"backwoods" poems
He was large as frogs go
Fist-sized happy rotund dweller
of backyard pond
Garter snake large, too large
with his ominous yellow stripes
and jaws to take
a larger than average mouthful
Choked by abdomen's girth
Legs drooling from his glut
Before the victim's even hit his gut's
digestive juices
Kid with hockey stick makes him puck
for his sin
Frog makes desperate
slim swim for rocks
Where he lies in recovery
from shock and
teeth marks on his belly
Underdog gets defense from phone call-- Eve
150 miles away
intercedes
Frog gets mercy of a transport
to another backwoods pond--
to find his life
forgetting trauma
Suns himself and swims
Eats the bugs
and ***** the froglettes
of another day
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 8:39 PM UTC
Daddy takes me to the greenhouse,
behind our rotted trailer, deep in sovereign backwoods.
Marsh voices, thick like tupelo honey.
The coo of a loon, hiss of a cottonmouth, shiver of a snapping turtle.
The silver of swamp lilies lip the land in wild haze,
a veil of ochre moss tickles my nose like gauzey ginger ale
and soil clings to my ankles like a lonesome hound.
Daddy’s greenhouse is a shed, a haven.
A milieu of magic and fleur-de-cannabis
where pixies pull my curls and gnomes dance
under mushroom parasols.
My hands dip into a hollow of muddy earthworms.
I feel akin to the yellow blood of a butterfly
or pale jade of perplexing geckos.
Daddy is a shaman.
He trims holy blooms that come from spirits
who sing in the wind like the whippoorwill at dusk.
Snipping sticky bushels, he pads tufts into his pipe,
carved in the shape of a sullen armadillo.
I watch him inhale.
His breath
stiff
as a braid of mangroves.
He exhales a ligneous cough.
I don’t mind,
much.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 3:18 PM UTC
This yellow saree she wore
Just once in her life had wrapped
A coy twenty-year-old bride
Tentatively setting her dainty foot
Into the hesitant bridal home .
Somewhere in the backwoods
Several industrious silkworms
Had spun miles of salivary yarn
In the foliage of the mulberry tree
To make this golden yellow saree .
The rustle of her silk drowned
The wails of the boiling cocoons
The worms died that beauty would live
In their plaintive cries lay bridal hopes .
My mother, the bride of yesteryears,
Is now as non-existent as the worms
That had ceased to exist spinning
The smooth silk for her bridal finery .
Her bridal fragrance lives on among
The delicate folds of these gossamer silks
That the worms had died weaving.
Death is so fragrant , so memorable.
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 6:03 AM UTC
Rainy nights thinking about Rwanda,
fog seeps out of the woods.
Like smoke, it crawls across the fields.
My head lights attempt to cut through it,
as it intensifies, inhibiting my drive,
but it’s nothing compared to Rwanda.
I arrive at the Mobil,
wait five minutes for the cashier to notice I’m here.
When she does, she hobbles over.
I attempt to buy a pack of backwoods,
my card gets declined,
but it’s nothing compared to Rwanda.
I get in my car,
and have a fit when I can’t find my keys,
but it’s nothing compared to Rwanda.
I begin to drive,
get cut off and curse fellow man,
but it’s nothing compared to Rwanda.
I ***** and I moan,
an entitled little ****
but I’m alive,
which many can’t say after Rwanda.
