i found you used
in the back of a book store
silvering with age
dog eared
smelling of mold
100 sides of you
for five dollars
i brought you home
fingered your pages
as a new lover might
slowly
with intent
then faster and more furious
i found myself
nourished
pregnant
inspired
post-coital tristesse
not with the work or words
or the scope of my inability
rather
that I could buy you
cracked spine
torn
in a used book store
for five dollars
Michael Lorne Leard
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Saturday, April 25, 2009
My submission to the Toronto Quarterly
Michael Lorne Leard - Michael has been writing for 15 years, and believes the idea is as important as it's execution. He has been published in Quills Poetry, Carousel Magazine and Monkey Bicycle among others. Currently, he continues work on a collection based on the concept of loss, and its effects on the young.
unacceptable
i've been told
it's unacceptable
to dwell
on echoed words
stained with blood
from flesh torn to pieces
by words ripped from poems
read aloud into a mouth
dark with want
no longer am i to
linger in burning vineyards
singed as the wings of icarus
or extinguish flesh flames
in water
used to cool your
fevered forehead
the night we roamed
a fairy tale
never written
i've been told
these things
are unacceptable
instead
i turn to craft
gloria
curls of fire
bold black eyes
sun singed skin
beautiful
60 stories tall
with answers
i write her into my arms
to my bed
face frozen with longing
legs lusting for stability
hands rake flesh
strawberry lips quiver
two bodies one
cupped as hands
then
silence
the loneliness
of stranger sex
and awkward rest
sleep
i wake
and erase the whole affair
somehow now
unacceptable to me
Michael Lorne Leard
kingfisher
the room is quiet now
only the scent of lust
ghosts loitering air and i
perched at a table by the window
are proof of life
the locals are coming for me
torches ablaze
sicles in hand
i have their princess soiled in my bed
the scents of outrage and boiling blood
rise from beyond woody hills
asleep on the bed
she’s motionless
legs apart
open to me
she is beauty
bruised brown skin and
bite marks on the small of her back
make her love me
broken flesh
makes her need me
i’m a virus in her indian heart
our lines mixed
the damage done
still
they are coming
she was mine for a time
in a moment of raging release
wide-eyed, tight gripped and panting
foreign
a queen wrapped round the
milky body of an aging poet
a beggar
while she rests
peacefully
nakedly
they are coming
like smoke on moonlight
i disappear
gone when she wakes
she’ll be thankful
not for having me
that i was gone when they came
the flames crest the hill now
they arrive to find me gone
hands high in the air
they cry
injustice
black and blue
my wings spread wide
soaring
above the tree-line
i’m the kingfisher
slicing through fog and rain
i leave her behind
making my way south
trying guiltily to escape suicide
on the hills of jatinga
Michael Lorne Leard
the lovers
The lovers formatting:
the lovers
escape
to grass
together
merging
steps
step
hands
hand
mouths
mouth
faces
face
mInds
mind
trees
reach
embrace
with branch
buds blossom
new petals
sticky kisses
feet
foot
root
they fall
ground
melting
body
soil
seed
the lover
we can only
observe
Michael Lorne Leard
In the hours since last we spoke
across an ocean
a portrait was unpainted
oil thick brush
spun over
rosy cheek
plushy pink
pupil
strokes birth blank canvass
ghostly white
my hair has grown
voice went raw
i’ve aged
a little
you wouldn't notice
like you i’m still alive
in the Midwest,
a dance was undanced
tender tendons snapped
under pressure
toes unwilling to bend
broke
Music came
briefly
and the dancer lay
outstretched on the floor
rhythm gone for good
it’s silent here
the darkness screams
electric
window-light climbs rippled ribs
to embrace my failures
a poem was written
Words spit to paper
ruin it
to bruise it
the author lost the thought
abandoned the exercise
the work became snow
called it art
the morning came
uninvited
as it always does
the calendar rolled
like a titan
dragging down the dream
as it must
In the east
a friend was lost to
another
drowning
water hugging a body
like a wet suit
Forcing out warmth
tides unkind
as loss
I've slept
More than I expected
Drifted more than I hoped
even worked
Eaten
Cleaned
a moncton a man
was arrested for child
pornography
the lady upstairs lost her
cat to cancer
a heart attack in the food court
then there was nothing
in the hours since last we spoke
the world united
indifferently
Michael Lorne Leard
Confession
i ran my hands across
your sweaty naked
breasts
stopping only
briefly
at your nipples
swollen
sticky
freezer burnt
gumdrop's
dismissed
shoulder
smoke
you've finished with me
and begun working a
marlboro.
i keep the souls
of twelve
catholic priests
trapped
in a shoe box
under the bed
for moments like this
when i lay naked with a
woman who hates me for
loving her
and i have enjoyed it
i must confess.
i must confess.
Michael Lorne Leard
unacceptable
i've been told
it's unacceptable
to dwell
on echoed words
stained with blood
from flesh torn to pieces
by words ripped from poems
read aloud into a mouth
dark with want
no longer am i to
linger in burning vineyards
singed as the wings of icarus
or extinguish flesh flames
in water
used to cool your
fevered forehead
the night we roamed
a fairy tale
never written
i've been told
these things
are unacceptable
instead
i turn to craft
gloria
curls of fire
bold black eyes
sun singed skin
beautiful
60 stories tall
with answers
i write her into my arms
to my bed
face frozen with longing
legs lusting for stability
hands rake flesh
strawberry lips quiver
two bodies one
cupped as hands
then
silence
the loneliness
of stranger sex
and awkward rest
sleep
i wake
and erase the whole affair
somehow now
unacceptable to me
Michael Lorne Leard
kingfisher
the room is quiet now
only the scent of lust
ghosts loitering air and i
perched at a table by the window
are proof of life
the locals are coming for me
torches ablaze
sicles in hand
i have their princess soiled in my bed
the scents of outrage and boiling blood
rise from beyond woody hills
asleep on the bed
she’s motionless
legs apart
open to me
she is beauty
bruised brown skin and
bite marks on the small of her back
make her love me
broken flesh
makes her need me
i’m a virus in her indian heart
our lines mixed
the damage done
still
they are coming
she was mine for a time
in a moment of raging release
wide-eyed, tight gripped and panting
foreign
a queen wrapped round the
milky body of an aging poet
a beggar
while she rests
peacefully
nakedly
they are coming
like smoke on moonlight
i disappear
gone when she wakes
she’ll be thankful
not for having me
that i was gone when they came
the flames crest the hill now
they arrive to find me gone
hands high in the air
they cry
injustice
black and blue
my wings spread wide
soaring
above the tree-line
i’m the kingfisher
slicing through fog and rain
i leave her behind
making my way south
trying guiltily to escape suicide
on the hills of jatinga
Michael Lorne Leard
the lovers
The lovers formatting:
the lovers
escape
to grass
together
merging
steps
step
hands
hand
mouths
mouth
faces
face
mInds
mind
trees
reach
embrace
with branch
buds blossom
new petals
sticky kisses
feet
foot
root
they fall
ground
melting
body
soil
seed
the lover
we can only
observe
Michael Lorne Leard
In the hours since last we spoke
across an ocean
a portrait was unpainted
oil thick brush
spun over
rosy cheek
plushy pink
pupil
strokes birth blank canvass
ghostly white
my hair has grown
voice went raw
i’ve aged
a little
you wouldn't notice
like you i’m still alive
in the Midwest,
a dance was undanced
tender tendons snapped
under pressure
toes unwilling to bend
broke
Music came
briefly
and the dancer lay
outstretched on the floor
rhythm gone for good
it’s silent here
the darkness screams
electric
window-light climbs rippled ribs
to embrace my failures
a poem was written
Words spit to paper
ruin it
to bruise it
the author lost the thought
abandoned the exercise
the work became snow
called it art
the morning came
uninvited
as it always does
the calendar rolled
like a titan
dragging down the dream
as it must
In the east
a friend was lost to
another
drowning
water hugging a body
like a wet suit
Forcing out warmth
tides unkind
as loss
I've slept
More than I expected
Drifted more than I hoped
even worked
Eaten
Cleaned
a moncton a man
was arrested for child
pornography
the lady upstairs lost her
cat to cancer
a heart attack in the food court
then there was nothing
in the hours since last we spoke
the world united
indifferently
Michael Lorne Leard
Confession
i ran my hands across
your sweaty naked
breasts
stopping only
briefly
at your nipples
swollen
sticky
freezer burnt
gumdrop's
dismissed
shoulder
smoke
you've finished with me
and begun working a
marlboro.
i keep the souls
of twelve
catholic priests
trapped
in a shoe box
under the bed
for moments like this
when i lay naked with a
woman who hates me for
loving her
and i have enjoyed it
i must confess.
i must confess.
Michael Lorne Leard
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Cyndi (written somewehere around 2002)
cyndi
i fear your beauty
like warfare
it’s confusing
and makes me drunk
Michael Lorne Leard (Edited April 09)
i fear your beauty
like warfare
it’s confusing
and makes me drunk
Michael Lorne Leard (Edited April 09)
Friday, April 17, 2009
unacceptable
i've been told
it's unacceptable
to dwell
on echoed words
stained with blood
from flesh torn to pieces
by words ripped from poems
read aloud into a mouth
dark with want
no longer am i to
linger in burning vineyards
singed as the wings of icarus
or extinguish flesh flames
in water
used to cool your
fevered forehead
the night we roamed
a fairy tale
never written
i've been told
these things
are unacceptable
instead
i turn to craft
gloria
curls of fire
bold black eyes
sun singed skin
beautiful
60 stories tall
with answers
i write her into my arms
to my bed
face frozen with longing
legs lusting for stability
hands rake flesh
strawberry lips quiver
two bodies one
cupped as hands
then
silence
the loneliness
of stranger sex
and awkward rest
sleep
i wake
and erase the whole sorted affair
somehow now
unacceptable to me
Michael Lorne Leard
Notes:
It occurs to me that some might find this poem a bit difficult to wrap themselves around. It is actually, and here's why.
Without getting into what the content actually means, I'll tell you about how the poem works.
The first two parts are intentionally run on sentences, normally my lines are, for the most part enjambed, but in this case, I'm being told I can no longer linger in lost love; mourn these moments that only mean something to me. It's unhealthy, we'll so I'm told. So I make an effort to have you read each of the first two parts in their entirety to get their syntax.
So in an effort to refocus my mind, I create gloria.
Something to write about other than my musings on lost love.
Each of these lines, for the most part are enjambed.
They satnd alone.
They are quick and involve very little work to understand. So they mean less. To the reader and to me, the writer, at least in comparison with the level of involvement required of the first two.
I'm very involved and invested in the first two stanzas, I spend time crafting long and involved lines that stretch the syntax across their respective stanzas. You have to be involved with them, spend time with them, work at them before you get the idea. Like I did with the subject that inspired the poem.
In an effort to not mope and linger, I create something fictional to write about,
which means nothing, therefore requires little involvement, it reads fast, it's a hollow.
As it is likely to be, as it has no emotional meaning for me.
The last part is me realizing this, and waking to the fact, that for better or worse, I have to write what means somehthing to me, or it will mean nothing to no one.
So erase the the gloria part.
Really it's like two poems, better yet, a scene in a play. The reader is in the room with me, I'm talking out loud to myself, responding by writing a poem, then realizing it's shallow and deleting it.
This poem, for me, is less about artistically crafted words, than it is the mechanics of how the poem actually reads, how it works, to convey the idea. For the most part, it's use of syntax, run on, and enjambment ARE the idea.
A sort of medium is the message deelio.
M
it's unacceptable
to dwell
on echoed words
stained with blood
from flesh torn to pieces
by words ripped from poems
read aloud into a mouth
dark with want
no longer am i to
linger in burning vineyards
singed as the wings of icarus
or extinguish flesh flames
in water
used to cool your
fevered forehead
the night we roamed
a fairy tale
never written
i've been told
these things
are unacceptable
instead
i turn to craft
gloria
curls of fire
bold black eyes
sun singed skin
beautiful
60 stories tall
with answers
i write her into my arms
to my bed
face frozen with longing
legs lusting for stability
hands rake flesh
strawberry lips quiver
two bodies one
cupped as hands
then
silence
the loneliness
of stranger sex
and awkward rest
sleep
i wake
and erase the whole sorted affair
somehow now
unacceptable to me
Michael Lorne Leard
Notes:
It occurs to me that some might find this poem a bit difficult to wrap themselves around. It is actually, and here's why.
Without getting into what the content actually means, I'll tell you about how the poem works.
The first two parts are intentionally run on sentences, normally my lines are, for the most part enjambed, but in this case, I'm being told I can no longer linger in lost love; mourn these moments that only mean something to me. It's unhealthy, we'll so I'm told. So I make an effort to have you read each of the first two parts in their entirety to get their syntax.
So in an effort to refocus my mind, I create gloria.
Something to write about other than my musings on lost love.
Each of these lines, for the most part are enjambed.
They satnd alone.
They are quick and involve very little work to understand. So they mean less. To the reader and to me, the writer, at least in comparison with the level of involvement required of the first two.
I'm very involved and invested in the first two stanzas, I spend time crafting long and involved lines that stretch the syntax across their respective stanzas. You have to be involved with them, spend time with them, work at them before you get the idea. Like I did with the subject that inspired the poem.
In an effort to not mope and linger, I create something fictional to write about,
which means nothing, therefore requires little involvement, it reads fast, it's a hollow.
As it is likely to be, as it has no emotional meaning for me.
The last part is me realizing this, and waking to the fact, that for better or worse, I have to write what means somehthing to me, or it will mean nothing to no one.
So erase the the gloria part.
Really it's like two poems, better yet, a scene in a play. The reader is in the room with me, I'm talking out loud to myself, responding by writing a poem, then realizing it's shallow and deleting it.
This poem, for me, is less about artistically crafted words, than it is the mechanics of how the poem actually reads, how it works, to convey the idea. For the most part, it's use of syntax, run on, and enjambment ARE the idea.
A sort of medium is the message deelio.
M
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Prison
the candle has
died
bled to floor
cool smooth bubbles
on wood
come to the light
shake your shroud of shadows
stand straight
inhale
vent darkness to air
as cloud
wave it away with
weak trembling hands
pale with mourning
release
the warden has gone -
pacing feet fled
for distant hills
today
a world wakes
to find you
missing
it's impossible
come to the light
shake stars from sky
put them back in your eyes
force wind in your mouth
speak words of love
to a world waiting
little grows large
in shadow
light
breads life
come
Awake
I step towards the light
Michael Lorne Leard
died
bled to floor
cool smooth bubbles
on wood
come to the light
shake your shroud of shadows
stand straight
inhale
vent darkness to air
as cloud
wave it away with
weak trembling hands
pale with mourning
release
the warden has gone -
pacing feet fled
for distant hills
today
a world wakes
to find you
missing
it's impossible
come to the light
shake stars from sky
put them back in your eyes
force wind in your mouth
speak words of love
to a world waiting
little grows large
in shadow
light
breads life
come
Awake
I step towards the light
Michael Lorne Leard
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
A work in progress
i found a lady lover
she found a target in me
heart pregnant with orders
her lips, moist with deceit
to some she’s still a child
to me, she’s simply …
Michael Lorne Leard
she found a target in me
heart pregnant with orders
her lips, moist with deceit
to some she’s still a child
to me, she’s simply …
Michael Lorne Leard
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