Tuesday, December 4, 2012

Directives Born Deep In





Hip out, gait is locked
Stagger, stagger, throb
Throb, throb, stagger on

Tourniquets separated
Create apartheid tween
The numb and warm

…here flesh be tampered with
trod upon , with heels twisting, twisting
in turn, turning into, such a twisted halt
if where what was, only to at first regain balance,
they grind about still well after, after realizing it
is not the beach that they writhe upon…

The skin’s been known, to
Ever so slowly retract, explode,
As do the granulated bits expunged
From vase to sea…

Fine, fine fragments, found
Broken, templates blurred, then bound,
life lags, lingering long, across the tides and
through the ponds, where waves lament the flooding components of a time torn upon, spun, into a peril, unwound, unwrapped, by the crying wilderness that remains, untamed, to this day, a time untrained, to see beyond the passions of those emotions denying safe passage to and from,

With or without such directives that were to be, so directly implicated into what would be, a vision, THE vision,

and now, that vision is nothing more than a vision, one that has  destructed, distracted many more seamen far, far greater than thee, sailors with visions of their own, dreams, dreams that often rappel the journey’s leg up high, way beyond horizon’s sky, unto those lines, lines that coat the crags and corners of a soon to be, mountain-yet-to-be-scaled and flagged…and, and, and…it still climbs


Past the precipice one can’t peak
Through the tunnels sight can’t see
Within the quivering voice that cannot speak such languages purposely composed as being left intently incomplete as to where it’s words, are words made from sounds, sounds the tongue simply wont learn

And they swirl about,
Through each canal

Down the blockades path,
through the perimeters caged off
and bent.

Yet…. it’s all but noise

You cannot hear the voice
as it never truly says anything

Not until
This moment
Where the lock is picked
And the trellis falls
Leaving vines, vines, various and tall,

They are
Sprouting up
And shooting out
Where duets at dawn
Find the through and through, a down-ward arc, spiral in reverse, noticing the fortifications of a sun yet born, wherein fortifying all it’s every form

By, and with, its trademark limp
you are collected
along with your wavering will,

somewhat assertively, mind you,

Some days we make
Some days we are made
from model clay,
from collages painted
from a palette of images
you’ve been collecting
ever since you first departed the
weaving womb,

here the seamstress sews a carving breath,
ever birthing the unburied banalities
that somehow always freshen the scenes, the scent
that you
and you
alone
tend to

See…
A talisman
One To guide?
              If then, then I ask,
 to where?

Stop on over to D'Verse, where, like every Tuesday, Open Link Night takes over the poetic communities all over the world.  The doors open up at 3 pm, with the first poems being served up shortly after.  Every week is an adventure and a revelation, make sure you stop by and take all the poetry in.  See you there.


14 comments:

  1. Some days we make
    Some days we are made
    from model clay,
    from collages painted
    from a palette of images
    you’ve been collecting
    ever since you first departed the
    weaving womb,


    nice...i love that bit fred, lot of truth in it...but also like the rather subversive thought that picks the lock and slips the gate....smiles.

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  2. I must say my mind was swirling within this vision, Fred; but I did enjoy the word play and your clever twists with words. Ah yes, and the question....where will the guide lead? And does one want to follow?

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  3. Epic, this piece. Lots of details, like a winding lane.

    http://www.kimnelsonwrites.com/2012/12/03/therein-lies-the-answer/

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  4. Great flow today at your show, as with every other day and like the thought of the tongue never learning, as that can be taken many a way and it surely never ever does learn, making it's owner or some other person feel a burn.

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  5. Here...the seamstress draws a carving breath...Fred Ruthorford! This is absolutely delicious! The reading is fantastic, your voice lending even another layer to its depth...oh, this evening is going to be fun indeed! Happy OpenLinkNight Poet...I'll see you at the pub!

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  6. ha...great closure..finding our way..not always easy...and now, that vision is nothing more than a vision...good thoughts in this fred

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  7. Lots of word associations here that I really enjoyed. And there is a narrative that keeps it moving throughout to the great ending. Very, very well done.

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  8. I liked the bit Brian picked out. But for me, too loose, too long without a coherence I can feel. So I would not have seen it if Brian had not picked it out. So for my sort of reader, shorter and more focused would help.

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  9. Very interesting poem - especially the close I thought. I certainly need a guide! And the idea of somedays one makes, some one is made -- I think perhaps the making may be an illusion though one I certainly like. k.

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  10. Fantastic flow, as the reader I was able to float one the tips of your words through the images you create.
    Cheers!

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  11. machine gun delivery, rapid repeats that pop:
    finding a sweet spot in the rythmn and cool tone
    coming together in some V effective Amalgamations of most excellence!

    Hip out, gait is locked
    Stagger, stagger, throb
    Throb, throb, stagger on

    Tourniquets separated
    Create apartheid tween
    The numb and warm

    really catching my attention with the delivery of the opening volley fred:

    all the best bro

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  12. There is such intensity in this, Fred, and your delivery adds so much to strength.

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  13. Fred, you really outdid yourself with this one--so many words and images that I loved--hard to pick just one--Brian picked out one of my fav stanzas, and then "Past the precipice one can't peak"--clever and so well done, also loved the duets at dawn. Exceptional :-)

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