"angling" poems
I'm drunk and the skies are a little hazy, and the stars, a little like Van Gogh's, but tonight, I'm still an astronaut angling metaphors from the mesophere and you're still the moon to which these poems orbit around.
Jun 25, 2019
Jun 25, 2019 at 8:15 PM UTC
Plenary veils...infinitely unveiling the bride--
her face will never be seen, ovoid porcelain,
angling candles...upon a UFO altar.
The relentless Hand that pinches and lifts her
veils...has seen her face, and kissed her lips
so many times--that her infinite unveiling...
is love's ****** regress...a deathless imagining
made real.
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 9:16 PM UTC
Five thousand trees between his knuckles
Crushing the bark, choking the oaks
Straining through leaves with makeshift sieves
Angling to find an ankle or two
Praying that even a toenail would do
But all to be found was her mountain laurel crown
Still tangled with strands of burnt-birch down
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
Obama jetted
back to Africa
soaring aloft on
gulf stream swank
a posse of
oil company execs
in tow, intent on liberating
Dark Continent
fossil fuels from unjust
underground prisons
American
entrepreneurs
angling to get the
upper hand in the
high stakes global
resource poker game
pulled a big time race card
to trump China’s
full house
On Goree Island,
political paparazzi
popped and clicked
a perfect image
of the neocolonial
white clad President
framed in a doorway filled
with dark shadows and
heinous memory of the
unspeakable horrors
of global trade
leering from
the portal at the
Gate of No Return
Obama welled with
meditative epiphanies
of personal seachange,
and the vicissitudes of life,
pondering his meteoric rise
from a Land of Lincoln
State Senator to
American President
in the span of
one golden
9/11 decade
At a
South African University
Town Hall Summit,
the fist bumpin,
mike droppin Prez
telepromted the
star struck folks with
solemn universal civil rights
pronouncements,
wrapped in the riddle of
the pursuit of peace,
hidden in the enigma of
the reverence for
human dignity
Later in the day
Mr. Obama sat at the
feet of a comatose Mandela;
whispering into his ear
why an Afghan peace
eludes him, why his
drone strikes rain
death upon innocents
and why his democratic
republic defiles
the civil liberties of its
citizens to ransom
a daily diet of fear
But Madiba does not hear
Mr. Obama’s feverish
confessions; his
ears are closed,
he dreams only
of the paradise of
liberation he earned
for his life's hard wages
Music Selection:
Gil Scott Heron
Western Sunrise
Oakland
070213
jbm
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 11:14 AM UTC
Please remember to remember not to forget to remember
We braced the chill and last shared voices in November
When with reasons unknown you suddenly lost your temper
And in faceless avenue unseen you put it all in a damper
Please remember to remember not to forget to remember
Two minds steep in years hoping to revive a dying ember
Angling wisely for the solace of light in a peaceful chamber
Rising for noble ideals each a worthy conscientious member
Please remember to remember not to forget to remember
I stoke flames and called out doves in days before September
Not for glory or gain but in delight to fly a friend wishes tender
Homage to a smile Lisa, like that made by da Vinci the painter
Please remember to remember not to forget to remember
Now its time to seek the Sun afar in the land of greens and timber
soothing words that shows the grace and give of a friend keeper
Remains aloof to a joyless onerous mind that will only get sadder
Please remember to remember not to forget to remember
Empty pride rousing clouded mind makes it fittingly simpler
Strength and clarity to atone chimes only wit now't sinister
A truer pilgrim seeks pardon and deftly shames attitudes insular
To the wise what cost affinity in the garland of true harmony
Copyright. LaurenceA31stJuly2018.Allrightsreserved.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 6:51 AM UTC
the light, it seems to
shine right out from you
angling along your jawline
catching on your hair
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 11:06 AM UTC
Southwestern Dis-United States of Memory
Piñon smoke and sagebrush, voice of New Mexico night driving into an Arizona dawn rising over dreaming pueblos, low-ridden plazas, kivas and ruined cities’ rubble traced and highlighted by sunlight, Anglo angling into Aztec toward Zuni over arid zones… A to Z to El Dorado; a voice covers the high hills with a dusting of snow—every word hangs in the notes of the song: music to fall apart to, breakdown to, hurling the soul into the bottomless well of psychotic nostalgia: música de cavanga, falling into the depths. Melody pushing to the threshold of a bar and leaving you there with cash in your pocket and no ride home. The warmth inside beckons—you step across as the song fills, swells, intoxicates, then excavates the wall of the dam until it collapses. The fatal mistake: you read too much into the lyrics of shallow love songs. The deathwish beast of despair arises, the flooded plains dazzle your eyes, the Indian girl smiles on the rim of the grand canyon, the tattooed cholo pulls a knife in the trailer park, the dark waters under the bridge murmur and surge with regret; el río de Las Animas, Durango CO, Aztec calligraphy on the wall: Las Cruces, NM; Clifton, Morenci, Globe, AZ: stepped pyramids of copper tailings, gang-warred walls in fallen barrios covered in Chicano hieroglyphics, the ruined huts of shepherds and cowboys, pit-house dwellings’ flaked arrowheads and pottery fragments scattered forever in the coyote laugh of desert dusk. Crepuscular colors on the names of mountain ranges: Santa Catalina, Sangre de Cristo, Sandia, each one a separate sunset delirium—then you ride through the night to the city of palm trees and the orange-lined boulevards of Heaven.
