the sieve and the sand

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

Month: August, 2008

A Single Tear is All I Shed

by Tucker J. Collins

One tear shed for nature’s growth
and One tear shed for nature’s destruction
One tear shed for nature’s hunters
and One tear shed for nature’s hunted
One tear shed for the life of men
and One tear shed for the end of mankind
One tear shed for our abuse of nature
and One tear shed for nature’s vengeance on our race
*
One tear shed for all that is right in my life
and One tear shed for all that is wrong
One tear shed for the health of my family
and One tear shed for the sickness of us all
One tear shed for the words of God
and One tear shed for how He moves through us
One tear shed for those who were persecuted
and One tear shed for those who will never believe

inspiration – once a necessity, now a mere luxury

by Roger Mugs

mud
sweat
beers
the many words they help to conjure
rides and runs and
bitter cold
with blue sky – and snow
benches dedicated only be filled with you
- together
street lamps lonely and frozen
out of place
off the grid
mysteries
water balloons shot at distant trains
epic battles with snow balls
with fevers
overheating and overeating
the “phew!”
the proud
the in-betweens
and you

muse you are and muse you do
now life can be lived without you

cricks are a pain in my kneck

by Julio Chapluzki

not much is worse than a crick:
crickling its way all over,
cricking with every movement,
being a cricking pain.

the first bite of fall

by rcribay

this morning
i felt the first bite
of fall
as if sneaking in before
sunrise
testing the waters
of the atmosphere

i walked into its
sharp chill
eyes and lungs widened
as if breathing in a secret

by dawn summer returned unaware
of the thieving season waiting in the wings.

salvation by breakup and road trip

by Roger Mugs

for a weekend out
in a borrowed car
we roll up the windows
put the cruse control at 65
and stay in the right lane

cranking the music
we prepare for the best
and drive until neither can
keep an eyelid peeled

stopping only once we’ve made it
to las vegas
new mexico
aka hell on earth

giving up on the camp ground
we settle for a inn with a smoking room
and light our pipes
and turn on the tv to snow

in the morning we make it to the sand dunes
and roll down hills to implant ourselves
face first snow angels in the side of each hill
forgetting our camera we make the trip twice

trying a camp ground again
this time we’re caught in the snow and find
our canned soups only light thanks to duralog
and our final match

turning north we return home at 5am
to refreshed heads
and clear hearts ready for the upcoming
loss which will save me

by Julio Chapluzki

i’ve never been good at startings
and i’ve rarely been good at endings,
much preferring the middle,
oh the comfortable middle in which
thereisnobeginningandthereisnoending
thereisnostrivingandthereisnomoving
and it might start smelling from stagnation
so that i hate my position and wish for a change
but at least it will be a comfortably, horrible smell
bringing me an ironic smile in the contemplation
of its (andmyown) putrescence.

if we could only learn to focus our minds… then… perhaps… we could do anything (i love this town i swear – i think)

by Roger Mugs

sweeping roofs and grey skies
dragons, tea
bad kfc
striving just a little more
to see you romantic ‘lly

acid rain,
wet tiles squirt
up the sock i’ve worn
smiling people
spicy food
brakes so loud i need no horn
striving just a little more
been a romantic e’re since
the day i done been born

humid air,
suns mistook for moons
at high noon!
striving
please
just a little more
romantic
romantic
romantic
i can bend that spoon…

watching the olympics

by rcribay

envy
dissipates
like
the
chill
of
this
beer.

thoughts on an olympic morning

by Roger Mugs

until the possum of phelps drops dead
like a hammer falling from a bookshelf
during a tornado in mid-western america

we’ll continue to praise his swimming
and forget about his horrid taste
for oversized wanna-be rodents

the poor old tramp

by Julio Chapluzki

I used to jump
on the old tramp
out back but not
with flips and
twists and twirls,
like I see on tv.
If I had I don’t
think the poor tramp
could have taken it
but would have instead
squirted blood and
guts and gore,
like I see on tv.

