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Cassea

Cassea's Journey

51 posts in this topic

Many years ago I used to be a gifted writer. But due to a TBI (traumatic brain injury) I am not able to write the way I used to. My OT has suggested that I practice writing poems to be able to retrieve words from memory that might be otherwise lost. So if you want me to write a poem for you write a phrase. A word. An idea. And let me see what I can do with it. They are poems for you that you may keep as your own.

Love

Cassea

Each poem I write is written from the moment I see the words. So as soon as I see them. I will write.

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PATIENCE

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OK Patience.

I'll edit with the poem in a moment.

The heavy tapestry falls upon the wounded

like a dark theater

in a red light district

where the flaming coals

like distant owls

warm the heart with hope

surround the clenched

and collapsed body

like obolus tucked in pockets

This figure isn't dead

just waiting

the war wounds have been left

by the slumbering patriarch

adrift and ashamed

but pulling forward

the arms flex like those of

Charon making his way

Unassembled faces

upturned to the evening sky

settle in upon themselves

like stones falling to the bottom of the river

The tide will never come for the stones

slowly they are turned seaward

slowly they turn from shore

slowly they turn away from the land

that knew them.

And this old man that sits on the shore

keeps his eyes upon the horizon

seeking love that left

eluded

faded

and returned

to slip by him like a twig

upon that same river

Certainty begets humility

Somber somber dignity

like flax upon the loom

Edited by Cassea
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Whoa, I loved that! Here, do one for me too!

Blood.

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Yup, you sure have a gift alright Cassea.

I'd like a poem about an Avenging Angel please.

Thanks.

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Whoa, I loved that! Here, do one for me too!

Blood.

Blood

She traces the wounds around her soul

like a delicate tongue touching upon her lips

she keeps them withdrawn inside

Shadows in a cavern of shadows

She is comfortable there

like a mouse in an attic

filled with wires and old wooden toys

trying to hide

She cannot look back

doing so unleashes a keening

that voice she no longer recognizes as her own

Instead she strives to find the

desert in her sadness

Deserts are safe havens

away from the liquid of pain

that rolls down firmaments

spills into the cracks within the pavement

the ones she avoided as a child

Her raw witnesses follow her

like a trail of blood

she watches her life fall in the distance

like saw-grass pushed back

with the cruelty of the early winds of spring

Can she recall?

She cannot remember any longer

but continues forward

pushing through the willows

the fallen leaves of orchids

scattered in the fields

like so many bloody footprints

in her wake.

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Yup, you sure have a gift alright Cassea.

I'd like a poem about an Avenging Angel please.

Thanks.

The curve of her back

rises up to the phalanx of wings

that unfold like sarissa

aimed upon the cacaphony

their cries do not dissuade her

She is precise in her dedication

as her spears pierce through

the din

She is engorged with ecstasy

these small drops of pain

slide down the wooden spears

and find their way

Those who doubt her do not know her

she recognizes the perjury of their souls

and forgives them

as she renders through her justice

like a fisherman

sliding his blade

through a gasping fish

Clambering forward

a scorpion upon a rock

armored to the wind

and the flagrant sun

she rises in the ashy storm

and stands arms lifted skyward

amid the devastation

She has no sympathy

for the wicked

For she has known them

and revealed them

flayed raw

beneath the eyes of God.

Edited by Cassea
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OK Patience.

I'll edit with the poem in a moment.

The heavy tapestry falls upon the wounded

like a dark theater

in a red light district

where the flaming coals

like distant owls

warm the heart with hope

surround the clenched

and collapsed body

like obolus tucked in pockets

This figure isn't dead

just waiting

the war wounds have been left

by the slumbering patriarch

adrift and ashamed

but pulling forward

the arms flex like those of

Charon making his way

Unassembled faces

upturned to the evening sky

settle in upon themselves

like stones falling to the bottom of the river

The tide will never come for the stones

slowly they are turned seaward

slowly they turn from shore

slowly they turn away from the land

that knew them.

