"bedraggled" poems
AMBIGRAM VIII
Recto:
Yesterday was Christmas, and the days
already start to grow a little longer.
In our hand, the new year‘s fledgling, stronger
though more fragile too in many ways
than this bedraggled, aging crow, its song a
a sad, repeated phrase among the blackened
trees along a river. So sit back and
raise your glasses to it, do the conga,
auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And black and
white explode, a throng of rainbows—gaze!
You‘ll see it, wakened in the morning haze,
ascending as the tethering s tring is slackened:
Verso:
Yesterday was Christmas, and
the days already start to grow
a little longer. In our hand,
the new year‘s fledgling, stronger though
more fragile too in many ways
than this bedraggled, aging crow,
its song a sad, repeated phrase
among the blackened trees along a
river. So sit back and raise
your glasses to it, do the conga,
auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And
And black and white explode, a throng of
rainbows—gaze! You‘ll see it, wakened
in the morning haze, ascend-
ing as the tethering string is slackened.
AMBIGRAM
Recto:
Yesterday was Christmas, and the days
already start to grow a little longer.
In our hand, the new year‘s fledgling, stronger
though more fragile too in many ways
than this bedraggled, aging crow, its song a
a sad, repeated phrase among the blackened
trees along a river. So sit back and
raise your glasses to it, do the conga,
auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And black and
white explode, a throng of rainbows—gaze!
You‘ll see it, wakened in the morning haze,
ascending as the tethering s tring is slackened:
Verso:
Yesterday was Christmas, and
the days already start to grow
a little longer. In our hand,
the new year‘s fledgling, stronger though
more fragile too in many ways
than this bedraggled, aging crow,
its song a sad, repeated phrase
among the blackened trees along a
river. So sit back and raise
your glasses to it, do the conga,
auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And
And black and white explode, a throng of
rainbows—gaze! You‘ll see it, wakened
in the morning haze, ascend-
ing as the tethering string is slackened.
AMBIGRAM
Recto:
Yesterday was Christmas, and the days
already start to grow a little longer.
In our hand, the new year‘s fledgling, stronger
though more fragile too in many ways
than this bedraggled, aging crow, its song a
a sad, repeated phrase among the blackened
trees along a river. So sit back and
raise your glasses to it, do the conga,
auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And black and
white explode, a throng of rainbows—gaze!
You‘ll see it, wakened in the morning haze,
ascending as the tethering s tring is slackened:
Verso:
Yesterday was Christmas, and
the days already start to grow
a little longer. In our hand,
the new year‘s fledgling, stronger though
more fragile too in many ways
than this bedraggled, aging crow,
its song a sad, repeated phrase
among the blackened trees along a
river. So sit back and raise
your glasses to it, do the conga,
auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And
And black and white explode, a throng of
rainbows—gaze! You‘ll see it, wakened
in the morning haze, ascend-
ing as the tethering string is slackened.
AMBIGRAM
Recto:
Yesterday was Christmas, and the days
already start to grow a little longer.
In our hand, the new year‘s fledgling, stronger
though more fragile too in many ways
than this bedraggled, aging crow, its song a
a sad, repeated phrase among the blackened
trees along a river. So sit back and
raise your glasses to it, do the conga,
auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And black and
white explode, a throng of rainbows—gaze!
You‘ll see it, wakened in the morning haze,
ascending as the tethering s tring is slackened:
Verso:
Yesterday was Christmas, and
the days already start to grow
a little longer. In our hand,
the new year‘s fledgling, stronger though
more fragile too in many ways
than this bedraggled, aging crow,
its song a sad, repeated phrase
among the blackened trees along a
river. So sit back and raise
your glasses to it, do the conga,
auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And
And black and white explode, a throng of
rainbows—gaze! You‘ll see it, wakened
in the morning haze, ascend-
ing as the tethering string is slackened.
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 3:26 PM UTC
Cicadas whine metallically
In trees along the sweltered streets;
Wasps and hornets arc angrily
Enough to cause me fear.
Late summer’s not my favorite time of year.
