"boggy" poems
The local, strides through the rotten rails,
Metal to metal, rust to rust
The boggy sways and along with it, the hangers who
Hang in there, not by choice but by the might
Of time, distance, and bills to pay
The feeling is mutual as we stand, sway
Push, pull, and grab on to anything just to balance
Yet the journey never ends
It only begins.
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 3:01 AM UTC
The white cells,
seemingly not fearful of
oozing,
festering,
metastasizing,
fear black cells,
wearing hijabs or dreads.
The white cells
are fearful of the brown cells
that **** and process their chickens
and mow their lawns for them.
The white cells fear the red cells
though they like moccasins, canoes,
and wild rice soup,
fear yellow cells
may be smarter than them
so they label them
***** and Chinks.
The white cells
don’t seem to mind
asphalt-coating,
starlight-stealing,
convenience store sprawl
devouring healthy green cells--
alfalfa cells,
forest cells,
swampy, boggy cells,
black-eyed susan cells.
The Chamber of Commerce
calls it growth,
progress;
but this town
needs a tourniquet,
maybe chemotherapy.
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 3:17 PM UTC
986
A narrow Fellow in the Grass
Occasionally rides—
You may have met Him—did you not
His notice sudden is—
The Grass divides as with a Comb—
A spotted shaft is seen—
And then it closes at your feet
And opens further on—
He likes a Boggy Acre
A Floor too cool for Corn—
Yet when a Boy, and Barefoot—
I more than once at Noon
Have passed, I thought, a Whip lash
Unbraiding in the Sun
When stooping to secure it
It wrinkled, and was gone—
Several of Nature’s People
I know, and they know me—
I feel for them a transport
Of cordiality—
But never met this Fellow
Attended, or alone
Without a tighter breathing
And Zero at the Bone—
3.9k
On Bosworth field the die was cast
As banners flapped and arrows flew
The King of England breathed his last
A new one crowned before the day was through
Spewing lead the canons roared
Armour glinting in the light
When Henry's banner Richard saw
He led his men into the fight
The standard bearer he cut down
Then ten feet from his foe it's said
His horse got mired in boggy ground
So failed the charge that he had led
As Henry's men surrounded him
Richard stood his ground and said
I shall not flee, I'll die a King
England's crown upon my head
For the House of York the cause had failed
His skull was smashed, the deed was done
The House of Lancaster prevailed
On Bosworth field the war was lost and won
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC
How do you know when enough is enough
I can't take anymore, I'm just not that tough
I've tried to be all that you said I should be
But that didn't leave room for me just to be me
I'm losing my grip on all that I know
One little slip and I'll go down with the flow
Hanging on any tighter just makes it more tense
I don't know how much longer I can straddle this fence
There's only two ways now for this ride to go
Neither of which I'm particularly fond
So I patiently sit here but frantically row
Rowing in circles on this dark, boggy pond
Will someone please stop and throw me a line
Can't anyone see that I'm about to drown
Don't you understand that I'm running out of time
Will it finally be enough when I'm all the way down
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 3:05 PM UTC
O-One has been kept waiting for a long spell
N-Not knowing if one can get out of this hell
E-Endless days one has spent in an unlit well
H-Hope seems not to be journeying one's way
U-Under clouds of darkness one shall e'er stay
N-Never shall one see a bright sunny day ray
D-Deemed to be unfit to walk that old hallway
R-Realizing this fact sure makes one feel gray
E-Excluded from the folks at the homely bay
D-Dare one say one is mired in a boggy clay
A-All is lost one can't redeem one's former place
N-Negotiations with other are now a void space
D-Dear me one is in a position of sheer disgrace
E-Ever so badly one did behave all that time ago
I-In hindsight good manners needed to be the go
G-Grave is one's standing and so very full of woe
H-Heck the word one called when one had to go
T-Tidings of ejection delivered by the boss honcho
Y-Yonder one was told on the spot to quickly go
D-Down in the dumps one has been for so long
A-Away at a lone outpost well out of the throng
Y-Yearning to once again hear their joyful song
S-So one is on an island for those who do wrong
O-Only three chances did one get at that game
F-Four weren't going to be allotted to this dame
F-Folly to think that one could avoid any shame
L-Leniency not given one has to wear the claim
I-In the finally wash up one's lesson is to be tame
N-Needling the boss honcho scrubbed one's name
E-Erased one shall be for being a bad egg dame
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 3:38 AM UTC
I have sought many of the past lives,
Witnessed ages of the Earth’s passerby;
From when I was a little sapling,
Until vines and twigs turned wrinkling-
I am a linden tree and this is the story,
I’d tell in the form of poetry.
