RealSurf Surfers' Forum

pulled a chick out of the nightclub in surfers once or thrice, walk home in the early sun, shielding your eyes, radiant with sin.

Here ya go:

Jet
BY TONY HOAGLAND
Sometimes I wish I were still out
on the back porch, drinking jet fuel
with the boys, getting louder and louder
as the empty cans drop out of our paws
like booster rockets falling back to Earth

and we soar up into the summer stars.
Summer. The big sky river rushes overhead,
bearing asteroids and mist, blind fish
and old space suits with skeletons inside.
On Earth, men celebrate their hairiness,

and it is good, a way of letting life
out of the box, uncapping the bottle
to let the effervescence gush
through the narrow, usually constricted neck.

And now the crickets plug in their appliances
in unison, and then the fireflies flash
dots and dashes in the grass, like punctuation
for the labyrinthine, untrue tales of sex
someone is telling in the dark, though

no one really hears. We gaze into the night
as if remembering the bright unbroken planet
we once came from,
to which we will never
be permitted to return.
We are amazed how hurt we are.
We would give anything for what we have.

Or

Psychoanalysis: An Elegy
Jack Spicer

What are you thinking about?

I am thinking of an early summer.
I am thinking of wet hills in the rain
Pouring water. Shedding it
Down empty acres of oak and manzanita
Down to the old green brush tangled in the sun,
Greasewood, sage, and spring mustard.
Or the hot wind coming down from Santa Ana
Driving the hills crazy,
A fast wind with a bit of dust in it
Bruising everything and making the seed sweet.
Or down in the city where the peach trees
Are awkward as young horses,
And there are kites caught on the wires
Up above the street lamps,
And the storm drains are all choked with dead branches.

What are you thinking?

I think that I would like to write a poem that is slow as a summer
As slow getting started
As 4th of July somewhere around the middle of the second stanza
After a lot of unusual rain
California seems long in the summer.
I would like to write a poem as long as California
And as slow as a summer.
Do you get me, Doctor? It would have to be as slow
As the very tip of summer.
As slow as the summer seems
On a hot day drinking beer outside Riverside
Or standing in the middle of a white-hot road
Between Bakersfield and Hell
Waiting for Santa Claus.

What are you thinking now?

I’m thinking that she is very much like California.
When she is still her dress is like a roadmap. Highways
Traveling up and down her skin
Long empty highways
With the moon chasing jackrabbits across them
On hot summer nights.
I am thinking that her body could be California
And I a rich Eastern tourist
Lost somewhere between Hell and Texas
Looking at a map of a long, wet, dancing California
That I have never seen.
Send me some penny picture-postcards, lady,
Send them.
One of each breast photographed looking
Like curious national monuments,
One of your body sweeping like a three-lane highway
Twenty-seven miles from a night’s lodging
In the world’s oldest hotel.

What are you thinking?

I am thinking of how many times this poem
Will be repeated. How many summers
Will torture California
Until the damned maps burn
Until the mad cartographer
Falls to the ground and possesses
The sweet thick earth from which he has been hiding.

What are you thinking now?

I am thinking that a poem could go on forever.

I think we can do something with this thread Cranked.

I think you should stop it right here before you make me puke.

Over excited?

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
.

William Wordsworth (1815)

I think we need our resident poetry critic (aka Shaun) to give a critique

Can't dis Woodsworth.
Apparently he was going to say cow but his sister thought that sounded stupid.

Hey little girl would you like a dance
Hey little girl want a quick romance
Hey little girl won't you take a chance
And celebrate summer with me
Hey little chick where did you learn that trick
Hey don't you know you got rock and roll
Hey little punk forget all that junk
And celebrate summer with me
Summer's not a bummer
Its a stunner
And it's now ...

Summer is heaven in 77 ...

Marc Bolan

In The Summertime,
When the weather is fine
You got...women,
You got women on your mind.
Have a drink
Have a drive
Go out and see what you can find
Mungo Jerry.

On the Move Related Poem
BY THOM GUNN

The blue jay scuffling in the bushes follows
Some hidden purpose, and the gust of birds
That spurts across the field, the wheeling swallows,
Has nested in the trees and undergrowth.
Seeking their instinct, or their poise, or both,
One moves with an uncertain violence
Under the dust thrown by a baffled sense
Or the dull thunder of approximate words.

On motorcycles, up the road, they come:
Small, black, as flies hanging in heat, the Boys,
Until the distance throws them forth, their hum
Bulges to thunder held by calf and thigh.
In goggles, donned impersonality,
In gleaming jackets trophied with the dust,
They strap in doubt – by hiding it, robust –
And almost hear a meaning in their noise.

Exact conclusion of their hardiness
Has no shape yet, but from known whereabouts
They ride, direction where the tyres press.
They scare a flight of birds across the field:
Much that is natural, to the will must yield.
Men manufacture both machine and soul,
And use what they imperfectly control
To dare a future from the taken routes.

It is a part solution, after all.
One is not necessarily discord
On earth; or damned because, half animal,
One lacks direct instinct, because one wakes
Afloat on movement that divides and breaks.
One joins the movement in a valueless world,
Choosing it, till, both hurler and the hurled,
One moves as well, always toward, toward.

A minute holds them, who have come to go:
The self-defined, astride the created will
They burst away; the towns they travel through
Are home for neither bird nor holiness,
For birds and saints complete their purposes.
At worst, one is in motion; and at best,
Reaching no absolute, in which to rest,
One is always nearer by not keeping still.

So what's all this with brevity
that some think a necessity?
Write two words on the joys of spring
or seven words on anything.
My quill revs up prepared to go
but then it's over, don't you know,
write one word on a lover's sigh
or four words on the way to die,
I question why this sad constraint
I want to write without restraint,
an ode that reaches to the moon
that won't fit in a tablespoon
and then write more and more and more
with rhyming syllables galore,
the longest poem ever seen
be Shakespeare on amphetamine.
Well yes I know that some get bored
as they leave epics unexplored;
write half a word please, if you can,
I have a short attention span.

Proof
Dear Z, it's light that makes the river flow, or

seem to flow. Efflorescence skipping from crest to

crest as though it were a school of tiny fish



And disappearing beneath a bridge. A bolted,

welded, seconds-long eclipse and then they flicker

back again.



They're harder to count than stars. More subject

to vagaries, fancy, the weakness of belief. Are

they matter



Or do they depend on matter's movement. The hardly

more substantial lifting them and losing them in

troughs. Most of the time



I think like this. Unsure what can exist without

an imprint. My reflection stutters in the windows

of a speeding train and then I'm looking at a

field of sheep



Black-faced and lazily intent. The glimmerings are

flecks of time. I can't decide whether they are

truly in the moment or moments out of time,

essence or deviation from the path.



There's no conclusion here, no resolution myth.

Things rise up and fall away as if they never

were, rise up again. I think of them as my

credentials, proof of who I am.



I like the dancing light, the scattered cloud, the

river that lies potentially between its banks, the speeding train. I reach for them. They reach for

me.
Brook Emery

Diarrhea boom...
FLERRRRRRRK!!!!
I am sweating on this silent throne,
Cold is my sweating double lump, my butt-ox.
Dripping sopping is my hole, wet for you, my boo.
PLUMP! SHPLOOP! SQUISH!
UHN! UWAAAAAH!
That is my plural drip, my dipping turd flow, Niagara.
Ookatini flip, my pencil fell in.
Fish it out with my hand.
Ooh, Telpavin. Time out time, sitting on the toiley.
There is no doiley to conceal this mess. Ten sixteen.
3 A.M.
7 A.M.
I'm not even wiping yet.
My dad comes in from working the steel mill. He needs the can.
I cannot.
Offer him.
It.
I wiped for hours.
Then I pooped again.
Like an elephant.
I need a colostomy bag.

I think we flies have gotten a bad rap,
we’re not carriers of contagious crap.
Humans are far worse when it comes
to spreading their infectious germs.
What fly, I ask, has ever spread syphilis
or other veneral diseases like this?
Yes, we do have a prediliction for
foods most humans squeamishly abhor,
like animal feces or rotting flesh –
a treat we savor, warm, stale, cold, or fresh –
(and we’re not fussy as to what kind
as long as its source is from a behind.)
Put now your grimacing face on hold,
consider the offal humans eat, we’re told:
Slimy oysters on the half, not even dead,
cow’s liver, pig kidneys, calf brains (“sweet breads”)
monkey brains, fish eyeballs, African maggots,
certain glands, bull’s testicles, intestinal guts!
And let’s not omit those hot dogs most of
which probably contain all of the above!
Foods like these would make any fly up chuck,
yet humans devour them and pay big bucks.
Flies, at least, show some discretion and reserve,
avoiding foods treated chemically to preserve.
And flies will from time to time enter in
a kitchen where the window’s been left open,
tasting this and that, what’s thrown away or left,
infuriating food inspectors and red-faced chefs.
And dare I say it, many a foolish fly
has been part of a meal undetected by
gourmand diners whose tastes are fastidious
and, fly or not, still found the meal delicious.

Our dog doesn't call them flies, she call them flying sultanas ... tasty but hard to catch.

Dogs chasing flies, theres ya summer.

you guys and your poetry broke summer.