the sieve and the sand

Leaving the wheat with the chaff. This is not your mother’s poetry.

Month: July, 2008

here’s to you mr. and mrs. r.c. ribay

by Roger Mugs

seems like only yesteryear
you wandered on to a field
of tall uncut green
to join us in a game
while wearing your fatigues
thrilled you had fulfilled
your calling to the ROTsomething or other
and hoping for a future

music and poetry
made you dream of
leading young pupils
to find the truths you were taught
did not exist

but you dreamed big and up you went
in status and down you went
in location
from mountains to crime
you found your home

and in teetering on the edge
of destruction found something better
perhaps even smarter
(spit out of harvard afterall)

but i still remember
you asking if i had seen the turtle
you found by the lake
and thinking you vulgar

but friendly
as we toured the scum of the earth
and dreamed of better times
you no doubt
have found.

Emotional Revelation

by Tucker J. Collins

Lying awake at night

I ponder another’s words

Filled with strength and meaning

Two-plane reminder of my love and opener of my eyes

“Try to say goodbye and I choke,

Try to walk away and I stumble,

Though I try to hide it, it’s clear

My heart grumbles when you are not there”

Sung by one of my Mom’s favorite’s

Now these words speak to me,

As they traverse through my mind

Like the current of rushing rivers

Gathering from the deepest crevasses

Beautiful memories, purifying them

And carrying them to the surface

Where I now have attained a new level of sight

Sight through an opaque film

Made from the very substance it later shall shield from

Which should clear my vision of sorrow

P.S. That was a quote by Macy Gray from her song “I Try”

Virgin Mother Mary

by Tucker J. Collins

Mother Mary guide me

Help me to remember

And honor her truly

Always and forever

Virgin Mother Mary

A gift from whom I love

Protect as I wear thee

Give me peace as a dove

En Passant

by Tucker J. Collins

In Passing

Me or Her or Both or All?

Do I pass through changes

As She passes from Life to Death?

Or does She pass through and through My mind

As I did pass through Hers in Life?

How many paths for passing do cross in this present time?

Can I hope I’m with Her now?

changing sucks

by Roger Mugs

the     things     i    do     are
       CENTERED
always      so        self

“I shop in stores with concrete floors” (anonymous)

by Julio Chapluzki

One day out, and I’m still amazed
that at Costco one (meaning I)
can buy a case of good beer,
24 that is (including new belgium beer)
for 24 dollars or less,
less than a dollar a beer,
meaning that beer is in my future
despite (or because of) my poverty.

12 Jul 08

by rcribay

was it the night
we sat on steps avoiding
others so we could speak secrets and dreams until 4am?

or was it the time
we walked in the park in
autumn sat on a bench beneath
the night acutely aware of our hands and the distance between them?

or was it that Thursday
the first time my lips fell into yours
in the background the treading percussion of Explosions in the Sky?

or was it that Sunday
at circle of hope when I calculated the exact pressure
of your hand on mine to equal the love of God and kept it to myself?

was it in old city
beneath the din of eighties hip hop
when I told my friends I would marry you someday?

was it in spanish
stumbling mispronunciations and incorrect accents
in an attempt better know those who mean the world to you?

was it in harvard yard
dressed as wizards wandering and wondering
where we could find the best butter beer in cambridge?

or was it the summer
we spent unemployed reading and mastering
the NY times crossword puzzle then emerged, merged adjusting our eyes to autumn?

or was it that night
in central PA when you showed me how
to cup both hands to carefully catch these drifting constellations?

I cannot say exactly
when
only
somewhere
between my hands and yours
between sunset and sunrise
between the top and bottom step
between the mountains and the atlantic
between jersey and philly
between te amo and mahal kita
between the upbeat and downbeat
between the first and last page of this notebook
between one thousand and one days ago and today

I fell in love with you.

and even to partially properly articulate this
it will take my entire life
an infinite number of pages
and perfectly placed kisses
(which is part of my plan)

but something tells me
nothing will match
the simple eloquence
of your hand
in mine
some evening
fifty summers from tonight.

