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Moments with a Motorcycle Girl is a poem in five stages. It was inspired by watching a woman I didn’t know who was posing with her motorcycle. In the first glance, I saw one thing. With a longer look, I saw something else. And ultimately most of what we see in strangers is really an observation on ourselves. I. Exquisite contrast of shadows and sparkles Feathered patterns cascade gently Silver shimmers in small subtleties Her secrets emanate from translucent skin A solid stare penetrates from glinting eyes Stunning how hardened against soft flesh she can be Wearing almost nothing Sheathed in armor It takes years to learn her level of self-protection And years more to deconstruct down to The core self II. Practiced pose Perfectly flawed Silent stare Firmed thighs Loose top One hand clasped Slim skin of neck Cupped elbow Each stance a form of self-defense An open eyed look but a closed persona Metal in nose Studs on boots She is not soft enough to be vulnerable Except when she is too soft Wisp of bangs Plastered down She would refuse to be bound Refuse to be held III. Hands hidden in shadows Holding a steady grip on the seat A too-cute motorcycle betrays her reality Seeming so innocent in its fun Shiny paint, silly shape It pretends that you need no protection She poses there easily Stands in a swimsuit Assumes the position Pretends there is no threat here But she has studded boots meant for kicking And a simple lack of a smile That reminds the onlooker that There is always something to fear A menace exists in every room An accident is always waiting to happen Her innocent curves appeal But can kill at 60mph Destroying self and others She is pink and cute, metallic and hard Only the final crash is honest IV. She is cerulean silver Waves against a glittering sky Meteor shower extending into morning Kiss of metal against dying lips Hardened glint behind liquid eyes Flower against speckled graffiti And peaches tattooed on a breast She is the key to unlocking me The details are all that matter She is cool warmth, cold humanity Frolicking fun against a serious stench Lithe frame against a gymnast’s rigor She is the essence of minerals The slice of diamond against silk The perfection of all contradictions She is me, myself, eye …. V. A transformation is possible A simple change in style The reveal of so many subtleties Thighs softened Knees turned inwards Suddenly a hard shell gives way to genuine softness A split opens the door for femininity This is no one eighty, no three sixty Self-protection remains but in a new format It is shaded, gilded, easier What emerges is sadness A profound sense of loss, of grief But of security A gaze reveals minutia in her details What appeared to be playful mess is pensiveness We each contain this soft intensity The quiet desperation of limited accessibility The unguarded depression of walls dropping Solace only in choosing when they drop Instead of letting them cave in around us Choosing our own transformations
Contributed by Kathryn Vercillo
Poetry must expose your darkest sins and secrets. Keep nothing in your heart or mind out of what you write. It is the raw emotions and passions that truly create your story. You can start with one thought or a rhyme, but as you lose yourself you realize that it is not the rhyming that truly forms the poem but your thoughts and feelings intertwining to create a work of art that is sometimes to complicated to understand or too blunt and to the point to completely register in your mind. Poetry just is.
Contributed by Danielle Tyler Vingoe
The Suicide Kid by Charles Bukowski I went to the worst of bars hoping to get killed. But all I could do was to get drunk again. Worse, the bar patrons even ended up liking me. There I was trying to get pushed over the dark edge and I ended up with free drinks while somewhere else some poor son-of-a-bitch was in a hospital bed, tubes sticking out all over him as he fought like hell to live. Nobody would help me die as the drinks kept coming, as the next day waited for me with its steel clamps, its stinking anonymity, its incogitant attitude. Death doesn't always come running when you call it, not even if you call it from a shining castle or from an ocean liner or from the best bar on earth (or the worst). Such impertinence only makes the gods hesitate and delay. Ask me: I'm 72.
Contributed by Keri Potter