Thursday, April 28, 2005

Sniffer of Wet Earth

I wish I really were a sniffer of wet earth,
an almost-liquid non-entity
that feeds on innocent soil;
moist, suddenly corrupted by a scatter

of wilting leaves
and broken twigs
that fall even in mid-noon;
heated. Was it not I who called

to them that fall
and plague my bed of coarse dreams?

- vera (http://veraleigh.blogspot.com)

sometimes i die inside....

Posted by inktrip at 5:20 PM

Wednesday, April 27, 2005

frozen in fast-forward

faster than the silence of drawing rooms and
round-clock miles of second-hand tick tock
faster than metro music beat blurring past
a stand-still jeepney
faster than rush hour and
flickering shadow plays in 5:30 summer sun
faster than speeding bullets of light
in nightscape
faster than caffeine
even faster than ten-second nicotine
green, red, and sickening yellow
kaleidoscoping
slivers of broken glass
lodged in trenches of thought

unable to hemorrhage.

chai (http://bummeround.blogspot.com)

Posted by inktrip at 1:10 PM

Tuesday, April 26, 2005

from 'series of poems, uncounted.'

“Hello…where have you been?
I walked the world and treaded on fire
listened to music
as i watched the pyre…

something changed
and i thought it horrible
–grimacing under a grin—
and failed to breathe for a week
this heart cramped for a month.

and so it drifted:
the mind,
from one visage to the other.
and wondered about too many things.
too many things.

a million-billion,
flustering, mind-wracking handful of thoughts…
caught in an instant
that in reality was a semester
of existence.

i wasted a semester on thought?
so it seems.”

-pat (http://pat.pixelled.com)

Posted by inktrip at 9:41 PM

Sea sick

Neptune stirs my sea
The blood of my fingertips warms
and my feet begin to struggle

The water renders my bones mellow
and my skin to rapid little shakes
Slowly, reeling my head into oblivion

The sea is no waiting room
and Neptune is not a welcoming host
I stand attacked, waiting for my ship

But- the waves come in large blows
and in threads of soft water leave
and Neptune, a sight of terrible beauty

Later, the evening crow will look for me
and my bed will long for my dreams
The sea is calling me and I must answer

-russ-

Funny thing with poems:
they're like paintings, they reveal the subconscious.
super perfundo!

Posted by inktrip at 11:09 AM

Friday, April 22, 2005

The Lullaby of the Childless

A barren field
is a song yet
to be sung.

So claims
the sower
of seeds

On her
wide sea
of soil,

Cradle
not yet
to fruit,

Unfaithful
to the summons
of seasons.

His thunder
stealing
her melody,

Her maladies
drowning
in his dreams

Of children
playing like
fire-tongues

That spark
on the horns
of the beast

Rushing
through waves
of sugarcane,

Changing
against nature's
conspiracies.

As his lighting
strikes
its last note,

Her voice
cracks in chorus
with the cry

Of a million seeds
washed away
by a single tear.

- jay malaga
(INTRUDER ALERT! [blink] INTRUDER ALERT! [blink] ALL SECURITY SYSTEMS ENGAGE!)

Posted by inktrip at 4:19 PM

all i want you to do

you peeled off my skin, stubbed out my eyes, cut my tongue, sewed together my lips,
broke my eardrums, and blocked my air passage.
you took away all my senses.
each day is a battle i am supposed to win.
but i go to the battlefield unarmed.
you took everything and you left me with exactly nothing.
my trust, my hope, my strength, my ability to love.
all of them!
i want you to realize the damage you have cost me.
i want you to say sorry.

- yen (http://forhermys.blogspot.com)

Posted by inktrip at 4:08 PM

---

On the far corner of the window
sits a solitary rose -
medium-sized
pale-red
short-stemmed.
It sits there listening,
stands breathing -
sweet, bitter air
clear, hazy air
slow, rapid air.

Red was its color.
A hundred times I held it.
A pure thing of soft head
and innocent, prickly legs.

Smelled it.
Held it.
Cradled it.
Cradled it.

Pure, red rose
bathing in near-white light
when the sun came up,
peeking from the window bars
altering all colors into a sea of red.

All red.
Heaving.
Swimming.
Swimming.

Dusk came up and snatched away
its innocent face
landscaped in smooth cheeks
of beautiful scented red.

Shrivelled.
Chipped at the sides.
Almost shrivelled.
Almost chipped at the sides.

Overlooking the night
is a soltary rose -
head stuck in your wordless bottle,
feet dangling in my dried-up ocean,
emptying itself in a cursed vase.
It still sits there,
still stands there -
breathing
sensing
unwavering.

- vera (http://veraleigh.blogspot.com)

Posted by inktrip at 3:59 PM

Red

Red.
like sunlight on henna-tattooed brown skin,
like iced-tea on the porch in the afternoon sun.
Sasuke's sharinggan
flag of Japan
engraved
in smooth
pale flesh.

that red stare--
a key hole on the door knob.

that red stare
commands me,
no, compels me,
to bleed
feathers.

in that red stare,
glaciers melt
into a mad rush of tides that
shatter glass
windows from the 31st floor
down
leaving trenches in the landscape
of my city
if i were a city
leaving people
like me
in a pool of
Red.