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 9:55 PM UTC
Maybe I need to write about it maybe I need to talk about it maybe I need to take a breath and breathe for second stop choking for a second chill out and breathe and inhale and maybe smoke just a **** just twitch to itch my itch I’m acting like a *****
That’s what started this anyway
Breaking girl code I’m alone I’m in my car thinking I’ll head to a bar maybe the Starbucks stoop drive past my old group write a poem or two alone screaming of you under the lights with the bugs down the way from all the places we used to stay and smoke blunts hit joints argue **** mock me mock sred turn her backwords smoking backwoods what’d you put in my herb your conspiracy’s in my head
Play pool scream at me hit on my friends **** me don’t call for help it’s all fun and games tell me you want to **** my mind it’s all lies it’s all lies tell me why this devil has got my tongue tell me what are you this vampire you’ve come to steal me of it all my whole mind my whole soul not even my hairs no more I can’t dance I can’t sing the better half of me is terrified of life and why because I let you take advantage of me my things your life is a blowtorch to all good beings I’ll make you regret everything you’ve ever done I’ve tried to show you love you can’t see you’re disgusting the way you kissed my cheek when you head butted me I’m done
But I call a ***** on her **** and I’m wrong thought I lost my best friend for awhile for white feminism **** but I’m still a ***** a snitch I’m losing all my **** I’m spiraling into too nice of women undeserving of their friendship I owe my gs everything
But I can’t seem to do a thing
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 4:24 PM UTC
He bursts in with an armload of mangoes
in various stages of perfect, rotten, or too soft. One rolls to the floor and
without hesitation, he picks it up and bites in, luscious unwashed, juices dripping down his chin.
"It's warm from the sun," he says, "and the ground. I found a lot of these on the ground."
I still my tongue and watch him eat it whole, like he eats all of life.
I asked him recently if he thought I was crazy, as some do.
He said no, I want all the same things.
I wished I could tell him how I always washed my mangoes and wiped my chin,
I thought if I wore a sweater and a slip and a hat at the right times, life would turn out okay.
I'd like to call him, tell him how the wind is blowing hair across my face now.
Instead, I sit quietly, in the backwoods of Virginia
eating an unwashed, unpeeled mango
with the juices dripping down my chin.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 1:31 AM UTC
it was the moon that fell through. a lump of gray astronaut
pale acne-blasted, an orphan of the dome, floating in a pond
face down; gasping... green brass minnows surge through diatoms
that have no word for moon; a legion of blind unicorn gall stones -
invisible to naked eyes; uncountable geometries horde the dark waters
they cannot disprove or disobey. large mouth bass inhale calcium polygons
they have never met; that have no word for large mouth bass -
that hasn't always been unknown as september is meaningless
now, even more so, the meaning is less,
without the moon... so
the last tide is false. a satellite has lost it's grip and displaced a placid
jewel of ice cold pause. in the backwoods of these. words. a. moon.
is. breathing. in. a. void. teeming. with. ancient. life.
it is a void, unfamiliar to a native of heaven. this void used to rise and fall
in obedience to the wax and wane. in accord with her orbit.
but now it burns the ocean of serenity with irony's forge.
pounding the stainless steel of unfathomable loss;
even the dross sustains a shape of things to come undone -
when the hammer falls and the blacksmith is a poet
born to ****** fables from mayflies. a natural.
the hammer was in the hand before the moon gained
a face or an ocean to adore it. it was there,
ticking like a season, burgeoning with locusts -
holding off the mob; the moon was long ago, slipping off the roof -
long before firemen met lightning.
the tide was a pious fool.
the measure was not the span of the impending verse, but the hour of it's
callous beauty, assembled. a lunacy, stripped of all moons.
and only the sun remaining -
to behold the uncanny descent of a faithful, vestigial goddess.
a yellow throne. a yellow eye. and the sun's first chill...
as wave after wave of syllables sum succulent sorrows -
savoring sacred symmetries, asymmetrically... summoning -
super luminary strawberry switchblades,
saving sanity for questions with question marks.
this poem fell through. a lung collapsed or not.
and the moon is at the bottom of my heart.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:17 AM UTC
There ain't nothing backwoods
about this place,
I just heard Sublime blaring
at the local BBQ eatery.
Love is all they got
& that placing was jamming.
