SLEPT

ass kicking? and here i thought ass kicking was part of God's plan, for some it overflowers with poetry.

butterflies pinned
against the wind
by a poet's hand

~A

I read you with my hands
all the scars
and yet how smooth
you are

these words really touched me

you say it needs some work ... perhaps,
but i'd be inclined to leave it ... there's
something raw and beautiful about it, just
as it is

some very lovely lines throughout this e ...
graceful and eloquent

but more than that
your words speak to places
where joy and sorrow sleep ...
places that wait for
an awakening

i find your words speak to me

fragile
beautiful

your
p

This this one reads like to halves of different poems, im not sure why, maybe the imagery changes half way or it's something to do with the syle.

still loved it though

lou

Oh Steven, oh "silhouette of love."

This poem, collection of words pinned to the page like trophies of humanity
and its possibility to empathise and see beyond the outward beauty
to the inner beauty of man, of moth, of the woman...you can, you do and you do it so well, hope you forgive the quote here, love as aye Ann.

"kept the words in your heart of hearts like secret tears

like the jar of fears

killing ghosts of beauty and

pinning them on fine card stock

each beauty spread

their wings peirced with steel

the colours exposed"

Oh Steven your pinned moths like those in museums exhibited ,forgotten, wasted life,
'ghosts of beauty,'
The spread of delicacy pierced and tainted so, this bit moves me for may reasons, as I loved the story of Freckles, in the forests, if you know what I am speaking of? Freckles by Gene Stratton Porter :-

A peculiar movement beneath a small walnut tree caught his attention. He stopped to investigate. There was an unusually large Luna cocoon, and the moth was bursting the upper end in its struggles to reach light and air. Freckles stood and stared.

"There's something in there trying to get out," he muttered. "Wonder if I could help it? Guess I best not be trying. If I hadn't happened along, there wouldn't have been anyone to do anything, and maybe I'd only be hurting it. It's--it's----Oh, skaggany! It's just being born!"

Freckles gasped with surprise. The moth cleared the opening, and with many wabblings and contortions climbed up the tree. He stared speechless with amazement as the moth crept around a limb and clung to the under side. There was a big pursy body, almost as large as his thumb, and of the very snowiest white that Freckles ever had seen. There was a band of delicate lavender across its forehead, and its feet were of the same colour; there were antlers, like tiny, straw-colored ferns, on its head, and from its shoulders hung the crumpled wet wings. As Freckles gazed, tense with astonishment, he saw that these were expanding, drooping, taking on color, and small, oval markings were beginning to show.

The minutes passed. Freckles' steady gaze never wavered. Without realizing it, he was trembling with eagerness and anxiety. As he saw what was taking place, "It's going to fly," he breathed in hushed wonder. The morning sun fell on the moth and dried its velvet down, while the warm air made it fluffy. The rapidly growing wings began to show the most delicate green, with lavender fore-ribs, transparent, eye-shaped markings, edged with lines of red, tan, and black, and long, crisp trailers.

Freckles was whispering to himself for fear of disturbing the moth. It began a systematic exercise of raising and lowering its exquisite wings to dry them and to establish circulation. The boy realized that soon it would be able to spread them and sail away. His long-coming soul sent up its first shivering cry.
"I don't know what it is! Oh, I wish I knew! How I wish I knew! It must be something grand! It can't be a butterfly! It's away too big. Oh, I wish there was someone to tell me what it is!"

You didn't come back to read my comment Steven?
Or did you?

I like this one specially well.
Might even use ot as a Neo GREAT poem on the Worshop.

As aye Ann.

a jaw wide open
perhaps i may relish the moth
as a poetic token

strange
your words still intrigue