on being a gluten glutton

by Roger Mugs

its tough on the digestivies
makes the family
mad
as i passes
the gasses

GOD’S playing field

by Tucker J. Collins

imagine GOD
floating above
HIS playing field
manipulating every
piece and creating
incidents and accidents
all at once
the greatest creator
the greatest craftsmen
HE is flying high above us
looking down upon his model earth
but does HE, GOD have regrets
to some of his creations
and the manners of how they act
and the way they destroy
and the way they hate
and the way they corrupt
when are the coals of GOD’S fire pit
going to heat up and be ready to
torch this model and start anew
on city where GOD exists
to tell HIS tales to the people
who believe in HIS plan
and are blessed with eternal life with HIM

The Vanity of Fancy Food

by Julio Chapluzki

I watch a lot of foodnetwork
a channel that often emphasizes
the presentation and beauty of food
however, today the epiphany struck hard
that no matter how good a piece of food looks
the next day inevitably it looks the same
dirtying the waters of my toilet bowl
floating/sinking     liquid/solid
black, filthy, wretched poo

Beauty requires suffering

by Julio Chapluzki

Grease, hot porky grease
splattering, popping, flying,
landing on my breast,
bared and shirtless,
burning, scalding, scarring
all in the name of
ham and cheese omelettes.

lightly laughing in inevibilities

by Roger Mugs

dancing, dabbling with the funky folk
simply smiling away the evening
not noting the things flying flapping
buzzing
in our ears
behind bare
lakes, legs
slapped – stoked and bitten
they really is
blood sucking morons

of leeches in my secret spots

by Roger Mugs

yesterday we picked
mud from our tires
after an hour climb
through wet jungle
mounting the summit of dup thoi

go back the way we came?
or try a new single track down

remember good decision bad decision?

mud and leaves
my brake fully locked
as we sledded down the hill
on thousand dollar mountain bikes

hopping fallen trees
and waiting for the fog to clear
sliding and slipping
and more mud in our tires

a joy until
i picked leeches from my legs.
imagine a forest so thick
so moist and so warm

i found a leech stuck to my
unmentionables
on the ride down
and still have a large red bruise

man scar or not
that was stinkin’ fun
dup thoi

Together We Stood, Alone We Fell

by freakynewchild

They have made a statue of us for all the pain and misery that can never be washed away.
We were the ones who never got what they deserved.
We were meant to survive when others live. Do they live,though?
Or is it one more puerile misconception?
Harassing thoughts of us trampled on and made to scrounge for food.
We were fools the day we let ourselves get born.

So many dawns and evenings passing us by, with us stuck and sticky with anguish and fear that we may die unfulfilled, unmade. So much space, and air wasted on us. We were innocent, incapacitated with our defective will to life. We were shells; beautiful and redundant in this painful harrowing world beauty. Where was the awe, the worship owed to all the pretty things created just for us? The sun smiled and our limbs shivered and shrieked out of weariness from the sun that only does as expected warming skins and things. A terrible understanding of our undignified, unsettling collection of hours, while our bodies gradually turn to dust.

We were companions of misfortune in our young tender years; disasters at every corner.Yet, we would imagine and dream a god dying for our sins and no one else’ s.
But between oceans, and lands; vast, painfully vast, we became strangers…

The other

by freakynewchild

I thought I would remove the “self” from my convoluted mind
the self which only exists, contorted, exalted in your eyes
to please you or revolt you; the other

There won’t be no prickling shame if it weren’t for you-the other
the other’ s self I can’t escape or hide from

I would erase you if it weren’t a crime-sin and more shame from the other
the other’ s self which resists, galvanized and contrived by my brain
taught to hallucinate you and accept you; the other

It’s as if we are back to back and each facing a mirror where we’d sometimes
catch each other’ reflections; A vision where we can never meet- the other

I ought to shed my “self” and your “self” from my awareness’s shelf
maybe it’s all a mirage where nothing subsists beyond our selves.

[If] death’s-agreeable and unpredictable,
why walk away?
After all there won’t be no needling pain if it weren’t for you- the other
the true other – I can’t ever hold or get close to.

