"bindings" poems
I was raised
on the ways of
the Wolf.
I applied these ways
to the best of
my ability.
Only to be set
loose to live amongst
the sheep.
Where
my ways were
considered savage
and unreasonable.
I turned to
the Poppy
and the *****
I was insearch
of a temporary
sanctuary from
the past misdeeds
replaying
themselves
inside my head.
Only at a later
age did I come
to understand
these wounds
that still
bleed leave
trails full of
wasted years,
lost lovers and
forgotten
hopes
and dreams.
I counted the
Black and Whites
as they passed
me by.
I tried to
melt into the
crowd.
The vigilance
and anger in
my heart refused
to walk amongst
the live stock.
For I was raised
as one with
brother Wolf.
I needed to
run on the outside
of their
invisible bindings.
I died everyday
for 3 years .
I pulled
from the *****
then turned to
the poem and
discovered
a new way
to torture
my mind while
healing the heart.
I dropped
the mask I
had wore
for so many
of these
theatrical
years.
I set about
revealing hearts
blood and fractured
bone.
I ripped the
inside of
me out and
presented it
as treasure.
Only to find
the masses
are indeed
too much
like sheep.
Never
understanding the
manners of
the wolf....
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 12:56 PM UTC
Magic spells
Casting enchantments
Only time tells
If wishes come true
Voodoo hexes
To destroy
What wrecks us
Try the witches brew
Magic genie
Grants three wishes
Do you see
They're all for you
Pixie dust
For extra luck
Because I must
Start anew
Magic wand
Spell book bindings
I'm quite fond
Of loving you
Your drink I mix
Love potion
For a quick fix
To make your heart true
After all the spells
Enchantments
Hexes
Potions
And brews
It seems now
You love me too.
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 3:22 AM UTC
I lived my half dictionary life before I could
comprehend compulsory compromises.
Collectors arise, disguises and devices beeping,
chastising my blindness.
Gather geography from Afghanistan and Myanmar
graciously growing gold gilded gift horses,
gleefully gloating about floating far away.
My hoof beats above concrete match my heart’s defeat
across borders and mountains
embroidering cardboard cut-outs
calling deserts, decorating front covers.
Exhaling handcrafted letters for my missing half,
half demanding highest caliber commanders and half commanding completion.
Jade jays joyfully lay arrays of bouquets
fragile flowers decay faraway
in jawbones and jail cells.
Begging farewells in a hotel’s lobby
began my hobby,
early morning coffee and carbon copies
concurringly cocky around his dead body.
Gang ciphers for cartels are
Christmas bells hissing at collars,
half dollars embellishing bar crawlers
godfathers hollering at car haulers.
Atrocities across cities attack,
attachable atrophies audibly ambush arthritic anthologies.
Anomalies begin apologies between apostrophes,
advancing autonomy arousing ancient animosities.
All eluding Antarctica,
giant frozen crests, multi-coloured ice
hidden in my illustrations
anxious for my distant half.
Friday cassettes and cigarettes
deliberately making bets following “M”.
Breaking bindings and finding “beta” in alphabet,
may feasibly end in debt.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 1:51 PM UTC
The preacher scrubbed your sins away absolved you under rafters
under fire
under auspices
Of books with dust in bindings
layed down many lifetimes thick.
But a preacher needs a pulpit
like a fish requires scales
Without the choir, no pool to swim.
Senators tell you sweetened lies
that half us want to hear
two per state
means only saying
"Sorry," 'bout half the time
to half the people, sometimes.
But a liar needs your two ears
and a moment of your time
No need for snake oil when you're well.
McGowan is a drinker, true
draining oceans of pints dry
under fire
under praises, too
From quarters high and lowly
his legend laid down thickly
But a preacher needs a pulpit
and McGowan needs a page
Needs pen in hand and needs a stage
Otherwise, he's just a "Shane."
