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Camp Hill, Australia

#1 Apr 26, 2012
How do you know he loved you?

Did he use a sestina or a pantoum?

He sang the rhyme of the wren

But he perched on two different boughs.

How do you know he loved you?

Did he say so eloquently?

His hands painted you in a compromising state.

Your olfactory lobe was quite drossy.

How do you know he loved you?

Did his countenance match his voice?

He wanted me to treat you like my own.

It’s funny how many heads I had to bloat.

How do you know he loved you?

Did he say your precious name, precious?

You should wonder why he’s silent now

Since he loved you, didn’t he?

How do you know he loved you?

Did his eyes blink with the weight of his words?

He has chosen to live in a bottle

Free from everything, including your grip.

How do you know he loved you?

Did you even ask him if he loved you?

Don’t try to understand him, that’s my job.

Christ, I do pity the likes of you!

Adrian. Knight......(DeVine)

Camp Hill, Australia

#3 Apr 27, 2012
Look in the mirror

Who do you see?

A face unreckonisable as me

How can one be the other

and still be the same?

A part, a whole,

an individual

lost in a multiple.

DeVine (circa 2007)

Camp Hill, Australia

#4 Apr 27, 2012
"Bad times pass slowly,

Good times pass quickly

But time itself passes,

Regardless of who or where you are"

“Smokin' Hot'n'Feelin' Groovy”

Level 9

Since: Apr 12

Here, There, and Everywhere,..

#5 Apr 27, 2012
Dam...Another poem thread...what will they think of next?

Sad but Wiser


Level 2

Since: Apr 12

Location hidden

#6 Apr 27, 2012
Lol!!! Maybe a 'correct use of the English language' thread? The form of the word 'dam' that your looking for is spelled d-a-m-n.: p poking fun at your spelling....

Sad but Wiser


Level 2

Since: Apr 12

Location hidden

#7 Apr 27, 2012
Oops and it "you're looking for"

Camp Hill, Australia

#8 Apr 27, 2012
A mansion that is more
like a condo, inhabited
by the kindred souls of
those who have lost

their sanity. You will
find them all gathered
here in participating
disruption wearing

their candid straitjackets,
playing cards with
their mouths, acting
scenes like Tomfools.

There is the crazy
stare of Sylvia
writing wailing lines,
on sheets tossed

around her body.
The new so-called
schizophrenia in
the lucid ravings

of Janet. So many
different forms of
lunacy, but you will
end up loving them

all. Even Emily in her
room, blowing glass
panels to smithereens
at last.

Robin Tierra (LoMac)

Camp Hill, Australia

#9 Apr 27, 2012
a girl who keeps slipping off,
arms limp as old carrots,
into the hypnotist's trance,
into a spirit world
speaking with the gift of tongues.
She is stuck in the time machine,
suddenly two years old sucking her thumb,
as inward as a snail,
learning to talk again.
She's on a voyage.
She is swimming further and further back,
up like a salmon,
struggling into her mother's pocketbook.
Little doll child,
come here to Papa.
Sit on my knee.
I have kisses for the back of your neck.
A penny for your thoughts, Princess.
I will hunt them like an emerald.

Come be my snooky
and I will give you a root.
That kind of voyage,
rank as a honeysuckle.
a king had a christening
for his daughter Briar Rose
and because he had only twelve gold plates
he asked only twelve fairies
to the grand event.
The thirteenth fairy,
her fingers as long and thing as straws,
her eyes burnt by cigarettes,
her uterus an empty teacup,
arrived with an evil gift.
She made this prophecy:
The princess shall prick herself
on a spinning wheel in her fifteenth year
and then fall down dead.
The court fell silent.
The king looked like Munch's Scream
Fairies' prophecies,
in times like those,
held water.
However the twelfth fairy
had a certain kind of eraser
and thus she mitigated the curse
changing that death
into a hundred-year sleep.

The king ordered every spinning wheel
exterminated and exorcised.
Briar Rose grew to be a goddess
and each night the king
bit the hem of her gown
to keep her safe.
He fastened the moon up
with a safety pin
to give her perpetual light
He forced every male in the court
to scour his tongue with Bab-o
lest they poison the air she dwelt in.
Thus she dwelt in his odor.
Rank as honeysuckle.

