[x]

Grandmother's HouseThe smell of hot concrete rising from the sidewalk
and the tar on the wooden bridge
The sound of trains coming and going
So close that the small house was rattled

It was always summer, there.

Screen doors and a small rotator fan were enough
to keep out the mild heat of June
The train whistles sang me to sleep at night
With their wistful traveling tune

It was always summer, then.

ClockThe clock is ticking the clock is ticking the clock is ticking
Only owls can save you from the crows, but the owls are all dead
You trade your minutes for magic beans, but they only stretch
The minutes into hours, while you wait, expecting something more

Forever and never are the same in the schematics of a life
The crows constant cawing and pecking remind you that you live
The touching against a friendly soul now and then makes you want to continue
The clock is ticking the clock is ticking the clock is ticking

Reason flies out of the window with a shiny trophy in its beak
Love falls into the earth and becomes dust, unforgotten, unassuaged

Falling AwayIt's not the falling behind, it's the falling away
Unable to stay vertical, no horizontal to catch me
Blindly boring white days falling in and out of sleep
Waiting for something to end and something to begin

Talking about white things and birds and death stars
The location of heaven, the door that won't open
The hollow sounds of the memory gears turning
The falling, falling, endlessly through a sea of white

(Did I mention the white nothingness? Of course, yes,
It's all I have left to talk about, the falling through white)
It's not the falling behind, it's the falling away
Catch me.

Extreme Behaviour 101you dream of a tree on your back, a crow
on your shoulder, whispering to you,
feathers floating free,

the wind covering your body like a
wild animal, you have no more rules
for this body.

you write a love poem
for the uninterested--
tuck it under the mattress for a
younger generation to find
or the man who comes to take your bed
after you move away into the hills,
never to be seen again.

there comes a time for phone calls to home
for phone service to extend into the universe
where you've hidden among the exploded supernovas
in an attempt to fix things that you didn't break.
mother's spasming hands that drop dishes to the cold

SymphonyIt's the measured breathing of someone on oxygen, here in the small hours. I don't know where it's coming from. I hear it beneath the white noise of the air conditioner.
It's the faint jumpiness of a phone ringing, a monitor flatlining on a loop in my memory.
It's the droning in my own ears, the hum-buzz of the tinnitus, the electricity and insect sounds.
It's the whistle of a train, much louder than it should be. It soars over the top of it all. There are no trains nearby.
It's four AM again. The silence is not golden.

DrownBlackness at three AM
Dead stars
Mason jars
Books of hymns
Ribbons, wreathes, smoke
Phone calls from the dead
These things I know
And
Think
Of
As
I
Drown

48 hours - IIIt's a big deal.

Just a weekend, just two days. Just ten weekends.
Just until Christmas but I'm still wearing shorts,

sitting on the porch.

The floor will numb my crumpled legs, I short myself on meds during the week
because the need to not feel those days is all I have to hold on to.

It's about control, about the hours since those doors slammed behind me, since I got up
off that floor, since I held my daughter in my arms.

I know you will be there for me, how unfairly you will open your home
to chaos, that someone should be lying by your bed until you fall asleep,

that those things I took were just things, but
they were expression

the end and also everything

listen with the skin

I've lost the album of my life
vistas and their episodes
ones that you were in

the wind is warm
impossibly
more alive
than nights or vessels

the wind is
all there ever is

~*~

today
it comes: the universe
is not adding
light to darkness

we are the shadows
shielding sockets
from
obliterative
birth-song

sometime
we'll leave the outside
white
and reoccur
from one to One.

ConnotationsBetween pressed sheets
I am laid out before you—
with spine splayed
and my soul bared.
I ache for your eyes to see my truths,
plead for your fingers to explore me;
turn me and grasp at my edges, my corners,
before folding me down, to mark the place
where you'll return.

--
5/8/2012

Copyright © 2012 Jen Fowler
All Rights Reserved.

dialogue of the tidesI.
the tumult,
water.

