"acreage" poems
Aqua white, in a glacial vanity cabinet
of pan cake foundation, pure like progeny,
The wind sings the squirrels to sleep
in this acreage of dreams. The lunar reflection
Off the snow shows one how they will die, peaceful
thought broken by a sudden clamor of crunching
One can sense under imagined steps
like the sun on your shoulder one perfect day,
It feels like memories past. An undulation of swift muscle
appears from the void into the moon glow cream,
Moving through the scape like the ocean foaming,
without direction, yet perfectly on path.
Peace not broken, rather fastened by the past,
the present, an no necessary future,
Here in the snow, where squirrels can be caught thinking
and the deer gambol with the timeless winds.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 7:28 PM UTC
The man I fell in love with is tall and dark.
I want to center jewelry on his neck and fingers,
lace it between edges, pits. He is tall so
my lover has more acreage than I ever will –
I can hide my secrets in his head. I
can wrap my veins around his wrists, I can love
the scars in place of where a child once bit.
I will even show him where I am most
pink to make sure he knows what brightness is.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 5:19 PM UTC
at dusk above,
clouds scud like loose teeth in upper gums
purple-pink in twilight. a deep night, seemingly ' on pause '
as all dust tumbles from bare skin
into the naked cause... our minds defunct. our minds undone.
our soul's law
at the very heart
like all
gods
where the birch and elm keep
lean rabbits, and stab at thee with long shadows with ashy knees
and bramble rabble; a riotous acreage of predation and escapeful providence
far beyond fences and subdivisions
where men add
by dividing
and knit with schisms...
where the earth has fangs in the ocean
and long nights.
your
answer is sovereign
and hunts
foxes
with your
eyes
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 11:35 AM UTC
Our road trip memories align
as we pass a Farmall tractor,
fire engine red and rooted
roadside in a field of alfalfa,
a relic washed by cloudburst,
a workhorse dried in sunshine,
arrested air stack,
rusted crank case,
supple spider webs
in chaste wheel wells—
immutable old machine
somehow extinguishing
in the reflected acreage
of the rear view mirror.
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 5:04 PM UTC
We gathered our water
and packs at daybreak
to hike hand in hand
toward the distant ruin—
a tall stone chimney planted
on otherwise empty acreage,
a kudzu-covered tower,
the ghost of a farmhouse
now a home to field mice,
black beetles and bats,
with bricks the color
of weathered blood,
vertebrae stacked
a century and a half ago
by a stonemason’s craft,
still solid and bonded
despite the slow decay
of arthritic mortar.
How long have we
walked together?
The morning
is all we have
left to ponder.
We walk for hours;
the chimney grows
larger at our approach.
I want to ask you
a question about
the night we met,
what you said
just before I held
you for the first time,
but then I catch sight
of my hand and realize
I am walking alone,
moving inexorably
toward a ruination
of my own making.
How could I have been
so careless? Unable
to stop, every step
strips something away:
my hair thins and falls,
as white and weak
as sickled wiregrass;
another step and my
body atomizes into
the stuff of stars,
pollen scattered
on a rising wind.
So this is what it
feels like to decay.
By the time I reach
the ruin I am mostly
cinder and ash,
a sorry vestige
sown in a quiet field,
a forgotten landmark
that strangers will visit,
if only to contemplate
how the evening fog
spindles like smoke
along the enduring
column of my spine.
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 4:30 PM UTC
the outhouse, and the woman in it, gone.
father’s
praying
place.
if beside it
I could see
the open empty toolbox
I knew to yank the dog homeward.
I was doing what anyway.
in mother’s voice. in brother’s
untucked
shirt.
messing around with our neighbor, the messiah.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
reconnected images
toes in rich soil
toiling under the yoke
spatially
fleeting fancy of freedom
fades
pages turn
returning me to the ground
I roamed as a child –
forgotten foothills
beacon
as property brokering
binds me to the earth
monetarily
owning my homeland
by the acreage –
white privilege escapist
seeking grid-less domain
sustainability with a suntan
in the cool Oregon rain
draining the infrastructure
through government backed loans
forever indebted
as the backs of my fellow countrymen
are buying my dream in America –
wrecked inspectors trek Tibet
for the almighty dolla dolla bill ya’ll
signing off on trash
commission driven misgivings
serving up dry rot and mold spots
on a flooded lot
I shield myself against the tide of ********
seeking information
in the age
namesake
heartbroken realtors
dot the horizon
holding contractual obligation
waving it frantically
begging –
seeking perfection
sneaking suspect-tion
any direction
needing contraception
fleeting misconception
leading to direct loans
hearing the same groans
as she is reading the next home
listing……..
throwing fists into the air
I swear
if I didn’t care so much
to handle the deed
I would rent
for
life –
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
Where honeybees work Pineapple Sage , where the Cattails stand proud
in the lyrical winds ...
At the terra cotta crossroad where timeless love and friendships have coalesced ....
Down the hillside toward hospitable , glistening , green bottom lands ...
Across the grassy divide into sunny , well kept acreage ...
Forever walking the field road to the Old Starr Dairy ......
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 1:31 PM UTC
The wheat harvest is Magickal, and you have always invited me into your damp crypt.
Apples are ripe when Demeter searches for her lost offspring, amidst shades of nocturnal eroticism.
Therefore, let us now bake bread with feminine or masculine features in the name of Southern rhythms where the hunt takes place upon acreage of the aristocracy.
Do you have any regrets or farewells in this season?
Let it flow like a bubbling brook through woodlands of this recollected netherworld.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 11:49 PM UTC
Detroit is a mess, eighteen billion in debt
But you can’t stop a loser from a double down bet.
The transit she has runs deep in the red
Half her acreage is vacant and her tax base has fled.
So now they plan a streetcar, the M-1 light rail
They boldly go forward with a plan doomed to fail.
Detroit’s busted budget is out of control
Their schools are the worst, spending’s out of control.
But if we build a streetcar then all will be well?
More cash down the rat hole! Don’t ask and don’t tell.
Three billion dollars it’s projected to cost-
half for the rail line and half for the Boss.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 8:02 AM UTC
your elegance provokes me
so clear in the distance
like the wheat fields in the summer breeze
golden and fragrant
nearer to your acreage
accompanied by your freckled ambition
deflated lungs
breathless at the sight of you
wild heart in your vines
struggling to escape their grip
but i remain wrapped in your strength
unharmed and safe
unknowing to the state of my weary heart
i know not why i fight
for you hold no threat
fragile bird
why do you not spread your wings
and escape the cage of me?
for unlike you, i am not a haven
mist fills my forest and covers its lakes
haunting the stability that you possess
the fire of your paper chest
creating ashes for your footprints
that lead to me
drowning in my lake
and with the absence of terror
you quietly step into the waves
and sooth the burns in my elemental arms
the raw connection sustains us
and as i relieve you of my torture
i see again the golden fields at dawn
washed away by my water
soothed across your chest
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 4:38 PM UTC
At the outset of a variable weather day
Sunlight spangles danced in the skies above
Was such a brilliance of radiant beams
As mid afternoon drew closer a change did arrive
In the grey smudged clouds rolled
Replacing the bright morn's festival
Whereupon came a moistening festival
Raindrops fell for the rest of the day
Down the damp quenching rolled
The billows unloading from high above
Which farmers were gladdened to see arrive
Their worried brows begat more calming beams
Fields lush in verdant vibrant green beams
The wetting so joyous of a happy festival
Dutiful was the timely drink's arrive
A difference made within a single day
Welcome were the heavy showers gifted above
Pasture lands looking minted and gold rolled
The reverse clime's dices had been rolled
Water storages filled with streaming beams
Such a gracious endowment up above
Unto landholders giving a grand festival
Altering the complexion of the day
Providence surrendered on needed arrive
A goodly amount of thirst saving did arrive
On the dark masses prospect being rolled
There was an improved outlook to the day
Ever men of acreage seek hopeful beams
So they can enjoy a precipitation festival
Wishing upon the receipt in clouds above
In their thoughts what is happening above
When will the heaven's bestowments arrive
Always championing the dowsing's festival
Then for them soils ideally bank rolled
On conditions being sated so nicely of beams
Will the soaking occur on this day
Festival glee awaited in the atmosphere above
Day did dawn with a dazzling sun's arrive
Rolled by the promise of eve's drenching beams
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 7:15 AM UTC
dug up my own bones, what
a shock, from the soil. found
myself amidst the roots and
stones, tangled up, not an act
of fiction or faith. just position.
and, so, turned to the wrought
ligaments of my jaw, i asked
"why were we buried so
shallow?". but, bones don't speak.
history is nameless and without
sight. we stand on the precipice
of a crumbling tower, and, down
in the cellar, ferment languages
unspoken. hands in pockets,
well, i wandered down,
expressionless, steps ringing
hollow on the uncatalogued
leaves of stairs, and drank deep
of tongues untouched. and such
are all knowings. and god knows
i learnt next to nothing, but that the
sun always rose. that lovers spurned
each twilight, waiting.
and for all of the square meters
grown up in glades everlasting,
for all the soil tilled and grass
come back brighter, my shoes
were all the muddier, my eyes
were full of eternal shine, my
****** heart was healin'. the
sky was only blue.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 8:35 PM UTC
Province acreage dies for one to tilleth its deserted range
Wherein cement meets the grain
It's love wants to be an emblem upon the world's and celestial's mapped blueprint........
Sick of nothing
Infirmed by zich
Swabbed by heartache
Taping its own stitch...
Just another moorland
Who Gaveth all
Lost to
Hopeless romance merry....
Depletedness licketh...
Deprived
Scanting
Panting its last sad hopeful breathe!!!!
Tis
All it hath left
As its been pruned
And left for rocks to corrode...
Sold its soul.....
One of old,
Superannuated doppelganger.....
An obsolete antediluvian
One not meant
For loam inanimate's.....
By me( Brandon nagley) - ( lonesome poets poetry)
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 10:24 PM UTC
cast down by lightning
shadows in mist
behind twisted trees
and through tall grass
i seek the heart of an immaculate noble
grazed by frequent arrows
but none strike true
for i am not whole
clear target, without a mark
i strowed my essence over the land
but unable to collect them again
i must seek a replacement
before i disappear
offset by your charm am i
for i am faded
in likeness to the desolate acreage
removed slowly by people
here, in the alcove of my chest
lie my forgotten sentiments
that lead as a stepping stone
into this solitary cavern
caught in your unrest
at the sight of my lightless tower were you
so i caged the generated aggression
and burned for your light, an example
now, quell your swollen heart
with remedies of restful eyes
safe, beneath the sheltered forest
as i fade to my foundation
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 11:32 PM UTC
Across the reflective fields of Hill Country grass begins to escape its icy enclosure ..Black Angus leave red clay impressions bound for green pastures ..Mourning doves wail their somber retreat as first light exposes the prequel to Heaven .. Blackbirds and smoke from morning bonfires alight , the promise of daylight is scented with Oak and Hickory as fields of cotton appear to ignite . Tin roofs begin to glow , church bells awake villages on the horizon . Golden waves pan Eastern skies , Sycamores sequester abundant sunshine ..Sparrows , Chickadees and Finches gossip without end , Bluejays and Brown thrashers command the fence line once again .
Barbed wire enclosures divide the landscapes , dancing scrub Pines act as reeds , filtering the breeze with the music of natures continuity ..
Blacktop drives ribbon the lonesome acreage , goat herds graze the property frontage . Quarter , Morgan and Appaloosas quietly graze against the backdrop of nineteenth century farm houses .. White silos and red barns , gourd birdhouses , dug wells and smokehouses ..Bantam roosters and hens sift through acorns beneath two hundred year old Water Oaks ..
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 6:59 PM UTC
_
Upon this elevated perch I sit
Jagged rock and nature’s bleed
Looking out beyond my sight
Knees and hands of weathered seed
Straddling an outward view
Clinging tight to breathless cries
Clouds now form of smoky fill
Cracks evolve of southern skies
Down below the valley sleeps
Curtains closed and bolted doors
Green between the acreage spills
Crumbs are swept from hollow floors
When an anguished howl is heard
Bounding far and chilling wide
Makes me stand, unsure of foot
Destinations run and hide
Dark precedes a warning moon
When two eyes of crimson glare
Break the glass in shards of fear
As my aching eyes do stare
Razor quick and fired flames
Out of breath my thoughts to run
Lightening strikes at where I cringe
Burning skin of tortured sun
Death does come, but eyes still see
Weary as of this forlorn
Tattered dreams long past their prime
When deep beyond a reason born
Still I sit on broken stone
High above the slumbered lanes
So frightened of horizon’s fall
And the light delivered pains
Now many nights and many days
Have crawled amidst my destiny
For when embarks a moon so full
This anguished howl now heard is me
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 10:46 AM UTC
I. Parting The Seas
With Their Acid Tongues
Have you seen the herd
Their disparaging words
Ever felt their burn
Their teeth newly
straightened
Their letters
capped boldly
And augered in -
Never ?
Parting the seas
With their acid tongues
Overzealous murderers
Twirling their guns
Finger painting
In puddles of blood
Far and above
The multitudes,
Fainting -
Prose, my love ?
They're but disgraced mystics
Moneyed for nothing
Soon to face their own
Caustic hmmmmm,
Hatred's vast acreage.
For an ill wind
Blows no one good -
You don't say -
Ask anyone.
Or haven't you heard
Page Six -
This is the way
Come
Inside !
James R. Morse, NYC 2012.
All Rights Reserved.
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 1:10 PM UTC
This poem is called Boys are Curious.
Because that's what you told me that day.
And if boys are curious,
My body is a treasure map.
I was an atlas for trespassers.
I had a horizon of hope in these eyes,
And my forest hid lust & mystery like it wanted to be found.
My acreage was pure and undiscovered.
If I hadn't scared you away yet,
I've heard that there was passion locked somewhere.
But because boys are curious,
My edges are creased and torn.
The sun has left me shaking in the cold.
I have been sought by the hands of greed enough times,
I've forgotten where I've hidden my treasure.
