"berms" poems
One glossy raven perched, stately,
atop a snowy hill, Unearthly Long flowing wings, hanging down the slope, framing the hill
on the face of which,
were interposed two glacial ponds of blue.
Between these pools ran a simple strip of sloped marble,
But at the base of this was the most gentle depression in the snow.
In disbelief I observed two rows of strawberries, blossoming,
heavy laden with the richest red.
Each gentle bite of these more delicious than the last.
I continued my survey,
down to a long narrow hill of the freshest snow.
Here I came upon a wide expanse, a plain,
two long, slender berms extended at opposite sides.
But this was no true plain, and all the better for that,
For two equal mounds of snow enchanted the landscape.
The setting sun cast a pink light at the peak of each pale globe,
So beautiful I wept.
As I passed between their valley the snowy distance continued.
I observed an infinitesimal sloping on the Western and Eastern edges.
This expanse, perfect of any true blemish, was punctuated by the shallowest little empty pond at its narrowest width; which only served to enhance the beauty.
The length of this snowed plain was far greater than its width, the edges slowly creeping into the narrowest part before flaring out to a wide expanse.
And there in the lowlands was The Delta,
to the side of which extended two of the longest and most shapely tapering ridges I had ever observed;
each ending with graceful peaks.
But that Delta!
Though snowy, the darkest , shortest scrub had capped its mound.
At the apex of The Delta was a precipice,
on its face a cavern, pink walls glistening with wetness,
at the caverns base, a cave.
Its tunnel, with walls ribbed, was warm and humid despite the landscape of snow.
This is the landscape I cherish most.
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 9:50 PM UTC
Small berms of snowice and cigarette
butts line beneath the awning sidewalks
of Yulitsa Pushkinska, impenetrable.
We have yet to decide
how to slice ourselves open, how to
conspire for casualties. Desire
lingers like four days’ melt mid-winter.
Who really feels day to day that
nothing will change? This faith
in schedules, taxes, credits, furtive
moments with a familiar lover, this
lack of spasms and undramatic intent
can suffice for half a lifetime, but you’ve
become an unreliable narrator in your own
novel, prone to
wild speculation and impulsive looks
at other women.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 3:06 PM UTC
in cool piney shade
on squat bushes spread
wild blueberries grow
on soft, mossy bed
or under the ferns
among meadowsweet
on berms in the sun
but sheltered from heat
or on a bush rising
almost to my waist
so loaded with berries
it bends down and sways
I'm picking them
plump and cool with the dew
in dappled sun under the pines
morning turns into afternoon
I'm losing all sense of time
cicadas' shrillness,
a chorus of crickets,
the red squirrel's noisy chatter,
a crow's voice somehow reminds me of spring,
but time just doesn't matter...
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 8:26 AM UTC
With snowflakes in Her eyelashes,
crystalline shapes past window's door,
piling into berms and caches,
seek to fractate soil and moor;
What passing phase -- full of longing
for endless Alaskan days, so white and pure,
when silence met the sunset, dawning,
dusk, and midday -- shall I endure?
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 12:53 PM UTC
All those pretty boys and girls
in Utah with perfect families
and straight teeth and
golf weekends and BYU
I wanna be a Latter Day Saint:
faith like a gorget keeping
holiness inside and sin without,
my eyes turn blue contemplating sainthood
In the south they shout in tongues
they have a private line with the devil
and he lurks in the hearts of
Communists and liberals he says.
I wanna be a born again Baptist
full of hellfire and moonshine
fundamentally patriotic and God
looking down every day at my white hot purity
It’s a good day to be a Baptist my friend.
My Catholicism is a ragged old red robe
seams dragging through the dust
of old men’s prayers and smelling
of my grandmother’s face powder
even when she died.
In the end the rain washes over the berms
of every river not only Jordan
and when the flood comes I will be
lying open in a field
smelling of damp earth and crushed grass
my knees unbent and my hands unclasped
my heart in my mouth still beating.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 1:54 PM UTC
HEAR THE WOLVES HOWLING
Make our way from day to day but with the moonlight they always come prowling
Black cats in the shadows, seeing them in pictures or in zoos is false news, we know they are still roaming
Distant shadows on a horizon, constant reminder we can be kinder, with dusk we might be scowling
Blinded from the fog mired inside a bog much lost at great cost, now with abstinence we still hear that cold wind blowing
How often do we get lost while simply looking for ourselves, left in idle while sunny skies are clouding
Memories of matters though long resolved, deeper issues never totally solved, playing on level fields while life is still mysteriously sloping
Background sound or boogie beat of a band can be more than some can stand, needs not always physical, true triggers can be in the carousing
If we choose to resign to those flashback blues, dormant or docile emotions often hidden to those who use, Coyotes constantly calling
So, we keep waiting while nothing changes, maybe in reality nothing needs changing, simply searching for something that isn't there, mindless madness altering
All that I am drinking is the nectar from the skies, on a real rainbow my mind now flies,Life on life's terms still has berms, demons at many doors pounding
Standing at the edge with that solemn vow I pledge, my temperance has paid in spades
left the fight to find how LIFE is about constant learning
Keeping them at bay, even when we're ready to go astray, distant moaning in time with our groaning, our new game is to hear those Wolves constantly HOWLING R.C
Sep 1, 2020
Sep 1, 2020 at 8:41 AM UTC
after Ansel Elkins
Carabao **** isn't permafrost,
temperature, disdain — climates
stirring into a tornado soup
of force, melting, seclusion.
In the heartbeat of gulls,
the waves gargled froth and
spat on charred limestone.
Then the grass beneath our
wet feet writhed in the
slice of wind atop the hills
of Hiyop, in Catanduanes
where roads go unmoored from
their skiffs like violin
strings curling under sharp
slide. You can invent a new
word to describe transformations,
but these will never catch it
in the act — the moment
vibration somersaults into
howl, when swinging grass
is louder than jetplanes
then suddenly quieter than
prayer. I like to dig my thumb
into the soft marsh, dirt
occupying the folds, creases;
labyrinthine pathways of skin
blanketed with Earth.
At this point the mountain
knows me;
and I dare to know the
mountain but come short, reaching
only its narrow berms,
pockmarks,
and shit-ridden sheath of
dry flowers cooking the
words to a song of its
people.
May 3, 2019
May 3, 2019 at 10:48 PM UTC
Music Can Make Me Cry
26 Januarys 2023
More than poetry, art, stone sculpture,
A violin, a piano, flutes,
Hold me.
Higher than I can climb on my own.
Deeper than I can reach with these arms.
Love songs cry.
Clear, not words,
Music,
Melody, overcome me.
Lifted beyond today,
To a place, no pain, no fear, no loss.
Children, family, friends,
You are here.
Warmer than camp fire, flame under a star-lit sky.
Over snowy berms, valleys, pebbled lanes,
Opening wheat fields, endless expanse.
Peace.
Music live.
In the woods, in the cities.
One tiny bird brings an opera.
Reedy waters, symphony.
From each meadow, divas, a tenor.
Forest, choir, spirits, ghosts.
From Dad’s workbench, voices of angels.
Mom’s eyes, heaven.
Under the streetcar rides my soul.
Clopping hoofs, rhythm, my heartbeat.
Rain drops, my breath.
Ocean waves, my birth, my being.
Today’s sun, tomorrow’s promise, yesterday's memories.
Thunder, creation.
My love, you bring each sweet tone.
You gift my pedestal.
Sometimes music, can make me cry.
Jan 26, 2023
Jan 26, 2023 at 11:28 AM UTC