- chai (http://bummeround.blogspot.com)

Posted by inktrip at 3:57 PM

Tuesday, April 19, 2005

What is it that you want to hear?

A solemn little song
of handkerchiefs dotted
with weakness and deceit?

Hands now blanketed
in your oceanic sheets.

Deeply and longingly
will it sound.

A hum.
A moan.

Oh, the restless syllables
rippling in crying tongues.

It is a gurgled speech
melodious
in its own end.

Melodious in its own goodbye.

I will wipe my eyes now.
And then you will listen.

- vera

(http://veraleigh.blogspot.com)

Posted by inktrip at 2:12 PM

Saturday, April 16, 2005

untitled, uncounted.

a-gurgling
from the deep seated
need for perfection
in the abdominal
crunch
that was my
moral code.

a-seeping
from the plugged
insistence
of natural birthing
and notions
that eternal bliss
in centripetal moments
cause farce-amour.

did the wisps
of emotion
manage an
outmaneuver
once again?

(hmmm... i have to relieve my just woken up tummy. this is as strange as it gets--or not.)
-pat (http://pat.pixelled.com)

Posted by inktrip at 9:29 AM

Friday, April 15, 2005

nothing

hey.
so i ended the long pause.

-russ (http://readruss.blogspot.com)

Posted by inktrip at 3:44 PM

Tuesday, April 12, 2005

today i speak of wet earth

of leaves in their seasoned red
and conservative green.
of flowers that bloom
and gather together
in their plains and valleys
and craters
and rainbow-colored streets.
of stalks that rise -long
but less proud;
silent
taking careful steps
to wake the roots
gesturing
floor-point
picking up needles one by one.
i do not disturb them
in their funny and silly distortions
as though artists in costumes
and masks of teeth
and cheeks
and sweet-smelling saliva.
i do not wake them from their prayerful stance.
i was told one should talk to the plants
even poke playfully
their pots
and the tips of their leaves.
but i grow distant from that suggestion
for every time i speak to them
they close their ears;
even eyes close
and petals sleep again.
my language may speak of love
and care
and admiration
but they will hear none of it
none of my words
and pauses.
so today i speak of wet earth
it is what i smell anyway
earth touching water in the early morning
coarse skin bathing in rivers
of love
and care
and admiration.
it travels towards me
and when i turn my mouth to it
it enters me through my ears
and through my mouth
and through my tongue.
and finally they set their stage
and they let me see them
grow.

- vera (http://veraleigh.blogspot.com)

Posted by inktrip at 12:26 PM

ideation in black and white

They own the world
while it mellows --
Cat paws upon ripples
of dancing shadows
on rooftops
flooded with pale light
While we all drown
in black and white.

- chai (http://kurdapya.blogspot.com)

Posted by inktrip at 12:24 PM

Pag-ampo sa Inahan

Nagtukaw sa kagabhion ang akong inahan,
rosaryohan ug nobinahan iyang gikuptan
Madunggan ko ang hinay niya’ng paglitok
pulong sa pag-ampo ngadto kang Maria

Kang tatay nga naglawig
sa dagat nga dili ato
Maghimaya Ka Maria
bantayan mo siya

Kang ondo nga sa eskwela
magtarong sa pagtungha
Santa Maria Inahan Ka
lamdagan mo siya

Kang inday nga sa kanunay magbinuutan
dili musupak sa iyang ginikanan
Putli’ng Kasingkasing ni Maria
tudluan mo siya

Sa katapusan akong ngalan
ang akong nabatian
“sa akong kamagulangan”
sampit sa ‘kong inahan

“bantayan mo siya sa adlaw nga tanan”
“lamdagan sa hunahuna, iiwag sa dautan”
“tudluan sa dalan, pangandoy makabtan”
“siya ang paglaom namo’ng tanan”

“Sa ngalan sa Amahan
Sa Diyos nga anak
Og Diyos nga ispirito santo
Amen.”

- yen (http://forhermys.blogspot.com)

Posted by inktrip at 12:20 PM

poetry, i tell you, need not careful inspection

you just read it
silently
then louder
louder by the second
until you run with the words
with needled leaves
or flying cottons drenched in blue
orange
red
violet
with gates suspended in air
or photographs covered in mud
salt
water
cake
with balloons that burst to dust
or screens that talk in dreams
songs
shouts
curses
you run, not walk; not stroll but run
periods are hatedwhy put an end?
a minute, merciless globe that says "and so I am."
there should be no fixtures
imagine yourself crying and laughing
or sitting down by the side of the road
or lying down nursing a throbbing head
do you say, "this is it. I shall be," or "so I am. so I am?"
what a pitiful exercise on living then!
and reading and writing poetry, too (most times they come together -poetry and life)
you gather images and run along with them
not imitate them
not memorize them
not eat them
not study them;
get a piece, find another
blow them to the wind if you may;
there is no fixture
no end

- vera (http://veraleigh.blogspot.com)

Posted by inktrip at 12:13 PM

Videoke

Nag-uwang og mga tono
ang videoke nga mikupot og mikrpono.
Kaskas 'sab sa kanta
ang videoke nga ngakupot og gitara
Hunat g'yud sila sa makaya
Kay ang gusto nila
pun-on sa gugma
ang kada nota
sa mga kanta'ng dili ilaha
Samtang ang ilang tingog
Nalubog
Sa mga nagsing-along nga mga hubog.

