Twiakus & Briefs

~ stale :: like crusty bread :: hardened by exposure ~
10/16/12

~It was biting cold ~ but we felt the heated passion ~ our fingertips stroking the rose ~ upon the other's velvet cheek~
12/13/2010

~the morning sun warmed ~ white dwarf fades with dawn of day ~ celestial echo~
12/10/10

~ in the house <><> rabid dog <><> seeking its prey <><> i watch from the rafters ~
12/08/12

Sumtimes, I have 2 lock the door so the voices aren't so loud. I'll open it perhaps, when they calm down. For now, their distance is relief.
12/06/2010

spinning :: broken record in my head :: reeling :: baited with accusatory blame :: running the line until it breaks :: taming the reel
08/05/2010

lost ~ nerves exposed, mind confused, heart displaced ~ somewhere between raw and gaping
08/03/2010

throwing out pills ~ cleaning out the medicine closet ~ tossing tubes ~ body full of memories ~ glad to be free
7/24/10

****************
Some originally posted on Twitter on an account now deleted.
****************

One Piece of Trash

I saw a piece of trash
on the ground today.
I could have walked right by
and let that litter lay.

I paused a moment, looked around,
as people quickly passed.
Reaching down I wondered,
why do we move so fast?

Maybe folks will notice
when the litter is a heap.
I hope we soon slow down
before it gets too deep.


april 11, 2007
carolwelch

Progress

At the gas pump
the screen asks
"Would you like a receipt?"
I push a button
"Yes"

In my palm
on the screen
"4" appears
in a little app circle
With my stylus
I tap the circle

The screen asks
"Would you like
to update?"
With my stylus I tap
"Yes"

The screen states
I have to sign into
my account
With my stylus
I tap in my password

The screen states
I have to agree
to the new contract
Sixty-four pages
I read the first line
With my stylus
I tap
"agree"
wondering what
I agree to

In the checkout line
the screen asks
if the amount is correct
I press
"Yes"

Updates
Permissions
Information
Overload

New and improved
All behind
screens

Face Odds

Trust eludes me

Once I believed
humans were basically good

Once I believed
people were altruistic

I tended
to take folks
at
face value

Trust is ever decreasing
as thieves,
masked manipulators,
disguised liars
reveal their
true facial contours
while trying
to save
face

I think I need
to learn
to read
faces
more clearly

Facades
______________

Imprint

You call me...

tribal voice within
quieter than breath
awakening my essence

You coax me...

song i can't resist
luring me
with whistles on the wind

You envelop me...

beauty to behold
entwining melodies
embroidery within my soul

Is this the muse?
This tribal voice?
This heartfelt cry?
This whispering force?

With open face and open heart
I hear, I taste, I feel...
Vibrations of creation
No longer can lie still...

Humbly I acquiesce
Spirit's imprinted symphony...
Rhythmic ancestral echo
Tunes every cell in harmony...

Beckoning I surrender
With honor and a dance...
My heart glides in joyful unison
The triumphant shout of "YES!"

april, 2007
judithpiper
___

In my true believer days, the word "muse" was a dirty word...one that opened the mind to devil spirit possession. We were not to follow our hearts because the heart was deceptive above all else and exceedingly corrupt. Intuition was stunted, creativity stifled.

It may seem a small thing to some people, but for me to utilize the word "muse" was a big step toward freedom. Freedom...what an elusive thing...so many definitions, so many interpretations.
___

The Ride

My loins straddle the dapple gray
Her sinews 'neath my thighs
She shakes her head, impetuous fervor
Awaiting my signal to embark the ride

Forward I lean, her neck to embrace
She turns her face, crystal blue eye
Filled with excitement, it speaks to me
Nostrils flare, arousal high

I read her, she reads me
I sit upright, we each breathe deep
Silver mane now in my palms
Anticipation's climax, heart's pulsing beat

Bodies' rhythms dance as equals
She detects the press from my knees
Tossing her head, she springs forward
Nothing but wind beneath her feet

Passionate fury, we move as one
Rainbow's edge, far side of the storm
Freedom once tasted, never forgotten
Upon my dapple gray unicorn

august 12, 2oo7
judithpiper

Intersections

I like autumn

and winter

and spring

and summer

and up

and down

and sideways

and especially curves

on mountain roads

with fog it's hard to

see

the yellow line

at night

those little reflectors

help a lot

little eyes coming

up from the hardened tar

tar eyes

that's what they are

other eyes

live in the forest

whose pupils

shine like

lights

in the

dark

in autumn

in winter

in spring

in summer

september 29, 2009
judithpiper

****
One of my favorite activities at my job is communicating with artists. We mainly communicate via email, though sometimes via phone. Every so often face to face.

One artist who I enjoy going back and forth with is Ray. Ray is a collage artist, a musician, and a poet. He always causes me to chuckle, or think, or ponder. He has the most entertaining subject lines for his emails.