Flowers nearly done;
The tulips, irises, and poppies
Long since seeded out;
They’ve had their fun.
Bedraggled day lilies remain,
This is the beginning of the mums.
Bees seek latent nectars
Or tap into their golden stores
To supplement their bumbling runs.
Lawns foist a burnt but stubborn edge
While only thistles still refuse
To bow to August's incessant heat;
Their spikes sprout poisonous defiance.
The dog’s left yellowed pools of dying grass;
I admit the neighbors’ lawns surpass.
I suppose the time to gather
Drying excrement’s returned, alas....
Keeping up appearances is hard at summer's end.
Ennui of season full and just past ripe
Leaves tired old men like me
A chiding cause to gripe.
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 10:39 AM UTC
To have them shipped across the sea,
sitting like ornamental drops
tinsel strung around your eyes
pocketed the tree
walking down sunset avenue
reeking of bamboo stalks and water chestnuts
looking for a place to submerge your treasure
with a rattling breath do you deflate
And the Oak trunk that grows unimpeded
hanging her branches
caressing the Spaniard shingles
the clay missionary tabs
touching the stucco with a golden blade
of sunlight
cutting a thousand little strips
to hang about the face
moving a thousand miles a second
stopped in place with the quiet repose
of a yoga state
humming and shimmering
yet let me be sweet oak tree.
And I wander through the canyon boulevard
between the rocky cliffs and the endless riff
of surf-rock echoed off skate parks
and riding the PC
highway hair bedraggled and snaked into next week
lingering bonfire on the cotton shirt
plant for plant
*** for tat
seed to breed
Now dance, you and me.
Insinuation
drooling salivary tongue full
bacon
pigging out on burgers
getting red-eyes from vegans
smoking plants
murderers
We squirt,
relish on the act of dying
all things dying
choking life second by second
dying to live.
Staring at neon fins lining the gravel lot
Koi flickering beneath the celestial night
Suspended pondwater
pondering
In surfce tension
the deep mysteries of life
Tracing the snake through the winding streams
we watch atop the rooftop
Gaia
Taking in the burgeoning
Ocean of incandescent tangerine
and Peyote-light
Cacti hidden somewhere between
the quiet slumber of mindless streets
aligned by formless hands
Drinking the mescaline
air
Twisting the nightly moments
as locks of hair
I curled them, slipping, within my fingertips
tracing the long winding road of Tao
along her shoulders
Enraptured by her sensual bliss
When I finally drifted along the clouded memories
of divine rumbling eyes
she disappeared into the sky
blinking along the Jet turbines
Never meant to be mine
for more than a night
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 12:25 AM UTC
When I put her out, once, by the garbage pail,
She looked so limp and bedraggled,
So foolish and trusting, like a sick poodle,
Or a wizened aster in late September,
I brought her back in again
For a new routine--
Vitamins, water, and whatever
Sustenance seemed sensible
At the time: she'd lived
So long on gin, bobbie pins, half-smoked cigars, dead beer,
Her shriveled petals falling
On the faded carpet, the stale
Steak grease stuck to her fuzzy leaves.
(Dried-out, she creaked like a tulip.)
The things she endured!--
The dumb dames shrieking half the night
Or the two of us, alone, both seedy,
Me breathing ***** at her,
She leaning out of her *** toward the window.
Near the end, she seemed almost to hear me--
And that was scary--
So when that snuffling ****** of a maid
Threw her, *** and all, into the trash-can,
I said nothing.
But I sacked the presumptuous hag the next week,
I was that lonely.