And this old man that sits on the shore

keeps his eyes upon the horizon

seeking love that left

eluded

faded

and returned

to slip by him like a twig

upon that same river

Certainty begets humility

Somber somber dignity

like flax upon the loom

Thank you Cassea...it was beautiful and moving.

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Many years ago I used to be a gifted writer. But due to a TBI (traumatic brain injury) I am not able to write the way I used to. My OT has suggested that I practice writing poems to be able to retrieve words from memory that might be otherwise lost. So if you want me to write a poem for you write a phrase. A word. An idea. And let me see what I can do with it. They are poems for you that you may keep as your own.

Love

Cassea

Each poem I write is written from the moment I see the words. So as soon as I see them. I will write.

The Horizon

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Hmmm The Horizon

I've been using horizons a lot already. Let's see if I can take it in a different direction.

edited with the poem in a moment

He is trussed up and wired

He lays upon the gurney in the ward

like so many others

who have come back from the

unfolding legacy

His anguish crawls across his back

like a sodden gibbon

it's wet hairy arms stretched out

to touch his face

it sits hunched

with its mouth hanging open

as if inhaling a caul

sucking in the terrors that come to him at night

Medication drips into his arm

slides long the clear plastic tubes

He watches each drop traveling the journey

to his veins

He must focus there now

and leave behind the cries of the men

the weeping among the bent ferns

crushed bamboo shoots

the muddy graves

the silt covered shells

the dropped tokens of life

that came before

He is there now

looking at the sky

unable to crawl

waiting as he watches the horizon

for the coming of angels

perhaps they may save him in time

He watches the horizon

and prays for the grey machines

with blades tearing through the sky

throwing off the smoke

and rising fumes of death

He would like to reach out to touch

the grass

but his arms are locked by his side

like a child still in the womb.

But here now,

in the sterilized apology

the attempt to save those who

walked blindly into the nova of confusion

and were devoured

they take good care of you now

Pillows plumped

food trays brought promptly

and the sweet nectar that oozes like

so much poison

into the assailed flesh

that has been stripped of recognition

stoked in the fires of Napalm

Through the window he sees the clean horizon

the normalcy frightens him

he tries to turn away

but cannot move

As so he waits again for the angels

to rise up in the distance

come forward to save this poor soul

this wretched paper mache man

who will slip quietly

between the starched white sheets

until the kind sprite nurses pull them

across his face.

Edited by Cassea

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Hmmm The Horizon

I've been using horizons a lot already. Let's see if I can take it in a different direction.

edited with the poem in a moment

Whatever you want to do. How about " The Search"?

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The Search

Let's try something less sad this time. Hmmm

Bright eyed naifs

stand in the entryway

their legs cocked out

in odd poses

down the halls

the echoes of stern misstreses

are punctuated

by the slamming of

locker doors

and the shifting of books

and stuffed in papers

Such young boys

to be smug about their devious natures

they are certain no evidence

will come forth

They amuse themselves

watching the squat and pull

of bending matriarchs

that are intent on revealing

their dastardly ways

But the search will not prove

fruitful

The back pocket of one boy

bulges with incrimination

not understood

by those caught up in

diligence and expedience

Instead they amuse themselves

with a sly side eye

a tugged corner of a smile

hair slicked back

and thumbs hooked casually in their belt loops

waiting for the

search in vain to end.

Edited by Cassea

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The Search

Let's try something less sad this time. Hmmm

Hmmmm, The Light Seeks Me

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The Search

Let's try something less sad this time. Hmmm

Bright eyed naifs

stand in the entryway

their legs cocked out

in odd poses

down the halls

the echoes of stern misstreses

are punctuated

by the slamming of

locker doors

and the shifting of books

and stuffed in papers

Such young boys

to be smug about their devious natures

they are certain no evidence

will come forth

They amuse themselves

watching the squat and pull

of bending matriarchs

that are intent on revealing

their dastardly ways

But the search will not prove

fruitful

The back pocket of one boy

bulges with incrimination

not understood

by those caught up in

diligence and expedience

Instead they amuse themselves

with a sly side eye

a tugged corner of a smile

hair slicked back

and thumbs hooked casually in their belt loops

waiting for the

search in vain to end.