The singer herself grew old but her YouTubes live forever.
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 9:37 PM UTC
Stung by an angling fad
He took a fishing rod
And sallied onto the nearby stream
That leaped down a rocky shelf
Forming small cascades
But running down into plain ground
With a placid demure face
Uttering soft murmurs sweet
Aiming at the darting Trout
That made the still waters into spiraling whirls
He swished the rod in the air
With the alacrity of a practiced bowler
Looking at the line sinking low
He waited for the fish to nibble at the bait
Meanwhile, inhaling the salubrious air
And watching the limpid movement of the stream
As the hook line went taut in his grip
Hopefully he pulled it up
But alas! With no ***** to boast!
Patiently sat he there for hours
Like a sculptured God upon a rock
Oh! It requires immense patience
With adroitness to boot
To be an angler, no doubt
That sure is a sedate man’s pursuit!
Angling rarely fetches any major luck
Except now and then a fresh fish upon one’s plate
Yet following one’s heart’s pursuit
Is worth more than all tangible reward it brings!
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 12:14 PM UTC
Clementine deleted Joel
from her mind. Joel tried to
forget her; he couldn't, so
he got rid of her too. You
try, I know, to get rid of me. I
try, you know, to pretend that
the world isn't spinning so fast
in the hope
that we will fall of its spinning-top edge
and stumble, clumsily, gracelessly, into
each other. We're spinning so fast with it-
the world- so this is unlikely, so we both
pretend that it's an accident when we fall
into each other,
again and again, as
We play spin the bottle while
The world spins instead.
Suddenly.
Now that that same world has stilled itself for
us: we don't know what to do without its
rotationary madness angling us
towards old age and crumpets (together?). That
same world has stilled itself until
tomorrow when that same world will spill
itself out from day to night to day again
as we take our respective first drafts
of our poems written about each other
and
Edit.
out that same mad spin
that made us
us
just like
Joel and Clementine forgot-
on purpose. We forget, on purpose
with purpose
but,
we'll still meet each other in Montauk where
that same world will still itself
as we wrap our fingers around each other's
fingers
in the cold
where you might finally reciprocate
my lacklustre
confessions.
You too,
right?
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC
Rose petals thick and heavy
Just ready to wrinkle
Strong, firm, delicate
Simple
Feigning delicacy.
Tighter and tighter to their middle
Lips curling back
Pouting open
All eventually revealing the
Veins!
Veins
Veins
Veins on the roses
From the underside spread upward,
Uncurled,
Veins.
Some so proud and broad
Some coy and curtseying
Some wide open, greeting you.
——
Some angling to the light
——
Some fading their color at the tip
——
Some!
Some doubling inward. Two twists inside!
Why? Overcrowding.
Petals wide,
petals too ready, petals broad
And she made herself a lover
——
Some older, wiser
By quicker death wisdom grows
The peaked face within
Afraid
Afraid of what is coming faster for her.
Something her beauty could not slow
An aging ballerina, refusing to retire her slippers
——
Some wider
More careless
Hippies
——
Some like a dance
Such a vulnerable entrance
Opening up her lips, her arms, her legs,
Spouting out her tiny tongue
Aroused
——
Some so full
Hiding herself in her layers
More of her.
Ancient.
Just a blip.
Trimmed from their bush. Here to die in a vase by my bed.
Dec 2, 2018
Dec 2, 2018 at 11:08 PM UTC
Vulnerable smile, cherubic. Vessel in the well.
Watery eyes. First tooth. Nameless relation.
New birth. Memories. New joys. Old pain.
