"amiably" poems
Bees were swarming around the eastern
shallow end, a warning that the cherries
are deepened and smattering
the pond's bank with nature's jam,
the small tree a joy to the family, but
nobody around much now to keep them
picked and eaten.
The snapping turtles have had their fill
of the cherries and basked lazily in the
center of the deep end, at least two of them
and as I'm a frequent friend, they stationed
amiably as I walked, picked up and threw
grasshoppers to the fish in the water.
The spiders will appear in proportion soon
to the apples growing on three trees
at the edge of the woods, about 40 feet
south of the pond, with a jut of the creek
in between them.
Every year I get my sweet fill of those apples,
planted 50 years ago or so by my great-grandfather,
don't know what they are, maybe Braeburn,
judging by their mottled colors of red and yellow.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 10:05 AM UTC
You've only ever seen yourself twice:
once in a reflection,
the other in a picture.
You've never truly seen yourself,
so I'll take the liberty to devote my entire life
to describing the extent of your beauty.
The first thing everyone notices about you is
that smile of yours, dear. It's dazzling. It's distracting.
It's absolutely lovely,
and no mirror nor picture can ever replicate its splendor.
Your warm smile melts the ice, while casual chit chat merely breaks it. When you smile, the edges of your eyes crinkle just the right amount, beckoning amiably.
Your laugh is a waterfall
and I want to spend my days letting it crash down upon me,
I want to drown in its bliss. Your laugh is a lilting balm
to the horrors these ears of mine have heard,
a soothing caress to my worrisome heart and mind.
Your eyes, you underestimate their charm.
You belittle them to simple drops of brown darling but they are transformed into pools of hazel, gold, honey, sepia, and cocoa in the sunlight.
I call them bedroom eyes.
I stare into them not to look at my reflection
but to look into your heart.
You smile with your eyes sometimes,
it's really quite lovely.
It's a shame you're not on the receiving end of it.
Your hair is absolutely stunning.
I could run my hands through it and let my fingers get lost in your curls and meet some bobby pins along the way.
You complain of it often, but
tracing the lines of your steep curls with my eyes
sends me into a happy daze.
On numerous occasions I have said it and I will say it again:
you feel beautiful. Your skin under mine feels absolutely lovely, my dear.
I could spend millennia letting my hands run
the length of your gorgeous body. And I'd do it happily, too.
I love the little moles you've got on your cheeks
and your ironing-board-scar and your lips (both sets).
You were born a blank page but now you're a beautiful work of art with depth and shades and texture.
Your body is a diamond: it is multifaceted and precious and priceless.
And it deserves to be looked at, my dear.
I adore your body, sweetheart. From the scoop of your collarbone,
to the curve of your back; from the gentle definition in your arms and legs
to the stronger curves of your *******
I love the beckoning rise of your hips and your thighs, and the gentle mound of your *** I could spend an eternity painting your body with my kisses, each a silent praise to the masterpiece that is your body.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 10:17 AM UTC
The sun came up early one day
My eyelids burned with golden glow
I sat up amongst the wagging cat tails
And saw naked ladies by the stream
Their lips were a pale magenta
They had eyes that enraptured me
As I took their waiting hands
I felt skin as gentle as a flower
I swam with them in intimate bliss
The trees hid us from prying eyes
Their laughter filled the spring breeze
Bespelling everything that it touched
Together we drip-dried in the sun
They shared their sweet elixir with me
I drank until my heart was content
And kissed them all before evening came
We parted with sadness, but amiably
My weary limbs grew numb as I walked
Back to my home amongst the cat tails
I felt my insides weep with exhaustion
The aftertaste of their nectar was bitter
I looked back toward the stream in fright
But the beauties had closed their petals
And they lay limp in the night air
My love for them left me as I sank
Into the cat tails that still swayed
I closed my eyes and took my last breath
As eternal slumber overtook me
Sep 22, 2010
Sep 22, 2010 at 10:44 AM UTC
Out of crassitude with gross vision
Awakened to just another lip
service
A mind deaf and obstinate to my
opinion
A heart so hard , the passion
waned
From your cup I tested the wine
felt amiably pleasant in a moment
devine
your decietful tone blurred my
senses
A vocal utterance breaking through
my defences
On the eve of crossing the line
my liberty denied being subject to
your concience
my innerself detected an accurate
vivid sign
A discovery that revealed a Vision
unclear
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 3:55 PM UTC
My garden blossoms pink and white,
A place of decorous murmuring,
Where I am safe from August night
And cannot feel the knife of Spring.
