"armfuls" poems
Cornwall, Cornwall every day
Bright sun and fresh feelings
Simple pleasures by just being here
Forward thinking into old age dotage
All our lives waiting, hoping, wishing
Never believing it could be
Out of mind with secret longing
Filling up with atmospheric air
Sensing that emotional rush
Deep breaths swallowing cliffs and sea
Wild flowers and cows here
Hedgerows and windblown trees
Lopsided branches pointing inland
As cool salt air combs their twigs
The winding tracks disappear
Love is here all around, so strong
Heart wrenching and stomach churning
Soul and body filling up with Cornish…
Cornish, as long as it’s Cornish
It’s good!
Give us a chance to stay
Give us the chance to live
Ever on the hard granite pathways
Sounds of mewing gulls and thunder of surf
Beating on the windswept rocks and beaches
Cornish light familiar and so bright
Invading our eyes and warming our hearts
Gently massaging our faces with soothing fingers
Lifting our spirits as breaking through the clouds
It charges us with love
Fulfilled and whole
Our lives and minds gratefully feasting
The armfuls of wonder as we carry our hearts
Together, through eternity, watching
As the sun sets in a blaze of Cornish light
Feb 3, 2010
Feb 3, 2010 at 12:28 PM UTC
A star of blood you fell
from the point of the hypodermic
singing of fabulous beasts &
spitting out the *** of vowels
Your poems explode in the mouth
like torrents of ***** on a night
full of zebras & bootheels
Your ghost still cruses the river-
fronts of midnight assignations
in a world of dead sailors carrying
armfuls of flowers in search of
your unmarked grave
Your body no sanctuary for bees,
Death was your lover in a rain of
broken obelisks & rotting orchids
In the tangled rose of a single heartbeat
I offer you the shadow of a double
profile,
two heads held together at the bridge
of the nose by a nail of *****
smoke
in the long night's dreaming
& memory of water poured between
glasses
In my mailbox I find a letter from
a dead man & know that for every
shadow given
one is taken away
Yet subtraction is only a special form of
addition and implies a world of hidden
intentions below a horizon of lips
thin as your fingernail sprouting
mysteries in the earth …
The ace of spades dealt from the bottom
of the deck severs the hand which
retrieves it & the eyes of Beauty
sewn together peer over a black lace fan
in the ****** sunlight of a Spanish
morning without horses
The Belt of Orion is loosened
before you as you remove the silver
fingerstalls from your mummy hands &
kneel to plunder the nightsky in a shower of
bitter diamonds.
(Somewhere under a blanket someone weeps
for a lover.)
Peace to your soul
& to your empty shoes
in the dark closets of
kings with no feet!!!
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 4:06 PM UTC
In Rome on the Campo di Fiori
Baskets of olives and lemons,
Cobbles spattered with wine
And the wreckage of flowers.
Vendors cover the trestles
With rose-pink fish;
Armfuls of dark grapes
Heaped on peach-down.
On this same square
They burned Giordano Bruno.
Henchmen kindled the pyre
Close-pressed by the mob.
Before the flames had died
The taverns were full again,
Baskets of olives and lemons
Again on the vendors' shoulders.
I thought of the Campo dei Fiori
In Warsaw by the sky-carousel
One clear spring evening
To the strains of a carnival tune.
The bright melody drowned
The salvos from the ghetto wall,
And couples were flying
High in the cloudless sky.
At times wind from the burning
Would driff dark kites along
And riders on the carousel
Caught petals in midair.
That same hot wind
Blew open the skirts of the girls
And the crowds were laughing
On that beautiful Warsaw Sunday.
Someone will read as moral
That the people of Rome or Warsaw
Haggle, laugh, make love
As they pass by martyrs' pyres.
Someone else will read
Of the passing of things human,
Of the oblivion
Born before the flames have died.
But that day I thought only
Of the loneliness of the dying,
Of how, when Giordano
Climbed to his burning
There were no words
In any human tongue
To be left for mankind,
Mankind who live on.
Already they were back at their wine
Or peddled their white starfish,
Baskets of olives and lemons
They had shouldered to the fair,
And he already distanced
As if centuries had passed
While they paused just a moment
For his flying in the fire.
Those dying here, the lonely
Forgotten by the world,
Our tongue becomes for them
The language of an ancient planet.
Until, when all is legend
And many years have passed,
On a great Campo dci Fiori
Rage will kindle at a poet's word.
