The Cocktail Party

weheartit
Squeezed together
with drinks and nuts
you have to talk,
circulate with ease,
discuss the weather,
and try to please.
You open yourself
to a person
you like best.
He or she looks
over your shoulder
to see who is next.
We keep sniffing
each ohter,
all smiles and laughter
trying to find out
what the other person
is after.
It is a marvellous way
to get to know people
without really getting
to know them
at all.

This is a poem from Ivar Ditlef-Nielsen's Selected Poems (Poelosophy).

Other People's Words

Unfortunately, the last couple I've written, I can't post as yet as on I wrote for an open mike Saturday after next, another is for a funeral and I have to wait till I read it at the funeral, and the last is one I want to put in a book. So instead of my work I'm posting some clips from Def Poetry Jam.

Enjoy!!

Lover's Typewriter

My Modern Met

Lover was not a modern man.
He was one
Who still listened to records
And drove a 1976 hoopty.

Lover was a writer
With a love
For all things old.
His first love
Being his old school
Typewriter.

No word processor,
No personal computer,
No laptop
Graced his desk,
Nor will they ever
Cross the threshold
Of Lover’s apartment.

Late into the night,
I would be awaken
By the clickty clack
Of the old typewriter’s
Keys being struck
By his slender fingers.

I was never jealous
Of the inanimate object.
I saw it as a part of him.
Without it,
He would not be whole
And I loved him
In his entirety.

It also didn’t hurt
That it was on that typewriter
That he typed
Words so heavy with love
That they could not be spoken.

On that typewriter,
He typed a possible
Future for us.

On that typewriter,
He typed the possible
Names of our children.

Soon that typewriter
Held a special place
In my heart,
And I would fall asleep
To it’s clickity clack.

Lover was not a modern man
But he was my man.

Courtesan

Sydney Morning Herald

I want to be
With you,
But I love her.

She s my everything,
I would never leave her.

He said all this
As he lay in my bed,
His head resting
On my belly.

God,
It was a heavy head!

I was the other woman,
The one he would
Seek out
For conversation,
For warmth,
For sex.

I would listen
To his problems,
Give him advice,
Be a pillar
For him to lean on.

I was his
Courtesan.

Such a pretty word
For a woman
Who was used
And tossed to the side.

Such a dainty word
For a woman
Who invested her time,
Energy,
Affection
On a man
Who will eventually
Turn his back to her.

As I laid there,
His head
Resting on my belly,
I let his word
Wash over me.

I imagined he was
Affirming his love for me
Not her,
The woman who had
His heart.

I looked down at him
And made a promise
To myself.
I promise to resign.
I promise to be
A woman who held
A man's heart.
I promise to never
Be a courtesan again.

This was our last night.

Waiting

My Modern Met

Waiting,
Waiting for you,
Waiting for us,
Waiting for the bus
To take me from here.

To take me
To the city.
To take me
From the farm.

The farm
Where he touched me.
The farm
Where he raped me.
The farm
Where Mother looked away.

Mother looked away
Because she could do nothing,
Because she was afraid,
Because she wanted
To hold onto what she knew.

What she knew
Was the farm,
This man who left bruises,
Who provided shelter,
Who provided food,
Who provided.....
Babies.

I was waiting
For you
To give me strength
To wait for the bus
To take me
To the city
To give birth
To you.

What Are Your Colours?

“What are your
Colours?”
His eyes boring
Holes into me.

He expected me
To answer
As though I was
His subordinate.

Instead,
I took a good look
At the depressing room
To which the guards
Brought me.

The walls were brown,
The floor dust
Flecked with dark browns.
Blood.

“WHAT ARE YOUR
COLOURS?”
I can feel
Anger rolling
Off of him.

I decided to answer
But refused
To look at him.
“Black.”

A gasp spread
Across the room,
As though it
Traveled from one man
To the other.

The angry man
Turned to the Ghandi-like man
Who just nodded.
Black was a truth.

In unison,
Everyone stepped back,
Some looked away,
Afraid I might make eye contact.

Black meant death
In this land.
It meant a darkness
That held many mysteries.
It meant I had
Seen many deaths,
Perhaps, I had even died.

