A series...

[Tom Yossarian Joad]

EUFALA 1

Red woolen cap
with ragged pulls and tears smells of rain,
smeared with shit.

Matted hair, kinky, defying any comb,
smelling of mildew.
And occasionally drops,
in clandestine clumps.
And is never really missed

Her face is war torn wrinkles, mapping roads
from painful yesterdays to a numb today,
taking a reader deeper
than one would ever want to go.
Her eye-whites are yellow, with
a crusted yellow mucous that
cakes where sunshine strikes.
The amber crystals meet with
white crusted snot on an upper lip
over a permanent grin
of missing teeth and pyorrhea.
A broken nose
from a first husband, not centered.
smells the stench though.

Her shoulders curled
for fear and wear,
covered by salvation
army sweaters and
coat that once covered
the shoulders of women that wore Este Lauder.
now smelling
like the privates festering beneath skirt
and pants.
Not washed for months.
Legs shake and warp
the diet takes its toll.
And is turning her bones
into memories.

She sits in the park
in front of the swings
watching the children play,
and imagines a time
when her father would push (push)
her, oh, so high.
His strong hands (hands)
Would catch her (catch her)
slim waist, and push again
(not again).

And in her mind,
the swing would fly back again, to earth,
and start a return to sky, catching her father's
head with the rusty edge,
driving deep into his brain, smashing hard,
letting out the countless years of pain.
They spiral out, then cascade,
pouring out like springtime rain,
(faeries dancinq in delight,
Catchinq bits of brain in buttercups,
offerinq all to those who thirst)
touching everything,
but covering nothing.



EUFALA 2

You get used to pain.
And happiness belongs to the beholder.

syphilis takes a nibble.
a brain cell here and there.
Destroying hope and wonderment
withdrawing things that care.

Synaptic functions,
once quick, once true,
now kindly ignore
any darkened view.

Inurement to Reality gives joy.



Eufala 3

Corn, corn, cornucopious
dumpsters on the street
wafting scents of potato and roast
wet dreams of fresh cooked meat.

[oneighty]

1. Challenging poetry

Tom Y.Joad

180

[frogmarch]

2. I've never read anything

as evocative as this. I found myself cringing at the sight and smell of this woman. Yet at the same time, I felt great compassion for her - and anger at what her father had done.

Profound, TYJ.

[Wetzelbill]

3. wonderful description

vivid imagery.

A few things to consider:
Sometimes, when the word "of" is used, the line could be said another way. I think it works fine in this, but just be wary if you notice two or three "of" in one poem you may be getting a little too repetitive.

Also, this line: "Her face is war torn wrinkles, mapping roads." It doesn't work well, because "face" is singular, and "wrinkles" are plural. So using "is" in this position is not only nondescriptive it's not properly used for what you are getting at here. Try something like "Her face consists of war torn wrinkles" or "her face holds war torn wrinkles." Something like that, I don't want to mess with your style or thoughts too much, you're on the right track, however that line needs a little reworking.

All in all, pretty brilliant stuff.

[Tom Yossarian Joad]

4. Good points, thanks. This one's been through many rewrites

and I guess it deserves another. Here's what happened to it earlier today:

EUFALA 1

Red woolen cap
ragged pulls and holes.
Smells of rain,
smeared with shit.

Matted hair, kinky, defying any comb,
smells of mildew.
occasionally dropping,
in clandestine clumps.
And is never missed

A face of war torn wrinkles, mapping roads
from painful yesterdays to a numb today,
taking a reader deeper
than one would ever want to go.
Eye-whites, yellow,
crusting yellow mucous
cakes where sunshine strikes.

Amber crystals meet with
white crusted snot on upper lip
over permanent grin
of missing teeth and pyorrhea.
A broken nose
from a first husband, not centered.
smells the stench though.

Shoulders curled
for fear and wear,
covered by salvation
army sweaters and
coat that once covered
the shoulders of women wearing Este Lauder.
Now smelling
like the privates festering beneath skirt
and pants.
Not washed for months.

Legs shake and warp
diet takes its toll.
Turning her bones
into memories.

Sitting in the park
in front of the swings
watching the children play,
She imagines that time
when her father would push (push)
her, oh, so high.
His strong hands (hands)
Would catch her (catch her)
slim waist, and push again
(not again).

In her mind,
the swing flies back again, to earth,
then returns to sky,
catching her father's
head with the rusty edge,
driving deep into his brain, smashing hard,
letting out the countless years of pain.
They spiral out, they cascade,
pouring out like springtime rain,

(faeries dancinq in delight,
Catchinq bits of brain in buttercups,
offerinq all to those who thirst)

touching everything,
but covering nothing.



EUFALA 2

You get used to pain.
Happiness belongs to the beholder.

Syphilis takes a nibble.
A brain cell here and there.
Destroying hope and wonderment
withdrawing things that care.

Synaptic functions,
once quick, once true,
now kindly ignore
a darkened view.

Inurement to Reality gives joy.



Eufala 3

Corn, corn, cornucopious
dumpsters on the street
wafting scents of potato and roast
wet dreams of fresh cooked meat.

[Wetzelbill]

5. oh yeah nice

that's some good stuff.

One problem with writing is you can keep rewriting, editing and on and on and on. It's like "Rinse. Lather. Repeat." And, you're never satisfied. At some point a writer has to let it go, you know? Otherwise nothing would ever be finished. You can find flaws in about everything, sooner or later art just has to be art, so let it rip, lol.

"Inurement." I love words, lol.

[Tom Yossarian Joad]

6. Thanks, and dammit if I didn't tweak it again.

LOL

[Wetzelbill]

7. Back away from the poem

for your own good. haha