3.6k
I stood where Love in brimming armfuls bore
Slight wanton flowers and foolish toys of fruit:
And round him ladies thronged in warm pursuit,
Fingered and lipped and proffered the strange store:
And from one hand the petal and the core
Savoured of sleep; and cluster and curled shoot
Seemed from another hand like shame’s salute,—
Gifts that I felt my cheek was blushing for.
At last Love bade my Lady give the same:
And as I looked, the dew was light thereon;
And as I took them, at her touch they shone
With inmost heaven-hue of the heart of flame.
And then Love said: ‘Lo! when the hand is hers,
Follies of love are love’s true ministers.’
3.1k
My McCandless, if ever you leave upon whim one fine day,
I understand your sun reigned soul, is what I'll say.
Dull and sullen, my heart will send you on your way.
Ahead on your path I will ardently scatter showers,
Though I am small; great armfuls of camellia flowers,
From Fuji to the Blue Ridge Mountains' springtime bowers.
And as you go with each gracing step you take
Lightly on the flowers as they softly break--
An echo of me as the leave you take.
I know you'll leave me one fated day.
I'll come back to you, is what I hope you'll say.
But I'll not weep then, come what may.
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 10:18 AM UTC
If I could, I would take all your worries as my own
It wouldn't be too large a task
Worry is my bedfellow, the cold sweat keeping me awake at night
So, a little more cannot make much difference
If I could, I would have you hand over your worries like armfuls of melting snow
They would fall out of your arms and melt along mine, becoming sweet, vaporous, spirits
Place these heaping piles of worry into a small place in my heart
Create an eternal snowman within me
Not out of wild obsession or ulterior incentives
But because I would never wish worry on anyone,
Least of all you.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 6:02 AM UTC
ROSES and gold
For you today,
And the flash of flying flags.
I will have
Ashes,
Dust in my hair,
Crushes of hoofs.
Your name
Fills the mouth
Of rich man and poor.
Women bring
Armfuls of flowers
And throw on you.
I go hungry
Down in dreams
And loneliness,
Across the rain
To slashed hills
Where men wait and hope for me.
1.3k
I am standoffish scar. Armfuls of hurt worm through this spar, this whisper no longer here. A thread of then, turned lead now. Eater of blue. The glib is winning. It's too much. It tires me. I'm always tired. Why? I'm never ever going to be me, again. I am lined with lines of lies lied, tied up and gagged with ballnchain blame games. It's easy to lay me. Sleeper of sleep, pulling my sleeve into childish reveries of when nothing was anything but that was ok. I know it wasn't really actually ok, but the thought of good times haunts the line dividing me between the wake and sweet release. I let it **** me
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 4:23 PM UTC
I keep writing the spaces between heartbeats,
I keep touching the things that aren't real,
I keep saying how I'm going to change into something,
I keep erasing the lines that I've written before,
and when will I write for myself.
it takes skyscrapers filled with polaroids
it takes little white lies and telegraphs
it takes reflective puddles of gasoline
it takes armfuls of daisies and paisley print napkins
it takes princes and paupers and slurpees and silver
plated bracelets and philosophical books and memories
of people sitting on cracked green-brown bus seats
it takes things I knew and throws them away; it takes crispy hot nights
when cheekbones are sweating and boys who know nothing
of what they want filling their hearts up with and euros in pennies and sitting
on six clouds of old medications and basements with just too much dust.
it's a matter of time,
it's matter of perspective,
it's a snapshot hold-back parallel circle of constant irrevocable dimensions of porch swings
and merry go rounds undeniably irritatingly provokingly making me sick.
swish swish go cassette tapes I keep within reach
I can pull out their insides and stretch out the tape to reach to the moon
past the treetops and over the sun and into my head while I sleep.
someday I'll tinker with those that dream nothing,
and someday I'll write for myself.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 6:32 AM UTC
I used to think love was when someone gave you a warm tingly feeling,
If cherry chap-stick erupted into an emotion,
If cotton candy could bleed.
Now I know that love is heavy.
Love is heavy and sweet, with occasional bitter layers in between; love has a mouth on it.
Love will keep you in line.
Love will blur the lines entirely but still expect you to remain inside
them.
When you feel love, you become drenched in it, you are simply sopping wet with irrational decisions spawned out of love.
It is a weight I will gladly carry.
I will walk into the ocean with no stopping in sight carrying armfuls of love.
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 6:02 AM UTC
Your tongue could start forest fires
With the songs you sing, you could spring winter forward.
You could taste like tomorrow, your trials could all be amounting to counting sheep next to me.
Your little words wrinkle foreheads and cause the catastrophes of nations.
You with little breath bring forth the wildest of worries from the wandering minds.
You of little touch take armfuls of truth and tackle the tortured.
