Brokeback Mountain: Our Community's Common Bond > Brokeback Mountain Fan Fiction & Poetry

Self-made poems of brokeback (non-haiku)

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moremojo:
Why all the tears?
Don't you know, friend,
That death is just a change in perspective--
A slight shift in the well-worn path
That you and I shared so often, so freely?

If only you knew,
If only I could reach you
To tell you how near
I really am
As close, if not closer
Than your own beating heart

Then your tears would dry up
On the wind
Blowing westerly
Towards the green mountain
Towards our once and future home.

twistedude:
brothers and sisters:

In 1955, a guy in my college class did a dance on a stage, 375 feet away from me. It inspired me to write the following poem, which I published in the college literary magazaine.  I probably should have realized that if he had that effect on me at 375 feet, I should probably check him out pretty carefully before I observed him...up close. I didn't.

(untitled)--1955

Masaculinity is rather innate
For the lightness of your step
and the grace of your hands
relavent, undeceiving,
leave one to ponder (not quite mentally)
the motive of your motion.

In 1957, when we were seniors, he took me up on my "invitation.'  It waren't no fun. It was HELL. I forgot how to read. I had to go to summerschool for 3 months to make up all the classes I flunked. I had no sex life for 3 years.
However, his sister  came to the college, that year, as a freshman. This is a poem I wrote for her ( I never showed it to her, never published it anywhere):

Weezie Poem--1957

Somewhat earlier than 18 years ago,
before your ancestors carved bison on bone in the caves at Marsulas,
they left their lower jaws and teeth for archeologists to scratch their heads over,
comparing these to bones of those who swang through trees,
whose fathers slunk along the ground, after crawling out of the sea

When nothing moved on the earth, under the sky
and you were only a Gleam in your Father's Eye.


So this afternoon, having seen "Trust the Man!" with a friend, and realizing to my surprise that Maggie Gyllenhaal didn't turn me on at ALL--though I think she's very pretty, and a fine actreess, and enjoyed the movie--Julianne Moore and David Duchovny were great, too)-I wrote a poem about--all that waste, so many years ago:

Yellow Bird of Early Spring---this afternoon

Weezie was as fair
as her brother was dark. blue
eyed, while his were brown,

blond,  while his hair was
black, short-lashed, while his were long,
curling. He wore glasses,

while she was sharp-eyed.
She was sweet and loving, while
he was a bastard.

Trifling differences
like these aside, they were, of
course, identical.

But he was a boy,
she, a girl. I hadn't the
foggiest notion

what to do about that.

moremojo:
Soft, honeyed words fell strangely on his ears
Gentle touch, tender glances, stranger still
Brute penury of heart fired his fears
This blighted birthright his love sought to kill
Can the withered limb, dry, find new green dress?
Does the hoary meadow welcome new life?
A wooden paddle, meager shirts to press
Beats time to fresh change, though not without strife
The heart has its secrets, truth its reward
The sweet slick of spit helps drive its point home
Trails just beginning, dark rivers to ford
Seeking shelter under heaven's far dome
Love has enmeshed them, Fate loses the key
Servile to bliss, they would loathe to be free.

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