Showing posts from September, 2013

And last group...

Let me be your blossoming daisy.
Up from the ground, push me. The days we
spend are numbered anyway, so let us
spend them, unchambered, drifting crazy.

The sanctuary won’t be finished.
Outside, the line is filled with famished
souls, feet shuffling, kids running, old parents
disapproving, their faith diminished.

In this moment, when the stars confuse
themselves for trees, stream and bank amuse
the boards of the boat, my tired fingers float
around your halo; I’m yours to use.

Beauty is the constant reminder
that in some strange way, when you find her,
you won’t know what she is, and she won’t show
you until you first walk beside her.

I thought we had reached an age wherein
the wolves shed sheep’s clothing; they had been
judged by their words and deeds, actions and creeds
and not by the color of their skin.

The open windows, the smell of black
coffee, warm crullers, you i…

This form is addicting...

I’ve been to lavish parties galore,
with people I thought I had adored.
If there’s one thing I’ve gleaned, surely it’s that
knives should be kept clean in the drawer.

Some days I surrender to this screen,
let it take from me my hours till green
seeps through my skin, spreads to my ‘lectric grin,
and covers my spaces in between.

She reached her hands out to me, wanting
to see the Pleiades’ swift haunting
of the beach-sweat night closer. I would bet
that up there, falling seems less daunting.

It was a casual vacancy,
born from casual intimacy.
I should have listened to my mother’s words,
“don’t fall towards casual fancy.”

Most nights and days, she dances alone,
black hair, alabaster skin, slate stone
crow’s voice. Soy simpatico, un nino;
my body yearns for her perfect bones.

- JR Simmang

The Only Thing Left is a Book

In his rocking chair, the pipe embers
burning more slowly. He remembers
his first kiss and how it now tastes like this
slow, hot drag. It’s a cold December.

-JR Simmang

This one made it to the top 6 in the Writer's Digest Poetic Form Challenge for last month, which is pretty awesome.

More Gwawdodyn

I haven't posted these because they were entered into a poetic form challenge. No dual publishing. So, here are the entries:

The Kingfisher was back today. He
always finds something here, maybe
some string, twine. But, I’ve only heard him sing
when she comes over the meadow lea.

You dropped your promise on the tiled floor,
and I swept the pieces out the door.
Here’s my jar of promise glue. Use only
a little; I don’t have any more.

I shouldn’t have fallen for Lizbeth.
When we met, I was a tired labrynth,
endless. I thought I found salvation, ‘but
ev’ry state has a town named Naz’reth.

The garage was a fine, cluttered mess,
which I enjoyed cleaning, I confess.
I found a missing sock, a wishing star,
and under it all, your wedding dress.

-JR Simmang

In the Corner, the Syrup is Just as Sweet

I've sit next to a chain- smoking Jesus,
in the white-washed, plain
café. "No one will believe us,"

he reminds me, and smothers blueberry
pancakes in Smuckers
grape jam and an ounce of sherry.

"No one believes us anymore," smoke rings
curling around fussed
coffee steam, half and half, which brings

me to think that Jesus has a problem.
"There are at least three
types of people in this broken

world," he tells me. "Those who do, those who don't,
and those of who chose
to disappear in the crowded won't.

Okay, it ain't perfect, but it's a start,
and I'm beyond sure
that you may be my only friend, part

man, part God." I told him he must have me
confused for some old
someone else, but he smiled broadly,

lit another cigarette from the burnt
char of the last big
drag. "Thanks for coming. I hope you learnt

something today. Maybe next week we'll see
you again. I'm way
too old to start writing in free

time into my schedule. But, I like …

Seated in the Old Elm

The lightning bugs were out; that meant the weather was about to change. It's funny how these little things do that, turn on and off like candle. I was out with my brother, Samuel, while father was with Uncle Abraham and the other men of the town. Mom was probably with Aunt Ruth in the house.

Samuel and I built this tree house with father a couple of years back. It was seated in the old elm in the back 40. I had my first kiss here with Suzanna Ray during the sunset three months ago, in April, when the flowers just started flowering and the tree was green.

"Thinking about Suzanna?" Samuel could sometimes read my thoughts.

"Maybe." I smirked. "How could you tell?"

He focused on a point somewhere in the distance, dreaming at the clouds, and sighed heavily. "You get this look, this one, when you think about her." He refocused on me. "You should just walk up to her and ask her."

"Oh, I don't know."

He cleared his throat…

He Said it Was Okay

They didn't tell me how hot the lights were going to be. I was schwitzing like a stuck pig. Real attractive, Len, real attractive.

"You're on in five... four..." And the cameraman stopped talking, started signaling, and pointed to me. That little red light flashed on and off, on and off.

For a few seconds, there was air silence, something feared on TV. But, no one was watching anyway, so I probably could have stared at the camera all night without a single tick on the ratings board.

You see, Ol' Lenny here had to come up with something juicy to save the station. There's a problem with that, though. I couldn't very well create a story without an ending, could I? If it turned out that my story, the one I fabricated on live-feed, didn't jibe, the station would only be labeled as unreliable and fluffy. So, I had to do it right. A good lie will take between four and eight weeks.

Four weeks ago, I contacted July Ennis, Warden July Ennis. She's a bit o…