You with mostly full mouth make magic when you tap your tongue against the roof of your mouth
Your rough and ragged hands rust around the edges like the sounds you make when the laugh escapes your raging soul.
You hold onto hope like masters picking up pieces, you could make peace with your mouth piece.
Picking at the scabs on your fingers, focusing on us.
On the ground they avoid you.
You with the sunken skin and swollen eyes – ******* on the end of that cigarette.
You’ve convinced yourself it’s all a good dream.
Days musty like the back of your car when we drive on the high way wondering which way we go.
You with time tattooed soul – sulking about the little time you have.
Holding onto the fear you foster under your ribs.
You with the smile I’d rush rivers to keep under my pillow
You twist your tongue around my image – wake to find me further from grasp.
Smoking grass holding onto the hash.
Hoping you have an interest in me.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 8:52 PM UTC
I've seen my, had my share
of leavings
of leavers
of being left
of 'oops'
of 'ouch'
of 'sorry'
And I'll keep coming back
Who doesn't?
Who wouldn't?
We put up
with thorns
for a scent
a sight
a feel
of the rose
We put up
with banishment
for a taste
of the apple
We forgo the apple
For armfuls of blossoms
But here's the line
I've drawn it
Don't cross it
Have your flings
your loves
your losses
Fall in
Fall out
Fall halfway
of love
I won't stop you
But don't dare
Don't you dare
Say it doesn't mean a thing
To see you with someone else
Don't tell me
That her caressing look
Her kisses
Your betrayal
Don't mean anything
They do
Mar 7, 2011
Mar 7, 2011 at 4:30 PM UTC
One more dusty rotation
around this earth,
following deep grooves with stories
that suggest
this ain’t my first rodeo.
I can’t manage to keep hold of
a single thing they boast of worth,
but I have a finger on my awareness,
and that’s a start.
Meanwhile, the universe simmers
and bubbles, unsteady—
her shaky fuse lit and ready to go.
Restlessness and an urgency
felt with every passing second,
but she hasn't told me why.
And when I squint for a solution,
all I make out are
muted colors and shapes with no edges.
Abstract suggestion of a journey I know
I was born to grab by the lapels—
to collect lessons from grooves
and their dust
and gut feelings—
to allow them to transform
my armfuls of nowheres
to somewheres.
So, I tighten the grip of my thighs
on this carousel horse of mine,
careful not to let the circles
ride me.
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 10:45 AM UTC
Being with you is having a best friend.
Giggles and belches and pillow fights.
We scream out in joy, rolling and tumbling
Across the room.
Rummaging through the fridge,
returning with armfuls of food.
The mess spreads over the whole kitchen,
Eggs cook underneath the pan.
Meals fit for giants scarfed down in seconds,
our bellies grow three times their size.
We sit, and groan, unable to move.
Smiles splashed across our faces.
Legs tangled, heads in odd angles,
Your snore like a baby bear.
We toss and turn as we pull closer,
dreaming of our future plans.
Passionate kisses, soft touches,
We exercise in the one way we know how.
As close to each other as physically possible,
"I love you" 's whispered in ears.
I talk endlessly, and you listen.
You repeat things you've told me time and again,
But I listen. Happily, for the way your eyes light up
bring happiness to my life, if only for the moment.
I know I am not alone,
I have a best friend,
A lover,
I have you.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 8:53 PM UTC
Most nights, I'm on tip toes, hands out
plucking away stars and planets and the moon
rounding up whole galaxies in my palms
and throwing the universe at you in armfuls,
blushing,
because I want to give you everything I possibly could give another
until you are full and smiling.
If only to hear you laugh the way you do.
If only to feel your voice, low and honeyed
in "sweetheart"s or "baby"s or "Shayla"s.
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 1:30 AM UTC
Our garden was spirals of green - Squeeze-through bean tunnels rigged with bee stings, skinny mud paths that grazed knees and bloodied hand-heels when it rained. The field was neat rows of gold - Wide tracks made-good with stone, sipped dry by birch and tall oak. Peacocks and emperors flickered, fritillary swooned to a stop on damp skin - Ragged commas were caught breaths in bramble and …I listened... to Old-Man-Brown - snoring and mythical, to the click-click of chopped veg, to kids playing, to men coming home.
I ran, scrambled the bank, grabbed hold of chain-link, crashed into the garden. I knelt by the pen, let dogs lick my hands, gave armfuls of long grass to rabbits. I danced between chickens, beeped back at quails and avoided wry-smiley ferrets. I made it back before Mum needed to yell, shouted out, swirled my limbs clean from the barrel - Excited because, in a couple of weeks it’d be teeming with coppery fish and I’d give them ant-eggs and worms. I shoved open the door, brushed past dead things. That’s what we did - fed them until it was time.