“Red.”
Ghandi nodded.
Truth spoken
Into the stuffy room.
Another step back.

Red meant blood
In my presence.
Blood shed.
Perhaps, I had shed it.

“Blue.”
They realized I spoke
Only truth.
Ghandi stood still.

Blue meant seas,
Oceans, endless horizons.
I was a traveler.
I had seen things
They never would.

The angry man smiled.

“White.”
Although my other colours
Spoke of darkness,
I still possessed
The purity all men
Were born with.

The angry man
Spoke to the guards
In their tongue
And two cruel looking men
Took me away.

With rough hands
They took me through the city,
Passing through bazaars
Rich in colour,
Scented with more spices
Than I ever knew existed.

They deposited me
At the gates of the city,
At the entrance
Of the great desert.

At that spot,
I dropped to the ground.
I sat in the way
The eastern men sat,
But instead of a cool
Mountain top,
I sat in a hot desert.

The cruel men
Stood guard
Until they were sure
I would not return to the city.

I felt him
Before he spoke.
Ghandi.

“He sent you here
Because Blue
Is one of your colours.”

“Blue people
Never survive the sand.”

“Then I shall sit here
Until I absorb
The colour of the sands.”
And I sat,
Drinking from my flask
When I needed to.

Each morning,
The cruel men visited me,
Expecting me to be gone.

Each evening,
Ghandi would visit,
Bringing food
And more water.

On the fourth day,
Neither the cruel men
Nor Ghandi found me.

I had entered
The great desert.

Two months later.

“What are your
Colours?”
Queried the man
Who was a dark
As a moon less night.

“Black,
Red,
Blue,
White
And the colour
Of Sand.”

“What are your
Colours, my friend?”

The Letter O

I believe
That O is the
Most sexual letter
Of the alphabet.

The first thing
Out of the lips
Of lovers
Entwined in extasy.

Oh my God.
Oh shit.
Orgasm.
Oh, oh, oh, oh.
Oh yes.

All words
Pulled out of
The bodies
Breaching the edge
Of euphoria.

And then,
There are times
When the sound
Is lost,
And the lips
Form around the letter
But not a sound
Can be heard.

Oh God!
Oh Jesus!
Oh Allah!
Oh, oh, oh, oh!

Oh so simple,
Oh so tantalizing,
Oh so tempting,
Oh so delicious.

I believe
That O is the
Most sexual letter
Of the alphabet.

My Future

My Modern Met

I didn’t plan
To be on this street.

It was a if my car
Drove me to this location.

The same car
Pappi bought from
The widow down the street
From our house
On the other side of town.

This side of town
Was older.
If I looked
Hard enough
I would see the ghost
Of the past bumping
Into each other.

I would probably
See hippies bumping
Into 14th Century farmers,
But I chose not to see,
Ignoring the past,
Looking for the future.

My future just
Stepped out of the building
Across the street.

He was tall,
Not attractive
In the contemporary fashion,
But he caught my eye
And as I got to know him,
He caught my heart.

I wanted to run over
To him to apologize
For all the awful
Things I said,
To ask him for forgiveness,
But I just stared at him.

Pride.
Fear.
Emotions held me
In my little white car
And watched him
Walk away.

He looked back,
Our eyes met,
But I didn’t move
And he continued walking.

I didn’t run
After him,
Nor did I start up
The car and drive home.

I just sat,
Watching
My future walk away.

With A Man No Less

Zing.
Ping.
“You like her,
Dontcha?”

Zing.
Ping.
Another empty can
Hits the ground.

Lazarus
Was my mentor.

He was the man
Who taught me
How to hold a gun,
How to introduce a man
To his maker.

He was called Lazarus
Because every time
He was gunned down,
Every time he was left
For dead,
He would come back
And kill his murderer.

Lazarus.
I never learned
His real name,
Not saying he ever
Taught me it.
He just taught me
How to kill.

We were out
In the middle of nowhere
Shooting cans
And discussing
My next assignment.

I knew the when,
The how,
The where,
But I didn’t know
The who.

Zing.
Ping.
“Like who?”