At work earlier this evening, I opened one of his emails entitled "M.T. Graves." M.T. Graves...hehe... I chuckled wondering what he'd be sending along. He usually always writes something about Artomat, and then throws in these side notes. This time it was about autumn, and the reality that stuff dies and decays in autumn. So I reminded him that the decay feeds the soil. It's all in good fun.

And out came the above ditty (a rendition) in response to Ray. He wrote back his own poetic verse; complex and dark with a hint of humor.

One of the visuals that came to mind was a memory of driving in thick fog at night in the North Carolina mountains some twenty-five plus years ago. The fog was so dense, I had to open my car door to look down at the middle line in order to drive; there were no reflectors on the lines.

All of a sudden the line disappeared. I applied the brake to come to a complete stop from my 5 miles per hour speed, if I was even going that fast. Panic momentarily struck my heart.

Then I realized I was in an intersection. I creeped slowly forward, and the line reappeared.

Seasons are kind of like intersections too.

Maybe that road has reflectors now, but probably not.

A Poet Learns To Be Unread

~by Gerry Spoor

Some poems disappear when critics advise;
"They should vanish before they are noted",
and impassioned poets quickly surmise,
that their verses will seldom be quoted

Though most labor on, and never give in,
to the fashionable trends of the day
They'll wear thicker skins, since critic's akin,
label everything "trite, and cliche"

A poet must learn, that all his concerns
are not shared by the prosaic masses
Like Byron, or Burns, they'll often take turns
finding solace in whiskey filled glasses

Just so it is said, by masters now dead;
"Poetry written will soon be unread"

****

This is one of my favorite poems. The author is not me, but rather Gerry Spoor.

Thanks Gerry!

To read more about Gerry, click here: bag123

bags123

In upstate New York lives a man
Intelligent, witty, and kind
He gardens to harvest his land
While composing rhymes in his mind

That later spill onto the page
Keys clicking to and fro
Sometimes he must rearrange
To perfect the rhythm and flow

He likes tennis, biking, a smoke
Conversing with family and friends
I say he's a mighty fine bloke
With a heart where love never ends

If in your travels you meet him
Present him this rose from me
Thorns removed from the stem
I've gleaned much from his honesty

judithpiper
september 3, 2008

***
bags123. Who or what is that?

It is the forum name of a poet I admire and adore. His name is Gerry Spoor. (Oh that rhymed! Ha!)

In August, 2008, bags (as he is affectionately called) penned a few tribute poems for various members of PoetryPages.com . So I penned one for Gerry. It is from my heart.

In January, 2007, an ex-Way friend with whom I had recently reunioned encouraged me to find an online forum on which to post some of my poetry. This friend sent me pages of online links. I perused four links and picked one that resonated with me. It was a perfect fit. :-)

Poetry Pages was my first step outside of Way/ex-Way contacts on the internet. The forum was like a breath of fresh air - encouraging, humorous, believing in others, not trying to fix one another, and understanding that poetry is art. It is expression. Bags123, Gerry Spoor, was part of that mix, one of the wonderful souls I met on Poetry Pages.

Gerry is open, up front, kind, honest, and funny all in one. He left/leaves an imprint on me many a time to help not take myself too seriously, yet to endeavor to treat life with dignity.

I am going to post some of Gerry's poetry on my blog over the next week or so. How much remains to be seen.

To read more about Gerry, click the links below.

A Poet Learns to Be Unread
Meet bags123
Gerry's Poetry Archive on PoetryPages.com

***

About this blog

technology evolved ~ parchment altered
humanity evolved ~ the cry of the soul remains
voice of poetry ~ language of the heart
anthology ~ a gathering of flowers
of which there is a multitude
~*~

In this modern information age, parchment has changed. Everyday billions of symbols and characters appear upon the cyber page. Yet, the cry of the human soul continues as it has for thousands of years: to be acknowledged, to be heard, to embrace life, to flee from life, to face death, to flee from death, with all the facets in between.

An anthology is a collection of poetry/prose. The roots of the word 'anthology' mean "a gathering of flowers."

Thus this blog is a 'gathering of flowers'...of which there is a multitude. Some of splendor and life; others of loss and death. Yet each is significant; each deserves honoring.

With many of the poems I relay some of the context at the time the poem was written. Some poems may be years, or even decades old. All poems/prose are authored by me unless otherwise stated. I sign some with my pen name, Judith Piper.

Many of my poems/prose express the loss, grief, longing, rage, searching, confusion and other emotions that surface as a result of living through challenges of life, some of them traumatic. Some poems express hopes and dreams. Writing poetry and journaling have been two of my main therapeutic helps.

Each individual has a journey; each journey is significant. There are no non-persons; there are no non-events. I hope humanity can someday learn to honor one another with the respect and love we each deserve.

To Life!

Thanks for visiting...

~Carol
9/29/08


Is there ever a final draft? ~moi
Poetry is an echo asking a shadow to dance. ~Carl Sandburg