- chai (http:kurdapya.blogspot.com)

Posted by inktrip at 12:08 PM

ours, fallen

We can be anything
but us.
Always masking flowers with mirrors
hardened from clenched fingers
soiled in whispered songs.
And the leaves fall
two by two.
Only them in the beat
of held hands
and locked eyes -
only them,
for the petals suspend themsleves
in the air
sick and disgusted.
They refuse to speak
of scented beds
or of scented windows
or scented doors
or scented pillows
waxed in sweet sweat.
So I turned to the paired little carpets
in blazing greens
landing in your closed palms.
They wilt in browns
in dead yellows
in sudden surrender.
in sudden death.
There is nothing else I can turn to now.
Not even you.
Not even I.

- vera (http://veraleigh.blogspot.com)

Posted by inktrip at 12:07 PM

write more

from sirMyke guys:

Date:
Tue, 5 Apr 2005 08:09:23 +0100 (BST)
From:
"Obenieta Michael" View Contact Details
Subject:
Re: poetry
To:
"vera leigh"

Hi, Vera:

I have lined up your poems for future publication. Send me more.

Myke

- vera

Posted by inktrip at 11:59 AM

Bulagi Ko Kay Na...

Mamihok ug mangluspad
kining aping nga manggahon

Mukiyos kining lawas
kay wala’y gana i-kaon

Kining mata nga singkit
manghubag gyud intawn

Kining akong huna-huna
tugkad gyud ug lawom

Kasingkasing nga putli
kanimo nagsampit

Kay sa gugma nga tiunay
kini nagapitik

Ikasakit og ikaguol
ang imong pagtug-an

Nga sa lain mukuyog
og ako biyaan

Maglutaw ako
sa kaugalingong luha

Sa kawad-on
magkuyogpos ra

Bulagi ko kay na,
mahuman gyud ang istorya.

- yen (http://forhermys.blogspot.com)

Posted by inktrip at 11:51 AM

Monday, April 11, 2005

yeoh.

On the other side of this room my sister babbles like an old lady. Hello, we've moved. Here we are. http://inktrip.blogspot.com

http://poetica.blogspot.com is taken. Bard was another choice... but it sounded bland. Russ and Pat thought Ink Slinger sounded neat, but that seemed taken, too. Inkslingers, too.

headtrip, ("A mentally stimulating experience. An act or a pattern of behavior undertaken primarily for self-gratification." dictionary.com) sounded nice, but some crackpot beat us to it. Come to think of it 'crackpot' does sound nice.

Inktrip, however, has been registered and is our name. haha. What does it mean?--you figure that out.

-pat (http://pat.pixelled.com)

Posted by inktrip at 8:37 PM

unspoken

Yeah I remember..
It was blue
And it was red.
It was damn cold
And nothing has ever been said..
--could I miss the lights
those flickering seasoned lights?
--could I miss the hymns
of that Thursday night?

I am in blue
And you were in red.
Those days of old
--with nothing has ever
been said.

-liyo
http://hotmug.blogspot.com

Posted by inktrip at 8:27 PM

“romantic scouring: -

clean as you leave
clean as you go
clean the empty orifice
clean the red plateau
clean your hands
clean your face
clean that mind
and that earwormed phase.
lucy in the sky with diamonds!

clean this mess
and her chest.
scrape that wretched scum
clean your tongue.
clean as you leave
clean as you go
notice that you almost managed
to steal the show?”

-pat (http://pat.pixelled.com)

Posted by inktrip at 8:09 PM

Third visit to an annual wake

The church is as still
as the celebrated corpse
Dimly lighted by static candles,
it hides its guardiansand angels,
blinding them with royal purple satin
And every living face it houses
streaks of sadness and remorse
THE CHIRST IS DEAD, yet again
and his body lies in front of the altar
three meters from the golden retablo,
two thousand years and more after his death.
He rests in a coffin of hot glass,
his flesh of cement and paint
veiled in white lace
and wreathed with paper flowers
Nuns, like relatives sit by him,
three pews from where I look
and wonder and ponder
why these morners in line
and in party clothes mourn.
Why these mourners mourn
for the handcrafted divine
Why they mourn inside this church
and revel in the plaza
with exuberance in merchandise and song
Why they mourn for the dead statue
they know is bound to wake up
in three days to fulfill its promise
and fill their tables with colorful food
and roasted pigs and fat chickens
and bottles and bottles of beer.

-RUSS (http://readruss.blogspot.com)

Posted by inktrip at 4:20 PM

brown addiction.

brimming with what
the corporates call blood.
encapsulated by seams–
unbound; distrust.
for by this spittle
that's brown or black
are bones made brittle–
memory made…
or the lack.

-pat (http://pat.pixelled.com)