Co-poets pt. 10; the end

This piece will conclude this particular project(a study in collaborative poetry)

My final poem comes from the piece my brother Chad and I came up with...

Woodland Birds

The eyes shine bright
as the name of every
woodland bird
and their different
calls come easily
to the tongue

but pictures found
in  a hat box
left to linger
in a mildewy attic
ring no bells
the eyes now
glassed over
as the tongue
laps the mouth
searching for purchase

Co-poets pt. 9

This is my rendering -a very spare piece based off of the poem Paul and I did together.

Vortex

Things forgotten
come swirling back
in a vortex of memory
a random mind chooses
which to spew
and lay bare
for the unwitting
passersby
pretending
not to hear

Co-poets pt.8

This is my offering which came out of the collaboration done with Steve Pump;

Dream-glass


Staring into the dream-glass
the ghosts appear again
behind me, the faces
somewhat familiar
but not quite right.
I cannot blink them away.
Men with hats and women
wearing strings of pearls,
children in knickers, licking
lollipops, sticky residue on their lips
all smiling at my back, yet
when I turn to face them,
they are gone,
save for the unbearable weight.

Co-poets pt.7

Continuing the collaboration theme, this piece is mine alone and based on the original lines sent to all the collaborators and represents where my mindset was at the time I thought of them...

(no title) 

Memories appear

then fade away

like half-formed clouds

that almost become

a pirate ship.

Blackbeard was a pirate,

Bill Mazeroski too

but he was a different kind,

I think.

Pirates liked to bury

their treasure.

I had a dog once

he liked to bury stuff

in the yard

Who’s out there?

I saw someone lurking,

you stay away!

Leave my treasure alone!

Co-Poets pt. 6(revisions cont.)

The last revised poem comes from Paul Enea. This is a true re-imagining of the concept set  forth by me of forgetting and remembering as happens throughout a lifetime. My original thoughts were of an old man or woman maybe going through the stages of dementia and how one remembers things from childhood or certain moments in time that brought us joy and how it makes one feel, even while sitting in some geriatric ward in a hospital, seemingly wasting away. I know happy thoughts, right? Well, poetry isn't always pretty.
Here is Paul's poem...

Now I Remember

I forgot I was finite
I forgot my father was still alive
I forgot my father is always dead
I forgot I have no child
I forgot I had a child
I forgot memories are true
I forgot lying delays nothing
I forgot everyone kills a thing
I forgot every epiphany
I forgot I love Rita
I forgot there is no Rita
I forgot the sound of pale blue
I forgot the scent of dark
I forgot to invent a new way
I forgot the word for stay
I forgot the name for hate
I forgot the friend who vanished
I forgot the friend who remained
I forgot I was nowhere
I forgot the dog who followed me home

Co-Poets pt. 5 (revisions cont.)

The next revised piece comes from my brother Chad Austin. While staying pretty true to the original with the language, the ending reveals a different theme than the one I thought we were working with while doing the collaboration.

Bird Song

I can't wait to remember
all the things I 've forgotten
memories like fallen leaves
litter forest floor, naked trees shivering
watching sunlight tiptoe

slipping between the shadows
of consciousness, breathe deep
fill the empty space with
sweet, damp smells
black earth oozing between bare toes

the rot of nostalgia
like grandfather's attic
packing and unpacking trunks
that carried dreams to a new land
now gathering dust and photographs

left with a sick feeling in
the pit like decomposing fruit
a recognized relic, grandmother's
hat box stuffed with letters, and a feather
bird song shatters my silence

Co-Poets pt. 4 (revisions)

revision or re-vision

This is my favorite part of the collaborative process, watching what happens when one person gets to take the helm and forge their own way based on what has been created. They often use the familiar(what has already been written) but not always. You will see how different the revised pieces are from each other as well as the original creations. First is the revision from Steve Pump...

things i've forgotten

early morning, half asleep,
one palm open to receive my daily loam,
the other closed around what's left of the night:
dream-glass, the dust
of dry and crumbled leaves,
shadows in tatters, a hole down which i roam.

in stations underground i wait
for guests to arrive from distant dates.
when the skeletons detrain,
still wet with rain from others states,
how will i recognize their faces,
reflections in the stagnant air?

our ghosts have no eyes, no names.
they huddle together for warmth until,
like an unbearable weight removed,
they evaporate and disappear.
i lie suspended in bed for the hour,
between stations of forgetting
and not forgetting, grasping between lights