"belying" poems
What She Look Like?
…Like one
tenderly hushing
water in her lap
Elemental peace
No place to go
No more to be
…Like the ocean
in the background
of a photo on a warm spring day
belying
rage
and the random possible
thrash--
out!
at all guilty ******** in her path
Toss in the next sentient soul
who should happen to pass
within range
who should have seen
who should have known
what a storm could do….
Moody in the aftermath
and sorrier than rain
With the tide in retreat
grumbling excuses
Hiding out waist-deep in dusk’s Merlot
Waiting for night to sleep it off
to heal the rifts
cleanse the shame
Rising
yellow, bright— and
“What the hell happened, here?!”
_______________
Her hair
a winter’s tragedy of trees
upside down—
No wait— the wind has put her right
to ragged random branches
swaying, wet with intermittent hues
of dark and silver
caught in collar, flying inelegant and free
at the shoulders of the levee
tossed and softening shyly
sagging jaw and nose a stump of tree
All perspective changes…
if you watch a while—
She’ll raise her eyes
into the sunset
to catch an eagle
entering
flight
…and then you might…
______________
She looks like—
a pudgy robin
querying grass
mud soaked
that hides the fire of her breast
tugging at a worm
more than half her length
“I will feed them, **** you!
Give it up, you son of a snake!”
_______________
...Don’t miss her hour of music though
for anything
Encroaching darkness
from the rooftops
she listens to the hearts she breaks
Remember this in winter
she can give but she will take
it out on February
when you’re longing
for her
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 7:57 PM UTC
Marooned
Vapid beauty of this room
Frothing carpet, ocean blue
One wall me, the other you
What lies between is residue
Scribed on soggy, shipwrecked parchment
Questions asked, time forgotten
Who are we?
What do we know?
Into these questions Summer flows
And thrashes at your Autumn’s brinks
Yearlong they torment my brain
Infringing on every season
If not for the manic scheme
To love and having loved be loved
This correspondence to a distant land
With stars, more numerous and brightly lit
Than my burgeoning highway exit
Would by no means have left my hand
But if, against all odds, it will prevail
Extolling truth’s folly, my sorrowful tale
Quells with reason my groundless pride
At having docked on your passionless harbor
Unloading platonic cargo during our youth’s ebbing tide
Must not create union of body or mind
You swallow my horizon, like the sun twilight
Though, one need not chase that orange orb for tomorrow
In this night without fortitude, lewd humor consumes me
Singing with the mouth on my head and your voice inside
I plunge into darkness
Skimming its silky surface
Before zipping it behind me
Shall I drown, as I have lived?
In vain, my dreams your subjects
Taken for ransom in your heart’s Tripoli
Not surmising recompense, I forfeit this
A note belying resonance
Of my heart’s last echoed throe
One desperate effort, giving up
Feed every vestige to the void
Wading, torso encumbered
Each sullen relic of your memory
Falls to the deep’s frigid ebony
Then, only too late am I cognizant
That my own breath is tribute yet spent
Therefore if I were to float or swim
I’d give you every ounce of who I am
Convince you to relinquish me
From your tepid, spurning sea
Then lying beneath moist underbrush
Slowly, breathe no more
Aug 9, 2010
Aug 9, 2010 at 4:24 PM UTC
Lincoln gave you
your official day
but I must say
I don’t suspect he saw
faux green fields
with helmeted gladiators
of a new age
playing for millions of eyes
and millions of bucks
while the thankful, and the stuffed,
sat
glued to the flat screen
hooting an hollering
for cheap victory
belying loyalty to brands
stamped on jerseys
that are valued more
than the grandest feast
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 12:21 PM UTC
The face is the soul's thumbprint,
the shape of character belying all lies;
subtle, compelling, and telling geometry:
face, the equation of I.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 2:44 PM UTC
When we hug, hold each other tight,
Breast in breast, beating heart against beating heart.
Bound willingly and out of love.
In that smile... That little twitch that betrays your
innermost thoughts. That curvaceous flowing of flesh
that speaks your joy to the world.
Through tears, of happiness, of sorrow, of hopes and
dreams. Shed from the windows of my eyes... Belying
the rising tumult of emotions-raw-within my chest.
Surging at your sight, igniting at your touch, singing
with your joys and drowning with your sorrows.
I see the life, the wonder, the desire, the drive and the
struggle to be you...