You have a wonderful talent child. Thank you so much. It is wonderful. Smiles at you.

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Oh man Robbie you are driving me crazy. LOL!!!! :innocent:

The Light Seeks Me

I am there under the rubble

I can hear them searching

lights out dogs sniffing

the crumbling of nearby rocks

the calling out with hope

But now my witnesses are

sinews of light

sneaking through the

collapse of it all

In years to come

scholars will speak didactic tones

students will whimper

and shift awkwardly in polished seats

Pages will turn

pens will scratch across the tablets

men will lament

But I still lie there waiting for

the light that seeks me

Victory has written its own tome

Voices will sing my requiem

All heralding the truth

as is what they know it to be

But I still lie there waiting for

the light that seeks me

in a dark holding cell

within the bowels of a shuddering ship

that leaps to meet the waves

that hold back from destination

I am there in the barracks

with cheap planks of wood

slapped up to keep us in

to keep away the cries of recognition

when cruel death

unfurls it's sinister wings

I am there along the beaten path

where machetes landed in crevices of blood

howls reached the clouds

and were beat back down

by angels helpless in the face misery

I am there now in the consternation

I live in the confusion

like men passing buckets down trenches

trying to find some salvation

some answer

Many men will say they have come to know me

But I still lie there waiting for

the light that seeks me

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Oh man Robbie you are driving me crazy. LOL!!!! :innocent:

The Light Seeks Me

I am there under the rubble

I can hear them searching

lights out dogs sniffing

the crumbling of nearby rocks

the calling out with hope

But now my witnesses are

sinews of light

sneaking through the

collapse of it all

In years to come

scholars will speak didactic tones

students will whimper

and shift awkwardly in polished seats

Pages will turn

pens will scratch across the tablets

men will lament

But I still lie there waiting for

the light that seeks me

Victory has written its own tome

Voices will sing my requiem

All heralding the truth

as is what they know it to be

But I still lie there waiting for

the light that seeks me

in a dark holding cell

within the bowels of a shuddering ship

that leaps to meet the waves

that hold back from destination

I am there in the barracks

with cheap planks of wood

slapped up to keep us in

to keep away the cries of recognition

when cruel death

unfurls it's sinister wings

I am there along the beaten path

where machetes landed in crevices of blood

howls reached the clouds

and were beat back down

by angels helpless in the face misery

I am there now in the consternation

I live in the confusion

like men passing buckets down trenches

trying to find some salvation

some answer

Many men will say they have come to know me

But I still lie there waiting for

the light that seeks me

Sorry. Just plain wonderful it tis.

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I loved the blood one!

Now, do one about my SN. Mistress of Shadows. >D

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The curve of her back

rises up to the phalanx of wings

that unfold like sarissa

aimed upon the cacaphony

their cries do not dissuade her

She is precise in her dedication

as her spears pierce through

the din

She is engorged with ecstasy

these small drops of pain

slide down the wooden spears

and find their way

Those who doubt her do not know her

she recognizes the perjury of their souls

and forgives them

as she renders through her justice

like a fisherman

sliding his blade

through a gasping fish

Clambering forward

a scorpion upon a rock

armored to the wind

and the flagrant sun

she rises in the ashy storm

and stands arms lifted skyward

amid the devastation

She has no sympathy

for the wicked

For she has known them

and revealed them

flayed raw

beneath the eyes of God.

Wow. Thanks very much. Good luck on your journey. God has blessed you.

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Posted (edited)

Eruption

Those eyes

sunken into the years

almost pulling back to the husk

of the womb

unyielding and averting

rolling skyward

looking to the stars

with such accusation

I feel it in the bottoms of my heels

as I fall backward and stumble into the couch

as if

you had raised your arm and released a sword

you had slashed through the air

trying to undue to tenuous strands

those spiderwebs that

draped across our tracheas

and made our lamentations

brethern

those cries that made the crows fall like blackberries

in the center of a forest of pine trees

awaiting a winter

that came with frost covered moss

and broken kneed does

and cracking ice that echoed like shotguns

as you

beat and beat and beat

upon the pulled hide drum of your youth

begging for the cold cloak of winter to relent

but it does not

we are all its cicadas

burrowed deep

awaiting our eruption

or the blood that reveals

the evidence

to our tear stung eyes

you are sorry again

I know

Edited by Cassea

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You have a wonderful talent, Cassea.

A word I'd like you to poetise, please? ... Nobility

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Inner fire

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Hey all, I've been sick. I am still quite sick now so I haven't been able to write. But I will soon. Hopefully.

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You have a wonderful talent, Cassea.

A word I'd like you to poetise, please? ... Nobility

OK I read a few Mohammed Ali quotes, plus I'm suffering from Insomnia tonight so I'll give it a whirl

(I wrote it, it's more prosey but I'm trying. Funny it reflects my deficit in writing in the way it's choppy words)

Nobility

Nobility is the sag eyed man at dawn

with a push cart in his hands

and his God in his heart

He murmurs (a little sadly, a little sadly)

about his knees, his bills and his bitter coffee

He remembers the last time he owned

his nobility

when he was fifty seven

in that wild fray of yard

behind the superplaza

where cars parked up

and competed for dignity

next to the shopping carts

that looked like the victims of a tornado

or a bull gone wild

He'd wished for the bull gone wild

But he had hunched down

beside the dumpster

and pulled out a cigarette

from a crumpled pack

God how he missed those crumpled packs

And wondered (he missed the wondering too)

how those clouds could seem to roll across

so quickly

Each inhale revealed a puff

circled up to the cerulean sky

the wafting wanderers

the rolling past

the dissipation

like his girls

his mother

his father

his brother

gone, gone, gone

Only the strongest survive

or the weak smart enough

to crawl into shadows

How often his fingers

surprised him these days

with their wrinkles and grime

And he sat pressed up against the granite blocks

pretending they were gravestones

whispering out with each puff of smoke

I miss you I miss you I miss you

Some wise man once told him

his journey was to hold the space

to live the life

but he had sunken into shadows

oh so comfortable

with their grayness and folds

wrinkled memories

and quivering eyes

ah yes

But the sky is unrelenting

and he beckons beckons until

it turns to begs

and the horizon

No..... the loft

the arch

the arc

the entirety

those full sailed

billows of blue

fading at night to orange cast into waves of violent lavender

still still still

Call down to the prince

call down to the king

beg and beg and beg

for him to live

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Posted (edited)

Inner fire

The last poem I wrote just came right out, automatically. This one intimidates me because I have a hard time with "poetic phrasing" like the other one I skipped. I think. I get too intimidated? I think you expect something with the phrasing.

So I tend to try to shake that off. By writing something. Completely unrelated.

So Inner Fire. Hmmm I try to make it abstract or unrelated. I'm going to think a bit. On this one.

Reading back I see I use eyes and skies a lot. So I will try for something completely different this time.

Inner Fire

The yelping dog

breaks through the noisy afternoon

with its bouncing tires

ricocheting trains

be bop

sound drop

of the afternoon

lickity splitting

bus stops

hissing hydraulics

and children's histrionics

like the boom boom boom

of an 80's juke box

blasting out of the storefront

of the local pub

The pedestrians roam

like displaced equestrians

their horses agallop

off their reins

riding hard up Fifth Avenue

knocking

left and right

the fancy paper shopping bags

of daily shopping hags

as they ignore you as you

wander through

lean to the right

lean to the left

side step spin away

like dancers in

The Thanksgiving Day Parade

and keep on moving downtown

maybe there you can trade

your fare

Another dreamer

with solid soles of shoes

to wander up and down

the pavement

try to pound into the granite

your deliberate provocation

Let them know that you were here

Remember that

as you fade beside

the blue light

flicker through your memory

try to find your answer

we never forgot you dear

You were always here

Edited by Cassea

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OK I read a few Mohammed Ali quotes, plus I'm suffering from Insomnia tonight so I'll give it a whirl

(I wrote it, it's more prosey but I'm trying. Funny it reflects my deficit in writing in the way it's choppy words)

Thanks for the poem, Cassea, and sorry to hear you've been ill. Hope you recover soon. :)

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