Her Dream November 6, 2006
Posted by NatalieLogue in BluAngel.3 comments
She smells of medicine
and sponge baths
IV
and Kimo
Her pretty bald head
held in a scarf
ten years old
and she reads
tales of fairies
to friends in bed
keeping them safe
and though they come
and go
she reads on
to silent walls
and lively painted murals
Leopards with
bright purple fur
and yellow-orange marmosets
Trees with 3 leaves
as big as her arm
Blue-green coconuts
against a red – orange sky
the unliky combinations
become truth incarnate
A dream realized
her dream
To see the next sunrise
and chance to say
one last ‘Good-Bye’
To the animals on the walls
and the fish on the ceiling
the boys and girls
in paper bag suits
candy of a ground vitamin
though a tube
a room of white and cream
belying the sense of sanity
sanctity of teives
who saved her the fault
of living outside
Her Dream
I See November 6, 2006
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Dance to the Religion
Of Opionion
Issues on a world – wide scale
Fall from my tongue
Honey Poisoned black
Dreamt with ideals
From some other realm
Good-Night November 6, 2006
Posted by NatalieLogue in BluAngel.add a comment
I think Gogh had it right
To cut off my ears would end
The roller coaster dream I
live one, not several emotions, just
Varying degrees of anger
Anger for voices that bellow in song
believing themselves immortal
thinking themselves divine
The whine of music droning
a plea of attention, recognition
would, that i could, peirce your heart
ending the life of a suffering beast
how humane
Anger for the love i can’t find
the need that surrounds me
the false faith in fairies i see
There is no belief in me
Anger too for the love I would be rid of
the tentative touching and talking
the slow anxious moment that grate my nerves
my mind was gone in August
It returned in September
Now in October I am praying for death
A release from the world
an ending of things
of All things
I want to say
Good-Night
Haiku Slam November 6, 2006
Posted by NatalieLogue in BluAngel.1 comment so far
Rhyming with words of
Verisimilitude
That dance from one faith
Five
Seven
Five
Heavy rhythm felt
In my brain is locked inside
Silent Agony
Sweet
Shortness
Makes
Oh try to deal my
Drug of choice is fallen grace
Born of the heavens
Dreams
To try
Fail
Mighty fates of gods
I face an eternity
Of fighting for Life
Enviromental Slam November 6, 2006
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Babies born with
Crack cocaine in their minds
The non-profit corporate America
Buying their politics with
Weapons of mass destruction
War on humanity while
Consumer profits rise
Alcohol and cigarettes
For the next terrorist act
Be Prepared
Three dollars a gallon
And every American with two cars to fill
Pulling the black gold rug from
Israeli feet
Watch them fall
Like dominoes
And the catastrophe is
We’re living in a mass grave
We dug ourselves
To bury the blame
An economic system of
Sex drugs coco puffs
Children watching t.v.
And waiting for the tub of
Methamphetamine to blow
Their minds a city block wide
With the human archetypes
Changing every day
Hurtling towards
The US of A
Waiting for that last
Six dot block
To hit the trigger
Of our a-bomb attack
Last chance
Last option
And it’s set
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
The one was worn and paved
lined with billboards
Cement, crement, graves and dates
The other
And this one was my preferred
Was thick and messy
Choked with leafy plants
That sobbed with pleasure
At the end of the paved path
Was a light shining red
No right turn
No left turn
No u-turn
No-outlet
Dead-end ahead
The leafy path had no end
Though as I looked
I could see thousands of tiny paths
Converging and departing
And it seemed to me
That many tiny hands,
Like those of children
Beckoned and begged
Folded in prayer
Busy with a game
the first step was hard
I fell into the darkness of the forest
My breath was short
My body was cramped
The space immobile
But as I waited, for I feared to move
I saw that it was not dark
It was green
And yellow and blue and red
And I stepped forward again into the vast expanse of blue sky and wide fields.
All concealed within the arms of the reaching branches
Where rocks lay to rest in depths of the earth
Fire and blood left behind
For a moment I breathed in the deep
Earthy air
And felt the exaltation rush through me
Leaving me not hollow
But full to the brim
And my heart pounded with pleasure
Aching in my breast
For one last moment
In time
Clockwork November 6, 2006
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A tall dark handsome clock shadowed the creature that leaned against the wall. This one spot was free of dust and debris. They had stood here, the clock and the creature, many times and would stand many times again. The clock whirled away the seconds by the gears and arms ticking methodically. The creature did not pass time at all. It was always in that moment when the sun is only just missing and the moon is ready to take stage.
A black inkwell and an ornate quill rested on a desk, untouched. The black words of a letter faded to gray. On the edges of the frail old parchment stood clear imprints of three little fingers, as though a mouse had peered over the desk and changed his mind and turned back.
The creature and the clock watched the shades of day pass through the room as seconds went tick, tick, ticking by. And one long gray hair fell gracefully from the creatures head and drifted like a feather to the cold worn floor. One more piece of debris.
Birds November 6, 2006
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I see birds in the black curved minds of miniscule rhymes. The nanowimo times coming three weeks in high. Christmas cheer and mocking birds gear to hide the grimace of the friendly touch. A love story of days when ice is gray and where the sun doesn’t come out. Break my heart because pain is the best salve for my callous soul and if I had the pain to tell my game to the world I would not need anyone. Though I rely on everyone. Oh the poetic fallacy of fate.
I think of words before my pen, or perhaps, my pen is telling me my words, would I think thus if my pen were black or red or green? Would I think of rainbows and dream in the cherry taffeta sleep but that I wrote in pink? Is blue so post mortem as to lend the deathbed’s sigh? Though I think from friends and friends of mine that death is not as glum as one would think. Mayhap there are parties with ribbon and bows. Black lacy wires in a morbid fantasy. Play hands deal our cards and sevens it is. Ace is wild for the ringed finger. And though some still bear the chains of their death, they take it in good humor and tell me I am mad, to not want to join just yet, to want to stay upstairs. But I do love the sky and clouds and green mountain air. Besides, in death there is no pain, and that is what I need to feel. The pain of living, of breathing, of sharing what I love with those of whom I stay clear. I share the pain of living with those I most wish dead, for if I take the hardest path it is my freedom I shall wed.
I dreamt one time of birds of all sorts, of crows and cardinals and lovebirds, two. I dreamt one time of wings of blue and red and gold and dreamt one time I’d dream again though not until I was very old.
DFA Writes 