I find forever when I look into your eyes, the proverbial
porthole to your soul. Not because I'm punch-drunk on
your essence. Ha! That would be far to easy to admit.
I find forever because I find love. I find it in the depth
of my being, so passionate, wanting to reach out and
cradle, protect and embrace you, as you are.
I found my forever, and it scares me. Why? Why? Why?
Because... In these small moments... In this forever...
I want to lose myself.
To lose myself in you.
That's love right??? A gamble? Place your bets, jump in
head first... Is it a gamble I am willing to take? My heart says
JUMP!!!
My mind says be patient...
I love you. :) And sometimes it makes me want to cry. :(
If I give you all I am... Will you find forever in me?
I hope so... So here's to jumping. To losing myself, but not becoming lost.
I think it's worth it.
Cheers, to finding forever.
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 9:21 PM UTC
We were startled into gazing at the sun—
forgetting ourselves, we were
startled by its sudden procession
from the air thick with rain like putrid light—
startled so that we stared hungrily
at luminescence cast
between brow and lips of cloud.
It was this one final moment of clarity,
this last, most terrible death throe.
It touched us briefly, skin to skin.
It touched us; we two shattered humans here
belying grief
in wonderment, fear or love
in our naked yearning for all sky.
Suspended in a milky absolution,
it vanished,
a mirror resolved on itself,
a sudden imprint of inverted light on our aching eyes.
Oct 2, 2011
Oct 2, 2011 at 3:26 PM UTC
I'm more or so
consumed by pleasure,
call me a hedonist but
my definition may differ
from yours,
contentment is subjective
and the objective
of attaining gratification
has dusted from belying
to sincerity and I've found
happiness in the way the
sun comes up
rather than the way
the moon can go down on you
and have you clenching
nocturnal bedsheets
with a beer and a beer
and a pen
rereading that it seems
my hedonism is
ambiguous and subjective not,
to myself,
I take that back,
I'll be having threesomes with
the sun and the moon now,
give me my fix of both
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 11:04 AM UTC
A wicked wind carries a witch's spell
it's chill belying
the magma of hell
brought forth by incantations
drawing deep
from a dark magic well
The willow's sigh combines with the whisper
beckoning me tither
to an alter made from black iron
crowned by scepters
on which two crows perch
the earth around me seizes and spurts
with dead hands erupting from
the earth
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 11:24 PM UTC
To fringe with padded lengths
the entirety of your outershell,
and thereby judged
sent into the wastelands
a labour of love.
A slave.
I claim no liberty.
Endow me with cuffs
and porcelain chains that bind,
servant to master.
Intertwined in folly
belying your aloofness
violent whips divulge your essence
we both lay shredded.
You do not spare me,
though my eyes invite you openly.
Instead you surround me,
walk before me,
and ply your wares with others.
Sickened I fall,
clawing against stone and neck anchor,
beating my heart into the walls of my longing.
You reprove me,
bidding for silence,
or the little I get will be lost.
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 3:08 PM UTC
A Hound’s Garden
The Citrus Saga
Part One: Cursed
The blossoms were sweetly fragrant
belying their sour harvest
the tree named Meyer bore a dulcet legacy
doomed
to wither in a corner
under the sly vigilance of a young hound.
Part Two: Salvation
It arrived in a plain brown box
glossy leaves without flowers
a solitary green satsuma
flailing in the breeze
transformed under the sleepy gaze
of a furry connoisseur
whose daily test sniff promised
a favorite delicacy’s imminent
arrival.
Part Three: Thankful Harvest
Peeled glory
boasted
succulent slices
of tangerine heaven
just barely enough for one mouth
to savor.
Part Four: Grim Reaper
Growing season came again
fragrant blossoms erupted
sweet branches
studded with unripe fruit
stood proudly in the Texas sunlight
when like a thief in the night
every unborn tangerine
was gone one early morn
sad faces saw the end
of a Satsuma riddled era.
Part 5: Fare Thee Well
Years have passed
Since the hound’s youthful
indiscretions
her sight long gone
nose not as sharp
the tangerine tree
belongs
to someone else
those fruitful bounties
live only in the dreams
of an old dog.
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 6:28 PM UTC
At helm while directing
in a muddle I seem lost
Caught in sort of vortex
my own demons I accost
A belief in old prowess
subsistence still directs
Belying any of the doubt
enroute which interjects
Almost at a tethers end
with upshot not in sight
The day brings new hope
each night begets a fright
Every jab at my foresight
pierces my real zest anew
To trudge upon unknown
and walked by far and few
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 8:30 AM UTC
A dark clay raven hung at a windowpane
to ward off bright songbirds from glass.
