Log in

No account? Create an account
buried in the mind of a poet's Journal [entries|friends|calendar]
buried in the mind of a poet

[ website | maintained by... ]
[ userinfo | livejournal userinfo ]
[ calendar | livejournal calendar ]

"the quiet world" [06 Aug 2008|08:52pm]

by jeffrey mcdaniel

in an effort to get people to look
into each other's eyes more,
the government has decided to allot
each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.

when the phone rings, i put it
to my ear without saying hello.
in the restaurant, i point
at chicken noodle soup. i am
adjusting well to the new way.

late at night, i call my long-
distance lover and proudly say:
"i only used fifty-nine today.
i saved the rest for you."

when she doesn't respond, i know
she's used up all her words,
so i slowly whisper i love you,
thirty-two and a third times.
after that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.
post comment

Insomnia [13 Jan 2007|12:49am]

O Father, O Father.
O what did you say
so that Mother should cry at your feet?

It's not yours to know, son,
but you'll understand one
day. Now you must go back to sleep.

O Mother, O Mother.
O what, in the other
room, causes those buzzes and beeps?

It's not yours to know, son,
but you'll understand one
day. Now you must go back to sleep.

O Mercy, O Mercy.
Whatever is casting the
shadows which erily creep?

It's not your's to know, son,
but you'll understand one
day. Now you must go back to sleep.
post comment

[02 Aug 2006|11:05am]


post comment

does anyone read this anymore? [05 Jun 2006|06:10pm]

Don't move. I have something to ask you but i need your lips to open my mouth and i need your mouth to eat my words. Listen. Radio silence screams behind my ears. Two pessimists with fire burning through their fingertips, scorching skin and then rolling in salt and sweat. Yet I brushed off your tears. Hear me: it's true I'm repaying your advances, pulling your progress so far forward that we both lose our breath but remember i put your hand down on my face and remember: I love the desperate yellows and reds that paint themselves across the sky at night----
1 comment|post comment

[22 Mar 2006|06:39pm]

Element of response to natural disaster
that black leather jacket so last summer
in that last summer we breathed in 

breathe in breathe in couldn't let it out 

couldn't get out blue blue dead, drowning
blue you filled my lungs like the
smoke from your cigarette
a long kept secret hidden right behind
your lungs turns, rots away
this natural disaster element response

turn, keep breathing blue

walk away
post comment

[01 Jan 2006|02:16am]

post comment

Christmas Pome [20 Dec 2005|09:38pm]

Hello snow
I'm glad you're falling
Through my window
Ten below
Hello cold winds
Glad you're blowing
Thanks for tellin'
What you know

Hello nitetime
In the meantime
Lost in moonshine
Fill my cup
Hello mother
Where'd you go to?
Hello mother
Wake me up

Hello darkness
Strange nostalgia
Looking backwards
Used to be
Hello sadness
Southern Comfort
dusty blanket
cover me

Hello Christmas
Holy, holy
Nitetime glowing
Deep withing
Thank you Jesus
For forgiving
People like me
For our sin.
post comment

A Confession [04 Dec 2005|12:03am]

Once in a while,
I'm standing here, doing something.
And I think,
"What in the world am I doing here?"
It's a big surprise.

—Donald Rumsfeld, May 16, 2001, interview with the New York Times

Read More.
post comment

[30 Oct 2005|09:57pm]

In the cold or in the fire
O'er the old fence of barbed wire
In the fields
The Fall reveals
The singing wheels that will inspire
And alite an inner fire

Be it dismal, be it lite
In a cornfield late at nite
my senses bare
And nothing there
To melt away the site
Of a soft an inner lite

O, I wish I may I wish I might
Just get the wish I wish tonite.

For wont of want to wander near
Or far to feel afar from fear
To know that there's
Not anywhere
I'd fare to disappear
That's as good enough as here.
post comment

The Dream [26 Jul 2005|03:04am]

At last i've had a dream of kissing you
and though my passion's not completely done,
the fire that through my veins has sweetly run
has partially appeased the flame i know.

After this gesture, my relieved soul
can laugh a little at its stolen pleasure,
in past instances some comfort I may treasure,
and I will find a cure to make me whole.

My restored senses now begin, again, to sleep
and having left me [five] more days to weep,
within my eyes at length sleep takes your place;
And though it seems so cold to even view,
revokes for me its quality of ice
and shows itself almost as warm as you.

-Theo de Viau
post comment

I Could Have Danced All Night If I Hadn't Spontaneously Combusted [24 Jul 2005|09:34am]

(Author Unknown)

When it was still there is August
my landlady threatened to call the fire department.
The pine needles were already so thick and dry
and sharp on the carpet,
even with socks on
you couldn't walk without drawing blood.
But I was in love
and it was bigger than anything they'd ever shown on television.
My Christmas tree had become a Magnificent Obsession.

It was more than the red, black, fuschia,
and turquoise lace draped around it,
or the Rudraksha, crystal, and angelskin coral.
It was more than the gracefully curved plastic corkscrew drinking straw
and the brass pennywhistle all the way from Ireland
balanced skillfully in the nether branches.
I was more than the fact
that they never let me have one when I was a kid
because I was Jewish.

There was something that made me keep that tree
through Valentine's Day
and hang little pastel hearts all over it.
There was something, on Easter,
that made me hang all those hollow eggs I decorated myself
with Day-Glo paint and macaroni.
I had to stop letting people over -
they didn't understand.
My Christmas tree and I celebrated the Forth of July together.
I wore a red, white, and blue jumpsuit.
The tree wore at least 100 tiny American flags.
You see, when they said my Christmas tree had become a fire hazard,
I knew they didn't mean somebody would strike a match nearby.
It was a fire hazard because someday it would spontaneously combust
from the intense heat of its own beauty.
And I was waiting,
ready to see at least one of us go out
in a supremely self-sufficient blaze of glory.
'Twas right there on page 433 in the Book of Lists
between the brain radiation levels of 60 celebrated persons
and a collection of 10 people who had stigmata
There it was in glorious black and white:
"Eight Cases of Spontaneous Combustion."
And while I realized I might never develop holy wounds on my hands and feet,
and the only person who knew how to measure brain radiation died in 1952,
deep inside I knew that some day,
with the flawless timing of a fine Swiss watch,
I had as good a chance as anybody to spontaneously combust.

Just like Euphemia Johnson, age 68,
who Spontaneously blazed one rainy day in England
while drinking her afternoon tea.
Or Mr. and Mrs. Patrick Rooney
who crossed over together
one Christmas Eve during the second chorus of "Silent Night"
when Mrs. Rooney suddenly turned into a pillar of fire
and Mr. Rooney died from the smoke in the air.
That one went deep.
Now I know when people say
"Do you love me?"
they really mean
"If I spontaneously combusted, would you inhale the smoke?"

But best by far,
Miss Phyllis Newcombe, age 22,
who probably spent 3 or 4 months perfecting a pink organdy gown
with pearl buttons,
a polka dot sash,
and baby blue lace at the collar and cuffs,
just to wear to the dance hall
that night on August the 7th
when she waltzed with the prettiest man there -
the one with the strongest arms
and the wisest eyes
and the prettiest white teeth.
The music was like satin and velvet;
like those luscious chocolate caramels
she once got for Valentine's Day.
She was so radiant.

Everyone was staring.
Even the people waltzing kept craning their necks to look at her.
Something was becoming more and more curiously alive about the room
It seemed the air itself was waltzing
It must have been on a 2 that Miss Newcombe smiled exquisitely
and happily burst into flames.

Neither Miss Newcombe's partner
nor the pink organdy gown
were so much as singed.
For a split second the gown hovered in mid-air
as if confused.
Then, with nothing left to cover,
it dropped delicately to the floor.
like a rose petal.

I like to imagine that Miss Newcombe's partner understood -
that he picked up the dress and quietly left the hall
while everyone else went crazy.

People and Christmas trees who spontaneously combust
go to a secret place
Where everything in switched on and awake.
Those little golden particles you see when you're exited
are constantly vibrating in the air.

Miss Newcombe had to combust.
She'd never be 22 again
in that gown
on that night
with that man
with those teeth.
Here, she moves in a state on constant consummation
with the dazzling uniqueness of an albino giraffe.
All the trees are Christmas trees
with silver garlands and sequins and those
electric glass oraments with bubbling water.
Every moment is always, always, always enough.
2 comments|post comment

[24 Jun 2005|03:58pm]

post comment

hello everyone [08 Jun 2005|04:56am]

[ mood | sleepy ]

a little something...Collapse )

post comment

"Pastel" [07 Aug 2004|04:50am]

A coloured girl with coloured fears
Softy crying coloured tears
Coloured darkness, coloured home
Sadly, softly, all alone

She tries to find the way she went
She tries to find the hours spent
She tries to find a coloured heart
That sadly, softly, fell apart

And if you were to ask to her why
She'll turn her head and softly sigh
And if you ask which way to go
She'll softly tell you, "I don't know"

And if you ask her what she's seen
Or who she's known or where she's been
She'll softly close her coloured door
For sadly softly ever more.
post comment

from "Morning Hikus" [01 Dec 2004|05:52am]

The table is set
A Mad Hatter's tea party
Where is everyone?

It's not the judgment
It's the thought of you judging
Stop looking at me
post comment

Anne Sexton/Sylvia Plath [28 Nov 2004|02:13pm]

I hope it is ok to post this here. I have checked the userinfo, but please delete if it's not ok. I've started an Anne Sexton community - sextonpoetry - basically for ANYTHING Sexton-related - posting her poems, photos, discussing her, posting any Sexton-inspired poems of your own you have written, etc. I'm writing a book about Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath so I'll be asking for members' opinions/thoughts about various different issues sometimes too.

If anyone is interested, I look forward to seeing you there!
post comment

[31 Oct 2004|02:03pm]

my life is a vortex
the higher i climb
the faster i fall
the more it hurts
when i hit a wall
when i cannot breathe or smile or speak
when i would run to you...but feel too weak

and the days degrade
minutes fade
wasted pile of yesterdays
could have been used in so many ways
but pushed aside
so i could hide

so this day is my nothing
my nowhere
no how
where i shall hide my vicious scowl
i cannot bite if i am caged
i mustnt scream, though enraged

i am inferior
i hate this day
and every other day
i wish i would just go away


written in 2002...by me

this is how i feel
1 comment|post comment

[07 Oct 2004|01:12pm]

I thought of you today
I do not know what brought you to mind
Perhaps a stranger passed who had your eyes
Before my thoughts could take concrete form
The moment passed and you were gone
Much as the sunset dies to dark
So your memory fades.
No proof to its existence but,
The ledgers that I keep.
Do they bear some deep meaning,
Some message from my subconsience heart
Or are they just a fleeting regression
Random and Insignificant
With no reason to recount?
I would sooner know the mysteries of the universe
Than the nature of my heart.
But either way the wind shall blow
I just thought that I should say
"I thought of you today".
post comment

witch legs [06 Oct 2004|02:14pm]

'witch legs'

the telltale squeak of new boots
as i walk
not broken in yet
they still have that smell
that shine
the laces that have no fray
leaving the top three holes open
striped stockings peak through
your brother calls them witch legs
as he walks by with his cute friend
the one with the green flannel
around his waist
black jeans
his boots well worn
laces frayed
he says i like your hair
as he walks by
out the door
and you lean over close
say i told you black was your color
my skin still stained
your fingernails
drip drops on the bathroom tile
he hangs at the metro
we can take bus 53
i think that girl who sits behind us in math
knows the guy at the door
sneak in
wear that dress
the one from the salvation army
with the blue buckles
but i think the black babydoll
with the green tights
these new boots
would match with that shirt
around his waist
where my hands should be
as he bends over
to hand me a clove
and says did you know your ears are blue
i would say
you mean like the song
no like the dye
no it was kurt who died
not eddie
but it would not matter
the music loud
these conversational misunderstandings
he would still be touching my shoulder
his breath on my neck
and maybe by the end of october
he might even remember my name

laura f
post comment

[02 Oct 2004|09:17pm]

[ mood | busy ]

Gasoline Rainbow

The smell of freshly applied paint is on my skin
face on the wall, eyes swelling, cheeks damp with salty tears,
bruised arms and bruised legs bound by a belt
a blue handkerchief gagging my still smiling lips
Masochistic tendencies: He is breaking me; I feel pleasure, yet and still.
"Now, why are you still smiling? You are really mad."
Puts me on a chair and strokes my sweaty uncombed hair
"This is for your own good. IF we see each other on the other side, we'd be happy."
Half-smiling and half-crying: he slaps me again and again.
After his ritual with matches, he settles on a chair to read to me.
My beloved is reciting Robert Pinsky's Impossible to Tell,
smoking cigarettes, eyes like that of a dazed lunatic
words flowing out like the spit from his mouth
but all i could see were the gasoline rainbows!

post comment

[ viewing | most recent entries ]
[ go | earlier ]