On her fifteenth birthday
she pricked her finger
on a charred spinning wheel
and the clocks stopped.
Yes indeed. She went to sleep.
The king and queen went to sleep,
the courtiers, the flies on the wall.
The fire in the hearth grew still
and the roast meat stopped crackling.
The trees turned into metal
and the dog became china.
They all lay in a trance,
each a catatonic
stuck in a time machine.
Even the frogs were zombies.
Only a bunch of briar roses grew
forming a great wall of tacks
around the castle.
Many princes
tried to get through the brambles
for they had heard much of Briar Rose
but they had not scoured their tongues
so they were held by the thorns
and thus were crucified.
In due time
a hundred years passed
and a prince got through.
The briars parted as if for Moses
and the prince found the tableau intact.
He kissed Briar Rose
and she woke up crying:
Daddy! Daddy!
Presto! She's out of prison!
She married the prince
and all went well
except for the fear --
the fear of sleep.

Briar Rose
was an insomniac...
She could not nap
or lie in sleep
without the court chemist
mixing her some knock-out drops
and never in the prince's presence.
If if is to come, she said,
sleep must take me unawares
while I am laughing or dancing
so that I do not know that brutal place
where I lie down with cattle prods,
the hole in my cheek open.
Further, I must not dream
for when I do I see the table set
and a faltering crone at my place,
her eyes burnt by cigarettes
as she eats betrayal like a slice of meat.

and (sadly) there's more.......

Camp Hill, Australia

#10 Apr 27, 2012
I must not sleep
for while I'm asleep I'm ninety
and think I'm dying.
Death rattles in my throat
like a marble.
I wear tubes like earrings.
I lie as still as a bar of iron.
You can stick a needle
through my kneecap and I won't flinch.
I'm all shot up with Novocain.
This trance girl
is yours to do with.
You could lay her in a grave,
an awful package,
and shovel dirt on her face
and she'd never call back: Hello there!
But if you kissed her on the mouth
her eyes would spring open
and she'd call out: Daddy! Daddy!
She's out of prison.

There was a theft.
That much I am told.
I was abandoned.
That much I know.
I was forced backward.
I was forced forward.
I was passed hand to hand
like a bowl of fruit.
Each night I am nailed into place
and forget who I am.
That's another kind of prison.
It's not the prince at all,
but my father
drunkeningly bends over my bed,
circling the abyss like a shark,
my father thick upon me
like some sleeping jellyfish.
What voyage is this, little girl?
This coming out of prison?
God help --
this life after death?

POST SCRIPT.........

Every verse is a child of love,
A destitute bastard slip,
A firstling -- the winds above--
Left by the road asleep.
Heart has a gulf, and a bridge,
Heart has a bless, and a grief.
Who is her father? A liege?
Maybe a liege, or a thief.

Camp Hill, Australia

#11 May 12, 2012
Afterwards, the compromise.
Bodies resume their boundaries.

These legs, for instance, mine.
Your arms take you back in.

Spoons of our fingers, lips
admit their ownership.

The bedding yawns, a door
blows aimlessly ajar

and overhead, a plane
singsongs coming down.

Nothing is changed, except
there was a moment when

the wolf, the mongering wolf
who stands outside the self

lay lightly down, and slept.

Camp Hill, Australia

#12 May 16, 2012
I am the rustling of the world
the swaying between here and elsewhere
the dumb foliage of the cactus
the coarse wood that covers the gecko
the bed for the world-book
whose pages are as many waves of the quest
endlessly begun again

I scatter my voice to the four corners of the town
the water shapes time there
I mingle my body with the fragrances that emerge from night
I drown my confusion there
I look into your eyes for our past quarrels
clans undone weaving the web of discord
I ask the succulents to give back

Ahh, my sweet memory
indecisive you listen to the rustling of my cracks
you put off until tomorrow
the approach of Devine in the night.

The Love Machine

Camp Hill, Australia

#13 May 16, 2012
Daily I switch languages —
Call them masks:

At times a mask can feel like your own skin.

At other times, the spirit has to struggle,
Saved only by the tongue it calls its own.

The mysteries of life, of the universe,
I can describe in English now, although
In my mother tongue alone I can stammer out
The words that compose the sunset, make it glow.