Many and many a year ago,
When mountains ceaselessly echo
And the birds chirped harmoniously,
Zephyr mutters silence and serenity;
Clouds clover sky in gleaming azure,
Meadow teeming with verdant grandeur.
The sound of the raging sea wave
Reverberates through the mighty cave;
Sun-kissed sand wallow all day,
Pristine and bright as the sun’s ray;
In the boggy soil I stand firm,
Watching the pendulous vine squirm.
Butterflies fluttering in great splendor,
Hovering and sipping nectars galore;
Screeching seagulls can be heard-
From a distant they form herd;
A group of mackerel rapidly swim,
Dwelling into the never-ending stream.
Those were the days when green
is all there is to be seen;
Before the rise of the civilization,
When humans value appreciation.
Blazing red lights swallowed,
Then ashes and dust followed;
Streams and riverbanks silently cry,
As fishes and clams gradually die;
Birds started singing in sorrow-
The broken melody of tomorrow.
This is the story that I’d be telling-
To my children and their sapling;
I am a linden tree, blessed and forsaken,
Whose memories and land they’ve taken.
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 11:01 PM UTC
Little sparrows show off their agility,
dancing up and down violin necks.
Pecking staccato notes out of the air.
Making tea and dropping ceramics
behaving clumsily and babbling nonsense
even after they've been told
sit down and be quiet.
Imitation ducks sit squat,
quiet, muddy, decoying
singing water stains,
spitting curses from their bills.
Pulling bed sheets up to their chins,
nesting between the covers.
Very anonymous in their colours,
not a deviation among them.
Cold wax and dry glue
flake off creases and folds.
These lovely imitations,
cuckoo plaster cast knuckles
snowflaking to the ground,
useless with fine motor skills.
Peeling off like dead leaves,
parasitic nest components.
All my fingernails are different lengths,
evolving finches’ beaks
on isolated islands
With scratches on the vinyl of my thumb,
sand beneath my cuticles,
scrapbooks between my fingerprints.
Piano keys team up in groups of two,
sharing sharps and flats.
Filed and polished,
pink budgies dispose of portfolios apathetically,
slamming filing cabinets shut.
Cuttle bones rattling,
mirrors cracking.
Irritable thighs complaining,
they hunker with bad posture,
frowning on their perch.
Squat salient warbles
clamoring sharply down corridors
over whistling loudspeakers.
Poster orioles elbow aside crowds,
bright bones flashing
neon signs
keratin streaked or spotted
for biological attention.
Weaponry painted exciting colours,
friendly hues and enthusiastic tints.
Lies dressed in curiosity,
attracting intrigue.
My heron neck in the air
searches for information,
explanation, observation.
Greedy for projections,
living in the tree tops,
reflected in shop windows,
my skinny anisodactyl talons
for walking on mud,
wading through marsh,
boggy water.
My hands are geese
jabbering back and forth
across my chest.
its very distracting
to have these conversations
going on between palms,
arguing the best way to fold paper cranes,
whether chocolate pudding
should be stirred clockwise or counter.
Take a gander at the world you don't touch because your fingers are too flightly
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 3:50 AM UTC
Upon this rainy day
I stand on a boggy bed
Alone, untouched, unscathed
All to clear my head
For if I return I am hurt
And if I run I am without
This day of wet and murk
Is the best without a doubt
My thoughts are washed away
Onto this muddy plinth
I want to run and play
But I'm cursed, stuck and skint
And now I must return
And recall the deep, dark blue
I cannot help but burn
For I cannot escape from you
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 7:09 AM UTC
There was a frog down in the swamp
Who'd leap a half a mile
I chased that sunday entrée
With all my skill and guile
But when I speared that monster bull
I had a weird hunch
Those bulging eyes were warning me
I sure would hate my lunch
It ain't always a gourmet cook
Who serves the very best
I fried those twitching muscles there
And ate each bite with zest
But a funny feeling took-a-holt
That made me want to jump
Soon I felt me start to crave
A cool place for my ****
I found myself a boggy bank
And did a healthy croak
I bent my legs and leaped a block
And thought my *%$#@X!!# back was broke
I learned my lesson messing with
That cussed hoodoo frog
I sit safe on my pillow now
And don't go near the bog
But I'm still haunted by the hex
That ****** old frog applied
And I'm still getting Blue Cross
For a tender underside
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 5:58 PM UTC
Your brain is plugged and foggy;
Your mind is on the freaking fritz;
The poetry is lost and boggy;
You hold your pen in woolen mitts.
Try a senryu about your life
Or a haiku on the froggy pond;
Cut through bloc de l'auter with a knife,
And slog out of the slough, Despond.
Sometimes it helps to focus long
On a single spot on the wall of life
And see what image comes along...
(I like to think of my pretty wife).
This writer's block's a funny thing
Tied somehow to the lives we lead,
And sterile writers need a fling
To let their stubborn poems breed.
So walk a while, or take a Jeep;
Visit the county fair...
Milk a cow or shear a sheep;
Wear flowers in your hair.
Or be like me and go take a nap;
Read a good book, or call an old friend;
Some poems are babies not yet in the lap,
Developing elsewhere, somewhere in the When....
Be sure they'll show up when they're ready to shine;
They'll trip off your fingers; they'll flow like red wine;
They'll sparkle or spark, or they'll whimper and cry,
But your poems will arrive, and I'm telling no lie.
Be patient, Good Allys..., the block's not an end,
Your poems are waiting ahead, 'round the bend.
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 11:36 AM UTC
after three wildest hours
and forty four raging minutes
sitting up alone
with no witness
how can I quietly sleep
and evade to dream
any thorn-apples, foxholes
mulberry trees
in oddly detailed scenes
and the like sequence of visions
that chase me at will
shredding my precision
I better go somewhere else
but treat me well
when eyes need to rest
electric lights cannot help
so I've burn the cane
tonight on a boggy shore
and pallid fire came
and high above owl roared
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 5:19 AM UTC
When bog water steals her wings’ day-smell
Comes the night heron to roost on the marshy night.
I have often caught her lost in the dim orb of moon
Got a whiff in the wind of her fishy smell
That says the night is not yet old
Her feathery dreams still unripe,
But like a philosopher in thought shy
The winged wonder would at my slightest hint fly
Leaving on my homebound way a trail
Till the moon reclines the night turns pale.
I wonder what thinks the night heron
In the stillness of the boggy night,
Is it her day’s catch and contentment
Or some way to carve a place in the starry firmament!
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 2:41 AM UTC
My 3am kick has lasted an hour
I'm still wide awake so maybe a shower
This time seems so quiet I wonder to scare
Is boggy or spider hiding somewhere
My eyes come all foggy I'm straining to see
The coffee is awful this hunger to beat
I've looked at my facebook and emails all read
I should be so tired and in my sweet bed
The hell with this sleep as long goes the dead
That's what I keep saying but still want me rest
I'll buy me some matches and prop up me styes
I may look quite funny but look at me eyes
Oh sod all this writing its sending me nuts
My mind is still racing no foot on me clutch
No doubt as I pack up and wake for the day
My sleep will be knocking but up I must stay
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 12:30 AM UTC
The little vacuum wished it would
Grow up and be like its cousin, the
Bag less wonder, he could clean
Places where others couldn,t dream
Of, he was the three wheeled wonder,
The little vacuum wanted to be like
So much and more.
He was taken out of his box twice a
Week, his mother was the toaster his
Dad was a fridge, she made him toasty,
But he gave her the shivers, but in a
Good way my family are like others for sure.
Buttons pressed on and off, his hose was
His nose all kinds of things he sniffed up
From crumbs to socks. But the smell always
Blocked his nose and he did sneeze, out
Come the sock, dust and all, where once
Their was clean carpet there was dust and
Mouldy apple core.
Was it the sock or the apple moldy with
Colour of boggy green and rottern black,
How long had that been inside rotting at
His core. He felt not so good, every time
Turned on he would blow a cloud of dust,
Not ******* it back.
He was down, his hose was not at its best,
He felt like he,d ****** up a cactus, and
The taste was like a soggy moggy or the
Stinkest cheese mixed with a wet sock could
You imagine that.
His mother said you need to keep toasty,
His dad gave him the cold shoulder and
Said son man up, that was the end of that.
So they took him out of the box, thoughts
Went through the little vacuums switch,
Would he end up like uncle larry. He was
A proud drill but one day he could keep it
In, it feel out they said a ***** was lose, that
Was the end of that. Last I heard he was
Recycled, his parts now used everywhere
Scary is that.
So I was lifted out, my nose off it came they
Were washing it under the tap,They opened
Me up to look inside, I felt air in my insides
A weird feeling is that, a bag they took out
Looking worse for wear, had that been inside
Me since they had first unboxed me, gross they
Said was it me I thought, but it was the bag in fact.
They were gentle as they washed my insides,
It tickled me I let out a giggle, they looked at
Each other was that you, not me could have
Been the cat.
Refreshed I felt as they put my hose on
I could breath once more and fresh scents,
Not the smell of a wet moogy, how much
Better was that. A new bag they put in me,
Then closed the cap, I waited for the switch,
Nothing happened, was I to be like uncle
Larry, but they hadnt plugged me in how
Silly is that.
So a whoosh and a sound and I sounded great,
I felt like I was new out the box, so proud was
I, that I cleaned the whole house in record time
In fact. So this is my tail of the little vacuum,
Who was under the weather, but if he,d only
Washed regularly but he cant be blamed for that.
He was a happy and knew one day he would
Grow up to be like his bagless cousin and
Make his dad chill out be proud of him, his
Mother she was already proud of what he did
Around the house.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 5:02 PM UTC
Boggy dark peat buoys
atop hot
swells of blackening water,
under a pale froth
of warm, bitter oils.
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 1:14 AM UTC
In the woods by the knurled burnt oak
Hides a shadow in the blackest cloak
With bent up spine and boney fingers
And a rasp like a hell hound in his throat
Don't look his way just pass on by
Sneak around the moon so high
Hide beneath the breeze that chills
Look out for the shadows that ****
Once you pass the stench of death
Turn to the weeping willow
Kneel down upon earth so soft
And rest your weary head on earth's soft pillow
Close your eye's and let him pass
Hear his twisted bones chime the hour
As he looks for you to take tonight
And drag you into the boggy crag
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 9:17 AM UTC
Life thus far has been but naught;
Rife with torment, tears, and fraught.
And ever on my soul does step
Around the bend and gently swept
To a greener plain both bright and fair,
No more to tread a boggy chare.
To familiars close and kins away,
To God's green Heaven is where I stray.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 8:28 PM UTC
the night of the day
before tomorrow
becomes today
he tries to imagine
ways beyond that
but loses the path
mired in the boggy
random darkness
of his own muddy soul
~mce
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 11:29 PM UTC
Steam cools in cobbles
on thin glass
above dead pressed mulch,
coarse and boggy,
near dry silt laced like foam
on salty sea.
Between one coffee and
the next,
forgotten grounds fire
their broken dust,
remember a hot, earthy cellar,
a clay oven,
in cold water clearing
the cold cup.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC
As we hop over the boggy river
We leap like gazelles,
Trying not to get wet
But someone always falls in,
Our muddy hands and knees
Would remind us of our success,
Wet feet not so much.
We would throw rocks
Attempting to skim them on the surface,
Remembering the disappointment
Of only hopping two or three times,
But carrying on for hours until
You finally got that golden throw
That raises trophies.
Sap and moss would cling
To your soft skin,
Making it rough like the bark
That you had been climbing,
But our innocence was as pure
As the nature I grew to love
And continue to love.
Jun 21, 2017
Jun 21, 2017 at 7:35 AM UTC
the way it falls
collar bones cold
chills tearing at my spine
human necessity, memory
of touch long erased.
my mouth a portal,
sound only. lips,
retired rose petals
moments contracting
upon themselves
pointless gateway
rusted chains marking
an empty garden
ground turned and cursed
age rushing and darkening the permanence of regret.
hollow echos limbering up posts
legs shortened by time
expectation of movement between
shortsighted and extinct
wanderlust long extinguished
boggy eyes with water rims
too shallow to swim
far too empty to drown
salty bottomed and
largely misunderstood
curved ground between
here and there, and the earth
contracts. mind's eye drawing closed
and the rivulets pour, the faucet closed
only a dripping remains.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 6:24 AM UTC
There's nothing left of me here,
only the ghosts appear,
they've barricaded themselves
in the abandoned buildings,
I see them peeking out.
The cities voices, familiar, shout,
even as they whisper.
There's nothing left of me here
or my ears would blister,
like they used to.
It used to be: find today's food for all,
then dinner from the bins
and tonight squatting the old school.
Being homeless is a full time job,
ruled by desperation and The Law of Sod.
From the street, the city stands naked,
free of it's dazzling attire.
Underneath all the buildings,
the foundations of history,
is the same boggy mire
(from which it sprang)
I wrote poems on these pavements,
some, simply, political statements, in colour,
but there's nothing left of me here,
the slabs have all faded, once again grey,
and this is all I have to say:
The city didn't notice that I've been missing,
it was lost in it's lovers arms, kissing,
a Time Immemorial embrace;
oranges & lemons
and the finest of lace,
a commercial covenant
with The Man With No Face.
The entire space was built
on the idea of exploitation.
There's nothing left of me here,
I left along the road of alienation.
A bankers brogues tread on beggars hands;
actually, this here is private land,
property of The City of London.
Well, I'm ******* gone, son.
There's nothing left of me here,
I'm done.
Nov 19, 2019
Nov 19, 2019 at 6:56 AM UTC