“Do you like Dana?”

I resisted the smile
That normally
Washed across my face.

I drove out the thoughts
Of Dana and I
Kissing under the Tuscan Moon.

“Nah, Laz.
We just worked together
A couple times.”

He dropped his arm,
And stared at me,
Trying to read the truth.
I stared back.

He looked back
At the cans
And proceeded to shoot.

Zing.
Ping.
He accepted my lie.

“Your next target
Is Joey.”

Joey
Short for Joanne.
Dana’s sister.
A nasty piece of work,
But still Dana’s sister.

“Who contracted the hit?”
My voice level,
Normal.

“Morgan.
Joey hurt her
For the last time.
With a man no less.”

Joey died
Two weeks later.
I sat next to Dana
At the funeral.

Morgan died
Two weeks after that.

Zing.
Ping.
“You like her,
Dontcha?”

Gina

Gina,
You’re a great girl,
But I’m not looking
For anything
Long term.

Gina,
I love you,
But I’m not
In love with you.

Gina,
You are such
A nice girl
And I feel
Like you are
Too good for me.

Gina,
Right now,
I need to
Focus on my career.
When I’m settled
Financially,
I’ll think about
Getting married
And starting a family.

Gina,
I’ve been lying
To you
And myself.
I’m gay!

Gina,
I was attracted
To you, but
After I got
To know you,
I realized that
I don’t like you.

Gina,
I’ve been hurt before,
I didn’t think
I would find
A woman
I would want
To spend the rest
Of my life with.

Gina,
I love you.

Fourteen Steps

Fourteen Steps
To the left,
Seven to the right
Then stop!

The instructions
Were yelled
Over the crackling
Of the walkie talkie.

How low tech!

The walkie talkie
Was in the back pocket
Of my dead partner.
Rigor already setting in.

He wasn’t supposed
To have gone
On his own
But he was always
A stupid shit!

I looked around
Trying to figure out
What the game
This asshole was playing.

Then I looked down,
A red dot
Was an unwanted detail
On my plaid shirt.

Then a sharp pain.

I didn’t move
Fast enough
And blood was dripping
From my left arm.

He could have
Shot me before
But he wanted me
To see the dot.

Such an asshole!

Bullets whizzed by
The stone wall
I hid behind
And I waited
For him to reload.

I worked out
His location
By the projection
Of the bullets.

I already knew
The caliber of gun
By the bullets
Falling around me,

And I knew
How long
It would take
To reload.

Then silence.

I counted down
The reload time
As I crept to the
End of the wall.

I aimed
And as soon as
I saw the nozzle
Of the riffle
I shot one bullet.

Waste not, want not.

I sprinted
To the building,
Ducking and dodging
In case I missed.

I climbed up
The fire escape
And in no time
I was at the
Sniper’s window.

I pressed myself
Against the wall
To the right of the window.
Slowly I peeped in.

I got the sniper,
But he was she!

She was lying
On her back
But a revolver
Was in her hand
And it was pointed
At my heart.

“Surprised?!”
Blood trickled
Out of the corner
Of her mouth.

I said nothing.
I shot her.

She was too weak
To get off a round
And I knew
If I waited,
I would be the one
Found dead.

She was good.
She knew what
She was doing.
She was my ex-wife
And she was an asshole!

Good Morning

(source: My Modern Met)

The sun peeked up out
Of the horizon
She never saw.

As she trudged
Up the steps
To her third floor walk up
She envisioned
Being sprawled across
The pillow top bed
In her cramped room.

Her roommate
Was probably fast asleep.
Lucy worked at the cafe
Off Broadway,
Her alarm would be going off
In half an hour.
She had the AM shift.

With out seeing
She walked through
The living room
And slipped into her room.

He was asleep,
He always promises
To stay up,
But she knew
He was incapable of that.

Although they've slept
In the same bed for months,
She still undressed with
Her back to him
Facing the rising sun,
Even if he was sleeping.

Instead of the comfy PJ's
She threw on her red lingerie,
The one she knew he loved.
She slipped into the bed,
Into his arms,
Into slumber.

Good morning.