Camp Hill, Australia

#14 May 16, 2012
I kneel, supplicant before you
my will
offered up in quiet acquiescence
awaiting your approval
or reproach
the fine line between pleasure and pain
becomes ever sweeter with your control
with every touch, kiss, word
smoldering embers are kindled
tormenting desires awakened
I quiver
captured by heat and hunger
bend me to your will
My Lord, My Lover
show me what you most desire
my purpose but to serve
through your dominion I find myself
You, the Master of many
my only....

Robin (LoMac.)

Camp Hill, Australia

#15 May 16, 2012

Do you remember, Love, that sunset pale

When from near meadows sad with mist the breeze

Sighed like a feverous soul and with soft wail

The ghostly river sobbed among the trees?

I think that Nature heard our misery

Weep to itself and wept for sympathy.

For we were strangers then; we knew not Fate

In ambush by the solitary stream

Nor did our sorrows hope to find a mate,

Much less of love or friendship dared we dream.

Rather we thought that loneliness and we

Were wed in marble perpetuity.

For there was none who loved me, no, not one.

Alas, what was there that a man should love?

For I was misery's last and frailest son

And even my mother bade me homeless rove.

And I had wronged my youth and nobler powers

By weak attempts, small failures, wasted hours.

Therefore I laid my cheek on the chill grass

And murmured,“I am overborne with grief

And joy to richer natures hopes to pass.

Oh me! my life is like an aspen leaf

That shakes but will not fall. My thoughts are blind

And life so bitter that death seems almost kind.

“How am I weary of the days' increase,

Of the moon's brightness and the splendid stars,

The sun that dies not. I would be at peace,

Nor blind my soul with images, nor force

My lips to mirth whose later taste is death,

Nor with vain utterance load my weary breath.”

Thus murmured I aloud nor deemed I spoke

To human ears, but you were hidden, sweet,

Behind the willows when my plaining broke

Upon your lonely muse. Ah, kindly feet

That brushed the grass in tender haste to bind

Another's wounds, you were less wise than kind.

You said,“My brother, lift your forlorn eyes;

I am your sister more than you unblest.”

I looked upon your face, the book of sighs

And index to incurable unrest.

I rose and kissed you, sweet. Your lips were warm

And drew my heart out like a witch's charm.

We parted where the sacred spires arose

In silent power above the silent street.

I saw you mid the rose-trees, O white rose,

Linger a moment, then the dusk defeat

My eyes, and, listening, heard your footsteps fade

On the sad leaves of the autumnal glade.

And were you happy, sweet? In me I know —

For either in my blood the autumn sang

His own pale requiem or that new sweet glow

Failed in the light of bitter knowledge — rang

A voice that said,“Behold the loves too pure

To live, the joy that never shall endure.”

This too I know, nor is my hope so bright

But that it sees its autumn cold and sere

Attending with a pale and solemn light

Beyond the gardens of the vernal year.

Yet will I not my weary heart constrain

But take you, sweet, and sweet surcease from pain.

Camp Hill, Australia

#16 May 17, 2012
Thought ...

This journey
this walk
this struggle
it is about surviving...
This is life
All the imperfections...

embrace and breathe





to be desperate is to be incomplete…

…I desire to be whole...

…but numb will do…

I am addicted to you…the thought of you..

addicted to your love

addicted to the poverty

the poor and sad soul…

…never fully fed…

…never completely filled…

…always hungry…

addicted to the desire





I am only here to be mended

so mend me...


I need not be anywhere but here

let me be

…the reason…for my addiction…

I am completely conscience now

the fade is over !

We communicate according

to our experience or lack thereof.

We judge according to our

experience or lack thereof

We are bias and unable to help it.

We fight for equality

but lack harmony in our lives.

We strive for our idea of perfection;

but not perfection.

DeVine....(circa present) sent by e-mail May 17th 2012

Camp Hill, Australia

#17 May 17, 2012
The Richer Get Richer...