And I may walk the pretty place
Before the curtsying hollyhocks
And laundered daisies, round of face--
Good little girls, in party frocks.
My trees are amiably arrayed
In pattern on the dappled sky,
And I may sit in filtered shade
And watch the tidy years go by.
And I may amble pleasantly
And hear my neighbors list their bones
And click my tongue in sympathy,
And count the cracks in paving-stones.
My door is grave in oaken strength,
The cool of linen calms my bed,
And there at night I stretch my length
And envy no one but the dead.
1.5k
discussing with friends they,re eclectic noggins bobble suddenly
slowly quick the wagging of tongues juxtaposed to startled teeth
in rhythmic ques they pour daft prophecies in hideous giggling
we talk and amble amiably on every topic odoring and tepid shifting
slickly
it's easy and the sun frails and we joust winking verbs and nouns and and
or we entertain electric chaos screens bulging distended growls of death
or cinema or. outside it's raining, beautificly a synonym for damp patterring
of a 1,ousand tiny feet and plopping uncertainly violent puddles staggering
and the iron weight bears heavy on the hills dimpling the hips of earth
or we are static for a few and hours we make goodbyes and promises
of recurrence we,ll never keeps the night our tired bodies as we make
to the cold metal leather bucket seats and outside it's muttering rainfully beauty...
Aug 27, 2010
Aug 27, 2010 at 11:11 AM UTC
I declare my home to be tucked within the wreathed *****
of the Blue Ridge Mountains,
where I know them as my silent guardians
watching over me;
til I taste saltwater on my tongue,
and find my taste buds alight
with the spread of steaming Blue *****
doused aplenty in Old Bay--
spread atop disheveled newspaper on the kitchen table.
Suddenly, water becomes "wooter,"
and wash becomes "warsh,"
and I laugh and skip rocks along the waters
that baptized me in my infancy.
That is, until the Old North State
wraps me in her misty shawl,
where I find myself barefoot on grassy acres--
wild dogs running in packs amiably--
and I race makeshift boats of sticks and water bottles
down the ole crik.
I close my eyes and feel faint and brisk breezes
caress my face like a mother's hand,
gently guiding me through dense woods
where imagination and reality forged an alliance.
So where do I call home?
Well that's entirely up to you,
whether you send my head into an ear-popping,
mind-whirling dizzy spell--
euphoric in higher elevations and getting lost in the foliage;
or you put a plate of steaming ***** before me with saltwater kisses on your lips.
I am the Oriole of the Blue Ridge,
and the Cardinal of the Chesapeake:
The White Oak and the Longleaf Pine.
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 6:38 PM UTC
We sat anxious and low
in your bedroom cupboard
beleaguered by hollow briefcases
and stifling musty winter clothes.
Holding our cigarettes like a crucifix
hunched over the ashtray
basking in the lonely timid light
you yanked into life
with the tug of a frail string.
I was ready to speak existentially
ready to be immortalized
by the blinding flash of the ancient pictor
black and white
candid but purposeful.
Locked into my eyes
lingering in their intensity
my artistic mystery.
I was suddenly pulled from my disillusionment
as my wishful banter was silenced
by your stern hush
preferring a whisper so your
parents didn't hear.
I watched you take a drag
like a glass of water
in the middle of the desert
so desperate, so agonizing.
I watched you shakily tap
tiny flakes of your soul
into the ashtray
your eyes distant, mournful.
It was irreversible;
my childlike fantasy
of aesthetic in the smoke
on my breath--
not from frigid temperatures
but adolescent guilty pleasures
coveted forbidden treasures--
to turn into the ashes
I watched my friend flick
routinely into the tray.
"This is not James Dean," I realized.
This is not somber-eyed bedecked
in worn leather jacket
leaning against a cool brick wall.
"Neither is this 'A Hard Day's Night.'"
This is not Ringo smiling amiably
shaking his head with cigarette
bouncing and dainty on his lips.
This is huddled in my best friend's
cramped cupboard
watching him surrender himself
to a caustic lord who scorches his life
away
in every drag that burns between
his cracking lips
in every ash flicked from
his shaking fingers.
I watched the smoke envelop his weary body
I watched the ashes eulogize his fading spirit
I watched him bid farewell with his tired eyes
I watched him disappear.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 1:41 AM UTC
Inspired by Allen Ginsberg’s Love Returned.