3.9k
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Four Irises tall & gallant, looking though
slighted worn out, a tad bedraggled
they are springtime survivor stragglers
of the Great Spring Weather Battle.
living in an open trench, battle conditions,
wind-whipped by constant strong breezes,
raked by intermittent machine gun rain,
familiar weapons of the “handover” season
loyal guardians of their pinpoint position,
remaining on duty, standing at attention,
dignified amidst the serene, nearly summer, now,
accepting quietude & gratitude of surround soundings
arrow-straight, in dress uniforms of royally purple,
four lead a cohort of unbloomed green fellows,
protecting their charge, an ancient marker of time,
rusted-green bronze sundial, symbol of continuity
these four, boon companions to human and animal,
shall persist long after I cease to dabble in this art,
they greet their admirers in full regalia, every year,
long, long may they live, die and be yet reborn!
here, in place, when we arrived four decades ago, a tiny forever,
changelings heading a processional of the summer season,
greeting all with a simple story of constance of change, of beauty,
leading our Summertime Commencement Exercises
May 26 ~ 27, 2023
May 27, 2023
May 27, 2023 at 4:55 PM UTC
Joe Mole, Marnhull Danny
1974
His eyes were luminous steel blue, alive
with twinkling shards of mischievous fun.
His face, a weathered map of his long life:
brown and crumpled, carved by clean air and sun.
A grubby khaki flat-cap, jauntily askew,
bedraggled grey-green ancient jacket
secured with hairy binder-twine (calves too),
brown dungarees, muddy boots and thumb-stick.
His gruesome work was in grazing meadows
under attack from an invasion beneath
of unwelcome little furry fellows
destined to perish between steel-sprung teeth.
Tiny corpses hung in a row (job done)
on barbed wire like Joe met at Verdun.
A Danny was the name given to any man from the village of Marnhull in Dorset. The word was in common use locally during the 1970’s but is now rarely heard.
14 lines
(FBRSO)
Copywrite: Craig Andrew White,Author, July 2011.
Jul 12, 2011
Jul 12, 2011 at 2:41 PM UTC
Across the street,
Live the community of the old.
a network of inbreeding
left the branches of the family tree
entwined like a pipeline of too many years
that swim through the convoluted paths
forever,
sealing in the contents,
preserving the past.
Long bedraggled tresses
brush close to the latticework ground
Not a comb has come close
To break the wild knots that weave.
Nets buoy their authenticity
Forever wild,
Even though,
the world survives
on bowls brimmed with metal screws
The phantoms of depletion rise,
They are weightless, until
Pulverized
and they tumble,
Like hostages
They get caught between
The wisps of eternity.
Backlit sunset,
Illuminates the evergreen leaves,
The bulky necklace of frozen memories
Decorate my stiff neck
I am a victim of too many days spent
Watching screen protected versions of nature
that I forgot how thin skinned leaves really are
How the nervous system of enigmatic veins
hold DNA of their ancestors
Now, bathed in evening light
When heat from the stars erode from the sky
They are nothing but silhouettes of the past
Faceless, like torn out pages of a history book
shunned for its omniscient wisdom
so that the ashes can be planted
burying the past in the ground
standing still in the present
but reminding me,
the future is always as high as the sky.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 10:31 AM UTC
1 A little girl of eight
Was leaning on the gate,
Pondering the miracle of birth.
From her parents’ attitude
She thought it might be something rude
And was neither cause for sorrow nor for mirth.
2 By chance along the road
A little lady strode,
Hurrying from the vicar's after tea.
The girl thought, There’s Miss Price,
She is wise and nice,
She will solve my mystery for me.
3 Miss Price approached the gate,
The little girl in wait
Called out, Hallo, a lovely evening, too.
If you can spare the time
There's a problem on my mind,
A question I would like to ask of you.
4 The lady, coming near,
Said, Yes, of course, my dear,
I'll surely try to put your mind at rest.
Although I'm not a sage,
With the wisdom of my age,
You can rest assured I'll do my best.
5 I’ve a brother now, you see,
He was born at five oh three,
He's upstairs in the bedroom now with Mum.
And now I’m full of doubt,
I've tried but can't find out—
Please tell me, miss, from where do babies come?
6 Miss Price, a little shocked,
Thought she was being mocked.
Good Lord, she thought, what can I tell this child?
A spinster all her life—
No experience as a wife
This subject always made her feel defiled.
7 Miss Price looked all about
Seeking a way out;
Anything to stop this sinful talk.
Then, clutching at a straw,
With her dim old eyes she saw
The poor bedraggled, drunk and gasping stork.
8 She pointed at the roof
And in a tone aloof
Said, There is how your brother came to you.
I’m surprised you haven't heard
That all babies come by bird,
And now I must be off, so toodle-oo.
The little girl turned and looked up at the stork.
And the stork, to his eternal credit, winked.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 8:12 PM UTC
The door opened, he entered
There was a whoosh of air
The Bluesman looked bedraggled
And he grabbed himself a chair
Cy, came out, he heard the bell
Saw the Bluesman, gave a smile
He said "I see the storm is worse"
"It's gonna keep up for a while"
The Bluesman looked around the store
Saw a guitar on the wall
"She's an old one hanging over there"
He called to Cy, now down the hall
He grabbed it, rubbed the neck some
He said "she's got a lot to say"
He went back to the wooden chair
And the Bluesman, he did play
"There's lots of music in this girl"
"So many songs not sung"
He looked back at the hook behind
Where this old guitar had hung
He sang songs about Jesus
about freedom, and the moon
Amazingly for the guitars age
It wasn't out of tune
Cy went to the pawn stores back
returning with a flask
He'd brought the Bluesman medicin
The Bluesman continued with his task
"This old girls a treasure trove"
"She's just so full of words"
"Songs kept hidden for so long"
"Songs just waiting to be heard"
He played some more, the storm let up
He thanked Cy, took his leave
"An old guitar needs to be played"
"It's lost songs to be grieved"
"You know that you can play her"
"Whenever you come by"
The Bluesman turned and smiled
He held the flask given by Cy
"That old guitar is special"
"She's an old soul, just like me"
"I thank you for the offer"
"Time will tell, we'll see"
The Bluesman left the pawnshop
It was if he wasn't there
He went out back behind Gianni's
And sang his music to the air
Oct 8, 2017
Oct 8, 2017 at 3:41 PM UTC
He captains the ship
with a grin
You’re all in
Hoist the sail
Climb the rigging
Settle down in the cabin
Close that door in behind,
You want to go live in
His life, your life, his wife
You say
He scoffs at the crew
But not you
You’re the maiden
He’ll find treasure to hide
In you he’ll confide
And provide
The answers you desired
He knows best
You say
When seas are rough
And he’s had enough
Surrounding ships wreck
All are affected
Once important neglected
It can’t go undetected, surely,
As he undresses you
with his insults
Addresses all your faults
He’s just stressed
You say.
Your attempts to rekindle
Throw you overboard
His words
undercurrents,
that drag you beneath.
Used to swim
Now amongst the weeds
Can’t help but concede
He needs me
You say
You struggle
You had learnt to blow bubbles
But now you’re in trouble
A muddle
Confuddled
That’s typical for you
He says
You plead to be rescued
Lock eyes with the crew
But they’re through
So washed ashore
Bedraggled and torn
He picks you up
Keeps you safe,
Loved
And warm
You say
Dec 2, 2023
Dec 2, 2023 at 3:34 AM UTC
Five steps or five thousand
Her gait is just the same
Poets, painters
Can be tortured souls
But gardeners
Are at one with the world
No screens flash
No keyboard clicks
A woman she must prove her worth
Hood up, body bent
Her conversation polite
But minimal
Her gaze steadfast
Down to earth
Her gloved hands
Coaxing life from the bedraggled
Winter flower bed
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 6:16 AM UTC
White as a sordid awakening
Hollow, shallow, swallows
Me like an aged cavern
When mother comes in
She is scared to find me
Pale and blue
The window is a hole
Curtains like bedraggled women
Clutch at themselves
She stumbles through a gathering
Of talkative charcoal
And pastel on the floor
Scattered and sallow
Turpentine twists in sweet sashes
Round and round her neck
She calls, wavering already
Diving obliquely through the sea
She reaches for me on the mattress
In the bookshelf,
Behind easels, pallete
Beneath the bridge of the table
A thousand gales of hues blow
Ruffling a thousand shadows
Thousand murmurs decieve her
Into breathing relief.
I see her heart a flickering flame:
Waves of my deathlessness
Shove her around.