i cant take warm beer in the morning

by Roger Mugs

the decisions we make
with swollen prostates
(not from what you’d think)
but too long a ride
through too bumpy a road
and some beautiful scenery
with dead pigs impaled
on motorcycle saddles

breathing seconds

by rcribay

i have plunged
back into the stream
of time head first
plugging my nose
unused to the
measured ticks and
climbing numbers
counting up (actually
down) and i again
feel the inevitability
of tomorrow as
one does a collapsed
lung.

going places, are you coming?

by Roger Mugs

shocked again at your absolute
lack of direction and call
slugging through life
as though near drowning
flailing and gasping for air
hoping to hold on just long enough
for one more breath
then descent
to the deepdark
only to quit and look elsewhere

by 18 lebron was making millions
and all you have to show
is a hiccup of a resume
and a hickey from the last ‘friend’

but more than that
i simply cant understand how a tree
can be so lost

this morning was the first time i have seen stars in the sky in over 2 years

by Roger Mugs

sunshine, and i’m reminded
i so desire
that first brisk cold

is this why we saved you?

by rcribay

little turtle
when lifted
poos.

i hope you learn to speak words more good than your daddy

by Roger Mugs

and when you breathe forth your very first words
i’ll be holding my breath in daft anticipation
gasping at the affricate proceeding from your little mouth
waiting for you to learn the beauty of words
hearing you grasp for meaning
then communication
then beauty in every syllable

Why teachers shouldn’t get to know their students

by Julio Chapluzki

With a deliberate
point and click,
I ruin a future life
all the while, telling
myself, honestly, it was fair.

what a beautiful city I live in

by Roger Mugs

picking the sand from my eye
awaking to find the morning
even more disgusting than
the weather man could have possibly
guessed

not quite as good as the things i overheard that one afternoon outside of the building in the sunshine where i wrote down the first phrase of every conversation I heard and then laughed at just how ridiculous people can be sometimes, but close

by Roger Mugs

i dug a whole lot
but people didn’t care
fully understand the depth of what i
done and gone, and lost
for naught

America the Borgiful

by Julio Chapluzki

assimilating others
into the collective,
borglike we prevail.

edible attire and the hudsucker

by Roger Mugs

while appealing in intimate settings
(or so i hear)
seems like an idea to be thrown
from the one hundredth
story
window
tied to a large brick
so that it may reach terminal velocity
and if it cannot die (due to it’s lack of life)
it should at least be
destroyed
or banished to the part of society
to be made into
mocking film stories
like the hula hoop

of bullies, cronies, slaves, and friends

by Julio Chapluzki

You are tough and strong
and possibly unbeatable,
and I might just hate you
despite my best efforts
and my best misgivings.

I’ve heard it said
that hate is just
the inverse of love
and while I’m drawn to
tear down misconceptions,
I tend to agree because I’ve
seen Smallville and Unbreakable.

And now, through thinking
analogously, I come
to the point and to the question:
Do I love you? (or) Do I hate you?
For there can be no in-between.
And while some may label my logic
a fallacious, false dilemma, I,
respectfully, disagree.

Returning to the analogues, you
are Ender, ripe with potential,
potentially holding the future
in your young but growing hands;
the strong respond in loving
confidence; the weak in fearful
violence, attempting to crush
before being crushed themselves,
yet Ender only crushed in self-defense.