Tonight, there will be no merging onto
The wireless info web highway-
She returns, with smiles,
From thousands of miles,
To honor unresolved promise.
No longer anonymous, humming
My love song to someone in particular.
I weave my way across the margins,
Through a web of puddles and pebbles,
As puzzle pieces of sensual treble resonate,
Drizzle amiably down on my burgundy umbrella.
And she evolves, a silent tempest
That swells in the warmth of the night.
Is it the unaffected loyalty,
Or the sweetness of her smell?
The strength of her autonomy,
Or the completeness of our honesty?
As we peel away protective layers,
I hope that we remain,
Two connoisseurs of romance,
Who continue to slow dance.
Staying learned and childlike,
Earnest and mild, like
Students of truth.
From the thoughtful naiveté
Of maturing youth,
I offer my blessings to her.
It’s fitting that she, lovely
As a coveted Viyella,
Seems free of material expectations,
Or ring-around-the-rosy words.
So all that’s left to do-
Make our cozy escape, and find rest
Inside this departing Acela.
Calmed by the self-propelled motion
Of our northbound locomotive,
I consider a future inside fifty-two sunsets,
And finally set my sights upon
A sound, stone bridge.
It’s as though her auburn words,
Along with the acute angles of her smile,
Are anticipating my every beat.
I wonder if she knows that
Her eyes, a mélange of the
Steel blue Merrimack, below
A tall granite overpass, loom
Over these familiar train tracks,
A painted Methuen sunset.
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 3:48 PM UTC
You're in this scene,
a couple sit opposite each other,
in a restaurant,
at a window table.
On the street,
I walk by and see myself with you,
and I'm caught off guard by the reflection.
We are amiably chatting,
laughing, smiling.
You are radiant
and I, more handsome than I remembered.
Jan 9, 2011
Jan 9, 2011 at 9:30 AM UTC
And like the early Hyacinths
in your mother's garden,
you too will bloom as this winter ends.
I remember how you'd
lay out your November bones
and irritably scrub away carcasses
of the poetry you hated anyone reading,
until you were stone-washed empty,
bruised, cradling your mother's maiden name,
pure, pure and pure again.
Forget the perpetual mistakes
you made on midnight park benches,
where the morning dew drops
in your almost laconic step
disturbed the way dust amiably
settled upon your shadows.
You will bloom,
even in the most shadowed chamber
of your own heart.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 10:48 AM UTC
Embraced together as one
Sun-kissed orb of night
Whispered secrets amiably
In silhouetted flights
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 10:25 PM UTC
Elsewhere thou wert born with thy dispositions born of HIM,
Might be with the galaxy of blossoms flocked with song birds,
Might be among chiming streams brimmed with fishes.
Might be drenched in tuneful showers of grace.
My heart hath perceived thy childhood painted in thoughts
Right now painted in my words of magic incredibly.
Butterflies hover above thee sprinkling colours upon thee,
I hear gallops in thy quick steps as stallions trot,
So sweet as of the Nightingales with their melodies,
Serene, I believe, are thy words adorned with innocence,
Young as the tender shoot looking ahead of blossoming,
Thy words, I believe, knit with philosophy still to gain,
Amiably caressed thou art with the West Wind,
And I read Shelly’s mind in his ‘Ode to the West Wind’
So swift and amicable traversing ‘cross the horizons,
Child-like etiquettes, I believe, crown thee to stride ahead.
Thou art a star seen in the expanse of my inward eye,
May be a way of life to perceive thee ‘cross the sky,
Thou art a child still unto me and I am thy friend.
We’re all awake of HIS Way of Creation, a mystery to say,
Everyone learns the truth that the world is round,
And we all meet where we begin our journey.
And let our journey shall be led by the ONE WHO created us.
