x  x   x x  x x  x x x x  x  x  x x

where the devil’s head are you? I plead, I scream and struggle to hold onto a mung-root that beetroot still stuck in the soil. Howling, touching the innermost fibers of the ground. I see the sky unfold, I think, or I think that’s what I think, It lies there, like a lilting summer facade, you touched it, it melts almost instantly. and it hurts. “WHY YOU DID THAT?” lying in pain, I howl, yelling, looking at her face, which is also scarred from a charred facade late years ago. I whimper to her, but I see only kind eyes, and an understanding smile: she is my mother I realize, she is my mother.

 x x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x

light as a feather you are, light as a feather.

you lift up only one finger, and come crashing down.

you swore on the seedling

that it would lift you up

and temporarily

you were a smart girl-

you did not kiss boys in the street

and neel at their feet

like kristabella whose eyes have tempted everyone and anyone

you keep your distance girl

you stay safe

you be the girl the girl that people say

“wasn’t that  who got stuck in a tractor wheel last summer last

I remember her poor lass she was my best pal”

and they take you away to the cemetery-

they all say it was death!

it wasn’t death, you say,

lifting your finger,

it was suicide.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry