Tag Archives: poetry

Ouvroir De Litterature Potentielle: Two Poems

15 Jul

for Raymond Queneau

One:

Or only one after the other?
Us,
a virgin was in fact the
mother of the Christ,
voyaging out altogether
recently while staying.

Rivers (I’ve seen some
rivers in foreign
countries) of time
because the world was
full of men at
sundown predisposed
to something of
character.

I recognized a woman
by the softness of
her lips, into a
barborous patois-
remove- return home
for the disheveled
embraces, drinking,
everyone and the
earth like us and
whose face happened
to be on a level
with ours.

Listen to you. It
got late, I watch
the caterpillars.

Two:

I thought about numbers
a great deal- the
memories each one
before she could move.
It reduces me to tears
quicker than anything
else in time.

Referred to as his
aquarium- a bedroom-
though to cleave the
very constellations
there was nothing to
stop me from constantly
being unpleasant:
under return in three
days.

Roar with laughter
because elicit information
from events would unfold
in the workmen’s peaceful-
purporting to have met me
at some function or
another- original of
these adventures take
place at night,
truth to what we’ve
heard?

A terrain with the act
in which a body
exceeds.

Note: this poem was created in response to a prompt at dVerse- Poets Pub

Poems, Questions & Prayers

12 Jul

Is there a deeper
resounding truth?
My electric flute
sense seems to
say yes.

My womb introspection
of strange fairytales and
falling curtains full of
sparks brings on a
delicate and almost
impercetible fatigue.

A bottomless confusion
is born within me brought
on by pattern intoxication.
Staring at paintings by old
Dutch masters arouse a
deep and often hidden
silence which dissolves
almost instantly in water.

I am left with a voracious
fantasy emptied of all
hunger and left with an
acute thirst.

I am stagnation brought
to life. Trembling under
the caresses in a garden
of always savage flowers.
My suffering becomes
transparent.

My ecstacy one of rusty
flesh like a leaf floating
that is suddenly sunk
by a piano tongue
under stainedglass moons.

I stand here raising my
hands to the sky
begging
praying
for pure absolution
polishing the hibernating
jewels in my mind.

I look into a mirror
labyrinth, and cerebral
fires burn bright
forming constellations
of words and spaces
in between them.
For now I am done.

Note: this poem about poetry was written based on prompting at dVerse- the Poet’s Pub

Bracelets, Ducky Love, Rings, & Song

23 Jun

<a href=”https://mattspotentialpoetry.files.wordpress.com/2012/06/image-062212-from-okc-pictures.jpg”&gt;

 

I realize when I look at you
baby, that I love you so,
and I need to hold you close
and dance-
bodies,
mind,
&
soul.

We started this dance
so long ago now,
and your eyes are
telling me you are
getting tiredearly
in the morning. Those
amazing eyes I dreamed
the other night I was
seeing through my hands.
My brain
interpreting
my heart-
science saying-

that I love you, and I need
you to stay forever-
and it was winter
when we met- and next
spring we will be
married. And I just had
to ask you that night-
I proposed- I could not wait
To hear you say, “Yes.”
Had to tell you that day
I brought you to the ocean,
and you brought me the
ocean motion love reaction-
but it was cold, and
I abbreviated a prounoun-
Do ya think I was
Nervous?

And tonight I caught two fireflies
in our Santa Claus Jar- and we let
them go early in the evening. I could
let those flashing bugs go- as the sun
set cleaning mirrors- because you
are everything I need- those
amazing smiles that ride waves
to your eyes- more than one
color.

Scenery don’t really matter- it
ends up all the same- it is that
sweet kiss I always miss- but
old mythology persisted to
raise its head- just throw
a mirror in front of the medusa-
save us from that turning to
stone- the sweetest honeyed
lips I ever want to know-
they make the whole world
disappear when they form
words delicate yet true-
you always talk to me baby-
even when I leap from here
to there. You are with me always,
baby.

I am
ripping down our sun blanket, and
saying we need to go stargazing-
a state of grace with you
&
the Universe.

I am left juxtaposing different
levels
and
kinds
of consciousness- from
strawberry milkjello
onward to dreams-
and ever onward-
a proposal-

soon a ceremony.

On an island will we be-
I really didn’t think
things could ever be like
this- the two of us
together-
my very
own
sweetheart.