Mother, mother, come closer
I call from the lean wooden
Parapet of the canvas
I dance her about in the sky
Stroke the hair, as
She cries, holding my solidity
Thin, bony; her hands shake
Like factory floors
Rancid blooms of a stubborn faith
Scotch her oak-brown skin
And all the walls watch our show
Disintegration occurs
As she searches for me
Kicking clatter and dust around
I a pebble in the pebbles of me
She picks, examines, throws
Picks examines, throws
All while tumbling
Into into into the stench
Of my keen blue decay
Brushstroke, word, scream and plea
She takes all the noise along
Into the beautiful world
Gaunt, I crawl clawing out
I am monster now
And she is painted.
Sep 1, 2023
Sep 1, 2023 at 10:55 AM UTC
The cutting edge never felt so safe
As it did in your hands as you built me up
To the highest of rooftops then sliced me to shreds
And dangled my bedraggled mind from the ledge
The howling wind never felt so calm
As it did in my ears when you waved goodbye
With the hand that had held me so high and so hard
Turned soft as your pity filled smile from afar
The solid ground never felt so sure
Running into my arms like a long lost lover
Spearing my thoughts with its soul searching gaze
Shattering bones in its forceful embrace
The lonely road never felt so crowded
As it did with my head and my heart shared around
Chill winter rain washing the ground where I lay
Blowing clean through my soul as they took me away
My (final) resting place never felt so disturbed
As I, in my eternal bed in the air
Find myself bound and tied up to the post
As smiling you endlessly toy with my ghost,
As endlessly smiling you toy with my ghost.
Aug 18, 2011
Aug 18, 2011 at 3:40 AM UTC
At his face it got harder to stare
But in his truth he would glower
Into this looking glass
That looks right back
At the years of age
That washed his face
Over that disgraced fortnight
and it’s dragging scrape
What was his counted,
that ruffling came natural
In a sentiment of the innate
and the inner mechanics of his climate
Co-Walkers, he thought viewed him a cynics ornate
From then on, became perpetually discounted
Though his face got harder to look at
by its contents,
Optics inflamed
and wrinkles elongated
to his whiskers growing skyward
a striking true spruce in essence to become
Nevertheless a bedraggled authentic
Just before a flooding pooled his lids
or the dawning of his tears
Until this vanish to enhance
These characters took on relevance
Apropos of what he saw looking back
The girl, his love, the spirit inside his drive
She could see all directions, like hands on a clock,
Every hour the dialed sun would tower
Giving her all his angles,
She could anticipate all of this,
including all opposites
She could see all that
To her,
His face was not hard to stare
Still chiseled but shaved,
like polished marble glare
Her love was true for years
Opposing claims would be intercepted when asked if during she dabbled in deception
Then immediately accepted their quiz, taking near comfort as she’s done for years placing her lips closer to his eyes,
she kissed his cheek and licked his tears
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 11:08 PM UTC
The hillside before me rolled out like a wave
awash in my thoughts 'til I noticed the grave
the headstone was tilted and covered in rot
a memory of someone forgotten, but not.
The scene triggered feelings which drew me way back
to a time when I dwelt in a one bedroom shack
the love of my life had grown cold, and despairing,
my heart shriveled up like an unpickled herring
I remembered thereafter, and oh, what a mess
I led me to places too dark to confess,
dying for flowers from somebody dear
I'd fill up my window box year after year.
and soon the depression grew into a hedge
though flowering plants kept me back from the ledge
"I'll never be happy! " I quite often thought
a forgotten old headstone all covered in rot.
I swore if I ever recovered again
I'd wait for the right one, the Boaz of men
but for all of the damage, the shape my heart's in
be blessed if he'd notice, so how could I win?
With all of these memories weighing me down
I slapped myself silly and turned up the sound
and opened the windows to let in some air
the sun on my face and then suddenly...glare!
I veered off the highway which cut through the land
a two lane construction of asphalt and sand
took the embankment at an ungodly pitch
and suddenly airborne, shot over a ditch.
