Boston Girl Guide


Childhood in The Studo

It was now 1:30 AM,
time to clean again!
We emptied ashtrays by the bucket load,
While stepping around the huddled bodies
Of passed-out drummers, guitarists, singers,
And other public heroes.

In the darkness we stood,
With only porch lights
And the moon's shining
To light our way.

Being very careful
To dare not awaken these heroes,
We continued to pick-up only the cigarette,
And unnamable butts.
And beer-can-remains
by the dozens
of another day of Recording,

Instead of awakening the passed-out masses
Of these famed public heroes,
we tread silently through the nite hours.

Upon chairs, settees, sofas,
As well as porch furniture they laid,
With only empty cans
Hanging from the arms
Of the now snoring.

Smoking butts surrounding them,
They laid huddled,
Waiting to sing or play their tracks.
Tracks Of vocals, leads and strums.

As we now hurried silently past
In just a quiet golf cart,
Picking-up, and lifting the ever so famed
From ponds and bushes,
And transporting their remains
To beds and warmth.

For, these were the heroes of Rock n' Roll!
Everyone's Idles lay before us!

And we were so very obligated,
By pre-signed aggreements,
Never, ever to mention a name.

Before us lie the idles
Of all public greatness,
As we bagged the bottles and cans.

Cigarette butts by the thousands,
For these were the great bands!
And ashtrays were once again filled.

But we dared not awaken
These huddles and piles
of heroes and idles.
For the silence was so nice,
For such a drastic change!
Barely even the volume
Of a boom-box, Merely on "full-blast,"

For it was such a quieting change!
For they were FINALLY mamed!

As the vocalists were laying their tracks,
Others passed-out in chairs in huddles,
Showing merely their butt-cracks!

As the vocalists sang backups,
And the music poured out!
And the heroes lay there to sunrise,
'Til they've completed their back-ups
!

Joey Covey

NOTES: we were what is called by the industry a "lockdown facility," meaning once the tour buses, limos, vans, and 18-wheel trucks entered, we closed AND LOCKED the gates, and they were locked into about 400 acres with a riverfront, and could not go anywhere until they completed their album, only because the Record companies THEN griped that they would be a problem of getting nothing done in the city studios of L.A. and New York, with half or more of them running off in the middle of the night for everything from drugs to street "whores," and accomplished nothing for weeks and sometimes months, while either they or label paid in the multi-tens of thousands for studio time, without being able to account for the musicians, who'd return sometime days later, while little or nothing was yet accomplished.  So they developed what are called "lock-out" facilities, where once the bus pulled in, the Gates would be locked and deliveries were monitored by guard posted at the front gate, with sleeping facilities and cooks on the property, though many just ate from their tour buses as they were accustomed....

Sorry for the babble, it's just a very memorable childhood.
Joey

In my Heart

I close my eyes and I am right
there all over again
Your moist skin
Your damp hair gliding across my body
Like waves of electric light
The smell of wild flowers
runs through my mind
I lick my lips and can still taste you
Sweet like warm peach ice cream
I feel myself getting wet as
my mind goes back
To that moment of ecstasy
Climbing higher than I’ve ever been
Staying there for as long as we like
Never wanting to come down
Always further inside
As deep as it gets
Living, breathing, loving inside of me
We become one
Merged in electric fire
Out of control
Yet, we are caged in different worlds
Worlds that will never let us be
Only in those stolen moments
We are truly free


~Amanda Rose~


Only I can stop myself

Gravity keep me here tonight, quiet,
stalking my own heart,
awaiting the next move.
I feel a hole beginning,
from the inside out,
no one could ever
know my secret –
like the heavy bones
I walk around knowing,
a private burden,
though I cope just fine.


- Juliana Bures


I can see you.
Stretched out across my canvas.
So comfortable within your skin.
I watched you then.
Today, my mind, it watches you again.
Remembering.
How the paler parts of you
years sheltered from the sun
formed a stark contrast
against the deep greens
of my inner sanctuary,
and I followed every line.
Tracing with my eyes
a picture I painted.
A picture for me to keep.
To be hung within my gallery.
A picture of you...
A woman.
Beauty...
in its purist form.


Nymous


TELLING STORIES

I keep trying to write these words,
to make them beautiful and poetic.

I’m trying to hide within the metaphor
or behind the guise of simile,
to create a tale of the hollow
withered aching soul
that is dying of a broken heart.

I want to create the illusion that
this is a story or a poem, or some
other work of fiction.

I want you to read it and find the pain in the tale, in the misery of the longing.

I want you to appreciate the commitment of the dedication
that this weary soul has laid forth
for the one whose heart it desires.

I want your compassion and empathy
to pour themselves over the bleeding wounds of this character I have described.

I want to see your heart melt for the subject and the storyline as I unfold
this tale for you.

I want you to lose yourself in the magic of the words I use and the emotions I can conjure.

I want to see your tears fall for the simple fact that this, in reality, could happen to anyone.