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 7:01 PM UTC
I remember the smell
In the library,
The quilt squares
That covered the tall shelves,
Homes to old, aging pages;
The aroma of faded words,
Fresh and strong,
Like the nail polish remover
Used to steal away
The chipped, black polish,
That lied over my long fingernails.
The nail polish that had once
Matched the dress I wore at your funeral.
My only memories of you
Hide within the perfume
Of musty bindings.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 10:13 PM UTC
To my Alpha
Most magnificent beast
I go now to sleep
And it is of you I shall dream
Of warm embraces and loving kisses
Of the beast and the brutality
Of bindings and lashes
Of pain and pleasure
I will be overjoyed for my Alpha
To be free to take your every pleasure from me
Uninhibited
Unfettered
Unrestrained
As your lust and beastly nature demand
I will be overjoyed to be your tool
For that freedom and release
And when the beast is sated
And I am undone
Then shall I dream of
Gentle love
A healer's touch
Sweet lips and furry comfort
Of beautiful love making
And you inside me
Spilling your seed
Making you part of me
It is of your beauty, your scent, your taste, your feel
That I will dream
And the love I have for you
And your love for me
Good night, my Alpha
May 1, 2021
May 1, 2021 at 1:05 AM UTC
i reach in and silently grasp
the motionless windsong
the captured bird
and with deft fingers release its bindings
with a phrase give tender to its
timid fire
with intent i set in motion the
captivation by slow roses
the freedom by the scarce better graces
of humanity's collective soul
the thoughts are sticky
engraved with each meaning softly embedded
into its thick skin
the carefully crafted box
of her smile
each detail lovingly attended
each lined honed with precision
she fine tunes her perfect form
and spray bottles the scents
one for public consumption
the other for me alone
enthrones her earrings in edible lobes
and with zealous care places a bead necklace
in the sweating sweet expanse of naked skin
of her open polo shirt collar
shakes out her hair
with a little version of dancing sitting down
while singing along with phish
and then she catches me open lustful staring
and laughs
'want some...come get it babe'
her tennis outfit
misplaced on the shopping center floor
is neatly wrapped around her in a mixture
of loose and tight
devious adventure for the eyes
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
The scientist-psychiatrist
the psychologic sociologist
has proved with his statistics
and his data-riddled literates
that nothing will be crippled
if they sweep the city clean
if they slay not only Tybalt
but the whole Verona scene
so they ****** it from our hands
from our brains and those to come
as the Ravens sear across the lands
and bindings come undone
They watch the pages flitter by
and cackle with delight
as the populace of fiction
by their hands is ripped alight
The licking of the laces
by the hungry tongues of flame
will ravage on the characters
you've come to know by name
Montag barrels forth and finds
the Fahrenheit has risen
Hester screams and claws her mind
out of this hellish prison
and Dorian will clamber up
to sit atop the pile
and weep for Pictures yet to sup
upon his looks and guile
And you'll watch as they obliterate
the city from within
de-storying our Paradise
so it won't be Lost again.
But I, Calpurnia? I warned you
that the fiery clouds would rain
I told you all, fictitious youth,
but you called me insane.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 1:52 PM UTC
Mechanically he put out his best press
Straightened his yellowing pages
In spite of little pieces flaking off
Like dandruff
Ow !
His spine was not as strong
As in younger presses
He bathed and used aftershave
But still he had that musty air about him
He lay claim to nervous fame
As he fidgeted with the book markers
About to be given as gifts
For her , his blind date
She came in fresh in expectation
Her beauty made him full of dejection
Her cheerful voice proved
to be more than exhaultation
He fumbled for the first sentence
Of subjection , but
Managed only to say
"Please ! I'm just an open book to be read"
She eased over
And ran her fingers over his cover .
down his bindings ,
then inside his yellowing pages
She sighed ,
with pleasure ,
"Yes , this is my perfection "
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 6:41 PM UTC
If you are an aging book tossed on an empty shelf
Left to dust,
I will be the librarian who remembers you.
Even in my graying days and wrinkles,
I will find you within the musty bindings
Upon the shelves.
I will pluck you off,
Bypassing all of the others
That try and grab me as I walk
The narrow aisles.
I will push them back into their place
For you are the only one I have eyes on.
I will find you and blow the dust
Off your shoulders.
I will run my fingers over you,
Feeling your cover, your back, your spine
Before opening you and sifting through your pages,
Reading your story and discovering your scars
Where the corners have been folded over.
But I will love you long before
I ever open your cover and begin to read.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 6:07 PM UTC
She says I shouldn't love her;
She says she’s not real:
Just a pixie girl, a
Nymph of my dreams.
Indeed, I questioned her
Reality from the first day
And I finally decided believing
Was better than her not being.
She says I shouldn't love her
Because her job isn't the
Most respectable and I
Should find someone better
But one does not judge a book
By the cover, or how many
Fingerprints mark its glossy bindings,
But instead based on what’s inside.
Her appearance may have been
What first caught my eye, as the
Covers of books usually do,
But when I began reading
Page after page, I knew
I had fallen in love, truly
In love, with the content
Of the book called Bex Olivia.
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 7:59 PM UTC
Many years I've spent in your grace.
Days filled with joy, orange sunsets on summer nights,
but slowly, and then all at once, they turn red.
In the next moment it's over, and you can breathe in the breeze;
Fresh Air.
Free from bindings I carefully crafted, out of a stifling cell, gone is
The Warden.
You know what they say,
"you and me and the devil makes three",
but you're the devil in disguise.
And honey, I'm not in hell no more.
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 2:33 PM UTC
Yellow jackets’ yellow jackets
Licorice made of Venison
Stand over there, quite queer, my dear
While I drink a handle of Jameson
**** wizards and Eddie Izzard
Speak to me in glad tidings
Astronauts, sweet lizards' space gizzards
Jump over the back of book bindings
***** the misconceptions
Drive off the road into gravy
Split the checks, and **** on decks
Mistake my sound perceptions
Habeus Corpus
Parlay with ***
Start with darts
And move to the porpoise
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 4:26 PM UTC
She thinks if she travels to foreign lands- even if
it is only by dating an ethnic man- that she can
scale the high walls of the borders between what she
was taught and who she hopes she is.
Having followed blindly her predestination programmed life
she can’t resist taking squinted peeks through the
tiny open slits of vision, hoping to find her true self.
“You are losing the faith!” her anxious mother warns
as though to do so would be an inherent flaw,
not a conscious choice.
But Mother’s own faith
has been slipping through her hands for the past
30 years, and only that promised salvation can save
her from the indiscretions that fill the non-rapturous void
left-behind by mister Christian-right-wing-man.
Taught well by mother, father, and god, that men
must be assessed in a purely logical fashion,
“Agree on finances and childrearing and you will
have happily ever.”
But she feels fake, and does not know how
to peel the plastic wrap off her personality.
You can see its bindings in the way her eyes implore you
and how she clasps her hands on her lap by rote.
She is the pink peg in the Hasbro Game of Life car
with guilt trip road blocks, detours and poorly folded
directional maps. Spinning the wheel in search of tour guides:
What should I read? What should I think?
But that only gives her new mind instructors.
Perhaps instead of foreign languages and foreign lands,
the verity lies in the realization that mother
probably feels fake too.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 2:43 PM UTC
Grandpa loved angels
Kept them scattered throughout his room, his house, his life
On everything from pictures, to figurines, to trinkets
Alissa found a penny with an imprint of wings with the year of her birth on it shortly after he died
How strange, we all thought
Grandpa had a lot of things,
Luck charms, knick-knacks, practical jokes he carried just in case
He kept his humor in his back pocket
I visit my grandmother in her home that used to be theirs
She is now as vacant as the Detroit winters are cold; the ten years without him have stripped her of any warmth
I think a part of her left when he did
I enter his study and look through every drawer, discovering a part I neglected to understand when it was present
I never showed much interest in anything he told me when he was still around
I only really knew of the things he kept in drawers, cabinets, on shelves
Everything he owned is as constant as it ever was
His belongings remain untouched as if he hasn’t been gone for over a decade
I feel too much alive in this office of a dead man
I run curious fingers over the bindings of books, stopping to pull at Dickinson, a faded collection of poetry inked with flowers on the front cover
I remember the dictionary the size of my six-year-old palm that intrigued me so greatly; the ability to fit so many words into such a small area was nothing short of fascinating
It is the one physical memory I took home with me after the funeral
I had wanted it always
I now picture it hiding in the back of my drawer in my childhood bedroom where I know it still is
On his desk there are so many key chains, bills from another generation, maps, postcards, watches
So many things I am not sure what to call them
I am not sure about a lot but
Grandpa loved angels
Angels and ***** jokes
One to keep you safe and the other to make you laugh
I keep both with me always,
Just in case.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 4:32 PM UTC
Nearly four decades ago, nearly half a century
I walked Freedom Boulevard from
a lonely bus stop and as I drove there
the other day I saw a girl standing at one who could have been
me, in memory -- frozen
Would it still be there? One of my treasured childhood memories
Still living, not someone's brand new home, or a bunch of Villas in a gated community, lost
The land bleeds in California, but has started to scar over and forget the apple orchards
across the street from The Barn, where I used to ride, and now the houses are at least
covered in trees as nature tries to overtake the foreign, like in Cherenobyl
The big red barn sitting atop a small hill, crammed with horse paddocks now that
the little barns turned to condos. But it is still there. Like magic, frozen in time.
The red barn, I walk in, it looks smaller than I remember
but the ***** brown cobwebs still cover the cieling and I am
nine years old again
Before I knew the boundaries of my gender
When I felt powerful, if neglected, strong and in charge
Before I knew the bindings of my ***
The limitations
I felt strong, and as I stand here,
I may as well be nine again, a single digit
And my fear melts away, and the lessons learned about my place
in the world evaporate
I stand, and look around at the barn nearly unchanged
and reclaim myself
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 10:52 PM UTC
Grounded
root thrumming
spiral down Kundalini into rich darkness
the end is here
as is the beginning
I find I am Free
At Last
having grasped at the edge of reality
and lost my fingerhold before
I know what it is
to fall into madness
Here
here in this soul music
I find I am hovering instead
my breathing steady and cool
my muscles warm and limber
the fatigue passes
I float
I am pulled and ******
allowing each note and beat
to guide my body
my mind is elsewhere
I am entranced
-
I detach
from time and space
my breath and touch show cold
yet I am on Fire
I see all the nonsense in front of me
and cut the ties
suspended within the music
I leave the edge of reality
my embedded fingerprints visible now
and continue to dance
I see all the ******** around me
and cut the ties
this is Not madness, it is true sanity
it is my arrival to Home
and I continue to Dance.
I see the confusion, pain and hurt within me
and cut the ties
insanity leads into pitch black nothingness
This leads me into infinite light
still, I dance.
-
pushing through the darkness
leaving the illusion of this world behind
I have come to the other side
there is no edge to fall from
there are no bindings of obligation
the chains have always been self-imposed
easily escapable
why did I not shed these long ago?
I am taken through lifetimes and back
I am ******
I am *****
I am Moon
I am Earth
I am the First Woman
and the Last
I Am One.
This all within my full mind, sober, unaltered
the answers are right in front of me
all I have to do is open my soul and see
for this I do my Cosmic Dance.
Sep 24, 2010
Sep 24, 2010 at 9:35 AM UTC
dreaming in the early hours
of our hands clasped, breaths shared
away from commitments and bindings
owning the time for anything we dared:
long nights and long mornings
you're breakfast in bed
lazily tangled in affection
your head on my chest while poetry is read
I dreamed we called in--then ran away
made love (then again) to start our day
claimed life together like never before
a king and his queen, forevermore.
062515~6.05a
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 9:24 AM UTC
The eagle searches, circling, senses strum like spider silk.
Sorrow’s scent slides up on a sea breeze.
A solitary slave spits sullenly into the spray.
Silently, suddenly, the sentinel streaks down.
Beak breaks skin, breaches bone, crimson blots the ocean’s foam.
Defenceless, relentless, the bird blurs in a barrage of blood.
Banished, betrayed, the ravaged titan sways -
between the rocks that form his cage.
His foe retreats; a closing caw as crooked claws cleave meat.
Head bowed in defeat, our hero strains as chains bind
hands and feet.
Enduring bonds cut deep and bleed him bittersweet.
Cast against the crags,
this castaway’s castigated cries call out
to no-one.
Chastised, he squints with hollow eyes
towards a lifetime of the bird’s reprise.
Furious. Fists flex,
thrashing against his fortress.
Face furrowed into a frown he flings forward
and for once finds his foot…
unfettered.
Bindings broken, his bonds bite terra firma,
as first a foot and then a hand finds favour.
Boundless, he bellows at the sky
as the flotsam of his freedom floats on by.
Reprieved. Aggrieved. He is restless in release.
An errant righteous line repeats.
Relentless in its beat, it rings out like raw steel on teeth.
A ricochet that disturbs his sleep
“Is this victory, or defeat?”
Racked by reminiscence,
his reality and responsibility remain.
Warped roots rammed down
with rock-filled boots.
Resistance seems obtuse against such reoccuring fruit.
Reluctant, resigned, he rattles out a sigh -
the last gasp of this transitory high.
Reaching for the rope and tack he re-binds the knots
that hold him back.
With one last glance towards the past
he hoists his soul upon the mast.
Ceaselessly.
Senselessly.
The
sentinel
streaks
down.
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 2:20 AM UTC
"How beautiful are your tents, O Jacob,
Your dwelling places, O Israel!"
Thy children gather,
telescoping generations,
O Jacob, what do thine eyes ascertain.
what history do they memorize?
Coalescing younger star clusters,
disparate related families uniting,
embedding as a single unity,
a star cloud,
shedding a new light,
the astronomers awed, witnesses,
a super-star cluster birthed.
The beauty of thy tents,
thy wealth, O Jacob,
is their multiplicity,
their construct and content.
The web of thy tissue,
bindings, linkages,
what resides within thy tents,
acknowledge, testify, that
the strength of thy issue,
are the Matriarchs,
managers of thy destiny,
mothers of thy dynasty,
The Sarah's, Leah's, the Rachel's,
the Fay's, the Ginger's, the Miriam's
these jewels bedeck, beautify,
brides and bridles of thy tents,
master mistresses of thy dwellings,
without them, O Jacob,
you, but, just,
another desert tribe.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 3:16 PM UTC
What song did the sirens sing, Ulysses?
What tune could break your will,
cause you to lose your way?
Were you strung by the sound of a harpy's harp?
Lured by the lies of hideous creatures
singing songs of fabled falsehoods?
Like empty eggshells holding none
of the nutrients they promised.
Was their melody flooded with the bitter truth of love unreturned?
Did they sing of release?
Release from the turmoil the journey was and would continue to bring?
Were the dissonant harmonics of a watery end,
the chance to be one with the sea
what made you beg for your bindings to be cut?
Perhaps the sirens sang the greatest songs of all.
Perchance they sung
of passion sweeter than nectar,
of love stronger than ambrosia,
waiting to be given to the sailor
that could traverse
death itself
and make his way to them.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 9:59 AM UTC
Beer is the thing that dulls your senses and your pain
Makes it all go away
Gives me an escape
From remembering the bruises on my legs
or hearing my father calls me a mistake
Taking away my need to be fake
Beer is the thing that sets us free
From our unseen bindings
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 11:45 PM UTC
I walk through my room
touch each book on my shelf
thinking of you in the shower
touching yourself
With an open book, I wish
these pages were your skin
I'd caress each one until
our narrative could begin
with your hand on my knee
and your lips on my wrist
I'll beg for you to take me
in our sweet summer tryst
your fingers trail lines
up and down my thigh
until I can bear it no longer
my lips produce a shaky sigh
a hitch in my breath
as I become wet and ready
and you'll push into me
keeping me steady
and whisper the filth
of all you'd like to do
tell me I'm beautiful
watch my pages unfold
and all my bindings break
and all the books shatter
leaflets fly through the room
you always knew how to flatter
and when my daydream cracks
alone, hour after hour
wondering if you think of me
when you're in the shower...
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 12:24 PM UTC
Some poets have degrees,
Be they Bachelors or Phds.
But a poet, a poet is really qualified by experience,
And the ability to distil language to the dance of written form,
To transpose observations into song.
Etching stretches of moments too short,
Into something long enough to match the longing for it.
Weaving yearning with touches of genius,
Abstracting epiphanies from cracks in the pavement,
Extending the halls of learning by
Stencilling truths onto toilet walls,
So that even to **** is to experience the profound.
A poet is one who can make meaning out of madness,
Pluck obscurities from the air, exposing the bindings of being,
Or explain how words, in their whirling make the world go round.
But a poet, a poet does not understand that ache inside,
That ache that drives them to write, to whisper and to yell
Words, metaphors and similies, in the constant attempt
To quantify that special kind of hell,
That haunts them, as ravings in their head,
That inspiration that is their constant torment.
And sometimes, sometimes its heaven instead,
But that’s when it’s hardest to write
Because suffering, when transformed to stanzas,
Is somehow easier to ignite
Than that intangible something we call joy.
For something as simple as a smile
Cannot be matched by any extravaganza
Of words no matter how we try.
But a poet, a poet will spend lifetimes trying
To describe that very sensation, that fleeting
Sense of something greater than oneself, greater,
Even than the offerings left in ink at the poet’s
Altar of a page.
And sometimes it will be so hard, this attempt to transcribe
Emotion into a form decipherable to others
That the poet will feel only rage,
And exhaustion,
Till even the point of the pen begins to expire
But a poet, a poet, even in the pits of despair,
Does not retire,
For there, lingering somewhere
Above in the air, is a glimmer of truth
Just waiting to be shared.
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 8:06 AM UTC
Kylie
A song bird with a broken wing the cancer like the archer’s arrow pierced the breast the spirit widens
Under storm laden skies from inward hush and silence an opening umbrella of prayer provides a shield
The buffeted retreats to sheltering rocks and finds the hidden stream within depths blessed bindings
In warmest recesses your steps guided by the unseen over and through this dark passing new findings
With down cast eyes you continue the dark streets the home of the sick and the broken pain unspoken
You came upon these deep downward steeps from the flood lights and euphoric accolades of fame
Before your lyrical melodies were joyful expressive now will carry weighty and knowing sterling acclaim
Mined from troubles hard unrelenting walls finally the richest golden ore through your feelings pour
A little ease by the mystical dreams when sleep restores still withdrawn faces in the moonlight so pale
For a time at heaven you rail to costly you barter all that is thine to own backed by a great pink brigade
You fight with unstoppable courage you lead the march you find ground unvisited you go on without fail
Beaconing to legions behind encouraging you carry the burning torch showing the way through the dark
This my only desire I stand in this human body frail knowing my limitations but from the fight I call you
Don’t be afraid and never say give up to many are depending your touch glorious women you defend
Say in song the mystery you found in a city all alone you met sisters not age defined all filled with youth
In your face I see the unexplainable the untraceable a strength born from conflict a secret knowing
This is dedicated to Kylie Minouge Melissa Eatheridge and all breast cancer survivors
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 9:13 AM UTC