So without the crushing weakness the
prospect of crushing destruction disappears;
if only I can be strong enough
to allow you to be strong, strong
enough to choose love, rejecting
the weakness of hate, responding
to you as a friend and not a foe.

because without the possibility of being arrested you lose some of the adventure

by Roger Mugs

when i was younger
i dreamed dreams of bigger things
and wilder places

but today (though my dreams were small)

i rode through mud, poop, and tarmac
around a prison
and was nearly bit by a sketchy dog
i stood 100 feet from a jet airplane
and no one knew i was there

fearing being arrested i returned home

when i was younger
the dreams i dreamed
were so much smaller than the
dos i do

I wonder what a butter, jam, and honey biscuit would taste like

by Julio Chapluzki

Biscuits are good with jam,
strawberry jam if you please,
but then again they are
good with honey, especially
if there is lots and lots
of butter with the honey,
causing the butter and honey
to not only become one with
each other but also with the bread.

because sometimes for no good reason it feels like you’re alone, but you never really are

by Roger Mugs

sometimes things happen to me
as if i had not chosen them
which in itself is a lie to be ignored
and redeemed
but i do them anyhow and i find myself
at a loss for words
and thoughts
trying to justify it to myself
knowing paul had a beautiful discourse on
the things he wish he did not do but did the same anyhoo

so i feel that way at times when
i’m not alone but feel that way

just like when years ago i would feel
alone though surrounded by my many friends
and take a stroll
i passed by astroturf set juxtaposed
to cement and the shiny blades i mistook
for real grass with rain dew spread anew
and knew

i really was alone

Afterglow

by Julio Chapluzki

i didn’t see it coming
until it was too late
and i was gone completely
talking about crazy things
in an overly eloquent way
because of too little blood
in the alcohol stream

permission

by Roger Mugs

i like you fat and full of smiles
snuggly with little understanding
i like that your clothes are one piece
and your only need is sleep
(i can relate to that)
you can grow up
but dont grow old

My Father and the Reaper

by freakynewchild

Part I: My father shot me, bang bang

I was created a girl, you see, and
wantin’ to be genderless was my sin,
“My daughter, I’m send you back to your maker.
Only he can make you whole for you’re unnatural.”
Steadfast was his resolve as he pointed the gun at me,
I didn’t wish to be a boy, you see,
but he shot me before I could tell him;
I wanted to be genderless.

I was the garbage can
rolling empty on the side of the street
one shot through my wasted heart,
nothin’ but pungent darkness.

Tell my father, he fostered and killed an empty vessel.
Tell him,
Tell him,
Tell him, I had yet to be born.

My father is not an evil man, you see
he is a simple man with ordinary values
uprooting all he doesn’t understand.

I wanted grace
a heart, not bruised or calloused
a mind, pristine and free
and eyes, innocent and clear.

So that I could feel like it wasn’t too late,
So that the day I’d finally be born and alive, I could say :
I am not my mother
I am not my father
I am not a girl
I am not a boy
I am human

***
Part II: The Reaper

Dark
Dark
Father, it is so dark.

Ah, 17 years old…
life had the promise of a bebop dance at the neon lights.
I thought there would be more days
Days when I’d breathe stardust till the break of dawn,
Days when freedom would cost 10 cents a piece at the farmer’s market
Days when I would needn’t stop for the rain or wait for love.

Fly me away
Fly me away from my own mind
Father, it is so silent.

my beautiful mom took the night train,
she promised to come back,
when the night is beautiful again
when the passing wind needn’t flirt with the outside, with damaged stars,
and plastic bags that always float one step further.

The reaper came from the bullet
and into darkness it took me,
to the place of the unwanted children-
dark and desolated.

The fabric of life and death is too coarse against my soul,
it rubs the good stuff away,
and soon I will fade into darkness.

Wish me back
Have Mercy, Father
wish me back
alive and well
So I can finally rest in peace.

Somewhere to go

by freakynewchild

another
dawn came knocking out my window
lawn of my dreams vanished, and
the bed threw me down,
time to find somewhere to go

no one is to blame, it’s all my fault
if i seem lame, i’m in a vault
i could have made an effort
i could’ve found me a cohort
for a life less lonely

time to find somewhere to go

another
callow walk in the streets
i felt so low, so mellow
the asphalt threw me down,

where can I go from here?
i need somewhere to go.
and hide before another dawn
would you welcome me,
for a while?.

the day after corn

by Julio Chapluzki

in the accomplishment
of a job well done,
i reveled.

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