Unfortunately, so much of what I have written in my life has disappeared into the ether known as "hard drives." It makes me sad... I have a lot of older stuff that's pretty damn decent, IMHO, and I'm afraid that most of it has disappeared. I used to use Pathetic.org to store a lot of the poetry and stories but, once, in a fit of drunken rage at my then first attempts at social networking (no one ever responded to my work), I deleted my account and all that work is now, sadly, gone forever.
And then there's even more that has disappeared on old computers long since fried or recycled.
In fact, the only stuff I know that's left -- how sad is this -- are the few pieces I've posted here on QueerCincinnati.com, until, one day, when I get fed up with the drama and homosexuals in general I will delete this site, too, in a fit of drunken rage... and all will be gone.
I don't know where that story came from, but it has a lesson: always have a backup and a paper copy. We can't trust the information age as much as we'd like to. Anyways, I thought I'd post something of mine (that has been posted before) that's poetry-like, and encourage you to post something of yours!
I want to rub my hands across the soft cream of your body. I want to make indentures into your stomach and watch the white spot linger and go. I will watch you drowsily roll over towards me, open your eyes briefly, and smile. I could watch you smile forever. I could hold you here just as long. Entwine my arms around yours, underneath yours like a complicated puzzle. I will wrap my body into yours, matching jigsaw for jigsaw, as I curl and scoot closer to your. The sound of your mumbled, half-dozed how are you brings me home. The feeling of flesh and bone. The gentleness of a lover. Kiss gently the soft skinned cheek, trailing my lips over your neck and onto the top of your spine. Slowly run my hand across the bone down your naked back, clad only in blanket and cold air. You shiver and move closer to my warmth. The minor heat of your body does not fill me, but your presence does. I move my hand down your peach soft legs. Your scent of baby newness and budding leaves reach my nostrils and I take it in. What are you doing. A half heard and half understood question; I lean in to run my lips against yours, open now. They are dry like mine. I feel you smile, and I lick your upper lip in response. You are too much. Does it matter who says it? We both feel it as I reach around to hold on. I inhale your exhaled breath. You are ticklish down where your body meets your legs, so I caress that spot. I want you closer. You jerk and giggle a little. We are matched skin for skin but still I want you closer. Still I want you more. I play briefly in the patch of hair below your belly button. You press closer still, tighter, nearer, further into my embrace. Hands rubbing hands, fingers pressing into flesh, lips running over shoulders and necks. I will not let you sleep until I have had my fill of your body, of your breath, of your being. More than an exchange of lust, it is an exchange of desire and love. I know that tomorrow I will climb dazed from your bed. I know that tomorrow I will have to leave this. But, for now, a tender feeling and perfect moment.
When the story of my life is written, that will be classified in the "Barry was in a creative writing class and dating a boy that he had yet to have sex with" Period. There's actually a lot written from that particular part of my history.
Neil Aquino, over at Texas Liberal, shares with us this poem:
Roses are redHA! But he actually gives us a much better piece that he's written here:
Violets are blue
Toilet paper is white
But not when you
are through.
The mob on the one side.
The few on the other side.
I’ll take my chances
With the Niagara below.
So, here's the 411: I know we all think we're the greatest writers in the world when we're working on something, but it takes some gumption to put it out there. And I want to encourage you to share something you've written ... or perhaps write something special for me in the comments below in honor of National Poetry Month.
Oh, and don't forget my mother and I run a little blog that, I suppose, it's my turn to write on -- Mom and Son Writing. When our respective difficulties came up in the last few months, we became less active. But it's worth checking out occasionally. This is my favorite piece from my mom (Chapstick), and this my favorite piece from me (Random Phone Number).
1 comment:
from all us poets, merci!
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