So, boys are curious.
He left me a field landmines.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 1:09 AM UTC
you think I don’t live
hip hop
in my drop top
boy, I’ll slap a cop
for messin wit my
organic crop
I got’s hogs to slop
fruit is starting to drop
rabbits ears are lopped
still, I got time to rock
see I
write rhymes all the time
mostly in my mind
helps me to unwind
when I smoke the kind
like a real balla
dog don’t need a
shock colla
he listens when I holla
I like to gives the bums a dolla
that **** makes me feel bangin
while my ball sack swangin
Am I entertaining? –
Cause I‘ll never be mainstream
never learned to silk screen
5th wheel, Slipstream
Pajamas on, a wet dream
I’ll never be mainstream –
See I
don’t own a gun
shoot my mouth off
just for fun
never eat a wheat bun
not a celiac,
just don’t want none
***** come undone
solar flare
from the sun
life weighin like a ton
smashed flat on the ground, son
but I
get back up ya’ll
no time to fall
harvest in the Fall
watch the water-fall
like the politicians ya’ll –
I will never be mainstream
wont listen to yo kids scream
buy those ******* ice cream
all up in the sun beam
I’m never bein mainstream –
Ya’ll, I cant wait to own
acreage and a home
space for my dogs to roam
hide those muthafukka’s bones
or maybe I will buy a cow
work with a horse and plow
homeboy’s, the time is now
gotta get a loan somehow
so I pay off all my back debt
save some cash for
a down pay-ment
so I don’t got’s to pay no rent
life will be so different --
and I will never be mainstream
create power with my own stream
use my cow to get milk and cream
this **** isn’t just a dream
boy, I will never be mainstream --
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 2:47 PM UTC
I gazed out across the Black Hills of South Dakota: a lone, ominously dark mountain range isolated in the Great Plains of the north. Here, granite is muscle and pine is skin. Obscurity blankets the cliffs in a perpetual dusk, and beauty is present in a chaotic peace. A quilt of poison needles cloaks the landscape, but has no intent on bringing warmth. Instead, the blanket shrouds the world’s bouldered bones with a somber complexion. Euphoric tears of the firmament gather in great pools composing mirrored utopias between the cupped fingers of ancient, frozen magma. Vertebrae arch skyward like a great cat ending a reticent vigil and eroded claws grasp and scrape the sky. In the daylight, this Empyrean burns azure, roasting the land in an elemental fire of plenty, but when such luminous blaze is absent, the cosmos beams down at the minuscule fragment of terrestrial acreage in awe. And yet, for all the pure wonder I presently envision from even the dullest of memoirs, my eyes as of then were sealed.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 1:32 AM UTC
I’ve got my acreage
I’ve got my kids
I’ve got my wife
I’ve got my life
**** well
Best leave me alone
© 2019 Jim Davis
You know in Texas
you never ask a man
the size of his spread!
Downright rude, I guess!
Aug 20, 2019
Aug 20, 2019 at 11:59 AM UTC
You look like one big freckle
The way that you are covered
From your head down to your toes
One end to the other
In the tint, shade, and color
Blending perfectly
Pink in pigmentation
All points in between
You look like you're from Florida
Sporting the finest tan
With not an inch of acreage left
In epidermis land
If freckles told a story
In all their sun drenched glory
You would be the greatest read
Of that you have no worries
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 11:23 AM UTC
Extractor of those awfully embedded times
That traveling memory, hidden in the back of worn suitcases
Brown leather and ties, like no remorse
Those breaths imparted, w/ lasting glare
The smoky windows in beat up wagons
Split lips from the boys on back loan
Wartimes, dragging utter sadness from the porch swing
Lost a tooth, and that made it smooth
Soothe the pain, w/ pints of tipsy water
We watch the sunset, in the field next door
Kissed & dangled, our bust behind us
Tumbled in the meadow, w/ no one else around
The boy I brought home is the same I fought
Every night, we tossed and paddled
Had I known, he would stay w/ me, forever
The girls from Seventh Ave. tickled me
W/ their stunty eyes and elongated dresses
Wishing, for a moment, we were out: the kids, picnic party w/ the club
Pa saw it in my eyes, the mailman and I
Even at the table with the shipped ashes and ol’ rummy
Playing hard to get with nothing but straight chaser
The mirror became such ferment to my frame
I began perturbing every milking like a daily lashing
And soon protruded my perimeters into giant horned gnats
Ground crackling and separated with ceaseless dust storms
Divided, on the fence back in the meadows watching it rain afar
In the familiar fields I laid, now a barbaric, decoded passing
I walk to the cellars every now and again, with my badges
Discreetly pacing the acreage, for a taste of interim regression
Now with no bandages nor luggage to carry my born chores
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 7:58 AM UTC