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Sticks and Stones Farm, Pot Luck Thursday Nights (Free verse) by <~>
Iced, the gravel path through the cedars doesn't crunch as I drive it tonight. Through the overhead glass doors, the big stone barn shines warmth out into the starlight. The dozer and backhoe loom hazy orange through the sheet of insulating clear plastic hung inside the rolled-down door. They crouch there in the makeshift hall, casting prehistoric shadows and looming like a playground for kids who won't listen. I'm the last to arrive: the table's set and the food is almost ready and there are four meats and no salad but nobody minds. I've brought winter ale, not wine. Someone throws another log in the stove to keep us warm through supper. We dance after dinner, separating circles that overlap and reform, distortions in the same flow, dance ourselves a river each week. Never twice the same, these steps we trace. Most of us dance and slide and swing and kick our socks off, crazy laughing until the rafters quake. Elliot will dance with me, but he won't be my boyfriend tonight-- not while his mother is holding him, even though he's seen what I can do with that aqua blue hula hoop. We shake some more, because it's sitting just right; we're all caught up, and nobody can shimmy like a four-year-old who's had an extra slice of chocolate pie. When the beer is gone, there's another pot of coffee for the road: not everyone lives so close, and the drive away is longest for me, so I help myself. I should just stay. The coffee makes me edgy, and I have spent all night building this calm inside. There's always more than enough beds at the farm, but home belongs to each on his own, tonight. The stones stand tall at the end of the drive, unmoving sentinels, lace-capped and lichened, unchanged as this quick flesh passes, resolute. The subtle colors of the frost hover in the dark, unrevealed to me in this diamond night. And then, I see: Moss is winter's soft jewel, a burgeoning cushion in this cold.

Up the ladder: Mid-July
Down the ladder: dancing to be flowers

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Arithmetic Mean: 8.6
Weighted score: 6.8
Overall Rank: 396
Posted: January 3, 2003 3:42 PM PST; Last modified: January 6, 2003 2:12 PM PST
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god'swife

Comments:
[8] INTRANSIT @ 64.12.96.46 | 3-Jan-03/3:49 PM | Reply
please keep the kid with the chocolate pie.
[n/a] <~> @ 67.84.171.238 > INTRANSIT | 4-Jan-03/2:28 PM | Reply
yup
[8] INTRANSIT @ 64.12.96.46 | 6-Jan-03/6:44 AM | Reply
let me slurk some coffee and we'll get down to business. Definitely smoother.
[9] Caducus @ 62.105.88.10 | 6-Jan-03/6:47 AM | Reply
I like your style of writing, its so distinctive to you. 9
[8] INTRANSIT @ 205.188.208.106 | 6-Jan-03/8:38 AM | Reply
I see you've already tweaked the first stanza. still looming twice.
I'm holding the vote.
[8] RGallet @ 140.186.49.106 | 6-Jan-03/2:30 PM | Reply
Pare it down and tighten it up. Good work!
[8] INTRANSIT @ 152.163.188.72 | 6-Jan-03/3:41 PM | Reply
Um, did I piss you off?
This is better,though.
[8] RGallet @ 140.186.49.93 | 6-Jan-03/4:58 PM | Reply
your garden imagery inspired my latest
[10] Bachus @ 24.126.113.154 | 6-Jan-03/5:43 PM | Reply
nitty gritty.
[8] Ranger @ 212.219.142.161 | 7-Jan-03/2:06 AM | Reply
This is nice. However, I still can't see the difference between free verse and prose with extra spaces. Will somebody please enlighten me?!?
[8] RGallet @ 140.186.47.137 > Ranger | 7-Jan-03/2:25 PM | Reply
Girls are allowed to write prose with extra spaces because they're not very good at anything else.
[7] nentwined @ 66.92.183.34 | 19-Jan-03/4:10 AM | Reply
a moment, but doesn't "poem" for me.
[10] god'swife @ 209.179.212.140 | 24-Jan-03/8:45 AM | Reply
Really lovely, a very fine picture can you switch the last two lines around somehow? the second line sounds more like the last note of a sweet sad song.
[n/a] <~> @ 167.206.181.179 > god'swife | 24-Jan-03/8:56 AM | Reply
this is way too fat right now. it's just taking upspace until i can look at it again. (which i can't right now). wanna rip it apart for me? because i think it needs it. i'd appreciate the help. thanks.
[10] god'swife @ 209.179.210.183 > <~> | 25-Jan-03/10:52 PM | Reply
I don't know baby, I love it as is but I can see what you mean, she's fat, but she's sexy anyway. Some line break changes maybe, I can't do a thing right now, I'm overwhelmed with the fucking blossoms, I'm hanging my head out the window, literally, it's so fucking beautiful tonight I wish I could share it. It was 80 degrees today and the plants are going crazy. No moon, no breeze, just balmy and so much perfume.
[10] god'swife @ 209.179.211.77 | 28-Jan-03/8:17 PM | Reply
First of all the title; Potluck, Thursday Nights

That is a wonderful title, leaving things open and full of surprise.

Last line first:

out into the starlight
The big stone barn shines warmth
Tthrough the overhead glass doors.

Never twice the same these steps we take.
The gravel path through the cedars
is ice tonight.

I am the last to arrive.
The dozer and the back-hoe loom
Hazy orange
Sleeping behind a sheet of insulating plastic
They crouch there, in the makeshift hall
Behind the roll down door
Prehistoric shadows
Like a playground for kids
who don't listen.

The table is set, and the food is almost ready.
There are four meats, and no salad
but nobody minds.
Another log is thrown on the fire to keep us warm
And I have brought winter ale.

We dance after dinner, separating circles
that overlap and reform, distortions
in the same flow, dance ourselves a river each week.
Never twice the same, these steps we trace.

Dance, slide, swing and kick
Socks off, crazy laughing. We make
The rafters quake.


.....That's it for now. You exhuast me. I really love this by the way. My clever girl, you are like a phone call to the twilight zone.
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