Till I’m 30

by Julio Chapluzki

It might be nice to be 30,
or older, so that my
feelings would not be hurt so
when both Uzbek and American
students label me as such;
or I could admit to myself
that my premature male-pattern-
baldness could be read as a
symbol of having lived 30+ years.
However, I choose to believe that
my baldness isn’t that bad,
and it won’t be for the next
three years, four months, and seventeen days.

At least it was an emo band, but honestly, what 30-something-year-old listens to emo?

by Julio Chapluzki

One of my students today,
asked if I was in a band
with a very lame name
that I have already forgotten.
And while I would have liked
to have obliged, I couldn’t
quite fit the 30-something
age requirement of being the
person for which I was mistaken.

haiku about people writing poetry as comments

by Tucker J. Collins

are you serious
writing poetry as if
comments aren’t ’nuff

the names in this poem have been changed to protect those it is obviously representing

by Roger Mugs

little belinda
sad sad tale
hated bland bland food

but little belinda
sad but true
had a face as bland as poo

nomadic fashion

by rcribay

drifting across
the continent in
nomadic fashion
often leaves
one
lacking in friends
and despite the
change in scenery
one
can’t help but
notice when
it matters
most.

Confusion

by Tucker J. Collins

People ask
“How do you feel?”
I say “Fine”
But do I really?
Am I to know
If I can not cry?
If I lie awake at night
Thinking without control
But not of my mother?

the strength and the sadness

by rcribay

yes, tuck, i read
your posts and i cried when
i read the blog
on the fifth even
though i never
met her even though
i only knew her
through the strength
and the sadness of
her words an electronic
testament of her
love for godfamilylife
andthosenotyetmet.

point and shoot

by Roger Mugs

catch memories on film
or
paint outlines on asphalt

on killing first and asking questions later

by rcribay

afraid
i hunted them
down and extinguished
the life of every last one.

research later revealed
that they are not harmful
in the least but could have done
a world
of good.

(and how many
histories reflect
this very notion?)

vocationally i could see myself being a man…

by Roger Mugs

of edible wooden colored planks
and beaches of white powder sand
of grainy office carpet in brown and tan
and tile of white porcelain
of sunshine without any sunglasses
and eye gouging pain from squinting
of air conditioning, freezing cold bedrooms
and pounds of blankets while fighting sunburn
of mexican, italian, barbeque, pizza, burgers,
and beer, whine, scotch, gin, margaritas

of joy
of rest
of fun

but not so much of fame
i think it would go straight to my head
evening out my clown-esque feet of
10 gallon floppy enormousness
keeping me humble in my inevitable
slow mopey gait

-
p.s.
i’d call it my vacation vocation
and i’d walk tall and straight
proud of my disproportionately dense torso

what’s wrong with the world?

by Julio Chapluzki

is also what’s wrong with me,
when I fear the embarrassment
of a bum asking me for money
without considering the embarrassment
of asking for money

i have to try to do things for you because you do so much for me its easy to become lazy

by Roger Mugs

incompetently taking your love for granted
narrowly escaping your wrath

Love Letter

by Tucker J. Collins

I love you-Goodbye.

I’ll always remember you-inside.

Of Mind, Body, and Soul-like the rest,

Mind and Soul I’ll remember-of you the best.

I’ll always know you were the love of my life

Through the sickness, the pain, and all the strife.

Saying goodbye was the hardest thing I hope to ever do,

I could only wish that it wasn’t to you.

For you raised me lovestrong.

Now I wish I could say-God’s will is wrong,

But faith in HIS plan is right,

Whether you do or don’t-survive the night

Mother, I love you-Goodbye

Hardest Words

by Tucker J. Collins

The HARDEST words you’ll ever say
The ones that are binding
Are the soft words said TENDERLY
But HARDEST of all you say “GOODBYE”
*
Binding words are like tendons
Which are NECESSARY for survival
Unless survival’s futile
But, TRULY LETTING GO with words is hardest

True Strength

by Tucker J. Collins

Death’s imagined as skin and bone

but is too heavy a load for one spine to hone

For Death’s cloak is named Grieving

And his bone’s names are all Leaving

Heavy enough to crush any mind’s fort

But not strong enough to crush loving support

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