Compilation Poem for 1/28/16

This week's compilation poem is a new format.  We had two poets write compilation poems completely separate from each other and then we zipped them together into one poem (switching back and forth from one line to the next). Some of the line combinations were really great!!

If you've ever heard Marianne's poetry
did our hearts not sing within us
this can be dangerous
shake my darling heart
your last words will haunt me forever
to keep a hand on the latch
Something up there
when fruit becomes addictive
is brushing dandruff
no source of boundary
from his hair
when the rolling words finding their way home
don't listen carefully
a warmth penetrating from the midnight star
I regret reading that
I did not want to absorb
it's under copyright
the silence is a rotting boat
yet completely forbidden
you must heal yourself
I find that I am sleeping with demons
they were talking about how easy she is
eat that cannoli
you should be praying not preying
the potent juxtapose of bitter and sweet
becomes cross with me and eats garlic
for we loved
the slabs from the roof like standing sleepers
their entwined hands felt more emotion
my sadness was never beautiful
besides not giving a damn
her features were preserved in a death mask
I'm really tall. It's a big problem.
was her sadness beautiful?
I regret reading that.
removing dignity post mortem
fluttering wings warn me off
I am not painted in neoclassical form
with a calm voice she says "Hello, Michael" as if she had never been asleep
a moment's pause among the woad
Marianne builds houses on fields of cloth
Marianne will forever be greater than me in the cloth category
I regret reading that
kneel with your family
as you pray to
a God you might not even believe in
some things I just no longer laugh about
my sadness was never beautiful
a truck emerging out of a rock
my sadness is not your story to tell
consuming is like possession
the thirst that darkness kindles
it's a big problem
reverberating in my brain.

by Marianne Hales Harding and Michael Clements

We read it like that at the open mic, but I kind-of wish the zipping hadn't ended.  So here's the poem with continued zipping:


If you've ever heard Marianne's poetry
did our hearts not sing within us
this can be dangerous
shake my darling heart
your last words will haunt me forever
to keep a hand on the latch
Something up there
when fruit becomes addictive
is brushing dandruff
no source of boundary
from his hair
when the rolling words finding their way home
don't listen carefully
a warmth penetrating from the midnight star
I regret reading that
I did not want to absorb
it's under copyright
the silence is a rotting boat
yet completely forbidden
you must heal yourself
I find that I am sleeping with demons
they were talking about how easy she is
eat that cannoli
you should be praying not preying
the potent juxtapose of bitter and sweet
becomes cross with me and eats garlic
for we loved
the slabs from the roof like standing sleepers
their entwined hands felt more emotion
my sadness was never beautiful
besides not giving a damn
her features were preserved in a death mask
I'm really tall. It's a big problem.
was her sadness beautiful?
I regret reading that.
removing dignity post mortem
fluttering wings warn me off
I am not painted in neoclassical form
with a calm voice she says "Hello, Michael" as if she had never been asleep
did our hearts not sing within us
a moment's pause among the woad
shake my darling heart
Marianne builds houses on fields of cloth
to keep a hand on the latch
Marianne will forever be greater than me in the cloth category
when fruit becomes addictive
I regret reading that
no source of boundary
kneel with your family
when the rolling words finding their way home
as you pray to
a warmth penetrating from the midnight star
a God you might not even believe in
I did not want to absorb
some things I just no longer laugh about
the silence is a rotting boat
my sadness was never beautiful
you must heal yourself
a truck emerging out of a rock
they were talking about how easy she is
my sadness is not your story to tell
you should be praying not preying
consuming is like possession
becomes cross with me and eats garlic
the thirst that darkness kindles
the slabs from the roof like standing sleepers
it's a big problem
my sadness was never beautiful
reverberating in my brain
her features were preserved in a death mask

by Marianne Hales Harding and Michael Clements

Poem for Endurance

Eyes That See, Ears That Hear

I see it before me

Looming over me

Its size dominates me

Blocks nearly all light

The surface is smooth

Leaving me no place to grasp

No footholds to climb

The darkness and ferocity of my foe

Mock my small human form

I am so tiny

My grip is too weak

My legs have carried me

More miles than I remember

They tremble with fatigue

Before this beastly monument

This wall was not on the map

I have adhered to it always

Mountains were scaled by me

I wandered in valleys

Appreciative of their beauty and ease

The straightaways – I sprinted

All were on the charted course

My map is true

My compass has not failed me

Yet there it sits before me –

Wrong

Ending my quest before I can complete it

I am so tiny

And this obstacle so large

My grip is too weak

And there is no place for my hand

My legs tremble and buckle beneath me

I cannot win

Tears bathe my face

And water the earth

With handfuls of mud

I furiously scrub at my palms

Slowly awareness breaks through

I marvel at the callouses that have

Replaced the soft flesh

Without my notice

I rub the mud up my arms

Noticing for the first time

The strength of the muscles and sinews

My crying abates

The wall is large and seemingly indomitable

But my will is steel

And my eyes sharp

My mind is keen

On quivering determined legs

I stand

And stare the obstruction down

It is still enormous and terrible

But no longer frightening

And then, from the top

I see it,

Hidden in the shadows,

Blocked from light,

A hand

Extending a length of rope

I hear a faint voice calling out

"Take it, and I'll help you over."

Graphic Noir Poetry

I love noir.

I love the detective, whodunit stories.
I love the intrigue,
the long shadows,
the smoke clouds
and Venetian blinds.

I love the jazz bellowing from pool halls
and the reflective static rain.
I can't get enough of it.

When I leave the office
at the end of a long day at work,
I light it up and breathe it in.
I crack open a can of it when I get home.
I pop some in my mouth as I sit down at my desk
to draw out the seeds from their tough shell.

 And when I reach the fin of the day,
I still feel the ache for a little more
in my dark bones.
I stretch for more,
but the .45 of sleep hits me
and I'm out cold until
I awake in the dark.
Noir.