A Friends Poetry
I need to make some more catagories it seems.
I have several friends who are poets. I realize that alot of people like to write poetry, I’m not one of them, which is why I’m not a songwriter, even though I sing.
I’m not really into poetry. I hated reading it in school. However, I’ve come to really like it, IF it’s written by someone I know. I guess, for me, I need to know the writer to understand where they are coming from.
So, my friend, Chaosmage, who provided a website where those of us regulars in the Religion 2 chatroom could post pics of ourselves, told me the other day that he wrote poetry. I asked to see some of it, and was given some prose that I instantly fell in love with. It was as if I could immediately identify with the moment that poem was talking about. I loved it. So I felt like sharing some of it…with his permission.
Poetry and Nonsense by C.R. Dicken
i’m sick of love.
sick of all the pain
and the head games.
i want you to feel like i feel.
i want you to hold the fire of
my love to your breast.
i want you to know the rage of passion
that is my soul.
“untitled - 10/10/00″
i see you.
your smug little smile upon your face.
a trickle of sweat runs down your
nose and your breath slowly
returns to a normal pace.
the high of adrenelin and power
still surges through your veins,
and the extacy of a few moments
of hell still clings to your flacid
pahllus.
the object of your agression
sits with tears leaving a salty
trail across her cheeks; one reddened
by the back of your hand.
in the dark you can’t see the bruises that
are forming on her thighs.
not that you care.
her panties are torn, but in her heart
it’s worse
after pleads unheaded, and cries unheard
did you even say you were sorry?
were you sorry?
did you even see her as a person,
a beautiful person, and not just an object
to be had?
do you see me?
the shadow on the wall. the glint of
moonlight on a polished blade.
do you see me?
i see you.
“i see you” - 4/27/00
As one who has been a victim of molestation, and having sisters who dealt with rape. I really like this one.
i hate my job
but as i was walking to the threshold
of my miligned servitude
i looked up.
the bluest blue sky was dotted by cotton-ball
clouds doing what clouds do
going their own way
changing, dissipating, growing, lazying along.
one had sighed it’s way between the sun and i
with shafts of golden light peeking out where
my lazy friend allowed it
and a small vapoured tuft of cloud had turned
into a minature rainbow
the only other thing i saw as this grand spectacle
drew me ever closer to being late was a solitary hawk
circling and circling
what drew my feathered friend there that afternoon
it couldn’t have been food
not in a parking lot
mabey it was the joy of flight itself
mabey she was looking at the odd spectacle below
or, mabey, hawk was enjoying the
same beautiful view i was
unfortunatly a co-workers voice disturbed my musings
and when i responded to their querry that
i was looking at the sky i don’t think they got it
so i left my friend in her beautiful blue
as i strode into the everlasting sunlightedness
with a smile on my face
and that sky tattooed on my heart
“untitled” - 9/10/00
who’s that knocking at my door?
is it my dreams, or my nightmares?
fear petrifies me sometimes, but i still wonder…
mabey it’s the me yet to be
mabey he’s cleverly posed as a traveling salesman
carpet bag in hand knocking gently on my soul’s door
i don’t want to let him in for fear of what i’ve been
for fears of what i will be
i know it’s silly to be afraid of monsters in the dark
yet under my bed lie dust bunnies
the mortal enemy of the under-the-bed-monster
after all this time i still sleep with my feet covered
protected
safe at last after all this time
safe
“silliness” — 03/08/2001
I like “Silliness” because when I was a child, I used to beleive that my stuffed animals came alive to beat up the monsters that could attack me in my sleep. I used to line my dozens upon dozens of stuffed animals on my bed from the foot to my chin, just so that I felt safe enough to go to sleep.
Okay, these next few are all about love. I really like the expressions, the moments captured here.
i drove past your old house.
the house where we first met.
the house where i fell in love with you.
i had shown up on accident. fate.
a friend in common, and oh so much more.
i remember everything.
your golden locks framed your angelig face.
your body wraped in a slip.
you smelt like you always did.
apples and roses. sometimes a hint of lilaic.
always delicious, and mostly sensous.
you smiled at me offering your hand.
your smile. those lips.
that kind of smile could kill a guy.
and i think it got me right in the heart.
you were the goddess incarnate
Luna, Minerva, Venus in sweet flesh and a thin slip.
“my first fall” — 4/4/2001
i want to wrap you up in stars
hold you near to me and whisper in your ear
i want to tell you everything that you want to hear
to say the words that i am so afraid of saying
oh, to be mine
silver moonlight covers me
looking into you eyes i find extacy
finding me looking back deep into your eyes
all i have is myself
no palace does this knight errant have for a randsom
nothing befit a princess such as you
my heart is the price, and the wager
the wheel of fate turns as i wait
waiting for you
my only love
“untitled” - 10/12/00
i took my love arm in arm to guide her down the path,
to lie her in a sun drenched field and wrestle in the grass.
i took my love hand in hand a walking down the lane,
splashing puddles with our feet and smiling in the rain.
i took my love in my arms to look deep within her eyes,
to whisper forever hello’s and never sweet goodbye’s.
i took my love to a darkened place kissed by only moon,
my heart consumed by passion’s fire drowning in her perfume.
“my love” — 10/21/2000
And here is one for all of you who would love to bang your head on your keyboard when nothing you type makes sense.
inspiration is fleeting at times
or it comes as i am trying to sleep.
lately it’s been hidden away.
I’ve stopped trying to find words that aren’t there
or worse come before unconsciousness
and i without pen and paper
sleep is hard to come by so the words
get relegated back on the shelf and
I, like the kings’ men,
can’t seem to put them back together again
not at least in the poetic and world changing
order that near sleep state sometimes brings
frustration, rage, and stress all build walls
to block me from and inspiration.
I hate fumbling through my mind looking for the spark in the darkness.
bumfuzzled is all i can find and i don’t even know if it’s a real word.
but that’s how i feel right now
a blind man lost in the library of congress.
“untitled” — 06/10/2001
