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Don't Fear The Weeper

writings from the mindpress of LAFogle

Tag: poem

poem

  • If Only

    If Only

    Wow, I held back for so long.
    Shamed by how the depth of it
    knocked me to the ground.
    I am afraid of real hallucination.


    Joy, I never gave up my heart to this
    shit assessment—mentor delusion.
    I’ve a governor. A sea of dead lovers
    who speak to me; they say “if only”
    from books where loneliest brilliance
    never found its soul mate.


    You grow better and, you’re welcome
    I meanwhile do not have to sit
    in the lowly status of idiom’s prowess.
    It is miraculous to be heard by the living.


    You were right that I am no one
    to you—
    gladly, to you, I am no one.

  • prompts: sugarcoat fingerprint primrose retrograde saga dormant hypothetical implores plumes resolve normalize shame

    November 4, 2021 to November 18, 2021

    from the new moon to the full moon in Scorpio

    rim glass photo
    Photo by _Fidelio_

    sugarcoat
    The sugarcoat fairy has a white wand that sprays a sweet powder onto desserts, glass rims, and hard truths.
    Often followed by the elusive tooth fairy who sneaks in to collect your teeth and the occasional sock.

    fingerprint

    fingerprint
    o your voice
    unlocks
    cliche
    ridges, whorls
    veins, shape
    disturbs the air
    in a lover’s mouth
    vowels
    of
    admission
    quicken, thicken
    the formant
    folds deep
    in throat
    open and close
    tremerous
    sympathetic
    bones and body
    lash and tongue



    How fast you move, swift Mercury
    how slowly your myth wanes
    Appearing to regress backward
    as you pass in retrograde

    Venus relaxes on cowslip wine
    made from the primrose
    of youth, when a paused
    message of love was new

    saga
    “Sorry about that! It’s a monthly saga. She sought help but her insurance might as well be a coupon for 10% off Midol.
    Her support group changed locations without telling her and, oh no.., I can’t find my wallet—“

    “GO!” The clerk said, standing in the rubble. “LEAVE!”

    dormant

    “The term ghosting is an insult to ghosts.”

    Cere cut deep into the burning bush, removing dead weight from the dormant plant to stimulate growth in the spring.

    “All you can do is treat yourself better than that—care well for yourself—and love comes back. New love.”

    hypothetical implores

    It hurts. The expectation.
    But it was a lipless hypothetical notion.
    A narrative unspoken neither guides nor implores action to reach that forever ending, where pride belongs to everyone.

    plumes photo

    plumes resolve
    plumes of lament
    $2k in car repairs
    filigreed wreathy elegy
    time = money + interest
    shearing scytheless stylist
    resolve mends or ends
    in determination

    thoughts
    like a fresh
    haircut

    normalize

    “Not everything has to be normalized. You don’t comb the beach looking for the least exceptional rock.” I looked at Ash. “Sorry, the graveyard, seeking unremarkable stones.”

    Something like a smile broke through Ash’s stolid face. “Or the bones of sane people.”

    shame

    I’m a firestarter
    A ram bored with shame
    Blood cut off from tight reins
    Cold hand fumbles matchstick

    A shrug-off warms up
    this sympathy dance
    Great romance cues
    the strings, notes
    like tears drop
    Douse a flame

    Relax the grip
    gentled baton

  • Lyrics

    Many lyrics to post. Here are some published song lyrics.

  • rosa gallica

    classical style from the poetry book, the waywith sun

    rosa gallica photo

    rose
    any of a genus (Rosa, family Rosaceae, the rose family) of usually prickly shrubs w/ pinnate leaves and showy flowers having five petals in the wild state but being often double or partly double under cultivation

    Rosa Gallica

    O rose, o rosa rose, thou art the same
    tho’ rueful romance oft’ has touched thy name;
    a passing bitter simmer and a trace
    of the sweet scent that simile did taste.