Landing my vessel across the divide
I hoped for the best for it's brave underside
the dust settled soon, and how foolish I felt
Thank God I'd remembered to buckle my belt.
And there in the front seat, assessing my plight
dazed, but amazed at this beautiful sight
as 'Love is a Battlefield' blared in the grime
Wildflowers grew in the trenches of time!
You the forgotten who languish for years
ditched and bedraggled and drained of your tears
thinking you're nothing, a sunset that's fading
grieving love lost while your best years are waiting
Tend to your gardens wherever they are
keep yourselves fresh with the watering jar
Remember, like flowers, the wild ones too
your maker, your husband, will take care of you.
For your Maker is your husband--the LORD Almighty is his name--the Holy One of Israel is your Redeemer; he is called the God of all the earth.
Isaih 54:5
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 7:54 AM UTC
I walk on black crunchy sponge
barefoot, blank-minded, bedraggled
my backdrop is violent grey, green,
then white white white
wind whips my cheeks
then calms itself, calms me
I miss my sunshine on days like this
when the weather is rough
I appreciate it the most
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 10:45 AM UTC
This unkempt spread of damp, bedraggled lawn
Presents a sorry sight. And there, forlorn
In rotted heaps, the summer’s fruits decay,
While winter winds still strip the trees that sway
And scatter yet more leaves to sodden fields
Of mud and nettle. Each proud meadow yields
To colder days, and beaten tracks are churned,
Where baking summer sun had burned
The brittle grass and bracken. Gone the sound
Of insects. Idle stumps and logs are crowned
With moss and patterned lichen in the hush
Around this woodland scene: the brilliant blush
Of russet splendour (always all too brief)
And gilded floor of leaf on silent leaf.
Nov 15, 2010
Nov 15, 2010 at 5:09 AM UTC
A star up and dies
The universe sheds a tear
Particles fly everywhere
The Milky Way collapses
Half of infinity is gone
The Sun tilts on her axis
The Moon knows something's wrong
Oceans begin swelling
Water devours the land
Earth hasn't been this bedraggled
since life first began
Gravity forsakes her
Grounds fall to the sky
A celestial teardrop's ruthless goodbye
Sep 28, 2021
Sep 28, 2021 at 1:58 PM UTC
Beggar It!
Hair drenched hung at her neck.
Cold, bedraggled.
Left on the stone cold stairs.
Beside the house of the holy.
Fingers purple.
Blue, pink.
Fingertips smarting.
Fiery red inside.
Holly was her name.
Her visage as red as cherry ripe.
Tears her only friend.
Old enamel mug in turquoise.
Waiting to catch stray nickel coins.
Holds only pennies of memory.
Locked in her cold brain.
She cannot sing.
Nor play a note.
Busking is no option.
She wrote a poem of her own,
A kind of begging note.
She wrote it in bright colours.
In letters truly bold
Cry is all that she will do.
In hope's desperation.
That all is not lost.
She hopes someone will read her poem.
And,
****** her from the winter cold!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 3:12 PM UTC
The rain's been relentless
I've been soaked for two days
the wind blowing sideways
Unavoidable fray
Cold to bone, I run bathwater too hot to handle
Want to sweat it all out, and to run myself pure
Pale steam 'round me rising, obscuring the candles
and thoughts of you run though my head, like a lure.
My clothes lie bedraggled, cast here on the floor
kindling flashbacks of searching for mine in your room
fully dressed again, kindly you'd showed me the door
and I left, leaving heartstrings caught up in your loom.
So here I am, aching
so here I am, tired
so here I am, glad for the perfume you left
So here I am, hopeless
I'm mystified, following
bright flashing memories, indeliberate gifts.
How can it be, chest cavity filling with sorrow
What small sweetened curse did you drip in my heart?
Chemicals mine, and chemicals foreign
weave conundrums of pain as your next work of art.
I loathe to think you've one resentment against me
Did I clarify all clamoured in heart and head?
moth to flame, I remember you hate them,
don't hate me
but also, remember- they all end up dead.