Overflowing love. Half-voice. Kin-sister.
Stars, crackling up in the creux. A relation called
Nights. Angling; moon. brumeux love, half-hug,
Nets wide cast; comets pass. folded in the wallet.
Pouring out. Half-gong. Calling to the valleys.
Brook. Shadowy corners. Tongues, welling up
Delight, discovery. voices, hushed whispers
Bleating with the sheep, hymns rising.
crying with the birds, Conjunctions of states.
whirling with the winds; Conjurer of fawns.
Casting; soil; roots; new growings;
smiling, spiralling around the hollow,
new life; a cherub, the new dawn.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 2:18 PM UTC
Sleight of hand
creates illusion
politicians the rich
in collusion.
Good slaves we
buy their Solutions
titrated diluted pollution.
They've got you wrangled
with the carrots they dangle.
I see black holes
You See Stars Spangled.
"Disseminate fear keep them numb and Confused
they'll reward our
egregious abuse"
but fools won't believe
when it's dark
they see day
so now I tell you
what's the use anyway?
They've got you wrangled
with the carrots they dangle...
You see white stripes.....
I see liberty.....raped and strangled
Keep it obscure,
then hand you a cure,
their best phishing lure
To make you believe
that this country's great
they use a little bitty hook
and a tiny bit of bait
They've got you dangling with the carrots they're wrangling.
I see black holes
you see stars spangling
They've got you wrangled with the bait they dangle...
you see white stripes,
I see liberty ***** and strangled
They got you dangling
with the **** they're wrangling....
Open your eyes
you'll see there angling.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 5:11 PM UTC
Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will some new pleasures prove,
Of golden sand, and crystal brooks,
With silken lines and silver hooks.
There will the river whispering run,
Warmed by thy eyes more than the sun.
And there the enamoured fish will stay.
Begging themselves they may betray.
When wilt thou swim in that live bath,
Each fish, which every channel hath,
Will amorously to thee swim,
Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.
If thou, to be so seen, beest loath,
By sun or moon, thou dark’nest both;
And if myself have leave to see,
I need not their light, having thee.
Let others freeze with angling reeds,
And cut their legs with shells and weeds,
Or treacherously poor fish beset
With strangling snare, or windowy net.
Let course bold hand from slimy nest
The bedded fish in banks out-wrest,
Or curious traitors, sleave-silk flies,
Bewitch poor fishes’ wandering eyes.
For thee, thou need’st no such deceit,
For thou thyself are thine own bait;
That fish that is not catched thereby,
Alas, is wiser far than I.
1.8k
creek in th'dark
w/brightest stone baubles, dappled riverbottom pebbles under moon-water,
a thousand faces glinting, smiling upwards.
school of carp in the reeds, the stalks rasping in the warm air
as the tails swish them back and forth.
the unheard steady **** of flapping, feeding mouths --
drawing in of algae, snails, waterbeetles;
soft crunch of shell and exoskeleton.
two legs on the dune by the stream wishing
there was two more legs on the dune, angling
down toward the stream.
a tender accompanying voice singing maybe Piaf
avec un accent provincial (de châtillon?)
hair wet, tangled;
sporting powder-white two-piece,
fresh from having swam with strong, slow kicks of slender pale legs,
long in that green water.
legs that look good in black heels.
their clicking imagined in the head.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC
When you weaned me from the waning moon,
its milky cusps, winking welcome
moods of starry surrender, I was lost
to my reflection rearranged
roughly on the window's pane.
Don't take flight yet, you said,
*first take the light's left hand
and keep it from the misbehaving oak,
its frightening reach.*
*There are beehive-capped angels
swinging there beneath, and they're angling
to gather moony souls
together in false hope.
Their absent promise is absolute,
and absolution.*
*They'll utter their nothings,
utterly sweet, if you let them,
and lull you with their yellow tongues.
Fly away with this light you now hold
and risk the falling.*
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
Once upon a thyme
In an herbed house
Their lived a witch
Whose ripe rampion
Was so overpowering
That the neighbors
Left bottles of febreeze
On her doorstep.
The witch didn’t care
- But
In the flat-ironed town
Of Lunch time lipo
Where you were defined
By your eating disorder
She looked like
An Omish escapee
*With hips that wriggled
And ******* that jiggled*
So her cell phone number
Wasn’t in anyone’s top five
-Except
For one confused neighbor
Who never made it to college
And got to experiment
Like a true Gemini.
Now imagine the witch’s surprise
When this neighbor confides
That she would love to eat
Her ripe rampion.
