but i knew his name.

Frankie

was more than a ghost

more than a dark

lonely

boy, he had dreams

and when he smiled

the world held it's breath.

Frankie

was more

than the shadow of a child

more than his unbroken stride.

His bloodied suit

was more than

cool

it was Frankie

a skin he couldnt shed.

"HEY MR. DAN

ARE THOSE REALLY SHORT CAPRIS

OR REALLY LONG BERMUDA

SHORTS?"

yeah.

get his picture.

capture his dead cold stare

his pinstripe suit.

erica caught him

in her flash.

a rare smile stretched across his face.

forehead veiled in dark bangs.

his toocool shades

lifted.

Frankie's eyes were blue.

candles are bright. this goes with jack's fire but i cant edit so go readit and think of this picture!

heres the picture i wanted to put with jack's flame but i cant edit so urgh. just go read it and think of this pic

was a secret place

-the basement.

Maybe my parents knew about it, but

they let me believe it was mine.

Down there it smelled like moth

eaten fabric and

the walls were damp

after it rained.

When the world became too much for me

I would

s

l

i

p

into that space,

playing hide in seek with reality

and I would curl up in a ball

or

have tea partiees with my imagination.

-my tears bitter tea

dreams were the sugar.

Sometimes mom and dad

fought.

I'd fall into place

below sanity

and count the seconds till closing time.

Sometimes hours

passed

before I emerged

again.

A single memory pierces through this time

though. It's that of when I had lain

longer than usual

in that cramped space

and sister had found me

and she had wrapped her arms around me

holding me close

so that her coconut smell made me dizzy

and then we sat

and made up stories

about fairy tale creatures.

and then there was silence.

but i remember being there

with her

and that feelings more than words

and that memories enough

to keep me going.

that Jack jumped over

My flame flickered out

before he lept.

No feat there.

He knelt on warm grass

striking the match.

Searing flames licked at his fingers.

I watched as he yelped

felt the tremble of his voice in the air.

Jack dropped the match.

I am the fire

blazing,

cross hills and haystacks

where little boy blue ignited in sleep.

I scattered his cows

scared off Peep's sheep

crisped their wool to black.

And old Mother Goose

her wings are bare

blisters puss blood from her feet.

Her nursery rhymes have gone astray

'cause Jack never learned

not to play with fire.

Light footfalls 'pon the desert, dancing with the dust, or prancing to the jingle of jungle tamourines, the rain - pit pat- their melody, hearbeats - thump thump- a harmony.

People are made of music,

from jail-cell harmonicas to the trumpets of battle; fear a drum, thruming ominously in the distance. Piano is their peace - like a cool, strong stream - washing shades of blue over the canvas

People are made of paint,

Bursts of red are their passions, layers of blue are their tears - cobalt mounds of sorrow. They sweat a ripe yellow. The trees they plant are dripping green upon ivory paper.

People are made of words,

unsaid

unwritten

people are pencils.

Emptiness smiles his empty smile, displaying a mouth void of voice.

Yes, he speaks.

But his words have taken on the sound of others, mirroring what he thinks is perfection.

Their meaning's lost.

And if you ask him to explain his thoughts

he'll run and hide

in the corner.

The say that Emptiness wasn't always this way. You used to see him taking long walks along moon-struck beaches. You could find his stories in the library, his footprints on wet earth. When he looked at you you felt

exposed.

Back before Emptiness lost Hope he had dreams of being whole.

Her death collapsed his world.

Now Emptinesss avoids my gaze and when I pass him on the street his

empty

smile lurches my heart into depression.

It never lasts though.

I refuse to walk with him. Emptiness' hand is cold and i'm already chilly from Loss.

I cannot spare my warmth for Emptiness.

>~my mind~<

My body is a vase of flowers

my heart the rose

my lungs wisteria

my vessels and veins twisting vines.

My mind is an iris.

White,

Glistening,

it seems to

glow

in spring,

it's stick of pollen a yellow beacon beckoning in strangers,

new thoughts.

It buds

ideas

and smells

so sweet.

But in winter

-in my coldest times-

It starts to wither

-as I cry-

I'm leaking out all the water

That I need to keep it alive.

It becomes confused,

searching for a way to grow

and runs in circles

it's roots

connecting to my ears

nose

nerves

eyes

share with it only

lies.

But this Iris doesn't die.

It closes up

hiding from the bees

that sting

and when it's ready it

reblooms

-Still intact

my new memory kept

in a single petal.

(this has A LOT of indentations that really change the flow of the poem, but i dont know how to add them. if you do, PLEASE TELL ME! in the meantime any comments are welcome)

once upon a time there was a little argyle sock that sat in the bottom of a tissue box on a dreary saturday afternoon. his name was phill and his nose was blue. he had moodring hair! which was odd because hes a sock so usually socks dont have noses or hair BUT HE'S JUST SPECIAL. sooooo anyway one day mr. phill (thats his name yach) decided to go on a quest to meet a leprachaun! mr argyle began his quest by taking a sailboat to utah (where it's illigal to hunt wales. TIS TRUE!). while he was on his quest to meet a leprachaun he met a leprachaun. the leprachauns name was FRANKIE. frankie was skitzo. his friends name was woodsy. his other friends name was woodso because that rhymes. his other other friends name was jeene. he wore jeans A LOT..... ok yeah. then he continued through the magical forest of purpleness. it was very purple. feel the purpleness (ooo its fuzzy!) AND THEN HE FELL OFF A CLIFF. happy ending :D :D :D

When I watch you

lapping up love

like a hungry cat,

purring in contentment

happy and fat

or

when I watch you

with your back turned

giving me the cold

giving me your old

shoulder

but not to lean on

I say when I watch you

you used to be a noone

camped on deaths borderline,

you used to be mine,

I reminis (sp?)

through your silence

I regret

through your joy

I cry.

I'm from Rabbi Dan

and the golden rule,

From Dad's sarcasm and Mom's doubts.

I'm from raising ducklings

to Cacey, my rat

buried under the stunted maple,

7 cats, but only 3 left.

I am from my mother,

eyes and hair from father,

From Green Eggs & Ham to college campus.

I am from squirrels,

(yes, all they really are is squirrels,)

I'm from Mendicino mushrooms,

Clayton horses,

And Walnut Creek rugs.

From Holland,

Dach,

And France,

Bonjour,

From little wooden shoes

That I

once

fit.

I am from the music

beginning to open my ears,

"We're goin' to a birthday party....."

"...... Where the bats and moonlight laugh."

like snow

like gold

like snow

like gold

I'm from secret sketches,

dark poetry.

I'm from what I

don't

share, from the thoughts stacked within

my

head.

Stepping stones towards

A higher level of expression.

Katie is murky blue,

an armadillo,

numbing rain.

Katie is the jeans you keep

way past their experation,

when the gaping holes leave your knees bare.

Katie's a lamp,

simple enough,

with a green shade.

She needs a new bulb.

Katie is a playful mask,

smiling, colorful,

perhaps a clown.

Katie's chocolate,

rich and

dense

and

dark.

(please keep in mind i was in a bad mood when i wrote this :D :D :D )