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 4:25 PM UTC
it was the moon that fell through. a lump of gray astronaut
pale acne-blasted, an orphan of the dome, floating in a pond
face down; gasping... green brass minnows surge through diatoms
that have no word for moon; a legion of blind unicorn gall stones -
invisible to naked eyes; uncountable geometries horde the dark waters
they cannot disprove or disobey. large mouth bass inhale calcium polygons
they have never met; that have no word for large mouth bass -
that hasn't always been unknown as september is meaningless
now, even more so, the meaning is less,
without the moon... so
the last tide is false. a satellite has lost it's grip and displaced a placid
jewel of ice cold pause. in the backwoods of these. words. a. moon.
is. breathing. in. a. void. teeming. with. ancient. life.
it is a void, unfamiliar to a native of heaven. this void used to rise and fall
in obedience to the wax and wane. in accord with her orbit.
but now it burns the ocean of serenity with irony's forge.
pounding the stainless steel of unfathomable loss;
even the dross sustains a shape of things to come undone -
when the hammer falls and the blacksmith is a poet
born to ****** fables from mayflies. a natural.
the hammer was in the hand before the moon gained
a face or an ocean to adore it. it was there,
ticking like a season, burgeoning with locusts -
holding off the mob; the moon was long ago, slipping off the roof -
long before firemen met lightning.
the tide was a pious fool.
the measure was not the span of the impending verse, but the hour of it's
callous beauty, assembled. a lunacy, stripped of all moons.
and only the sun remaining -
to behold the uncanny descent of a faithful, vestigial goddess.
a yellow throne. a yellow eye. and the sun's first chill...
as wave after wave of syllables sum succulent sorrows -
savoring sacred symmetries, asymmetrically... summoning -
super luminary strawberry switchblades,
saving sanity for questions with question marks.
this poem fell through. a lung collapsed or not.
and the moon is at the bottom of my heart.
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 11:07 AM UTC
Voices In His Head
backwoods of his mind
birds and bees stutter blossoms
seeds of apathy grow
a lone dwarf rabbit
burrows under a bonsai
trunk's a beaten path
waterfalls to nowhere
life's knotted of shallow pools
voice ... go to deep end
Logan Robertson
5/20/17
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 12:24 AM UTC
Packed in
Van shifts
Tires spin
Band roams
Desert dome
Hippie echo
Violin outskirts
Nuisance collaborator
Car crash drunk
River rolls forward
Boat rolls on
Crocodile way
Locust love
Backwoods harmonica
Dead wasp windshield
Oil pipelines old Texas radio
Kentucky derby fashion show
Rock stars and movie actors
Young kids and rock gods
Music recorded on the road
Apr 14, 2012
Apr 14, 2012 at 9:04 AM UTC
o, rèmy martin dreamer,
with cheap hen on your breath.
the good brown is not the backwoods
or juul pods in virgina tobacco,
&
maybe the good brown manifests in my hair,
before the ammonia, touching my scalp
and turning it as red as my tongue after
a strawberry lollipop. everything
tastes like you.
&
i wish i could touch you again,
just hold your hand, brush your
elbow, play with your hair.
but i also wish i could drive a thousand
machetes into your flesh, while screaming
&
writhing with trash-sickened fervor .
you are vomit-inducing. you smell
like a thousand patchouli-burning
stoners, but you feel like velvet
and taste like sugar-sweat.
you might be popping a xan right now,
knee-deep in beautiful girls.
and i'm still dope-sick.
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 12:14 PM UTC
Why bother with a dollar when you can get down in the holler
play in the water with an otter and every other crawler
just like my father, who was half hillbilly half ***** collar
looking at a picture so much smaller, like a backwoods scholar
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 11:04 AM UTC
I'm in my underwear.
I'm wearing your shirt
And my favorite sweater.
I'm comfy
Cozy
Cool.
I'm not used to the chill here.
Maybe I could bare the backwoods.
I thought I was over my fear of isolation
But I'm not.
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
I was checking out the girls
Looking for a dance
When I got close enough
I saw her come on glance
I asked, "Do you two step"
She looked into my eyes
She said, "Honey, do you know
You're a mindreader in disguise"
JUST A DOWN HOME BOY
UPTOWN SATURDAY NIGHT
I WAS COUNTRY BACKWOODS
SHE'S BIG CITY LIGHTS
I WAS LOOKING FOR A CHEVY
WHEN A JAG ROLLED IN SIGHT
JUST A DOWN HOME COUNTRY BOY
UPTOWN SATURDAY NIGHT
Her perfume was awesome
It hit me like a truck
When it comes to being lucky
I never had so much
My first trip in the fast lane
i could feel the fun begin
While we talked about the weather
I felt a warm front moving in
REPEAT
With my long legged, two legged dear
Already zeroed in
It was hard to keep my fever
Under a hundred and ten
REPEAT
May 25, 2012
May 25, 2012 at 11:48 AM UTC
A backwoods lobotomy filling a five-gallon bucket
While her parents watched in earnest
Her head was just too big
I think she is pregnant
Then take care of it, just use the rusty coat hanger method
This bucket will need emptying first
Feed the slop to the swine
It looks like you two are going to be grandparents
This grotesque, mutilated corpse of an unborn
No, it looks like the pigs will be well-fed in the morning
How long until slaughter?