- Naturally
The witch agreed.
It was nice to have something
That somebody else wanted
Though it was exhausting
For the neighbor
Who munched day and night.
And if one surprise
Wasn’t enough
The witch discovered that her
Neighbor was pregnant.
Now the witch had many powers
But that wasn’t one of them.
It appeared that her neighbor
Found her husbands
Carrot patch to
Quite esculent also.
And the witch
Being a picky Virgo
With a jealous Scorpion moon
Thought that her neighbor
Should not
Have spun around the vegetable
Color wheel quite so fast
And so in a fit of temper
She stole her baby
And locked her away
In an ivory tower.
Initially everything worked out
Until the oil crisis
And then the witch couldn’t
Visit Rapunzel quite as often
As she would have liked
Not with gasoline
Being so expensive
And so Rapunzel became bored
And started chatting to
Prince charming
On her face-book wall.
The witch took all the hopeful Trojans
That the prince had left
On previous visits
And tied them together
To form a rubbery step ladder
And when she heard him shout
"Rapunzel, Rapunzel…let down your hair!"
She threw this at him…angling it
With just a little thread of hate.
Prince charming grew all shivery
And put on his worst
Austin powers "Oh behave" accent
*Thinking of the delights
That awaited him*
However, his shivery-ness
Soon became a full body tremor
When the witch met him
On the top rung
And he knew quick enough
This wasn’t a
Ménage à trois.
The prince spent many months
In traction
Recuperating from his fall.
Rapunzel was sent off
To boarding school.
And as for the witch…
She dropped twenty pounds
And got her own reality show
Housewives of Salem county.
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 11:21 PM UTC
And he's provocative, a provocateur, a beacon of free speech and foul speech and vague speech and pointed speech, pacing the Conference Room Alamo on the ground floor of the Hilton, testing his lapel mike, asking the crowd of eighty, ninety to move to the front rows, and he mouths something to the photographer, a dreadlock'd skin and bones white boy, and the photographer flanks the crowd, angling the shot to solidify the intended narrative: he is a provocateur, a popular provocateur, a staunch opponent of political correctness (which this bystander must note strangely equates to a champion of hate speech), a former poster child for the alt-right, but—and quoting here—he says, "I cannot be pigeonholed," and perhaps that's it, the secret to his former success, his viral, shapeless nature, a terrorist of language and persona, and perhaps that's it, the secret to his demise, his shape forming, his identity emerging from the podcast ghettos and GOP speaking gigs, and he's on the stage and he's in all white and this is intentional, this is the redemption tour, the other-side tour, and the crowd claps now as he pumps his arms (at this point in the presentation they used to shout, I should point out), and he calls Hillary Clinton "Satan's ingrown **** hair," and the men in the audience laugh and pant and cough, and he spends fifteen minutes on fake news and hit pieces and the nuance of video editing and how liberal snowflakes won't stop protesting his appearances (for clarity here, there were no protestors at this event), and he wraps everything rather quickly (especially for the $150 ticket price) and says he has a minute for questions, and a young man, twenty-five or so, asks for tips on becoming the God King of Internet Trolls, and he, the popular provocateur, says, "Ah. The next generation is coming up from behind."
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 4:58 PM UTC
Rule number 1: There are no rules.
Are no schools
To this life thing
No wrong thing, no right thing
Only decisions and choices
Which amplify our inner voices
Paint pictures like pablo
Are you a sinner or a saint?
Are you bold or are you faint
Like the lines I use to write these rhymes
Etched with such force they will never fade
Aesthetically brilliant like the everglades
Rule number 2: Why are you still reading?
Did you not see
There are no rules
Are no schools to this life thing
Do you not understand?
You can do what you want.
Do good or do bad,
Make another happy, make another sad
You can hug, harm, help, ****
It's always your choice
Some hesitate, many think twice
Some are reckless, some fear consequences,
Repercussions which can will haunt and terrorise you for the rest of your life
A life shrouded in regret
That you did not get
Rule number 3: What is your problem?
Did you not see
There are no rules
Are no schools to this life thing
Your life is yours to lead
Yet I give you great advice
Which you don't heed
And live a life, gasping for air
Desperate for grip
Gripping at the ledge of the window of the good life
Angling for a glimpse of the other side
Forever wandering, always wanting more
Yet you could be satisfied
Happy, joyous or content
Or a be lost without cause
And the choice is simple
The choice is yours
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 7:42 PM UTC
She loves it
when we go fishing,
enjoys all of the activities,
spearing & angling,
gathering & netting,
anything to get
down on the shore.
