not with words

a morning park

notwithwords — Wed, 10 Jun 2009 21:09:47 +0000

a ballon and gold

a sky

that breaks

and a yellow flower on lion’s legs

instructions page 140

notwithwords — Thu, 26 Mar 2009 01:58:45 +0000

so, these are portraits… they were written for my poetry class. enjoy.

notwithwords — Fri, 13 Mar 2009 19:23:41 +0000

so is expecting

she waits by the door always

cold comes in kisses her cheek

then goes to the corner

where he sits

at the mouth and so waits

because eager

moments

wants more

so is every moment in between

so sits by the door never closed completely

opened fully so waits

chin held

higher blue

hair lost eyes above

she got around

back 50 years

a desk

a necklace a sticker a bottle of milk

a tip jar

a tee shirt

a calendar

an antique store

a pillow

a mug

an earing all touching

the cartoons get lost

and dropout forever under

your heavy blanket sky

these aren’t mine, these are yours

these i am so tired of doing this

he rubs his dry fingers skin

and finds words in his mouth

cupped clapped pauses breathing

into pockets beating

he rakes the back of his

voice for more

his pockets

are filled with two million

dollars all pennies

he loves

his hands sink in wiggle

a wave will wiggle seashells on

that tide him

you tease ceilings you

i have war paint in my shadows

all walls make room

you make you

break tomorrows tomorrows finger drawn daydrips

all on kinds of body

i make i strong

golden screws hammers thread fine

finer open faced holds hands high

together

fan hold hands and breeze you you kisses

higher

i touch you you because soft

they memory loved

all cobble stones

licking the pope behind the ears

sweet smiles all

and sticky sunrisingness

held in two

rotated in snowless globes

all still glitters and bubbles kindly

but nothing cold

only hands

tongues on colors

sugar from the start go

four old mouths drip money corners

lean in lean in

two windows scared to move refuse to open

all cups and bottles

lids and bottles

plastic glasses

bottles and fingers

all capped uncapped

all fingers on ears on

baptized in his papers heap

wet

they watch with their tongues

and wave goodbye

under water

almost

he old hands move words from air immediate

he shoulders shudder dusty glass bottles rattle cold

he cement grey cracks age around him heavy

he no eyes touch no eyes touch

he I don’t miss you

he walls inside are all warm colors

her

eyes embroider moments sunlight

blocked movement open in (sways)

(her) floors

small sweep dances in slow motion curvatures

curtains hide

and don’t (her)

reach in stretches in forward in back

each

defined space in

each

defined space

words on strings make love in knots

and trip

in between lips

hunting down throats

to find your lungs and

strong

wind he tips

over

all suit

his falls off

the floor wants

his love on boards

he is waiting

he is perched

is that his

in fond rememberance of an old friend

notwithwords — Mon, 15 Dec 2008 18:22:24 +0000

i once knew a man, eight feet tall and five feet wide , he was. as sure as his eyes were his sweet smile left something warm on you from that great height. he was made of warm colors and the sunlight seemed to filter through him with a golden yellow. he was tree trunk rings of age wrapped around his belly. his words were silent, and often nothing more than an assured sweet hum that reverberated it’s way up to your heart. when they took him apart they found he was all held together by small golden screws.

notwithwords — Fri, 07 Nov 2008 22:45:57 +0000

there were four young men walking and the street light broke through the gate – war paint across their faces. they knew they had won.

we held hands and won together.

notwithwords — Fri, 24 Oct 2008 20:15:12 +0000

There is a sensation that rises like bubbles in a glass of sort of bubbling drink that isn’t champagne. It starts at your toes and rolls up to the knee caps, tickling a little bit. like someone walking their two fingers from your wrist to your inner elbow, those moments of anticipation trying to guess if they are there yet. it makes it’s way all the way up, rounding around your elbows and curling into the pockets behind your earlobes. it rests there for a moment. (take a breath) (take another) The released and relaxed complete.your body releases itself from the tight hold of your shoulders. there you are just floating. your head a ballon, your body the swaying string released from a small child’s hand.

what roses smell like

notwithwords — Sun, 12 Oct 2008 23:03:12 +0000

Taped and glued
Into an old memory
With yellowing pages
Sweet dust
Distant lovers’ sighs
Onto the tongue of the breeze
And the air around you
Smearing your edges into the open
Air
Arm fulls of blessings, questions and kisses
Strung on long dirt roads

so sweet so sweet

notwithwords — Fri, 03 Oct 2008 02:30:42 +0000

things found sticky

try to lick your fingers free

only to find

your mouth in the somewhat compromising position

of needing to speak for you

words like honey golden

drip like a hot day out of your lips

and slowly saunter over to say “hello,

i am a little stuck. don’t you think you could help me out?”

what goes on here (?)

notwithwords — Mon, 15 Sep 2008 22:29:23 +0000

is it that the sound of a voice bounces off the brick-laced walls,

or have the red clay squares learned to speak after all these years

and like to flex their throats in acts of repetition?

the fields between old walls are only limited by the hours of the day,

and reinvent themselves every moment

due to such a strong emotional attachment to the sky.

the little girl who doesn’t wear shoes

and never steps on all the glass

likes to imitate the rain with the bare bottom pitter patter of her feet.

the ping pong table that might exist

notwithwords — Fri, 08 Aug 2008 03:50:35 +0000

Time sits – waits on

a graffiti covered swing

in a park that is reborn

nightly

and plays with lost children and lovers

Years cradle the head of Day

in a soft lap

no matter the audience

their love resides

in the moment Time forgot