II.
mercurial steadfast

III.
in seashells, expanses.

IV.
ruthlessly, home.

V.
oceans underfoot – everywhere.

VI.
architect of thirst

VII.
softest,
oldest
endurance

VIII.
windblown light, steeped.

IX.
seabed:
eroded engines.

X.
savage – albatross –

XI.
crag of solace

XII.
looking glass– jungle.

XIII.
perpetually
unearthed.
restless

XIV.
rust, aglow

XV.
contrary,
sanctuary– ?

XVI.
beloved unkempt unknown

XVII.
no pearl: oyster?

XVIII.
artless deep

XIX.
whales, stones –
trembling.

XX.
seeking, you exist.

XXI.
renegade harbour

XXII.
persistence:
abandoned always

BirdtalkI know that the Starman will be waiting in the sky, but
I don't think about it under these fluorescent lights
I remember when Wal-Mart wasn't a hospital, the world
wasn't a graveyard, and my spine wasn't ripped out
Didn't the birds used to talk? I seem to remember that

AppetitionFingers search, tearing at my side,
desperate to intertwine with my ribs,
to fill spaces where yours belong,
hoping to forget the emptiness between them.

Vertebrae align, my spine wants to arc,
aching to remember the torque of your ratcheting tongue,
the way it stirred emotions I didn't want,
spelling out my desires.

Toes curl, a fist as if to proclaim,
sheets can't contain these dreams that dare to speak.

But eyes are closed because there's nothing to see;
nothing to orbit around,
no distant galaxies to lose myself in,
no black eyeliner to focus on.

The clock ticks a patient melody,
while my heart slows,
and eyes open to a d

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war zoneI sell my copy of Heroes, Season 1 to a boy-
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I wish to write him a letter, where he huddles around a
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the poet

by =sunshinegypsy, Jan 19, 2012, 3:11:19 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

the wind sweeps the streets but I am
empty of that small voice
reassuring me,
reminding me
of why I ever put a pen to paper,
reversing every decision I made.

every word you speak is
poetic, careful and undistracted
in a time of choice and freedom
perfectly imperfect,
holding out your hands
and waiting for only me
not an answer, any answer, just
you.

the poetby =sunshinegypsy

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

I guess my biggest fear is losing that part of myself that strives to be better and better and what I do (write) without pushing myself so far I will never feel good enough. At least that's the biggest fear for my poet-life.

This was written for a challenge, "facing your fears" The poem had to be about a fear you have and it had to be a "double acrostic". In other words, the letters at the beginning and end of each line must form a word. I totally failed. Only the beginning letters form a word, but I'm still glad I did it.

You can read about it (and try it!) here: [link]

love 2 2

~~joy 0 0~~

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~TheLunaLily May 8, 2012 Writer

Right now I have writers block and it feels like that part of me that you are describing here is absent. Your phrasing is spot on and although this is not my biggest fear, I relate and can put myself in your shoes while reading this. Well done.

And hey, a double acrostic sounds really hard, high five for getting the first part and still writing a great poem!

*prettyflour May 7, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

This has been featured in my journal!

[link]

=sunshinegypsy May 7, 2012 Professional Writer

Thanks!!

*archelyxs Feb 15, 2012

Love how gentle your ending is.
It ends like it should. I'm not sure how else to say it. (:

=sunshinegypsy Feb 15, 2012 Professional Writer

That's a lovely thing to say!! Thank you.

*dofaust Feb 1, 2012

this is concise and effective. It is quite likable.
The run-on lines work well. It could be improved with
a tad more touches of classic poetry: concrete objects,
more memory of place, more emotion, more density...
check out Cummings or Dickinson to be reminded of what
can be done in just two stanzas... it never hurts to
have a fav muse/hero, esp in poetry and art and music....

=sunshinegypsy Feb 1, 2012 Professional Writer

I do have a few favourite authors I return to when I'm feeling stuck. Also I agree - I prefer to use more concrete visual bits. I have synesthesia so I can get my senses confused, but I like to be precise. I guess the point was that I feared losing that part of myself. Falling into the trap of too many words and not enough life.