Her boy in the boat
always bounces,
craves more of my dangling.
She's a looker,
baits my hook just right,
I don't fight her
& it ain't no shrimp.
Nooooo,
no wimp here,
I always use my big long pole
looking for her sweet fishing-hole.
When I finally get there,
find the right spot,
I scrape her scales
from every conceivable angle
to uncover her tasty pearl.
I give her a whirl,
shuck the shell out of her
as she squeezes me hard
with her tight mussel,
ready to receive my roe,
a splish,
a splash,
a huge shot
of my hot cocktail sauce,
curling her toes.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 10:13 PM UTC
Fusing the concepts of diction with the;
roll of a puuuup: ill container
no brainer; the new name
for all,, club bangers
the flocking flamers,
claiming they flow rain sick,
fake **** time to face it
like similes to basic
subject matter could use a face lift
I straight rip, jill jacking me off,
cant touch these bars, leading to E.R.
cough, cough; Hot sauce her eye, then fry
that back side, spliff lit
A big hit; leaves dome split
thoughts. . . drift
To higher places; perceive the cloudy spaces
between the jaded hate spit
peaceful protest; GRAVITY.. replace it
Aliteration altered asinine assumptions
Rhetoric to run with; supplying the dumb-shits
my cognition is "meta" there "fore";
fairest way is hitt'n
Needing a "fix"; I pop "pre"-scription
Sacred living's indifferent; no know's of his vision
Firing blindly; we're inquisitive middlemen
signing contracts binding
booking assurance of purpose
vexing questions perplex the messes
milk spilt are peoples guesses
nose tilt; angling obtuse,
obese, feeding upon, the bottom line
Most zealous of swine;
hideous and hateful, unable, ungrateful
better off as bacon plateful
The line is fine; The shade is grey
I'll ironically state,
suggestions to negate
your fate upon another's baseless psalms
or petty predictions of living on your palms
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 4:22 PM UTC
dropping cool green sour grapes
into your gaping mouth
hips angling into mine
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 5:05 PM UTC
tattooing,casting desires deeper than your itch
my ink spelling words every where you stink
you seem more responsive when they call you *****
I just want YOU to deliver after YOU think
we will cast lines into the now,living the new
angling or casting nets in different schools
you whistle one of my tunes,thoughts carry our points of view
with me battering your shields,you sharpening my tools
I'm casting lots,chancing,I swear you might call me sinful
knowing no boundaries,spanning bridges,jumping fences
your prize ***** is perfumed wine by the divine skinful
I do dare to share in your gifts of senses
I dare to cast an eye over your image within your frame
and hold them both when you are hot and cold
listening to your songs when you play your name
you will cause me to search for treasures of old
cast down your burdens speak to me in confidence free from fears
downcast looks have never been emblematic of your worth
I toil with dirt and sweat in exchange for your loving and tears
to buy tonight with you and tomorrow with the earth
broadcast the forecast sell me what you believe
tell me what you think let me feel what you throw
do you bleed from the heart tattooed on your sleeve
are you typecast do you ink what you think do you show what you know
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 10:36 PM UTC
soaring…
flying high, gaining momentum.
how beautiful…
but lasts not nature’s beauty as darkness moves in.
a chill settles as if the nest were ice…
the flight is threatened by a headwind,
rolling thunder from afar booms…
boisterous, billowing, clouds moving faster,
unnerving, unravelling courage, unrelenting fear…
but nothing can keep him down.
an attitude as wings…
a slight shift can fix it all.
the gusts blast beneath him…
shifting his wings,
angling up… .
the eagle soars higher.
take that which comes against you …
and use it to lift you up higher.
Oct 7, 2011
Oct 7, 2011 at 11:21 AM UTC
*Eclipses
are a
Rare Spectacle
To and From
which celestial bodies
Can't deviate
Orbiting and Angling
Celestial bodies
With
planetary movements
The one with reflective light
Deprived of light, in an orbit
Obscures the source
Falling In a line
Gravity at play
Celestial bodies bound
Time a factor
Always a charter
Orbiting and Angling
celestial bodies
With
Planetary movements
The reflective one Aglow
Shadowed by The Planet
Obscuring the source
All in a line
Gravity at play
Celestial bodies bound
Reaching to the Mars
For a life beyond
Defying gravity
Celestial bodies bound*
**Eclipses are a Rare Spectacle
Celestial bodies have Eternal Glow**
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 8:12 AM UTC