Oct 10, 2022
Oct 10, 2022 at 4:25 PM UTC
Carted off to who-hears paths
doubly deep of our weathers.
Keeping armfuls of guts from
spilling, ***** worms uncoiling
for their native soils.
Saying loudly our slippery peaces...
to break with surface light.
To trade ravings hinged on absence,
moistly noodling context in place.
Freakishly conducive to metabolizing
the essence of otherness.
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 12:35 PM UTC
I've been thinking probably way too much
as is the rhythm of my mind
about rocks, pebbles, sand and such
and where my loyalties lie
what boon work this world of faceless cogs
demands of my willow tree
is warping what sense of beauty there was
and fulfilment in creating these
colours that flutter like the turbulent mixture
of life blood my pen's so obsessed with
and maybe it's due to the beat that those hues
drum through my every fibre and limb
because when you make me force me to create
these armfuls and mouthfuls of sand
the vibrant inferno it splutters and chokes
and cries to me, how can you stand?
How do you sit like the sandman in his suit
whose mind is long barren of rocks
or those women you hate while their gravel gossip grates
with sheer nothingness, their words will be lost
how do you breathe when the mark you should leave
on this earth lies somewhere buried beneath
that avalanche of assignments, oh fool don't deny them
they smothered your love of the free
somehow you bear the pain, no buzz in your veins
do you remember them glowing so bright?
like the twisted surge and flow of headlights on dark roads
you could've bled a skyline,
you know it is not lost that time...
when water is empty, it watches in glass pillars
you only thirst for those hues
and your only hunger is to feel no longer
the weight of ideas decaying unused
when every cell and molecule rippling within you
is finally full from the fruits
of heaving a sigh when that creature comes to life
only a hint of the vision inside you
until then, dear inferno, I sigh, you do not know
the agony of building these damns
of papers and alarm clocks and quotidian gutter droplets
the ebb of the life of the Man
but this searing pain is not all to no gain
for these empty books will rot away
and the platform they chose for me, bricks laid in rows for me
I will step off as light as the day
when the sun rises orange, so deep I can taste it
melting over the sand
that I sleep on and stand on and build archways of light upon
no longer fills the hollows of my hands
then inferno dear inferno, how luminous we will glow
we will be everything we are
we are not sand and pebbles, gravel and stones
we are rocks like the jagged earth's scar
but for now I must tolerate those grains as they bite and grate
and nibble what makes me who I am
and hope that these hands and their rainforest of plans
will not be eroded by this sea of sand
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
I look to you with tired eyes and arms wide; guide me
They say patience is a virtue, and when his hands dropped cold I waited
Someone told me once that you know the meaning of life, the meaning of death; but I guess there's not much of a difference is there?
Dear God, I hope you were watching as his soul spilled from his parted lips; I hope you watched me try to catch it with cupped hands and helpless armfuls
I hope you're satisfied, he's quite a bitter man, I hope you treat him better than I ever did
Please don't tell him I'm sorry, not because he already knows but because he'd never believe it
God, I'm not quite sure how this whole death thing works, but last time I checked, he had no clue who I was
And I know I'm new to this whole praying thing but dear God, I pray to you, please, please keep it that way
He may not be the greatest man but he does not deserve that
Dear God, I come to you with tired eyes, arms wide, and a lifetime supply of desperation or faith or whatever you call it up there
Dear God, I hope you're listening
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 6:32 PM UTC
The moonlight passes through
foggy mist in an avalanche;
creeping tendrils hold balance
with the warmer air below.
I wash, in circles, the light from my face
with great scooping armfuls
of blissfully animated space.
Arms held, rounded.
Not held, rather perched,
effortlessly bending this warmth
slowly gathering around my core.
A tingle of sensation;
a signal of joy --
a standing ovation from my senses,
congratulating me for paying attention.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 10:44 PM UTC
you look young today,
you see yourself in the reflection of the mirror.
as we sit, all too familiarly,
you christen yourself,
"lady in waiting".
we laugh even now,
at the things we couldn't change.
we talk of your wedding ring,
'who shall have it?'
'want it?'
relic of a failed marraige
i think of the night he locked you out,
you so cold without a coat.
we curse him and the moon that night,
mocking us as I swept you in my arms.
yesterday you fell three times,
just now you see fireflies blooming from my locket
and i steal armfuls of lilacs for you.
you accept them graciously,
but you let them fall to the floor.
the ambulance comes in an instant.
my lips startle yours,
as i lift you into back,
and kiss you goodbye.
