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[09 Sep 2005|07:08pm] |
Come one, come all. My online literary journal Small Stones is now accepting submissions of poetry and photography. It's a very unprofessional, amateur little thing, but as you can see, the first issue is full of kick-ass poems. And content is what matters, not the shitty geocities set-up. Plus, this is all organic and small-scale, so you can say "fuck the man!" Whee. Anyway, please submit poems or art along with a short bio to: softlyrising@msn.com, with submission as the subject.
Read the first issue HERE
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[21 May 2005|02:12am] |
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mood |
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wondering what's up |
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Are we finished? Should we close this community and save LJ some space?
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[14 Sep 2004|02:12am] |
First Prompt In Ages:
I know what I have given
I cannot know what you received
--Antonio Porchia
You have a week or so. Hop to it.
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[14 Sep 2004|02:05am] |
1)
layers of ice
on the hummingbird feeder
a crow stops to stare
2)
cactus spiderweb
trapped bird struggles against silk
how cold the dusk
3)
snowboots come loose
my foot
silently scolds me
4)
frost on the orange trees
hundreds of frantic farmers
carrying little fires
== added 3:25 a.m.:
5)
his note
still tucked in her coat pocket
moss on his headstone
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[02 Aug 2004|11:38pm] |
i haven't posted here in forever, but this poem is in dire need of some help. i know the switch to past tense after the first stanza makes things corny and lecturey, but i don't know how to avoid that without losing the concept. i'd be greatly appreciative of any suggestions.
Terms of Endearment
My mother hangs up the phone,
laughs incredulously, a little smugly.
My father has forgotten again,
has called her sweetheart
in front of his new wife.
It was a habit he acquired during
their twenty years of marriage,
like passing the peas, warming up
the car. Even as a child, I knew
it did not mean love. My friends
fathers used the same term, but
when they said it, they looked
at their wives like they had a secret
or touched their shoulders softly.
Sometimes there was teasing in it;
sometimes sorrow or nostalgia,
but always a history, an intimacy.
I could not reconcile the nature of
the term or its tender reputation in
other homes with the duty and defeat
in my father's voice.
I began to lose faith in my dictionary.
I used to spend hours discovering
new word and associated meaning:
that neat, solid education.
Suddenly, words were not stable.
They lived a human life --
the same loopholes and betrayals.
My father is like an ex-waitress
calling out orders in her sleep.
He was trained in affection.
Sometimes I worried that it didn’t
stop with my mother,
that he’d mistake another little girl
on the street for me, take her home,
love her by mistake.
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| Movie Kiss |
[12 Jul 2004|02:39pm] |
I like to think I can tell the difference.
The feasible ones make you wonder if
something's going on offset, maybe he’s secretly
replaced her stage name with that
of his lost love from sophomore year,
if she’s grinding gun powder with her hips.
But with most, it's already over in the first moments
where hints of feigned attraction glint.
The crevice where the lips part is
well-deep, abysmal. I waited 2 and a half hours
for this? He traveled 3 years, almost died, she
ruined her reputation, and lost her inheritance for this?
These hands scuttling like insects, eyes
metallic reflecting panic in the seconds before
their ingrateful mouths clasp and they rear
and toss their heads, reigned in mustangs.
I wonder if there was any discussion of the events
beforehand, if some careful choreography
stifled their senses. Why open your mouth
if you’ve nothing to say? Dumb eyes that do not plead
or thank or tell, tongue coiled back hissing in the basket.
What a jip! I throw my hands, mutter oh come ON!
lackluster, slingshot out, and back to remembering
it’s only a movie, and that I’ve wasted
another $7 on a cowardly, slack
fish kiss.
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