It never spoke a word, nor did it feign
to know of a departed late lass.
I asked it my questions, expecting more
conversation than it had on offer,
but plainly it found me a tedious bore
for it stayed quiet. Not much of a talker.
The brief encounter left me po-faced
as I’d been led to expect more from him.
So I turned away, belying a trace
of disappointment weighing within.
Then I heard the wind, and nothing much else
except the song of birds who’d survived
thanks to the clay raven who hung by a belt
in front of a window to keep it disguised.
Oct 19, 2024
Oct 19, 2024 at 7:12 AM UTC
the words tied
together carefully,
with a natural
nonchalance
belying the
concentration,
looking for all the world
like a harmless insect
cast into the
atmosphere
with such a
casual flick
of a wrist
to float lightly
upon the waters
of consciousness
relaxed wary hands
await the emergence
of the subconscious
from the depths
the hook is strong
and snelled
to set deep.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 12:12 AM UTC
There is no word for these:
Old friends in new bodies
gOld souls with
Ancient minds and
Youthful eyes.
Some of us have
The blood of Mary inside
Others raise from wakeless lakes
You, I beileve, have both.
Balancing on her railroad ties
She whispers,
That's your own impression
And she adds,
Why do all your smiles pass like clouds,
Instead of sticking around like thick crowds?
Because! I answer ( in different words )
Even the best eyes, still
Cannot untie our blind minds,
Cannot disarm our arms,
Cannot keep our feet from passing on.
Fair, she allows
But now, quiet your mind
Forget your words, and
She starts to hum softly
His soul circles him, it turns
The passing train breaks his trance
Buried back in his body now
Hearing pistons pounding in his head
Dreaming up old friends again,
Real and fake, then
Unmaking them, one by one
Finishing with this one
Lady of the lake
Toes tickling the water, blond curls like clouds,
Eyes belying death...
How is it this one shares a friend
In us all?
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 12:28 AM UTC
The automaton is perfect,
solid exoskeleton,
white as snow,
no creases,
no marks on its hull,
belying wear.
It moves the same way every day,
venturing only within its comfort zone,
defined by experience,
implanted by the creators.
There are many more like him,
discernible only by serials,
and the tasks they complete,
no complaint,
no thought,
only direction.
They think him impervious,
but his shell is weak,
a wondrous lie,
inside the shell is rotten and rusted,
filthy with grease and grime,
and oil,
covering frayed tendons of wires,
but the connections are slowly failing,
and the sparks inside consume him,
and only time can tell if it will enlighten him,
or destroy him.
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 10:08 PM UTC
Eli walking up the hill
one last time; path rutted w/ tracks
from hauling the ******
things down;
he'd done it before & again
the blonde A-Lister waiting
for his return,
in the driveway;
the buggy trotting from the
carriage house behind the main house,
Eli, Jr.
much like his dad,
broad-shouldered
& a little dumb;
but Eli Sr.
has that way of
coming cackling back to life;
in his career he'd done it twice:
he was a movie star now &
just
wanted to keep getting back
under her; Eli thought
he now knew how
westerns were born; did he?
Junior picking up the pace;
beats it
to the highway before the old
man does that weird out of the
dark thing he does; *******
the actress who was supposed
to be his new Muse; Eli didn't
have an old muse; Eli Simple
built barn walls out of paint
that stood on their own; Eli
lighting a cigarette, comes out
of the dark, his face aglow
w/ the burning cigarette tip;
"Was that ur kid?" she asked.
"No," he says, "It was a clone;
I got six more in the barn. wanna
see 'em?"
"Sure."
"Come on. I'll show ya," he said
& he did;
so much time passed that the
bow-tied moon was in a permanent
tuxedo;
seen from the gaping stars;
silver-hands discovering;
signing [eyes] out ;
- transmitting: a cache of folded images
reproduced en masse on crude pulp
paper in vivid colors for the period;
image after
image of various forms
of individual female figures
in exposed positions,
appearing to be lounging
happily w/in
a luxurious paradise belying the urban setting;
"We presume these to be the plans
for the sex-oriented
female robots so spoken of
in the ancient records; i.e., Pandora,
Helen, et al."
"Don't forget Wonder Woman."
"Oh, yes, the Queen of All Women."
The scientists debate before returning to Orion;
should production begin on the ancient forms?