    What in your properties do awaken,
    from the stem, the thorns, the leaves, or the scents,
    analogies of transient emblem?
    O perfect love, but likened to be kept.
    The cut keeps the fragrance everlasting,
    the thorns defend the attempt;
    trail flower

    I follow the bloomed blaze of vast retreat;
    thy path of five petals, count thy wild beat
    Fast in the wilder; Gallica scent for me
    What lovely name? O rose, thou art the same.

    rosa gallica by LAFogle from the book the waywith sun

  • the muse left me / exposure to the abyss

    writing published August 22, 2021

    The muse left me

    The muse left me for a polyamorous cad who grew tired almost immediately. Now our visits are plain-spoken, almost sad. Take place on the ground without wing or abstraction. It is as if we are at a holiday party catching up with a run-down of our accomplishments: How was your year? Well, I’ve been fine. Ron has faced some changes. They rounded up the men and put them in a pecker house where they were trained to work as peckers. He took right to it; world’s oldest profession. 

    One very lucid day, the muse was going on about Venus being a disco ball. And “Kiss me with the radio on. The waves they bend my favorite song.” It was a complete creative cop-out. I think the muse was trying to look unaffected by the actions of the cad so broadcast this big happy-happy-joy-joy routine. It was hollow. 

    Here’s hoping the muse will become tender again without needing a twelve-step program or a priest. I will wait and meanwhile try to provide a motivating soundtrack. 

    Exposure to the abyss

    A good friend will hold you by your feet and dangle you over the abyss to show you the footholds in the walls. A good friend will suggest a twist or kick for momentum or that you use bat technology to scream yourself off the walls. They’ll send you training tools like books or quotes or brushes; suggest new mediums: bristles dipped in tears, malleable dreams where sleep is a long luxurious blink. How it all works together to flush the sight of shards of memories worked around the nerves in sympathy. The body forgets its process while a good friend refuses your censorship, rides the shame to shamanic exodus. Holds the flashlight while you climb out of the abyss.

  • prompts: trust signifies cafe innocence intimacy accidentalist hurt foreshadow sleepwalk

    October 20, 2021 to November 1, 2021

    from the full moon to the new moon in Libra / Scorpio

    trust

    Back to the wilder
    from collapse
    under stacks
    of undecayed
    inorganic
    matter—
    It’s all temporary

    Underground digs
    in sentiment trapped
    Prone to lucid dreaming’s
    involuntary maw
    Steps into the yawn
    of your own pitfall

    Take to the trees
    like Tarzan—climb
    your agile mind—
    swing from trust-
    worthy vines

    signifies

    In his ghast and livid beam, no colors absorb; absence signifies his subject in virous torrents of rayed devastation.
    I am spared—my eyes cauterized at first sight. Mere ash beside a vacuum, patient for the Spring. Cremains in the kindness of a friend.

    cafe
    I’m a tourist in their cafe
    where they talk over a good song;
    Collectors of the medium/ who trade
    the pain of kids who don’t belong.

    It bounces off the reclaimed beams—
    factoids, brag, gimcrackery;
    lathers popularity
    without a sole
    analogy/ of us

    on the island of loneliness

    innocence

    Innocence is a gift—mingled in commitment—of passage.

    It has been slain on the altar of infant helplessness sulked in vengeance.

    It has been saved by the certainty of power relinquished in permanence.

    One day you won’t give your heart to bargainers.

    intimacy

    At the corners of their bed sate epic tales of wind, fire, earth, and sky loving the anthropomorphized form of their senses, conjured from the aromatic pyre; a tinder nest, intimacy the tender.

    Not even the fires of hell refined worked so well to warm the dead.


    She was an ‪accidentalist in one great big song about obedience.
    More deistic than contrarian, because those small-town panderers just couldn’t be the gatekeepers of divinity.
    They sounded more like creations of comedy.

    hurt

    “You’re being emotional and kinda paranoid,” Maena said. “Read the situation like a book.”

    “Like look at a few words, jump to conclusions, and cry into my pillow?” Cere asked.

