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I am armsForgotten things, looked upon as flexing strong,
brackets, counter-weights, pendulum swing,
and all along, I am weak without a friend to hold; I am arms.

Raised in a V, soaking up what's gone;
breathing deep to expand my lungs,
body chills I can wrap, long and around; I am arms.

Holder of hands, to push and pull away,
I'm scared I'll never be enough,
welcoming a try to find a fit; I am arms.

Toe to toe, grasped in hand, eyes closed,
I reach around like a coat to comfort, secure,
before holding you close and letting you go; I am arms.

--
1/5/2012

Copyright © 2012 Jen Fowler
All Rights Reserved
I Am A FootSocks, powerlines, scrubby bushes in my line of view
Metal buildings, metal skies, metal plates in my head
Incandescant tubelights shifting shadowhand animals
Smiling blacklight strobedance in my psychedelic robe
I beam dollfaces onto porcelain, I am a foot

The doll army is crossing the hallow in fancy fabric dress
No ocean can keep them from lifting my bones up
Socket puppets, beware, this is the real thing, this is now
Yesterday dropped off of the edge of the flatroof, gone
Tomorrow is an egg, waiting to be broken, I am a foot

Laundryday breakaway, glean, gleam, moonbeam
Reams of dreams rolled out in the desert with pot pie
Pins
green roseThe green rose glories in the forest  
hidden from all but the subtle eye  
Winding about the trees  
Guarding them with supple thorns  
Its simple five blade flower  
makes a pentacle of magic  
a ferocious quiet protection  
for the beings in the wood

I walk freely there
TiredI am tired, heavy-footed, worn with wear I wear my hair
down long
Cold air blows through windows trying to nip the buds
long gone
I watch the cigarette smoke whip through the air currents
blue-grey
Saddened by the sun's insistence, shining on a day like
this day

I am rust, I am crushed metal, junkyard darkness, graveyard
sunset
I can't remember when I remembered what I'm trying so hard
to forget
Fire in oil drums replace the sun and the screaming and singing's
begun
I can't sing anymore, like Clancy can't, and the noise in my head's a
throb-thrum
Heading HomeBitter-boned, I break and crumble to dust
My pockets full of keys to places that no longer exist
An oystershell ashtray full of butts and ashes beside me
Testify to dreams of green hedges and white picket fences

A tapping on the door, a rapping on the wall
Ghosts always like this hour just before dawn
A bird screeches and I wake again to the stinging day
And shufflestep towards home from a thousand worlds away
Nothingi have no new words
no new ideas, nothing but that same
bleakness, blackness, bare-boned sadness
open-eyed madness
nothing new to say

the brainworms burrow deep, itching
screeching, screaming blind pain
bloodrip, mindmatter, black tie gag
guiltscattered, smoke, blackash and slag

empty fields should be filled with flowers
ghosts can't dance, and must be softly turned
away, into the mist of memory's urn
where trees breathe and shells sigh
down in the hallow
Home is Where the Guns Go OffWe dwell in places no one prefers to live: rundown apartment complexes; dangerous housing projects; poorly zoned business districts with warehouses cutting through residential landscapes, most of which sit vacant from the boom that never happened.

A dozen quarter mile barrios, a single community divided amongst its self; each sector being fiercely guarded by angry, misguided youth. They protect something,worth truly nothing, for reasons hardly above reproach, where the average response time is an hour-twenty and the speed limit is eighty-five.

This is the land of concrete and graffiti; broken knuckles and bloody lips; the place where gun fi
WaitingIf I could watch you patiently,
bide my time, my inexact advantage,
to calculate the precise instant
at which you might glance,
even hurriedly, my way,
I would mark that moment
for all eternity.
EastMy window faces east, I sit at my desk and stare
at the headlights crawling west past the backlit buildings
Sometimes I watch from the roof, looking west
just to get a different view, but it's all the same
Days come and go, nights come and go, but I stay

There's a place by the ocean I dream about, early morning mist
grey water, grey skies becoming blue, solitude, stillness
I keep a key in my pocket with "love" written on it, and wonder
what it might unlock; maybe trade the city dust for ocean spray
Someday, one day, but not today, it's never today

I close the blinds against the rising of the sun and go back to work
But the key in m
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January 1, 2012
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:iconvalkeus:
~Valkeus Feb 5, 2013  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
There are so many images in this poem that I'm not sure where to start, but it gave me many strong impressions of what a hand sees, but more so what people see. Wonderful poem.
Reply
:iconbeeinthebottle:
*beeinthebottle Feb 6, 2013   Writer
I'm so glad you liked it -- thank you. The idea came from Bark's piece "I Am a Foot." I hope you checked his out, too.
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:iconvalkeus:
~Valkeus Feb 11, 2013  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
I did! Cool poems, both of them!
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:iconbeeinthebottle:
*beeinthebottle Feb 11, 2013   Writer
:) Thanks, again.
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:iconvespera:
`vespera May 29, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
I was telling Rachel earlier today, I'm thinking of trying to join in on this, albeit super late... such a cool project
Reply
:iconbeeinthebottle:
*beeinthebottle May 29, 2012   Writer
The project is officially closed, but I'll sneak you in if you note me the piece. :D
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:iconvespera:
`vespera May 31, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
>.> brilliant. It'll probably take me about a week or so because I want to read over all of these and make sure whatever I write is worthy.
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:iconsunshinegypsy:
=sunshinegypsy Feb 6, 2012  Professional Writer
Wow. When I thought of "hand" I did not go here. I really like where you took this one. I love it - it's complicated and busy.
Reply
:iconbeeinthebottle:
*beeinthebottle Feb 6, 2012   Writer
I had to go back to read this after you so kindly commented. I changed three words (I think it was). And I won't tell you which ones. ;) I'm incorrigible.

I'm glad you liked this. I hope you read Bark's original, while you were at it (it's the thumb). Most of the pattern of mine and some of the language I borrowed from his.
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:iconsunshinegypsy:
=sunshinegypsy Feb 8, 2012  Professional Writer
Oh yeah, I read Bark's. I've been trying to follow the whole project but it's kinda here and there.

And now I have to go back and read yours again!
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