Hurry up and it will be done
Feb 23, 2011
Feb 23, 2011 at 10:46 AM UTC
i
In the astrology set agora
Wherein mine agra doth rest
The backwoods to her cache
Is a peaceful gentle nest.
ii
She's a cad of angelic estancia
I espy her espirit fandango
Her lace strand's floweth wildly
Fantasia of mine melody, extra terrestrial fangled.
iii
Mine Gage I handeth her, to not leaveth her side
An agala we shalt maketh romance, whilst gaiety is in her eyes
A Jardiniere to hold her tears, when Jasper's do cometh around
Jarrah to fill ourn kava diligence, diluvial amare is it's sound.
iv
No blunder head's to separate us
Just Bluebell's blush
To admire mine belle of a lamb
Her bema shalt be raised, when its me who is her man.
v
Ourn belvedere casa, ourn terrace to overlook
This is ourn story, not a tale of fools and crook's
The cover of ourn book, shalt we be entwined
Right inside the pages, of every lonesome lover's mind.
®Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Elsa angelica dedication
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 12:13 PM UTC
Sometimes we have a life long dream...
but not sure where to start....
and sometimes we must go to the extreme..
with a thought that's not so smart....
It started with an issue..
she knew she had to resolve..
Unaware of her options, but knew it had to be solved..
He destroyed the girl that she had been...
destroyed the world she had lived in...
She weighed the pro's and the con's..
and concluded it had to do with ponds...
So she set out on a mission..
and decided to save for her own condition.
A well deserved vacation in the " Florida Keys"..
for her and her honey , and with his money....
The months how they passed...
So slowly, then at last...
The day they left was 20 below..Brrr..cold
Soon they were driving down Old Cheney Road..
A backwoods road where the St. Johns' River flowed..
I hear the fishing there is great...
You'll get a bite with very little bait..
They reached the lake in the early morn..
and that is where her plot was born..
She poured the coffee she had made..
and laced it with some " gator aide "....
Here my love she said so sweetly..
I made this special for you my sweetie..
The cast was made, the bait was set..
No reason for her to sweat or fret...
Eyes did close and body went limp..
She started to shake and then thought..
Come on girl be strong don't be a wimp..
No one knows we're here or where we're at..
She rolled the body to the edge of the water...
heard a splash !..it was only an otter...
Within a flash, the body was trash...
there must have been 20 gators below..
ripping and flipping the body about..
She packed up and decided to go back the scenic route....
post note: I've always wanted to be my own boss, and now due to my recent loss..
The Insurance is an assurance and I don't have to wait...
I'll open a store and call it " GATOR BAIT "
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 2:32 PM UTC
Through the street lights and brutalist cliffs,
blinking beams echo my breath.
Laughter still bleeds in my throat, conversations still pierce my ears, alas
A Kodak haze, a synchronized buzz
and agony is gone. For most are
nothing but pines,
A sleeping balm, a charming whiff, all the
same submissive to a whirr.