I want to move you and touch you
and tear at the strings of your heart
with a story so powerful that you
know it must be true.

I want you to fall to your knees in utter frustration for the way that this story will end.

I want you to scream ultimately how unfair this all is and how justice must
be served.

I want to leave you spent, exhausted by the depth and intensity of the experience you have just survived.

I want you to be exposed so that I can reach into the deepest part of your heart and touch you from within.

I want you laid bare before me.

I want you to hear my story.

Andrea Fitzpatrick 4-2-04


 

Links of interest

To submit your poetry click here


Featured Poet of the Month
Prema Bangera

[click here]


I Am

I am invincible, and more often then not
I am naïve
I am knowledgeable, and yet
I am mindless
I am over confident and terribly insecure

I am the cool mint sting of Listerine
I am a freshly picked daisy from an endless field flowers
I am the essential steam of a hot morning shower
I am your glistening summer skin
I am the cool, crisp, refreshing autumn breeze

I am writing poetry on  my rooftop
I am drifting through my mind, indulging every memory I can grasp.
I am in bed, dreaming, dreaming, just dreaming
I am the instantaneous rise and fall of your breath
I am gazing into your eyes, wondering if I can fall any deeper

I am dreaming to live forever, and living to die today
I am more than I know myself to be
I am an enormous need for affection, and a terrible need to give it
I am for every dark night, there's a brighter day
I am what's she got that I don't have?

I am always right, but usually wrong
I am sneaky, but not at all
I am focused
I am determined
I am far from ordinary

written by: Alex Difeo


"17 Days"

There's no way to describe how I'm feeling now
Just that my heart is broken
I wake up every hour and look over
Hoping it's all just a bad dream and maybe you're still there
Telling me you're happy

Every time I breathe it hurts
But not the same kind of ache I first felt
I wish there was something I could do to make this different
But everything goes over in my mind the same
You knew this couldn't last forever
And you told me every day
I guess maybe I hoped that you were wrong
If there was a god he loved me.

I throw up; I grind my teeth
I toss and turn cause you're not here
There's so much I wanted to say
So much I wanted to learn
That I could learn
From you

Everyone will know
I know it was your fear, but I'm not ashamed
They'll see my pictures on your wall
All the letters and maybe that earring on the floor
I lost the first time I found out how much you loved me

I hope before you died you got the mail
And opened my letter I sent you
So you knew how much I loved you
But that no matter what I didn't need you
I know I still don't but god I wish I did

You say I make you happy more than you've been in a while
That every time I left part of you was lost
You didn't know you ever had
Maybe they saw you as fun and colorful and talented
But I knew you as passionate and complex and intimate
I close my eyes and I can still feel you touch me.

In only 17 days you made my life complete
Full of passion, patience, and understanding
That only you could give.
In a year and 12 days you've changed me
You said I was special
Every single day "God led me to you, you're special."
I didn't want to believe you
For me it must have been the same.

I want you to know every day I thank you
For teaching me how to feel, all these wonderful emotions
And all the energy and life you gave me
Maybe it was exchange for your own, I don't know
You're right our moments were just temporary I must cherish them
As I know you will every second, every minute, and every day that we're apart

My heart is broken, it may never be complete without you.
You and I, we were a team.
Maybe we still are or maybe it's just me
I love you, I love you, I love you
I will always be your good friend.

I can't believe in only 17 days I could love someone so much
As I will you for as long as I'm here without you
I just close my eyes and wrap my arms around you
Your memory's still here.

Kriestienn M. De Bruyne

"Kriestienn is a horse trainer as well as a writer of poetry and prose for many years, though has never published her work.  Kriestienn splits her time between Northern Wisconsin and Western North Carolina, where she lives with her 6 horses, 4 cats, and 4 dogs most of whom are rescues.  Her work can be found on her website's blog:  http://www.myspace.com/tigercatracing


Amazon Rose
(a tribute to Audre Lorde)

We remember the wisdom and compassion
of one of the greatest black feminist writers,
our amazon rose
the immortal Audre Lorde.
She bonded in Sapphic love
with other brilliant "home girls"
including June Jordan and Pat Parker,
to heal a chaotic world.
She helped expose
the satanic doublethink
behind the double oppression
of racism and sexism.
She spoke out
against foul legacies of bloodshed
when she shattered a crippling myth
that was once mistaken for "protection"
by informing us
"Your silence will not protect you".
She washed away our scorching despair
with "nurturing rain"
and gave us a voice
to rescue us from a living grave.
Her spirit still inspires us today
when we crusade against injustice and noble lies
such as the "war on terror"
or whatever godforsaken noun
they teach us to demonize.
She implores us to go after the insurgency
of Anglo-Saxon patriarchy
because wife-beating belts
and white-racist lynch nooses
are the real weapons of mass destruction!
Even though she was cruelly struck down
by a 9/11-type ailment called breast cancer,
her compassionate power of transformation
will always guide us.
In the fight against injustice, I say
"Praise Audre Lorde and pass the ammunition!"

March 10, 2007 by Chris Robbins


but I am a woman

if i were a cloud
i would float unconcerned
puffy pink parsimonious
content to be where i am

you could watch me
from behind
from on top
from the side
analyzing how i form
how i deform

you could go through me
stay in me
stay away from me

you could do all that
and much more
teach your children i'm a blessing
despise me when i'm black and charged

i would still be floating
parsimonious
puffy
pink

Beatriz Gonzalez-Flecha


"Ambrosia"

When angst and sorrow squeeze the delicate heart, and joy seems tiny off against the horizon, a girl's delicate, suffocated heart can be restored by a mere chuckle, an ecstatic taste, and a loving look, A moment of creation, shared. A luscious taste, a luscious treat, Feeling luscious again, in her own skin.

-Anonymous

 

 


POETRY : POAMS : POETS
For Her....
** This was inspired by a Jennifer Matthews concert at Sally OBrien's August 27, 2005

For her
it is as
simple
as breath--
as stark,
as plain,
as death
or rain.

There is
no distance--
the music
flows
in waves
from her black
tangled hair
drops in
sweaty tears
from her brow-
lingers,
smiles in
the creases
of her face,
shudders
from her chest.

Above--
it
trills and flutters,
an exotic-plumaged bird
aloft--
and then
the voice crescendos
to some
deep nocturnal dream,
far below--

and I wonder
how it came,
and where
will it go?

Doug Holder


I can't breathe.
No I mean literally
I can't breathe
The flannel traps
The dead air
and dead thoughts
Which eerily awaken with this
Flickering flashlight
Like Frankenstein's freakish folly
What have I created?
What has created me?
A mind numbed by
happy little pills
A robotic giant in the ring.

A gasp for air under glowing blankets
Which from the outside
Might look like my
Glow-In-The-Dark
Keychain
To guide someone
To find me
An opal under cold water
Burns
With unnerving intensity
Water fuels its fire
What then will rekindle mine?

Caroline Thompson


TRUTH

Within the safe confines of an angels wings

and the soft white light of the truth

I have come here to lay down my soul.

I have come with desire, passion, and faith

and stand naked in the glow of your smile.

The letting go, as I have told you before,

is the hardest thing for me to do.

To open my heart completely without hesitation,

without fear of regret or remorse.

Without fear that I will fall to the ground

and be left where I lay.

Already I have stumbled before you, tripped and fallen,

and as I knelt at your feet your hand was outstretched

lifting me to once again stand beside you.

You have stood waiting with open hands

catching every word that falls from my lips,

placing them in a little box for safe keeping.

And when the time comes to bring them out

you cradle them gently in your arms until they can stand on their own.

You have held my bleeding heart so close to your own

that you filled my lungs with air.

And as I lay starving, you have crumbled the bread in your hands

and placed it gently to my lips.

You have opened your heart as well, to me,

in the ultimate display of trust and grace

and this is where we have found our stride.

This is where we begin walking forward.

To me, you are exactly who you claim to be…

To me, this is truth.

Andrea Fitzpatrick 2-22-04


THE SAUNA HAS A WAY

This warm abyss awaits
enclosed privacy, little diary
you’re mine for the taking
cedar walls that ache
to hold my naked spirit
and all the daughters who join me
renew the passion
release the fear
souls of the easily lost
finding a span of sanity.

Yes, I am one of the naked women
joined by the same
desperate need to hold
on to something
to take, instead of give
to feel, and give up thinking
breathing in the wood, deeper
feeling beads of sweat pour
from my skin
believing in a prayer,
a silent wish
we laugh as we reveal old secrets
massaging in rose oil
and relaxing in
the moments of silence.

Deborah M. Priestly


Strong

I ran-
weighed down by the bullet proof vest
growing
on my chest,
blocking the words you shot at me,
your tongue on fire like a bullet-
No-
an arsenal of ammunition.
Fatal, you see,
because you can shoot without ever letting go
of what kills me.
I ran, my back turned
like a coward
to your face,
to your mind,
but there comes a time
when you leave or you die
and it doesn't matter who is or ever was
a coward.

By,
Jess Dugan


dressed for conversation
(michelangelo)

thin walnut lines dress her face,
tiny hairs linger in the deep crevices
like mars seen from the mountains
of vienna, the blue hills. you visit,
you draw, you creep into the tombs
looking at the masculine breasts,
long male torso next to a pope

thick lips on icons

full bodied cups of wine, your reed pen
drips sienna, even the madonna
taken from your rib opening the start

paper patina tacked on a blue halo
trying to fit everyday into a sketch

we return last night's video
after watching your gray ceiling pain
pointing a finger at God


irene koronas
cambridge, ma


POETRY : POAMS : POETS

POETRY : POAMS : POETS

POETRY : POAMS : POETS

POETRY : POAMS : POETS

 

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