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 12:20 AM UTC
The scrawny, slump-shouldered kid in the sweatshirt
grabbed as many Double AA batteries as he could hug
into the waiting ***** of his faded, ratty hoodie
from the display rack at the pharmacy down the block.
He made a run for it, slipping out the sliding doors,
into the starless night splashed across that inky empyrean.
It wasn’t necessary at all, he got out of there scot-free.
No one noticed any pilfering until they did the nightly inventory.
But his world was small, and he went back the next day for a juice.
The manager who was being interviewed perfunctorily by a cop
recognized him from his review of the security footage.
The kid got caught unawares, was arrested on the spot.
When he bonded out, he had to repay his brother the surety
so he headed to the other corporate pharmacy across the street
and grabbed armfuls of cartons of cigarettes he knew he could sell
on the corner, for he had no other means of repayment.
He had no job, no car, no degree, no nothing, nada, nada, nada.
His blinkered world was circumscribed, limited, hemmed in,
circled by how far he could walk, trudge in a blizzard.
He made it out the whooshing door, again faced flashing lights.
In that moment, as the booked him back in county lockup
behind the thick slab of plexiglass, the guard smirked,
“haven’t I seen you here before, just like a day ago?”
He then knew it was all hopeless, oh so hopeless, an endless cycle.
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 3:48 AM UTC
Put the laundry in the washer
Turn it on
Twist the silver dial
delicate
Get the rest off of you floor
In a laundry basket
Years worth
a large collection of cloth things
Drag the plastic baskets down the basement stairs
You're halfway there
Carry the ***** dishes
Armfuls and sticky fingers
But at least you were eating
Even if some days its just mugs with dried tea bags you are accepting something into the shell you become
I sit on the floor
And start putting markers back into my craft drawer
Thinking about how she liked to draw
And how she was so good at it
But she will not live long
With her condition
I shake my head
Pick up candy wrappers and place them in the trash
I think about how my 92 year old grandmother is dying more everyday
And I haven't seen her in 3 years
Family difficulty
I carry the trash bags down stairs
And wash my hands three times
Fold the laundry
I do this every few months
After midnight motivation
Comes
And I'll take anything I can get
I lay in bed
Took a sleeping pill so I wouldn't have to deal with my head
The melatonin makes the nightmares go away
And that's because I can't stay up late enough to become scared of my brain
I can't control anything
But sometimes I can
Clean
....
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 11:20 AM UTC
Raking autumn leaves
the color of sea stars
mottled on moist ground
I watch them fall
spinning slowly through blue sky
as if the breeze was a tide
ebbing and rising
the rake feels like a paintbrush
collecting color
muddied by mixing
into a fall palette
a still life with fruit
pears and apples still unblemished
on branch attached
but mushy and vinegar smelling
our big white Pyr
helps herself to fallen fruit
laying claim to each orb
her huge paws on either side
moist nose buried
in the rust of the Bosch
the red of the Delicious
we fill a wheelbarrow of leaf draped fruit
to bring below for coyotes
we trap on camera
motion sensed
but motionless
Malama the Pyr
waits whining wondering
if our chill morn together has ended
but the leaves are piles of the fallen
our task is not yet done
more are gathered on tarp
and dragged to garden bed
to blanket wintersleep of bulb and tuber
to feed in their decay
the new blooms of a next spring day
I have always raked
far preferring the quiet metal combing
through grassy tangled tufts
over motored loud blower’s hum
sending Moore's leaves whirling skyward
but I am no longer tempted
to jump in the pile
gathering armfuls whose yellow color
is a child's crayon sun
and toss them for a second fall
no longer are they bagged
in thick black plastic to wait
decomposition amongst the landfill’s
less pastoral refuse
nor are they burned
sending acrid leaf spirit smoke
into the cold pale blue
of October afternoon
now their raking is not a ridding
a discarding of what was season’s decoration
soon useless brown
but more of a farewell
a leaving of the light
an offering of what is still of use
in the aged for what will be
a period of cold and dark
and winter's rest
before the next season of green
begins
Oct 27, 2019
Oct 27, 2019 at 8:28 PM UTC
Now the sirens weep about the inlet,
Red-eyed, she goes walking beachward somedays;
While the men are picking grasses, she is staring
At the wide expanse that took her boy away.
And the waves become emboldened now to touch her,
Softly sinking sands surround her knees;
In the forests of brazilwood, factors shudder
For the troops that they had marshalled,
Raked with fire in armfuls,
Cut down in the darkness of the trees.
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 5:54 PM UTC