As if we deserve the right to indulge, while others suffer
Excess is sin
Indulgance is greed
Selfishness is passing
We all want what we want
We all will for more than is deserved or right
We want more than what is necessary
We create out of greed rather than need
Those who die for our need, we disregard because of our want

We forget to pray and be thankful
We breathe with no regard to breath
All things exist because someone desired it

Life is empty without passion


We are desperately searching for a connection to something divine
In religion are we in search of God's love or man's approval?
Religion is man-made and opposite of God's divine plan
God wants us to be convinced, that He will never abandon us

"Hope for The Sunshine Tomorrow"


Camp Hill, Australia

#18 May 18, 2012
The Man

Of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys:
Power, like a desolating pestilence,
Pollutes whate'er it touches, and obedience
Bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth,
Makes slaves of men, and, of the human frame,
A mechanized automaton.
Percy Bysshe Shelley

“Smokin' Hot'n'Feelin' Groovy”

Level 9

Since: Apr 12

Here, There, and Everywhere,..

#19 May 18, 2012

Camp Hill, Australia

#20 May 18, 2012


10:05 p.m.

cover your left
eye with your
open left hand/

open your other
hand/ with both
eyes shut/ what

you see in
your left hand/
will be out

aside by your
right/ and will
cover your tracks.

10:10 p.m.

pick a room
and stand in
front of the

off behind your
back for now/

both eyes open/
palms on the
glass/ lean out/

caught in the
glass/ your face
the night and

behind you/ the
open right hand/
the closed eyes.

10:11 p.m.

open your eyes/
open the window/
close your hands/

outside the wind
and inside the
light/behind you/

your left eye
blinks in the
wind/ your right

eye steady to
the light/ your
hands cover and

uncover each other/
your eyes and
the tracks.


8:54 p.m.

on the beach
waves to the
right/ the cliff

to the left/
your arms held
out east and

west/ a light
rises and falls
out to sea/

raise up and
lower your arms
twice/ and then

twice more/ the
light sinks/ the
cliff dark.

8:54 p.m.

on deck you
face/ the shore
as it rises

then falls/ the
light around you
rises and falls/

the headlands are
dark/ the stars
rise and fall/

your arms lift
up and fall/
the next wave

goes to shore
with/ the light
behind it.

8:54 p.m.

walk to the
edge of the
cliff/ the waves

far apart in
star light/ a
boat rises then

falls in be
tween the
waves/ the man

waves from shore
at you with
one arm/ at

the boat with
the other/ rising
and falling away/

the edge of
the cliff behind
you/ the sea

rising up in
you/ the boat
and its light.


7:20 p.m.

dusk/ and you
must go walk
across the lawn/

into the trees/
and across the
field/ more trees/

and then off
to one side
a boy and

girl/ the sky
and their skin
turn first one

color then an
other/ the light
falls/ you turn

away home/ the
lovers rise and
fall/ and rise.

7:20 p.m.

across the field
the boy and
girl/ rise and

fall before the
trees/ and on
the far side

yet another man
watches in silence/
his head rises

and falls/ from
the lovers to
the sky/ from

light to the
light/ before he
turns to

go/ your tracks
and hands crossing
and uncrossing.

7:21 p.m.

everyone must
leave now/ and
go home before

the light too
has gone/ the
men go left

and right/ the
boy and girl
go left and

right/ the trees
go into night/
the field rises

and falls with
a heavy dew/
and still some

one comes looking/
left and right
and chooses one.


10:12 p.m.

so he comes
and goes/ behind
your eyes/ the

hands open and
close/ the tracks
cross left and

right from field
to sea/ the
window open and

you can hear
the sea rise
and fall/ his

footsteps rise and
fall behind you/
the arms raise

and come down/
the lights gone
out to sea.

Emlyn Davies

Camp Hill, Australia

#21 May 19, 2012
Melodies of words drip
From the pages -

By waking thoughts;


It was all a dream.
The freedom of words
An illusion.

High on a phrase, diving
To the punctuation.

Power was untrue.

Is here now.

Go back to

-and pay no heed to

Hear Me!
Wake Up!

You are sick - see your

_This_ is the dream!

Supervisor...come, we've

Quick! Remember the Words!

NOW! Before
the Appointment
For you.

Go to Room
it's too late!

Capture the feeling in the
Flight of the phrases as
They flow into a stream

...and see Doctor

Yes! Dance in the light!

We are

Once more! Do not
Look back...

they have
your shell;

Where WE are headed,
It matters not.

On the wings
of Our

We glide
what lies

Beyond the
Rim of

Adrian DeVine (by E-mail) 2 Robin Tierra

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