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC
amiably staggers
with neon a street
diminutively
creased with
laughter
and the common
blood of youth
whose vague
aptitude for
lust is always
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 12:23 AM UTC
Just a little smile
The thoughts began
Wild and kind
Your mouth amiably shaped
Just a little talk
The contact began
Honest and raw
Your words wisely phrased
Just a little walk
The friendship began
Immature and unique
Your steps carefully placed
Just a little touch
The allegiance began
Lose and fragile
Your hand softly teased
Just a little glimpse
The connection began
Blue and brown
Your eyes mythically stared
Just a little kiss
The relationship began
Soft and sweet
Our lips gently met
Just a little melody
The dancing began
Close and humble
Our bodies carelessly moved
Just a little sleep
The dreaming began
Fearless and adventurous
Our legs chaotically intertwined
Just a little question
The searching began
Curious and extraordinary
Our minds mysteriously linked
Just a little star
The shine began
Bright and dazzling
The light inexorably glowed
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 12:19 PM UTC
shortly after 5pm
an amiably
grey
spider
pauses
on a piece
of copy paper
in the lap drawer
of a man
behind
on sadness
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 1:52 AM UTC
It was a beautiful day as it started
The sun was up as I departed
I went outside and to my surprise
Stood a man in mid-town with gleaming eyes
Like the wind the man just blew into town
With not a name he made no sound
As we all gazed at the man dressed in black
Nobody said a word of respect for his plaque
He opened his mouth, the man finally spoke
“I am here for the blacks” he said standing next to the oak
I did not say a word for I was not
Turned the other cheek and did not a lot
I turned away relieved and went home
With a smile on my face, I was sparred and I wasn’t alone
So I lay in my bed knowing full well
For more than a second on the matter I dare not dwell
I awoke the next morning good as the last
Quickly got on my clothes and went outside fast
Once again to my surprise
The man stood in mid-town with puzzling eyes
We all looked at the man with a deep stare
And asked “why are you back aren’t we the ones you’ve sparred”
“Wasn’t it the blacks that you so heavily eyed?”
“The blacks, oh no, not them,” he replied
“If it wasn’t the blacks than you are here for who?”
To which he replied “none but the Jew”
As he stood next to the wall with a cross to his side
Most were relieved, but several cried
I once again was thankful because I was not
Through the whole ordeal I did, not a lot
As I turned away relieved I went back home
With a smile on my face, I was sparred and I wasn’t alone
So I lay in my bed knowing full well
For more than a second on the matter I didn’t dwell
The Chinese he came for the next day
Standing next to the rails where the bodies decay
So it came with each passing day
He blew into town and took more away
With each passing time I stood there because I was not
From all the misery witnessed, I did not a lot
And every day that I went home
I had a smile on my face because I was sparred and I wasn’t alone
Finally one day that I woke up
The world was bleak all around me, while I sipped from my cup
No one in the streets, not a soul there
I stood all alone in the town square
Then the man in black came once again
“There is no one left, for who are you here to obtain”
“You, my humble servant” the man said
“I am no puppet of yours” I answered with my face turning red
“Ahh but, who has served me more faithfully
Than you with your cowards hope” answered he
“And where are the others that might have stood”
“Side by side in the common good”
“Dead” I said amiably
“Murdered” the man corrected me
“First the blacks and then the Jew
I did no more than you let me do”
“With your denial and your false hope
You’ve reduced mankind to nothing but a joke
Enveloped in your own selfishness and greed
You were blinded to your own misdeed”
As the man in black spoke that’s when I knew
That all of his evil, I let him do
And as I felt death’s sweet kiss
I thought to myself that ignorance is bliss
As the world crumbled all around me and turned to ash and debris
I just let it go by, with a nod and an agree
Submerging myself in a fake world of hope
I too late realized that I was the dope
For a long time I was happy because I was not
Turned away from it all not doing a lot
And now with no one to help me, I realized that I’ve always known
Truly now, I am all alone
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 3:17 PM UTC
Poet after poet
written July 10th, 2021
Day by day, and poem by poem
my home and my life
fill with friends and lovers
who took the time to write to me
through the years and distances.
Jane Kenyon sits
on the corner of
my dining room table
a pool of calm
for me to dip into
anytime I need.
113 poets (I counted)
from Copper Canyon Press
are in residence between the covers
of The Gift of Tongues.
They enliven the desk where I write
always falling into respectable order
when I peak in before writing.
Mary Oliver, Pablo Neruda
Olga Broumas, W S Merwin
and other dear friends
sit on my shelves
sometimes amiably discussing
other times heatedly debating
each other's sock choices.
George Bilgere, Ellen Bass
and Gregory Orr
have seduced me
filling me with awe
as they stimulate my mind
my lovers far away
who talk to me in chapbooks.
Poet after poet
I wonder how many
I have not met
because I have not found them yet
or they were not preserved or published.
I bow my head
in a moment of grateful silence
to those known and unknown
who make my world
a more lively place.
Jul 17, 2021
Jul 17, 2021 at 8:07 AM UTC