You'll never know, just what a blessing our time was
Precious stone, as you know are important to me
I am that Roman candle, actinic in pearls
my fog soon in passing, and I will be free.
So please, don't let too much dust cover our glow
Synchronicitous, meant to be, beautiful, rare
Something splendid as that, should be held in the heart
Hands of time have a tendency- obscure and tear.
so here I am, peaceful
so here I am, salient
the memories of your arms around me, your chest
so here I'm imagining your face before me
how perfect our moments
Thankyou, lover;
I'm blessed.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 8:56 AM UTC
I have a bad taste in my mouth
one that toothpaste and scotch
can't make clean
tainted by temptation
thrown down a well
zipped close
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 4:05 PM UTC
(inhale)
I've got a confession and an apology cause I'm really really sorry like a cat left out in the rain I feel all bedraggled but there's nothing I can do about it but baby I'm sorry
(deep breath)
I don't love you.
(sigh)
I just don't love you baby, I don't even like you that way and I feel bad cause I care for you and I don't want to see you hurt but I've got to do it cause like a splinter it'll hurt worse the longer I avoid it and it'll fester and smell and I got to rip it off now quick as I can like a band-aid
(gasp)
It came to me when we were walking that I didn't want to hold your hand in front of everyone and let them see and I'm sorry baby cause I know I been leading you on because I thought I liked you enough that it wouldn't matter but I think I only love your shoulder to sleep on and your coat to cosy up in and I guess I didn't like your lips enough
(gasp)
And you know I'm sorry for leading you on but I think it's not just my fault you see there was something off about you and I've been hearing things about you and her and I don't want to be just a hookup to you cause baby I'm just not like that I need a guy who can stand by me and not just for the weeks that we've known each other cause we're both gonna go home a thousand thousand leagues away might as well be on Pluto
(gasp)
I wish I could love you.
I wish I could hate you.
This in-between-ness is just- distasteful.
(sigh)
I'm sorry.
(exhale)
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 12:33 AM UTC
The fields are stained with red, not whine.
The fields cry loudly without harmony.
The air is filled with violence,
Painting the air in shades of blue and black.
Onwards they go, no turning back.
An odd bird, bedraggled by the passing bullets at speed.
Uncertain future awaits.
Blinded by the flashes of the fighting.
An encore,
And another.
Nov 6, 2017
Nov 6, 2017 at 11:33 AM UTC
city heat in hard
black attire, superconductive
glow of a serpent chasing
its tail.
asphalted lay of holy land--
whose bedraggled pulse snorts
in ****** laughter.
roadside augurs fester while
tying the laces of traffic, through
passed out archways.
bird's beaks are broken open,
in mad waterless monologues.
as the nucleus of this wizened apple,
casts oblique shadows... for curly cue-ing worms
flirtatious doom.
sped billboards imminently flattening the world,
under a Columbus-blue sky.
going, going...gone!
ice cream trucks mangle dueling theme
songs, sloughed off by sensational tides of kids.
distraction's lustful lick, an informationless
tombstone busy with curves.
here, whole-body shaves of renouncement...
and steady showers of salt, will make
worthy the truest Himalayan meditation.
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 12:34 PM UTC
there is a woman who has been with me all this time
who’s felt the careening anguish of a family gone from three to two
who’s breathed oxygen into my sagging lungs
when then only thing in them was vaporous grief
who’s bled with me from countless soul-wounds,
both of us
driven to the brink of endurance
again and again and again
who’s shielded my raw meat heart with all she has
who’s never seemed to see in herself what I do;
the gleam of someone who has been ******
into the pounding depths against her will
but returned to the surface
every time alive
every time breathing
every time finding
the wet bedraggled girl with her and
putting both her arms around her and
saying over the shriek of the water:
I am here, I am here, and I will be, always
this is for her
for my hand holder, my moon howler,
my affirmation, my companion,
my soul keeper, my forehead-kisser,
my garden-hearted pillar of integrity
for a brave brave woman
who’s been smashed by poison people and atomic loss
but still come out
miraculously, fluorescently
shining
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC