"bleat" poems
We know you, and your little dark colors too. A picture book in your purse penned in mustaches on the full faces of your fare. We call you from bed, 8 o' clock in the morning, dog-light you slow wander the Peruvian darkness making jellyfish tentacles with your hands while you feel your way through Salem. We're colder than night and we wake thrice the bits of your day gig. You collapse in a green field of dandelion where thrushes drown you in Brown. We gorge ourselves on mango slivers, pineapple yolks, a half of grapefruit. We know you are close to your end.
On the tops of the cities you call to your lycan friends, the half-sick and muted bray allures them to you, from Bratislava and Mimon, the thoroughfare through the suq. We wait. The foregone untold, the beep beep jug jug swoop sound of the nightingale, in all her dun glory, we wait. Then, as if descending through the moor-lounging silver smoke, the cool stickiness to your fingertips; the fog.
We are there when the blue-less and smoky screen surrounds you, when you shank the auburn Scot hair of the sly fox that stalks, say, a cigarette from your lips. When you take the corners swiftly, gadding the streets. The prize king of vulpicide. You rub its matte fur against your bristly gray beard. And while you lay in your lumps of twelve carat flesh you bleat and you nag. One day you will never come home.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
Through the country paths, I lazily loitered,
watching Nature in its changing hue
straying farther into the interiors,
sundry and sublime vistas came into view.
in response to zephyr’s warm embrace,
the silvery leaves joyously fluttered.
the bees busied themselves collecting pollen
and birds on tree tops merrily chattered
it was the *** end of verdant spring.
summer’s sun stood behind my head.
bleat of sheep was heard from far.
‘Good day to you’….. Someone said.
There stood on the hill, a boy around fifteen
obviously he was of tribal breed.
with a beaming smile, he greeted me
but on walking to him, he ran like a steed
I saw him disappear behind the trees
and enter into a hut tiny as a nest
he lived in the lap of Mother Nature,
far from the city and its sooty dust
being coaxed, he hesitantly came out.
my tone of assurance and pleasing smile,
seemed to have won his confidence
as to a friend, he shared his eventful tale.
pointing to the sheep grazing in the slope,
he said, he earned a living caring the flock.
he stayed in the woods all day long,
feeding and tending his master’s sheep.
from dawn to dusk, through woods and meads,
he leads his sheep, calling them by their name.
un vexed, with simple pleasures he is content
and with a nomad’s life, he seems to be tame
he said, at home he has his invalid mother.
bringing her back to health is his mission in life
on referring to his mother, I watched his eyes glitter
nothing other than her illness posed to him a strife
from every utterance, I could sense his filial love.
even in abundance, while shadows line many faces,
on his visage, hope lingered as a dancing flame
to me he seemed above many, rich in other graces!
While parting, I handed him a little money
pausing unbelievably, with moist eyes
he accepted it, when a breeze passed caressing us
as if over a kind gesture, Nature seemed to rejoice!
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 9:23 AM UTC
Scars scattered on my skin,
Pain storming deep within,
Yet, I am proud to say,
I'm a survivor;
Catcalls are a norm,
Yet I don't wish to conform,
To the societal rules,
Because I'm a survivor;
I've seen life at its worst,
I've been through so much that I could burst,
But I won't let them be satisfied,
Because I'm a survivor;
They say I'm alone,
They think I am prone,
To fall into the shadows called depression;
Oh I'm a survivor;
They say I'm a poor child,
They say I'll run away wild;
But I won't do anything as such,
Because I'm a survivor;
They say I'm sugary sweet,
They say I'm a sheep that'll bleat;
Oh they are sadly mistaken,
Because I'm a survivor;
To you, I may look like harmless,
To you, I may look characterless,
But I'm a fighter through and through;
Life's hit me with a lot of punches,
But you must remember, my darling,
I'm a survivor;
I don't know,
Whether I'm high or am I low,
What matters the most is,
I'm a survivor;
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 12:39 PM UTC
In fields you walk with cloven wanderlust
With blankets carried on your back as fleece
Protecting fellow sheep-fold innocence
From devious behavior in the flock
Smiling as you bleat and stride as golden
Reflecting rays like sunlit drops of milk
A lamb of God your knowledge is your milk
Your curiosity breathes wanderlust
A message from the ancient one baas golden
Engraved upon your heart and curls of fleece
Observe the blessed range within your flock
Stray not for you may lose your innocence
A fog in hills may blind your innocence
Beware the wolf will take more than your milk
And with each day you bond among your flock
Behold the beauty of group wanderlust
We thank you for your warm and cherished fleece
That soothes us as earth's twilight breaks golden
Glory to the impossible golden
For myths of your spiritual innocence
Merely trumpets what liberates your fleece
The holy grail is your chalice of milk
Discovered in a cave of wanderlust
Restful within the shadow of your flock
What joy is raised in stables of your flock
An offering of ritual golden
Pasture of thirsty hearts in wanderlust
You teach us to hold fast to innocence
How precious is the richness of your milk
Our comfort is to rest our heads on fleece
A new dawn to behold an age of fleece
A new dusk to protect an ancient flock
A new day to preserve the gift of milk
A new memory to hold futures golden
A never ending age of innocence
A satiated age of wanderlust
Fruitful wanderlust of black sage fleece
Shepherds innocence to a white cloaked flock
Prepare ye golden moments with thine milk
© tHE tERRY tREE
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 2:45 PM UTC
Of all the places
I have been
This is the strangest
That I've seen
It is called
The mixed up zoo
where the animals
Just will not do
Exactly what they're supposed to do
That's why it's called the mixed up zoo
Imagine lions in a tree
Not where they're supposed to be
A giraffe who is afraid of heigts
And bats who will not fly at night
I saw a goat who did not bleat
And then I saw a wool less sheep
A zebra who was blue and green
The strangest place I've ever been
I saw a duck who did not quack
I even met a talking yak
A turkey who could really fly
A hyena who would only cry
Geese that croaked like giant frogs
And chickens who would bark like dogs
Elephants with ears so small
You would think they couldn't hear at all
I saw a horse who would not run
In all the day was really fun
Monkeys who could really sing
A snake who bounced just like a spring
It really was a crazy place
I laughed so much I hurt my face
If there is one thing you must do
Come and see the mixed up zoo
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 11:46 PM UTC
Thread knuckles into notches of your spine,
you were mine.
Held down as carotid fought hard,
to keep open your eye.
Staring vivid as clouds overtook.
I can taste you through your musk,
hear the quivering in your thigh.
Stomach acids crawled into your nose,
and petals bloom. Belly aflame,
throat bleat with each beat.
As vision tunneled from expanse
to pinhole spindle of our room.
Bared teeth like a wild animal,
eyes wide with excitement.
If you could breathe a word your smile soon'd fade.
Porcelain comtesse *** undress with maroon'd face.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 4:36 AM UTC
Cock-a-doodle doo.
Pigs snorting and grunt.
Bleat baa the sheep.
Hidden in the trees squeak the squirrels.
Gobble gobble gobbling turkeys.
Low oxen moo the cows.
Hohi-a-hohhle hi
Bray donkeys so similar.
Rolling on the red dust.
The village.
A swallow-tailed bee-eater.
Calling and singing.
A green barbet, dark brown head.
Answers the call.
A red-capped lark, black bill.
Entertains the morning.
An emerald-spotted wood dove.
Seated lonely somewhere.
Coos to the extravaganza.
The village.
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 5:20 AM UTC
Passover Moon's
****** hue
eclipses
the ordinary
in veils of
miraculousness
obscure
rouge
halos
illume
elliptical arcs
guiding
footsteps in
a righteous
exodus
across
troubling
waters
forsaking
hovels
with
painted
doorjambs
dripping
lambs blood
Mezuzahs
bleat
memories
holy
murmurs
bespeaking
lamentations
of ancient
hosannas
our
desperate
supplications
flesh out a
distressed
humanity
seeking
deliverance
from the
vengeance
is mine
Elohim
may it
be nigh
we wait
watching for
an always faithful
Good Deliverer
to honor the
covenant
to lift
despair
with a
liberating
yoke
lugging
leaden
burdens
Oh Holy
of
Holies
banished
in the wisp
of a bitter herb
our
distended
bellies
fill with
unleavened
grace
sweet
droplets
of manna
consumed
with extreme
gratitude
arriving
at journeys
end to
promised
lands
fully
satiated
and free
to rest in
sanctuaries
of radical
hospitality
luxuriating
in an infinite
abundance
for all
sojourners
Selah
Music Selection:
Big Mama Thornton
Go Down Moses
Oakland
4/15/14
jbm
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
Back of my back, they talk of me,
Gabble and honk and hiss;
Let them batten, and let them be--
Me, I can sing them this:
"Better to shiver beneath the stars,
Head on a faithless breast,
Than peer at the night through rusted bars,
And share an irksome rest.
"Better to see the dawn come up,
Along of a trifling one,
Than set a steady man's cloth and cup
And pray the day be done.
"Better be left by twenty dears
Than lie in a loveless bed;
Better a loaf that's wet with tears
Than cold, unsalted bread."
Back of my back, they wag their chins,
Whinny and bleat and sigh;
But better a heart a-bloom with sins
Than hearts gone yellow and dry!
3.7k
Let me meet you in a marbled
field of
sand...
Though
you bewitch me with clifftops hooded in emerald grass ...
Though
your sheep bleat loudly the marvel of your serenity...
Though
you wait patiently beyond your lonely precipice,
I cannot endure the eons
raging against the cliffs of your security.
Every
passing year, the thunder of my broken waves
gouges deeper into your wounded coastline.
Every
rock torn from your embrace, resounds the pain of our growing rift
Every
crumbling cliffs edge dissolves the beauty I held in reverie...
I wound us in this way.
Let me meet you in a secluded
gentle
cove...
There,
upon quieted sands, my waves will softly stroke your skin.
There,
the lions will laugh in cacophonous delight at our simple joy.
There,
our worlds will dance as pebbles tumble into diamond crystals.
There, a child will listen woefully,
the sea song of our love.
With eyes in contented darkness,
With a soul filled, overflowing
With the power of bearing witness
to this daily wonder.
Each
breath brings her deeper into the burning core of her mind,
Each
thought sparks the flame brighter
Each
billowing blaze will enliven her roots, and
she will bloom.
Then,
her eyes will open to a shimmering world,
glistening through tears of quiet understanding.
Then,
breath will guide the salt of our dance into her veins
Then,
she will dance to the song of our world.
With arms wide as eyes,
she will embrace
this treasured moment
With the divinity of her mortality.
When the moment calms, she will walk solemnly through our shallows.
When my waves pull home at her ankles,
When the crystalline pebble shines brightly in her visage
she will reach with focused surrender through my water for a memento
of the love she feels so presently.
In our slow dance,
of Land and Sea,
our love bears its fruits in tiny treasures.
In her little pocket,
the diamond of our love
will travel further into your heart than my waves ever could.
In this way...
you and I grow fonder
with every passing day.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 11:05 PM UTC
Peace broke out
with a rash of shepherds
Peace broke in
while most were asleep
Peace broke out
with a choir of angels
Peace broke in
with the bleat of sheep
Peace broke out
in a backyard stable
Peace broke in
and beggared belief
Peace broke out
in the stink of a manger
Peace broke in
with a cry of release
Peace broke out
to a child breast feeding
Peace broke in
to a mothers relief
Peace broke out
in the hearts of believers
Peace broke in
to the middle east
Peace breaks out
to those who believe him
Peace breaks in
to the hearts of the meek
Peace breaks out
here in Ealing
Jesus breaks in
as the Prince of true Peace
Dec 5, 2017
Dec 5, 2017 at 3:26 AM UTC
Once in a dream (for once I dreamed of you)
We stood together in an open field;
Above our heads two swift-winged pigeons wheeled,
Sporting at ease and courting full in view.
When loftier still a broadening darkness flew,
Down-swooping, and a ravenous hawk revealed;
Too weak to fight, too fond to fly, they yield;
So farewell life and love and pleasures new.
Then, as their plumes fell fluttering to the ground,
Their snow-white plumage flecked with crimson drops,
I wept, and thought I turned towards you to weep:
But you were gone; while rustling hedgerow tops
Bent in a wind which bore to me a sound
Of far-off piteous bleat of lambs and sheep.
3k
She always taps the railings when she walks along the street
No matter the weather, her mood, if she’s early or late
It goes tap, tap step tap, step tap tap, and repeat.
It’s a simple and quiet lived life to the beat
Of her fears, her obsessively organized fate
She always taps the railings when she walks down the street.
It helps her feel calm; to tap makes the walk neat,
Step twice near the fountain and jump over the grate
It goes tap, tap step tap, step tap tap and repeat.
Do her neighbors peek, do they point, do they bleat
About the girl who’s got rhythm tied into her fate?
She always taps the railings when she walks down the street.
And her parents, do they not fear for her feet
And her tapping obsession, psychiatrist’s bait
It goes tap, tap step tap, step tap tap and repeat.
But it’s hers, her own comforting lullaby sweet
It protects her from bombs, famine and food past it’s due-date
So she always taps the railings when she walks down the street.
She goes tap. Tap step tap. Step tap tap. And repeat.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 10:34 PM UTC
Mary, Mary let go of that sheep
It has bleat too loudly as we lay asleep
Feet in one steady direction
Out from the pen its throes
Mary, Mary the meadows are fresh
Though they are green only for so long
The dogs have slung them over their heads
Strung out from wayward beds
The clueless drunk shepherd that was your father
Waiting at the neck of foreign spirits
Sheathed it like a monkey peeling bananas
For a fat buck a glass, what's it to him?
Poor little sheep, shivers from the whipping air
Clouds gone too soon
For the rich merchants
With hanging gold in their mouths
Mary, Mary, poor little sheep
Jumped over the fence
Probably too hurt to walk alone
Thorns and rocks ahead
But they must have been better than the cold in his head
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 8:51 AM UTC
How Poets routinely tell lies or truth with great "sincerity"
and earnest projections of "poetic charisma" and lashings
of "who me tell lies?".
and yet they routinely avoid truthfulness, in case they forget the power of lies and truth, in their search for fame.
Mesmerised by its attendant celebrity groupmind and of course its wealth..
Indeed Poets don't want to know that truthfulness
has nothing to do with truth.
Indeed Poets don't want to know that truth
is a lie and a lie is truth,
two sides of a darkened mirror
and both are equally valueless
except for seeing false faces in..
Poets bleat on about how the shackleable object of their 'love' ,
she or he, are not theirs to own
or categorise or monopolise.
yet they keep on expecting full submission
and just getting an empty back,
and a disappearing set of footprints.
Like the sheep and goats that Poets are,
they bleat on endlessly
about their wants their wants their wants.
They want fame as Poets--disguised as distribution deals.
They want contracts to produce garbage for HallMark--as if..
They want **** licking critical acclaim--from **** licking critics.
They want international poetry prizes from aesthetic morons--
wearing Armani suits.
They want Groupies--but not *******
They want Media eulogies--but not truthfulness.
Always are they deliberately forgetting that
"you cant always get what you want".
The last thing that Poets want is what they need most of all.
They really need
An end to the narcissism of those
that want to be called "poet"--in your dreams.
An end to the juvenile arrogance that motivates them to put up strings
of meaningless associated words
and vainly call them poems.
An end to childish immaturity, and inchoate meandering
through other peoples words and experiences, stealing others lives
and characters.
Always incessantly pretending that because
they can read the words of others
that they have also shared their experiences--indeed their experience was deeper wider higher.
In another day and age of non-violent sensibility
these kind of Poets would
be called thieves and liars.
In this day and age they scribble emotional garbage
and pretend its "poetry"--encouraged by intellectual follies.
As poets they have become walking proto cash registers.
Sin Verguensa.
Sin Verguensa.
Sin is Spanish for without.
Poets are SIN integrity.
Poets are SIN Truthfulness.
Poets are SIN decency.
Poets are SIN.
Im so glad I could never be mistaken for a Poet.
Wouldnt want to be mistaken as a poet.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 4:19 PM UTC
♀↵ϖ†∅↨⊕☺☼↑↓
Apples will be cantaloupes
depending on their nurture;
and so I cherish rainbow hopes
for our collective future.
Oranges elect their hue
improving Nature’s seal,
while pronouns stifle what is true
suppressing the appeal.
Fruits may choose to change to nuts
and fowls select their plumage.
Why settle in Tradition’s ruts?
Such rigid roles do damage.
Nuts in turn, may feel like flowers,
picking how and when to bloom.
So ambisexual thought empowers
androgynes to court their doom.
A leopard, too, may change his spots
(or turn into a vegan bunny)
No law’s tittles, neither jots
make Speciesism funny.
If you decide to see it so
the sky above is yellow.
Perceive as pink the grass beneath
and better times must follow.
Gender? Merely social constructs –
preach it to the masses
until tradition self-destructs
and *** takes off her glasses.
Babies need no Dad (nor Mother):
sexist labels, obsolete.
Love is blind. There is no other.
Bats must bark and chickens bleat.
Integrated water closets
show how far we have evolved:
urinary bank deposits
(with no member account involved).
Foolish thinking from the past
(like water being wet, and such)
calls for re-education, fast.
The State will lend its human touch
compelling all to sing the hymn
with genderfluid motions…
so birds can preen their scales and swim
in dry and waveless oceans.
(Yet “hymn” sounds sexist said out loud –
we ought to sing a “her” instead…
no – make that “us”, since we are proud,
lest misconceptions be misread.)
Shake a healthy dose of salt
upon this strange post-modern food.
May God re-set us to default
with human common sense renewed.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 11:05 PM UTC
Beneath the fair blue face of Heaven, harp
In hand, a shepherd flats an A that's sharp.
He plucks and tunes and finds the perfect pitch
And plays a harmony exceeding rich.
The afternoon is hot, and all the sheep
Are full of grass and falling fast asleep.
Cotton ball clouds go slowly floating by
While drowsy songbirds neither sing nor fly.
Even the shiny fish in waters cool
Nap in the cooler shadows in the pool.
Save for the sound of rills that gently spill,
All things are silent. Everything is still.
So too a watchful lion keeping eyes
Upon a ewe lamb dozing where she lies.
As still as stone he stalks his sleepy prey:
He's waited patiently the livelong day.
And now the time has come to work his plan,
While most at ease is bird and beast and man.
He takes the first small steps in his approach,
Then breaks into a run and makes the poach.
Bewildered sheep in panic loudly bleat—
Asleep to wide awake in one heartbeat!
The shepherd's senses rush, and running down
The brute, he smites the beast upon his crown.
Dazed and confused, the lion drops the lamb
That lives but by the grace of Him, I AM.
The shepherd grabs the lion's beard, and, hair
In hand, he slays him (as he'll slay a bear.)
Returning safe the lamb unto the flock,
The shepherd goes and stands upon a rock.
He lifts his hands to God, and, singing psalms
Of praise, he gives the LORD his weather'd palms.
Cotton ball clouds go slowly floating by
As stars begin to twinkle in the sky.
Feb 17, 2023
Feb 17, 2023 at 1:08 PM UTC
The earth is her playground beneath her feet.
Everyone around her sees that she’s sweet
And full of an innocence in her play.
She won’t stop until she’s seized the day!
Life is a fun game for her to beat.
She plays with the tadpoles that she finds neat.
For them, playing with her is such a treat.
They dream of being frogs so that someday
She’ll kiss them and make one her prince.
She traps them in a jar once filled with peat
And takes them to her home so they can meet
Her family where maybe they’ll stay.
But their dream isn’t her dream in any way.
Now it’s fools and liars who softly bleat,
“She’ll kiss them and make one her prince.”
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 2:05 PM UTC
As Winter slaps the ****
of Autumn, and lambs
no longer bleat -
I'm glad I saw these socks
n bought em -
I got really frigid feet...
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 8:46 AM UTC
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cell.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,---
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
2.4k
choo choo
next stop.....perdition
(no, not really...no-one believes this Stygian opacity)
1.
look how Time doth ravage thee
look what it did to thy visage
in smithereens, lies youth
it so artfully takes away
what is held so dear
rivers and streams
valleys and hills
arching to ecstatic heights
plunging to abysmal lows
into the ravine of chance
stirred by the spoon of Time
slowly around the cauldron
brews the self-same mixture
then poured into chasms of forgetfulness
using the eternal sledgehammer
it
smashes the foundation of thought
grinds the nutmeg of speed
pulps the fruit of mentality
slows the pulse of sensation
and pardons none.
2.
what was once sensuous and voluptuous lips
now are merely two dry slits on your face
once stared-into eyeballs, now glass over
vitreous cataracts steadily grow, weed-like
toned into lithe elastic bands now stretch
away into forever, a pale platform to walk on
life's morn is encompassed by years' slanting
clouded and bedimmed by mists of age
butterfly's existence outweighs a man's
by mere night-veiled windowpane of true sight
draw the curtains; close the shutters; screen the eyes
the time has come to shed all blinkers and face the sun.
3.
crimp
sag
limp
drag
mud cracks down a dipping dale
scalding pain sears sore half-foot
yes, time is but a disease
ravaging all
without fear or favour
sunken eyes
slower reflexes
tardier mind
scraggly body
hides not
condescends not
forgets not
the glimmer of ....
a time of ...
4.
cathedral invites the walker in
cool and calm recesses
sit silent
wait....
then they walk in, carrying
one who had but a lucky half-score lot
clear soprano note becomes a rudderless bleat
announcing the folly of stifling ego
now shorn of burning frost of circuitous fervour
beams of mercy cast a final look-see
jump the barriers of
time
to
carry thee off.
pipe organ-stops are pulled out
(art thee ready? platform number 5)
S T, 9 May 2013
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 9:24 AM UTC
Well, my feet, they feel like
Saggy sacks of soggy moss;
As if they went for a hike
And suffered some Great Loss.
And the thorny feelers
Penetrate Barefoot Monkees.
Is loathing made of mirrors?
Is every girl a tease?...
Good G-d my stomach hurts! --
Your Divine Justice, blessed.
My vessel is vibing hertz
As it bears The Distress:
But, if I make my feet
Acknowledge more smiles than frowns;
And my Neuroses cease to bleat
While I analyze nouns...
Is there a New Normal?
Grace from benevolent gods?
Or will Hope choke, fade in Stealth
As Blind eyes miss her nods?
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 12:40 AM UTC
Acquiring the libel of critics
Internally at times I bleat
And snarl, brow furrowed
Like an actress when filming a major motion *****
“Originality bid us farewell” screams my advanced intellect
Nothing more than a social outcast who lacks a catalyst
(though thankfully the universe is an object of open ended philosophy)
The voices of such a generation fail to carry notes
Beyond the octave range
Only Canis lupus familiaris feces, in its rejuvenated appearance,
Delivers abstract imagery
What was once honorable has dissolved into media sewage
Virginal darlings now dissolved into marionettes
Shall my poems alienate the public
They shall at least demonstrate bravery
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 10:53 PM UTC
Trust is a limited currency
For those who have wronged us,
And the wall subconsciously built
In a day, can only be taken a part
Brick by brick,
But those who speak
For the force unheard,
Only proven to exist in a feeling
Or in the passed down book,
I think, are given too much credit.
Speaking for that which cannot speak for itself
Inherently is wrong, yet these priests
We give our trust
Despite the controversy
They always bring up
Speaking for not the god
That those sitting there
Came to hear about,
But speaking for those
There sitting.
Swaying and advising
The path they take and what direction
And nodding heads,
And right hands pointed to the sky
Tell you nobody pays much attention.
For a priest
Who preaches abstinence
And practices excess
On the underaged sons,
Open your eyes.
That stage shouldn’t be upheld
By one who sways people
Against one another,
But with the bible in the right context,
Anything could be directed towards anyone.
Limit your currency of trust
For those who prove
They deserve it,
The church can heal,
But my, oh my, can the pasture bleat.
May 13, 2021
May 13, 2021 at 8:17 PM UTC
Somewhere seabirds pipe and bleat,
gathered on a dark low tide.
Shapes and shadows line the fleet,
cold and calling.
In the shore hide facing north
I'm focussing black ten-by-forties,
hunched against the wall for warmth;
the tide still falling.
Looking out, I'm looking back,
thirty years have ebbed away;
the boy, his joy, his haversac,
his notebook scrawling;
I see him, tremulous, wild-eyed,
among the plovers, curlew, knot,
a loosed dog shakes them and he flies,
the seawall salt sting cuts and dries;
there's no recalling.
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 6:55 PM UTC