    Maena smiled. “No, we don’t read books like the words are going to ‪hurt us.”

    foreshadow
    In the afterglow
    of a gamma-ray
    burst/ in her hard
    bright light

    His silhouette whistles—
    harsh foreshadow,
    blocking the lumen;
    inkling black hole,

    a cold hero’s trope

    sleepwalk

    I sleepwalk & talk
    expose the bare truth
    that fear & pain
    hang from the pall
    that covers the life of day

    Mantle worn by soothsayer
    who blankets infantile babe

    There, in low waves
    while the mind hides
    memories, ring words
    of the dissembler:
    vestments
    unpicked to rags

    ©2021 LAFogle / Lesley Ann Fogle

  • prompts: autumn winds dandelion poem blackbird tangling fireflies river funambulo ebb stranger hesitate

    October 6, 2021 to October 19, 2021

    from the new moon to the full moon in Libra

    autumn, winds, dandelion, poem
    ‪Autumn winds
    compose fire-pit scents
    under dandelion parachutes
    —echo bloom;
    crackles underfoot

    As trees discard
    their rupturous leaves;
    cells grown in between
    life-giving stages

    Deep discoverable mystery
    unlike a poem’s
    slow
    arrival
    on high-speed internet

    blackbird
    At noon, hiding her shortest shadow in alignment with the bridge, Maena followed between the dark images of the blackbirds bouncing across the water, ignoring the ripping vortex of shattering muck and slosh as the surfacing malevolent spirit lunged to tow all shadows underwater, leaving its victims soulless and forever staring at their own reflection.

    tangling
    In same footsteps/
    wind & sun ‪tangling for our skin/
    the weathered abrasion of a rock
    we stop to pick up/ real weight/
    shapes of polished angles
    tumble to dents clove
    from the whole/

    Our fingers bump
    across the crust
    of our proud
    mantle

    fireflies
    My love’s eyes strike like a floodlight
    When he blinks, ‪fireflies disappear
    Every week, a brave new season
    I’m just here, prepared—
    I got boots, flip-flops, cloak,
    sneakers, shades, change of clothes
    Umbrellas are useless in storms, climactic
    And the rain just feels good.

    river
    Our cup spilled
    unspeakable
    divine fem
    granules
    whole flawed alien
    Entire love
    I could never be
    but in that night of time
    scythes
    petalled revolution
    bloomed execution
    o the so-called weak
    gentle tears
    better part o u
    I will singe us together
    our cups will form a river

    funambulo, ebb
    Spored tears, at lashes tip—
    ‪funambulo cries
    from ‪ebb of rope,
    subsides;
    Moist moss untwists
    quiet, fast arias
    —balloons—
    post-wildfire.

    May the fire-lighters,
    wisdom pre-dominant,
    palettes & moss,
    plan the burning.

    stranger, hesitate
    Our guards and guardians
    have never acted stranger:
    they hesitate, nip
    at phantom peripheral itches.
    Animal mom, animal dad,
    do bugs live in your skin?

    ©2021 LAFogle / Lesley Ann Fogle

  • Friend

    for Lois

    friends photo

    With you I don’t kill time till time kills me
    And I would miss you because you’d never leave
    That is the highest value, consigned like family;
    my sibling I was not instructed to love

    It’s so easy, this vulnerable intimacy;
    no cling to agro youth as we take our seat

    Ours is a permanent love seldom on display
    in growing observation that does not take
    away the benefit of the doubt; we benefactors
    heal together plotting the wondrous day

    And don’t insult the witch:
    This is not naivete;
    It is a pact with heaven through hell
    We question unafraid

  • The sickle moon

    The sickle moon, with ice chip tips
    clears away the day

    In amber tunes of the low sun
    retiring to its unseen bed;
    The knowledge that it never sleeps
    unnecessary for dreams
    as we rest soundly in dependable return

    The sickle moon rests in waxed shade
    partly phased inpathic privacy

    We too allow the mind its mysteries;
    That lunary healer of all things sensory
    works in wordless timeless sympathy,
    within sleep’s reactive silence,

    its filtry ministry

    ~ LAFogle

    crescent moon dusk photo
    Sickle Moon poem image

    first posted on Twitter September 2021

  • Sister Knot

    for Nikola

    Shh, don’t say a word
    on the harvest of the Great Confirmation Bias

    All moves, construed, take cover
    Links to the center of a silver chain frame
    Dark brocade hair lays layered and wound

    The Sister Knots fit pretty
    at the temple, wrist, or throat

    Their mother wore it first
    A hand-me-down; heirloom
    in dignified terms

    The girls learned to fight
    over it: tears, fists, appearances

    Its victimized cut-off
    reenacted on damaged friends