And it is tired,
And I am getting late-
and that Mockingbird
is singing from his nest-
songs of home
that always
fade
unless
you
lock up
the rain.

This poem
when cut up
would become
simple clay
red clay-
scraped from
the wheels
of our red
Monte Carlo
with one
flat tire.
Home is the result-
Peace,
Joy,
And
Love-
Of course.
And I remember falling into
Your eyes well before it was
a late spring concert finale-
before I even knew ya, truly.
My phone flashed your two
Coloreye
Display- it to me was like
Some fantasy planet captured
By an amateur astronomer with
Kids, dogs, cats, like Tim-
Remember the menagerie
And his nerd cabinet?
Left hand:
One white thread bracelet- one month old-
Amasing- one thread, and it is still hanging
On!
Right Hand:
Red & Gold- black string knot- three months old-
Cape Hatteras National Seashore-
camping at Oregon Inlet-
flying kites on empty beaches-
teaching you how to
loop
de
loop.
Pink & Red handmade
in India across the
ocean a Christmas
gift from Jo Jo-
it had- how many bells?
Four?
Five?
Now, six months later- all the bells
have fallen off- but we have caught
them together in our hands.

Orange & Yellow
stringknots
picked up at that
uber strange
gas
station
slash
motel.

If we had not been so tired after
our cross country trek- and a
tire going flat- and the ole
Monte Carlo was a kroovy
red in that strange parking
lot- the cashier flicking us off-
remember that? When we first
stopped in Virginia back in late
February.

And a rope bracelet-
possibly hemp
possibly not-
braided
with a centered
groovy green
oblong oval bead,
and with small black
bead tieoffs dangling-
from Chippokes-
our matching
camping
bracelets-
nigh three months
old.

Other bracelets have
broken or been retired
for preservation.

And of course the rings-
it all started with that
fifty cent machine-
two white and black
temporary
engagement rings.
Now replacing those
with one groovy
ring we stumbled
upon in that little
shop-
was that on sidewalk
chalk day?
And the island of
Chincoteague is
thehorizon-
An island without
Traintracks-
We’ll have to cross the
Chesapeake Bay via
Three bridges
And two
Tunnels- a movern
Marvel of technology-
A wonder of the world
On a list.

And tonight there were two lightning
Bugs in the Santa Claus jar. And on
The island there will be a great
Wave of family coming-
Jo Jo, Aunts, Uncles, and
Nieces.

Two Dreamers Merging

1 Sep

She weeped as he
enclosed her wrists
in secret flower
shackles there was a
dizziness within him.
Her body was a
hallucination in
stainedglass a holy
labryinth of ecstasy
many regions to explore.

Her breath hibernated
in her throat then its
tempo increased. Her
delicate witchcraft
rushing rusty intoxication
full moons rising pure
unfathomable
alive!

Sparks and silent caresses
in the dark her mouth a
savage fantasy and
opiumden dark red supple
lips leading to a dangerous
hysteria of the flesh

then a whirling love soul
climax transparently
dissolving
wrapped
in quivers and trembling
music together one electric
wholeness- a discovery
of absolution on his
mirror tongue.

Are The Good Times All Gone?

9 May

for all the fans of Ignatius J. Reilly out there. I hope this does not offend proper theology and geometry. If it does, well…

A GREEN HUNTING CAP
Reilly’s supercilious blue and
earflap and collar.

That Ignatius had himself broken
hot myself.
Everything.

Gag several
One of the customesrs just spilled
they drink
of history temporarily fading,
don’t know what’s happening
to you,

tolerant of this gaffee when one considers
I had witnessed one on the television
so many times. A man with eyes, that
squeeze the soul slightly.

And uncut hair and the fine bristles of
a beard, with a rich inner life like
Milwaukee or Chicago or some other…

leaning over a glass case an old man
in New Orleans arched an eyebrow
at Ignatius and his mother?

Halloween Remembered

16 Oct

Halloween
a small town
listening
lucky
of laughing
world fizzed over
every window
eyes
nothing
relit
eyes
(like) me
each
much
behind
everyone
running
exultation
(banged on) doors

Mamihlapinatapai

14 Aug

I wish it and
you wish it.
The desire
burns as
embers in
our eyes,
but we end
up breaking
the gaze.
Walking
away
from each
other forever
because
neither
of us
wants to
take the
necessary
and most
needed
action
in time.