As a child, they left me in awe
Now I know they're nothing more
than a palisade for the sea. Those
that bid time in the isometric
backwoods, simply haven't the clue,
that no concrete can still her.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 12:06 PM UTC
Alcoholic writer is a brand
But is worthy of monuments
Schizophrenic mind, neurotic head
Pull out the monsters from under the bed
And give them a home in your story
You’ve got to feel it in your bones
Said the artist of integrity
They ***** a crucifix, they dig your grave
Later they’ll analyze how you behaved
And build you temples of worship
No one wants to be a fossil
In the backwoods of one’s own skull
In a world that pushes you away
Then in death embraces your way-
That kind of imitation is not flattery
So support your fellow man
While he’s still kicking
Buy him a drink
Ask him to think
And get his autograph on a rum-soaked napkin
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 10:37 AM UTC
You see it happens every now and then
This whole world starts caving in
That's when I know it is time to go
Break a link in this chain
You see I thank my lucky stars I'm a Country Boy
And the concrete and blacktop really annoy
This down home backwoods kinda man
Have to leave this rat race when I can
You see the only thing that will give me a rest
Is miles full blue sky's I'm never stressed
My dog and a shotgun, or fishin pole.
Mother Nature you'll find my heart and soul
You see all I ever wanted in this here life
Are the simple things without any strife
I'm just a gentle laid back kinda man
Down home Country Boy yes I am
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 8:59 AM UTC
raised by wolves
thirty three pints of blood before the final verdict
backwoods altar
the road to the gallows is still dirt
technology doesn't reach places like here
full moon symbolism
muscles tend to prove as abstractions in proper limb dislocation
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 11:59 PM UTC
Great fades to gray
where commonplace turns to decay
where the abnormal becomes negatively neurological
which leads to the ingestion of government sector sedatives
and we wonder why segregation of brain and mind is prominent
promises never kept and mind that never gets better
but before we fix the broken we must make you broke.
Objects in the mirror to fit society's standards
E news, TMZ, fox- all the new cancer.
Throw your money at it
make it go away
and watch in awe as the auction of your autonomy accelerates-
your mind is money to the highest bidder
and they don't budge when they watch your wallet quiver.
Quiet in the courtroom-
little Kyle's got a drug charge
searched his car without consent
convict at the age of sixteen
which is sickening to see.
Kyle was just depressed and needed a little THC
the only thing that would help him with social anxiety
and now he's facing a charge for not taking the meds
marijuana manipulation of the municipals
and now little kyle won't be able to go to a good school
18 the record will be swiped clean
but the debt of the courtroom creeps into his credit.
Society's white lies will tell you you'll be fine
debt from the courtroom turn to slanging dope-
dealing with depression while dealing in possession
pulled over, twice moreover propaganda's progression.
They feed us the same lies we go out of our way to buy-
news channels, channeling bias views for more views
sitting idly by as our lives pass through
changing channels as we become the chattel
slaves to our own brain waves from the manipulation
we love to bow down to this free nation
led by puppets- controlled by intimidation tactics.
It's just backwards, the backbone of the nation doesn't have one
Columbine happened because little Kyle could get a gun, run-
repeat until it's done, dictating your discrimination
it's fun until everyone has to run away from the shooter.
Bangs heard throughout the world
talk of how his head was on backwards smoking on these backwoods
But he was off the marijuana and on the medicine-
FDA approved turned into a bullet to the head.
BANG.
Sinister structure of society-
**** america why did you have to lie to me.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 10:32 AM UTC
More than a cloudless sky filled with falling stars
More than a sunny day while driving in my car
More than standing at the tip of a waterfall mist
Perhaps, even more than my very first kiss,
You’re still more amazing than any of this
Out of everything beautiful, you the top list
More than the sight of a haloed full moon
More than a great date not ending too soon
More than a cool breeze on a hot, sandy coast
Maybe more than giving the perfect wedding toast
Thoughts of having you bring me even more hope
Enough so for me to discard my telescope
I know I’ve found my star I was searching for
Confident I’m the water my flower’s thirsting for
You feel better than relief from an open sore
Your sound is superior to a faultless music score
I can’t imagine you not filling my every thought
You’re everything that anyone has ever sought
You mean more than anything I’ve ever bought
Some would dispose of you without knowing the cost
I’m so glad I’m not them; I know greatness when I see it
A king is only a king once the queen has been seated
Yeah, I know my place, but I won’t remind you of yours
Though, I will remind you of what our future has in store
Our destination can be whatever we think it should
We can discover countries or explore our backwoods
Whichever course we choose, as long as it’s together,
It’s still perfect enough that only heaven could be better
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC