Poetry...kind of...

[lonniemarie]

When I was younger, I wanted to be a writer, a playwright...a person of words and images...unfortunately, I hit my peak of being creative at the tender age of 16. I still write, don't get me wrong...but I don't write with the passion I once had...and I find words are harder to express for me...that it is easier to rip up unfinished works than to actually take time to look at them closely and reconstruct the building I had begun. Every once in a while, I will write a poem that I don't hate...that I don't glare at...and I thought I would post a couple of them. I've already warned you not to expect anything good or grand...most of the time my poems are simple...and if anyone would like to post poems with me every once in a while...I would quite welcome the company...*smile*.




One More Hour

Traveling, speeding, driving past the signs
along this path, ignoring all the
warnings they represent.
Pondering, wondering, dwelling on the
aspects, the facets, the shaping of the
view, the sculpting of reflection,
only one more hour to freedom.
Rejoicing, fearing, destroying memories
smashing, stomping, pushing them into
the corner of a tired thought, a broken heart.
Yearning, weeping, needing one more
day, one more time, just one last glimmer of hope.
Crossing, cooing, cradling the words spoken,
the touches given, the innocence rediscovered .
Fostering, forgetting, leaving the road,
exhausted by the journey, the excursion into understanding,
the voyage into acceptance.
Sleeping, dreaming, dying within these restrictions,
drifting, falling, sinking, no longer waiting.

[lonniemarie]

This one is still in very rough draft form...always a work in motion...


One Night Stand

I didn’t run to the store,
I didn’t walk either,
I didn’t move from this chair or
dream of what you didn’t offer;
A denial of what never
was or is,
You can pretend your life,
and stay out of mine.
I felt the last moment,
shook from the touch,
and came on your floor,
A virtual disgrace
A minute regret,
Close the door, please,
the whore has left the building

[Thanin]

I really like the "One night stand" poem. It feels very real and doesn't shy away from what needs to be said. My favorite part is:

"You can pretend your life,
and stay out of mine."

That's a great line.

[Jeff]

Brutal

[lonniemarie]

Ah, thank you...I really appreciate the remarks, it helps me figure which way I want to go with the piece...

I'm still in the process of trying to force myself to do editing and refining both of the poems...I sometimes have a hard time stepping away from the frame and seeing the picture...

I have some other things that I will probably be posting...and I've decided to start blogging at my space's site as well...*sigh*...I'm hoping the creative bug will some day choose to feast upon my soul...

[lonniemarie]

I've been working on this poem for almost two years...I can't seem to edit it to a finish...Seems to always be a few feet out of my reach...

UNTITLED

One slap,
Two slap,
Three slap,
Four
Gasping, bleeding on the floor
He grips my hair,
introduces me over and over to the ground.
Oh how he yells the romantic things:
Whore, skank, bitch, slut,
My eye swells shut,
leavin’ half an image to view
as the concrete pounds me more.
One hit,
Two hit,
Three hit,
Four
He swears he loves me,
as he punches my face once more,
screamin’ he can’t live without me,
can’t face a day without my smile,
as blood drips from my lips,
a curled stain of impression.
One pill,
Two pill,
Three pill,
Four
How many will it take
for me to die on this floor?
Five pill,
Six pill,
Seven pill,
Eight
I just can’t remember the day
where a kiss was really a kiss,
and his hand was safe in mine.
A twist and turn, a road beyond.
Nine pill,
Ten pill,
Eleven pill,
Twelve,
a magic number has to arise…
swimming in crimson,
floating in anger,
sinking in despair,
Should I take just one more?

[Lonnie]

I didn't smile hello,
I didn't wave goodbye,
I only walked away with casual grace,
Hoping the sight of my back
Would be enough to end your lies,

How can your fantasy of me be more complete
Than the reality of who I am?
How can I digest the portions of understanding,
When I can't even swallow a bite?

I never did like the caress of a hardhitting slap,
And I never did want those last twenty minutes back.
It's all a cycle, a void of disagreement,
And while you continue on permnant press,
I've gone for a very different brand of cleansing regret.

[lonniemarie]

I glanced thru the web
you created,
How tight the line
you spun,
a lean reproduction
of a man
you can't be.
Your scars are flawless,
your charade impeccable.
lonely in your corpse world.
Traps catch victims,
you devour the bad,
spew the good,
bitterness a dessert
consumed easily.
Remember the names,
mine is somewhere.

[lonniemarie]

Dreams vanish,
a torch burns out.
Lonely,

isolated

in this world.
I crave to touch him,
to run my fingers down his spine.
To kiss him between his shoulders,
whisper "I love you" against his skin.
A last chance for my heart to be whole.

[Lonnie]

You say you never loved me,

not once in almost 20 years.

Maybe this is true, maybe I was only an image,
a vague collection of thoughts,
a collage of fantasies strung into a shallow reality.

Maybe you never saw a person, maybe you forgot
to breath life into the creation, nelegected the final
piece of the design, a fully realized soul to exist.

Maybe the tears, maybe the promises, the lies
followed you into my life, littering the path
we didn't travel or lived; the premise was weak.

You say you never loved me

Not once in almost 20 years.

Maybe that's true...

[lonniemarie]

Fantasy


Kiss me~

take my lips into yours,
nibble my bottom lip,
let me feel your teeth,
a reminder of restrained strength.

Spread my arms,
wrap yourself into me,
my fingers splayed in your hair.

Squeeze me tight,
let me feel you hard
pressed against me.

Let me touch your skin,
sweat on your neck,
feel the wetness on my tips.

Moan my name and repeat,
Take me home,
fill me deep.

[lonniemarie]

I've begun working on a poem called "Goodbye Christopher R.." and I've hit a wall. It's funny how when someone is too close to something, it is hard to find the words, the images that one wants to convey. However, I must confess that for me this is almost a way to finally say goodbye to the last 17 yrs of my life.

Chris was always known as Christopher Robin. He was my best friend, my lover and my husband. The moment he told me that he never loved me in the entirety of our relationship, that there were never any geunine good times, I felt a loss that I don't think I will ever completely recover from. It is a void that churns while I feel my emotional side heal. I've learned to accept that he had a year long affair, that he is in love with another woman, and I've even learned to accept that maybe he never saw me in the light that I saw him...however...I can't seem to understand or comprehend how I was so sadly mistaken about him being my Christopher Robin and how this life we were living was our own private 100 acre Woods...I know it seems silly...especially since I'm 35...but it was our own inside world that we joked about and treasured. I don't know why I say we...a simple I would suffice. For me, Christopher Robin is dead and along with him, Pooh and friends. I've packed all the gifts he ever gave me into his boxes of personal stuff. I've given almost every single picture of the two of us together back to him to do as he wishes. I packed my huge Pooh bear roughly on top of stuff I once thought to be ours. If I could, I would pack my memories away with him. I have three beautiful daughters whose kindness and love are the gifts of gods. They are what I take from this ride, this trip, this voyage of foolishness. They are the only gifts that mean anything to me...and they are the treasures that I take away from all of this. So, while my Christopher Robin never actually existed, though my marriage was a farce, a fraudlent behavior, I at least have the best of me and him in the three girls whose faces look so much like ours.

I realize this isn't a poem, nor is it any sort of writing other than my thoughts laid bare before you...sometimes exposing the soul is but a gentle exercise in letting go.

[Jeff]

Lonnie,

I think the most powerful image in your passage is that Christopher Robin might have been the imaginary being all along. Maybe this means that the imaginary world of perfect love is ultimately more real for us than the imperfections of actual people. Maybe it means that Love, as mythical as any religious concept, is the realest thing we know.

We teach and learn through imaginary worlds. I think this is why we associate imagination with children. But that is surely a sad mistake. Our utopias don’t ever really go away but are transformed into religion or politics or work. Creativity and imagination are essential to human being. Love is the same kind of magical thing but we seem to agree upon its reality. Its basis is what might be called “co-experience,” i.e., the experience of sharing experience with another, and I don’t mean merely two separate windows onto one world. Rather, in “co-experience” there is the palpable sense that the experience itself is the same. When this happens two imaginary worlds (the utopias individually associated with love, for instance) overlap and are even experienced in their unification. Art can give you co-experience. Music seems to work well for my daughters and me. Oddly, really good D&D games have given me this sense. Friendship and, of course, romantic Love are the usual ways we achieve it.

Have you seen the movie "Closer"? There is a couple there, Alice/Jane and Dan, who have a very elaborate set of code words by which they try to generate some real feeling between them. Over and over they repeat their mantras ("Buster" et al) trying to conjure co-experience. But they can never seem to do it. The reason soon grows clear: Dan is self-deceived, and Alice/Jane is trying to hurt people. Despite this, both seem intuitively aware of the means others use to share their lives. But in the wrong hands, the rituals don’t work. I think sensitive people pretty much (though not always) know when they are connecting and when they aren’t. I’d suggest that there is a better chance that Chris is confused right now than that he has been continuously confused for 17 years. And if he is right, if he was confused about what he was sharing for 17 years, then there is no good reason to think that he has resolved this confusion so quickly. My guess is that he is telling you words that will destroy the shared world you once had together. But it is only my silly guess.

Whatever the case, I think you must know the real answer. Did you share your experience together? Were you surprised to find him in your private thoughts? Were you happy to find him there? If so, then you were about as close as two people can get. If he chooses to deny that that was love, then he condemns himself to never finding that which he seeks. No matter what Jennifer does to me, I know that we loved each other, not because she tells me she did or does, but because I found her in my love.

We never see the Christopher Robin who leaves the wood, but we know he still exists when he’s away. Pooh says things like, “Oh bother, I wish Christopher Robin were here.” And this is an odd thing since Pooh is a figment of Christopher. Maybe the lines between real and imaginary are not so hard. There are clear cases, of course, here is a real $100 and here is my wish for it. But when we think of things like planning and creating, the distinction blurs. When I write a song there is a time in the middle when I am slipping around in possibilities and I am not at all clear about what the song is. Rather, the song might be a great many ways that I explore more or less objectively. The same is true about co-experience. Do you feel like I do? A skeptic could always doubt it. But then we look right at each other in response to something only we would find important, and not only did it register as important for both of us but we responded in exactly the same way. And we know it. I think I have looked at all my real friends this way at least once. With some people I can almost live in co-experience.

I’d say this: We are all partly imaginary and partly real. Our real parts lie in those areas of our existence that overlap with others. Sometimes we dwell in the places where others can find us and make us realize ourselves. And sometimes we flee them.

Jeff

PS Christianity has a wonderful symbol of the mystery of overlapping worlds. It’s called the Vesica Piscis: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vesica_piscis , www.philomuse.com/kingfisher/lab/vp.htm

PPS I liked your "erotic" poem, too. I guess I was really responding to both.

[jtmx1]

PPPS Lonnie, as you well know, I am full of shit more than half the time. So ignore what you recognize as obvious error.

[Lonnie]

You are not full of shit, Jeff...and I want to say Thank You for being a great friend and listening to me in the days after Chris walked out...it meant a lot to me and really gave me some great insight!!!