Some guy in a big mansion was giving a party in her honor;
but she & Eli never showed, never left the barn
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 12:11 AM UTC
An occasional wooden jab meant to inspire footsteps.
But I'm numb now and the pain slips between the folds of my thoughts.
(An ephemeral thunder clap in the distance.)
Even the sounds surrounding me become a nearly inaudible murmur from some far off place.
Women weeping, children crying, false promises of hope from men who have lost the light of such ideas from their eyes.
(Thunder, sudden and fleeting.)
The paths we walked as children in better times now so unfamiliar.
Turned to mud by tears and stained with blood.
With waking eyes I see a thousand memories unfold before me in lucidity belying such verisimilitude that for a moment I feign to question the corporeal nature of these apparitions.
(The transient thunder again rings out.)
I involuntarily breathe deep the smells lingering on the crisp air of an autumn morning.
The smell of earth reminiscent of spring in the countryside.
A tenuous fog clings to the air, drifting in silence.
An acrid smell like smoke from a match pulls me from my reverie.
Solemn faces hastily filling a long shallow trench.
My thoughts grow quiet.
Led to the edge and forced to kneel.
Peering into the wretched abyss I see them.
The tortured faces of everyone I'll ever know.
Bodies contorted, sticking up from the dirt like discarded mannequins.
(Thunder.)
It's so quiet now.
Like a candle snuffed out under brass.
It's so quiet
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 7:09 AM UTC
a feeling of the dark belying color
the tension of failure in romance
near unbearable distance between those closest to you
a quiet walk in a garden
broken words unsaid on the ground
that we pretend not to see
absorbed as we were in the flowers
we planted in a
storied bed
Feb 9, 2022
Feb 9, 2022 at 8:57 PM UTC
it’s the throbbing kind of pain,
so unlike the burning you are used to
a timeless ache,
that jars you to the core
so different from the fire that
you built yourself from
belying the strength of the armour,
that guards the tender fabric of your soul.
and you knew you were made of stone,
but darling, stone always crumbles
though born of lava,
it turns to dust
and how can you be the exception?
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 9:22 PM UTC
'
*Belying this despised state
you hunch upon shuffling feet,
pondering the crunch of browned leaves.
Burrowing this dusty soil
you hide beneath scurrying paws,
forgetting the crash of billowy waves.
Blowing out raspy breath
you pucker withered lips;
release cotton-downed doves.
Bellowing against the horizon
you herd the flock from grazing;
shackled gates embrace nightfall.
*
__________✒
○●
°
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 1:33 AM UTC
lost in thought and
lost in boxes
thin dust coated
stacked haphazard
her life
inside –
I began moving and rearranging the space
attempting to reclaim the study
instead memories flooded and tears fell
as each tote
carried a piece of her –
considering the southern trip
in a rented Caravan
more than a year ago
trying to decide what items
I needed to carry and store
in order to properly protect
and honor her memory –
standing in a poorly lit room
staring at her life
under packaging tape
I found myself attempting to
reorganize my mother –
as I placed boxes into the hallway closet
I found myself thinking about her
parental missteps
which then gave me freedom
to hide her away
I saw the old photographs
smiles belying childhood disappointment
not the bike I wanted
wrong style of shoe
embarrassed of the car
the house
life ……
I slide another box into the crawl space –
angry and confused
by my actions
and emotions
I think about her smile
Southern Californian blond
six foot one shinning like the sun
in the grey Oregon drizzle
taller, prettier, and better educated
she glowed in the dying mill town
and I,
but her child,
felt lost in the shine –
vacuuming the bunnies
and mentally compiling
the inventory list seems lite
as if I lost important packed items
in the shuffling memories …..
I was instantly struck
by what was missing
from the tattered and faded boxes,
as I reorganized my mother
I had found, again
within myself –
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 4:54 PM UTC
Pop rocks snapping in your mouth
**** taste of lemon on your tongue
Salty sea air inside your lungs
Words make the world come alive
Cool cotton sheets, the expensively woven kind
Twinkling fairy lights dancing in my eyes
A kitten's guttural purr calming my mind
Words shape our lives
A magnetic pull towards a lover’s delicious lips
An intoxicating rhythm as we sway our hips
How else to make sense when we lose our grip?
But with words.
The word “word” is so simple and bland
Belying its living, infinite, ever-evolving essence
To bloom our soul in a barren habitat.
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 1:21 AM UTC