Happiest of Birthdays Christi!

Fresh Air

“Air!” She gasped as her flight path sped upwards, “My sweet air.”

A tear marked her cheek as she glanced back at her cage. A tear for illusions she once knew, and for the freedom allowed by her muse and lover.

“I’m yours,” her scream filling the night air, “I am me- free to love.”

© 2011, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

A love letter I wrote in the moment as it were. This exercise in creative writing, like all my poetry, may or may not have been written for someone specific- I love keeping you all guessing.

Did I fake it?

Oh my sweet love….

The breath of late autumn has been fierce today. Coming under skies that
look brooding and contemplating, that breath has been constant with a
touch of ice on the edges.

The leaves of now abashed looking trees are littering lawns all up and
down Dale Avenue. Most of the fodder in the yards belongs somewhere else.

That breath truly has been strong.

But across from the porch, across two yards, and on to the next street,
there is one tree that has stood vigilant against the mighty breath of
fall.

That tree is painted with splotches of verdant green, chunks of old
orange, and a very healthy badge of rustic red fire.

The leaves hold fast against a steady wind that cascades over giving and
bending limbs and branches. They twist and turn, but do not yield to the
angry breath.

Today, as I sit here in awe of that one tree, in a neighborhood marked by
hundreds of naked dancers, I am humbled by our love.

A forever love that was discovered two springs ago. A love that has grown
for six seasons. A love that was sparked at the first grain drop in the
oldest hour glass.

A love that will spark life.

A love planted in strong soil and rooted with the total support of four
hands, two souls, two hearts, and fate. A love that has been nurtured, not
with exacting care, but with the fire of need. The need to know everything
about each other, the need to support and work side by side, the need give
entirely, the need to take without shame.

A love that has withstood mighty winds, and will withstand even mightier
winds to come. A love of complete devotion.

A love whose fruit is the fire of passion.

Today, that tree over on Janet Street standing tall against the elemental
onslaught…today, that tree is our love.

Tomorrow, Lover, the strength of our love will have outgrown that of the
tree.

© 2011, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

“REBELLION”
2200 A.D.

Journal entry 2210 A.D.

…… My days are numbered. I’ve come to realize this. Unless help arrives soon, I fear all is lost……

The year is 2210 and our planet is at war.. A war started by a Past president resurrected by science controlled by evil.
There are a few chosen warriors who stand and fight for the greater good. Longing for peace and to return Mother Earth to her former glory & beauty.

Stamor- Communictons Expert – can get a message to anyone anytime, anywhere.

Shocktra- killer with telekinetic powers & a shocking personality. Don’t break her heart you might get fried.

Hinge- entrance expert- the expert in getting into anything with a lock  & at getting into trouble.

Toro- Lots of muscle & fire power but not much brains overall nice guy with a big heart.

Relay- Driver-Top gear- Best  drive man around. once drove a Harley across the roof of the White House. You need transport he’s the man .

Chop Shop- Weapons & building expert- good with hands can build a weapon  out of any material at a moments notice.

And then there’s me … I’m the bitch that runs the show.. My aim is second to none. you cross me you die. I am simply Skye.

We are the Rebels…. the freedom fighters who want to make Mother Earth better for the children of the future. The goverment will fall. We shall continue the battle until the last one drops.

WE ARE REBELLION

© 2011, Skye Poet. All rights reserved.

Solitary Suffering

Sit alone and sad
Inside an empty shell
No one to talk to
No one to tell

The pain draining life
Wishing for death to stop by
Nothing to do until that day
But sit in confinement to cry

The walls in the head
Are quickly closing in.
Where does being normal end
Where does insanity begin?

Pound on brick and stone
Until fist bruise and bleed
Screaming ,praying begging
For the mind to be freed

No help ever comes
To silence the screams
Lost forever in limbo
Trapped in hellish dreams

Submitted by Dawn. Follow her on twitter @KisDaSkye

© 2011, Skye Poet. All rights reserved.

Broken

My spirit is broken,
Never to be free
Who I am is lost
There is no more me

No one can help me
No one dare tread
Who I was gone
Lost forever dead

Forever trapped in limbo
Wondering for eternity
Death is even too afraid
He leaves me wondering restlessly

My dreams are a memory
No longer existing or there
The road ends in hell
The path leads to nowhere

Tormented by demons
That will never let me be
Clawing at my mind
Stealing my reality.

~Skye Poet~
@KisDaSkye on Twitter.com
Monday, August 15, 2011

© 2011, Skye Poet. All rights reserved.

I have been exploring various forms of poetry as of late- including Mirrored Refrain, Acrostic, and hell, I wrote my fist Haiku last week. I was even tormented and tortured by the Alexandrine(thank you, you know who)—a twelve syllable poem that is two lines of six syllables separated by ||—to the point of almost giving up. But I finally worked one out I liked.

The Japanese Lanturne (or Lantern) poetry form is one that I discovered to be a pleasant challenge. The traditional Lanturne consists of five lines whose syllabic sequence runs like this: 1-2-3-4-1— forming the shape of a Japanese Lantern when formated centered. Now, the strictest structure also mandates that the theme of the poem is nature, as is the case with most forms of Japanese poetry, and begins with a noun followed by a description of that noun.

For example:

Cows
grazing
in verdant
vales, making our
milk

Or some such shit.

Anyhoo…the number one unspoken rule about poetry is- write what you feel in any form that makes sense. As long as the emotion is conveyed, traditional structure takes the backseat.

So, taking that and running with it, I destroyed the Lanturne and created a variation of my own. I start with one noun, or abstract thought, and dialog about it throughout the poem until I end with the same one syllable noun or thought I started with— or something closely related to it.

I do try to maintain a structure that includes- a syllabic pattern that runs like 1-2-3-4-1-2-3-4-1-2-3-4-1 (the sequence can run as long as needed); the one syllable words in the middle are transitions (they end the previous sequence and begin the next).

My best effort to date, using this variation, was written just this afternoon:

Baby
your Love
engulfs me
my love never
ends
of the
world will not
keep us apart
long
oh how
I long to fill
you
are the most
precious soul to
me
all I
am is yours
and yours alone
Baby

Want to give it a shot? How about a traditional Lanturne? Leave your poetry in the comments, and if I get enough, I’ll write a post featuring them.

Enjoy!

© 2011, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

Sam Spade, Phillip Marlow, Alexander Black, trench coats, fedoras, violence, and dames. Crime Noir is a literary genre made popular by the likes of Dashiell Hammet and Raymond Chandler, and has survived since the genre’s pioneer Carroll John Daly’s story, Knights of the Open Palm was published in the June, 1923 issue of Black Mask magazine.

Daly’s main character in that story, Race Williams, became the model for many of the protagonists in fiction crime noir that have left bloody footprints and gasping bims since his first appearance. Williams’ sharp tongued, hardboiled, cold blooded, and shoot-first-don’t-give-a-damn-about-names attributes can be clearly seen in Chandler’s Phillip Marlow, Hammet’s Sam Spade, and Mickey Spillane’s Mike Hammer.

But not all crime noir involves private eyes of eras gone by. Stieg Larsson’s wildly popular The Millennium Series, starring Lizabeth Salander as the main character, is considered crime noir, and Lizabeth is just a girl in a heap of trouble. Additionally, James Lee Burke and Richard Stark (a.k.a. Donald Westlake) are huge names in crime noir, and their main characters range from the on again/off again cop, David Robicheaux to the non-hero, professional thief, Parker.

What Is Crime Noir?

Buy Alexander Black for .99

To sum up almost all definitions of crime noir- the story must be dark, and treat violence and sex with the kid gloves off. In other words: fiction that makes us flinch.

In most cases, the protagonist is not a character instilled with socially accepted moral standards. Sam Spade and Phillip Marlow are known as anti-heroes- characters not above using unscrupulous methods to get the job done (entrapment, strong-arm tactics, and womanizing, Oh My!). And then there is Richard Stark’s most well known protagonist, Parker, a cold blooded thief who punches, bullies, and often shoots his way out of a soured caper so he doesn’t get pinched.

Also common in fiction crime noir are story lines where the central characters are somehow connected to a violent crime—-murder and armed robbery being the two biggies— and are forced to make a decision— should they seek help from the authorities, or should they attempt to untangle themselves using their own wits? Almost always, the decision falls on the latter side of the coin, providing opportunity after opportunity for the protagonist to dig themselves into a deeper hole.

Think Dr. Richard Kimble of The Fugitive.

Can Crime Noir Be Literary Genius?

Why not? James Lee Burke is often hailed as one of the genre’s masters with praise attached for his literary prowess. And it’s true- Burke’s tales are written beautifully with complex characters and stunning metaphors. His talent for laying down descriptions, putting the reader in the middle of wherever Burke dictates, is nearly unrivaled. This passage from The Glass Rainbow is a prime example of his talent as Dave Robicheaux describes a room he rented in Natchez, Mississippi:

…the ventilated storm shutters were slatted with a pink glow, as soft and filtered and cool in color as the spring sunrise can be in the Garden District, the courtyard outside touched with mist off the river, the pastel walls deep in shadow and stained with lichen above the flower beds, the walkways smelling of damp stone and the wild spearmint that grew in green clusters between the bricks. I could see the shadows of banana trees moving on the window screens, the humidity condensing and threading along the fronds, like living tissue. I could hear a ship’s horn blowing somewhere out on the river, a long hooting sound that was absorbed and muted inside the mist, thwarting its own purpose….The wood floor and the garish wallpaper and the rain spots on the ceiling belonged to another era, one that was outside of time and unheedful to the demands of commerce…

Even if Burke does deserve the praise he gets for his awesome ink, it is almost unfair because there have been authors in the genre equally talented. Where Burke is a master of painting almost surreal scenes taken from the reality of the Mississippi Delta, Richard Stark was a master at putting the reader in the taut mind of professional thief.

Parker—just Parker, no first name, no last name—was as hard as cold blue steel. But he didn’t operate without rhyme or reason; Stark let us in on his protagonist’s psyche and showed us how Parker logically evolved through the series of twenty-four novels. One Parker faithful made this observation:

And Stark…yes…moving words- active, eliciting emotion…and subtleties find their way between the lines. Like the poor beauty shop owner, how she died accidentally, how that guilt seeps in long enough to resonate within Parker’s psyche, and then..somehow…he let’s himself off the
hook..thereby letting you off the hook..

What is the common denominator that makes all memorable crime noir work? The same magic trick that all great authors have up their sleeves, no matter the genre— tension. The tool of champions is what has readers reaching for the a book when they should be doing something else, or turning one more page than they promised themselves they would.

In 1980, among the top fifteen U.S. fiction titles sold, seven belonged to Mickey Spillane— in spite of the fact his books were constantly crucified by literary critics who found the high content of violence and sex in his work to be distasteful. Mickey’s reaction:

Those big-shot writers could never dig the fact that there are more salted peanuts consumed than caviar… If the public likes you, you’re good.

From the era of fedoras, trench coats, classy women who knew how to play, and acerbic gumshoes to modern themes involving abused girls and doctors trying to prove their innocence while running from the law, crime noir has proven over and over that it is a genre that can’t be plugged and sent to the big sleep.

Alexander Black operates below the surface of every day life. Some would call him a Cleaner, others a Fixer, but few would call him by his real name more than twice. Pledging allegiance to no one, he works on both sides of the law, performing the type of wet work that calls for molten steel in his veins, and a noble approach to justice before legal.

Additional information on Alexander Black can be found in the article Fiction Crime Star Alexander Black, at Squidoo.

© 2011, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

I turned the burner up a little with this sonnet—okay, a lot. But I also toyed with another concept here and will leave it to you, my faithful fans, to discover it. If you do–drop it in the comments….

You Folks Rock!!!