"bonnets" poems
124
In lands I never saw—they say
Immortal Alps look down—
Whose Bonnets touch the firmament—
Whose Sandals touch the town—
Meek at whose everlasting feet
A Myriad Daisy play—
Which, Sir, are you and which am I
Upon an August day?
5.6k
By A Foreigner
I like Canadians.
They are so unlike Americans.
They go home at night.
Their cigarettes don't smell bad.
Their hats fit.
They really believe that they won the war.
They don't believe in Literature.
They think Art has been exaggerated.
But they are wonderful on ice skates.
A few of them are very rich.
But when they are rich they buy more horses
Than motor cars.
Chicago calls Toronto a puritan town.
But both boxing and horse-racing are illegal
In Chicago.
Nobody works on Sunday.
Nobody.
That doesn't make me mad.
There is only one Woodbine.
But were you ever at Blue Bonnets?
If you **** somebody with a motor car in Ontario
You are liable to go to jail.
So it isn't done.
There have been over 500 people killed by motor cars
In Chicago
So far this year.
It is hard to get rich in Canada.
But it is easy to make money.
There are too many tea rooms.
But, then, there are no cabarets.
If you tip a waiter a quarter
He says "Thank you."
Instead of calling the bouncer.
They let women stand up in the street cars.
Even if they are good-looking.
They are all in a hurry to get home to supper
And their radio sets.
They are a fine people.
I like them.
5.4k
catch the last wave and i'll be there
combing the beachhead of our misery
swollen with big love, choking on the theory of our negative heavens
you and i,
we marvel at the heresy of our wisdom
and cherish no giant over divine
we david the furies that are nephelim
but conjure no gods where the plastic can't be useful
we dunder in the bluff of innocent cupids
we -
the idiots on the cliff -
dancing
when the glockenspiel itches !
clock faced and *** up
i'll be there with black honey, " With You "
no doubt
pondering the wrinkles in your sleep breath.
the sweet killing of tomcats and mackerels
the plain fact that our noses
are numb from eskimo kissing
in the igloo of our perpetual alaska
the arctic furnace of our wild fires of pure illusion
to trod stunning over hell's paradise
and catch a glimpse of snarky
stark Silence...
You
catch the last wave -
and i'll be nothing but the singing bones of the wind
in the throes of an ****** of " need you " and only you.
a chosen cyclone from heaven
i'll be just a little boy
in the clutches of a dead teddy
where the poppies sing
hallelujah !
and our hearts blight the orchid of our accord.
and down -
comes, what ?
what do we do ? what could we possibly ?
we hopscotch the bonnets
and glue ravenous bumblebees
to a blanket
of snow.
cause we have the technology -
we can disassemble it...
discretely.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 3:24 PM UTC
318
I’ll tell you how the Sun rose—
A Ribbon at a time—
The Steeples swam in Amethyst—
The news, like Squirrels, ran—
The Hills untied their Bonnets—
The Bobolinks—begun—
Then I said softly to myself—
“That must have been the Sun”!
But how he set—I know not—
There seemed a purple stile
That little Yellow boys and girls
Were climbing all the while—
Till when they reached the other side,
A Dominie in Gray—
Put gently up the evening Bars—
And led the flock away—
3.7k
~
The Giraffe Cries
Dancing on a thread of silk - taut of pain,
balanced deep within the fear…
Swaying to the side in calculated energy,
breathing as the sweat begins to pour
Toeing the line with blinders on
only to face the evil waiting - miles above my last breath
Shambles become my life’s dreams,
as fifty or so exit the compact car below- all doors ajar
Pointing skyward with gloved fingers and flowered bonnets
they gasp - splashing red paint of severed smiles
and floating eyebrows, merely decorations placed by hand
and contractual obligations
The rings add up to three - yet left alone I find is me,
teetering of lost imagination and breath taking nuances,
blanketing the sawdust creations
of worries portrayed in a gallery of netted promises
It is calling now for my end - free falling with wings to spare,
a calliope whistles its crescendo beneath a tent
pitched and heaved in frustration,
riding the rail lines of someone else’s thoughts
Not worth the price of admission - I wave
as I exit this cotton candy dream world in search of the nightmares slowly unfolding
along platform bridges of age
and destined footpaths
The train departs…the giraffe cries
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 12:40 PM UTC
Dancing on a thread of silk - taut of pain,
balanced deep within the fear…
Swaying to the side in calculated energy,
breathing as the sweat begins to pour
Toeing the line with blinders on
only to face the evil waiting - miles above my last breath
Shambles become my life’s dreams,
as fifty or so exit the compact car below- all doors ajar
Pointing skyward with gloved fingers and flowered bonnets
they gasp - splashing red paint of severed smiles
and floating eyebrows, merely decorations placed by hand
and contractual obligations
The rings add up to three - yet left alone I find is me,
teetering of lost imagination and breath taking nuances,
blanketing the sawdust creations
of worries portrayed in a gallery of netted promises
It is calling now for my end - free falling with wings to spare,
a calliope whistles its crescendo beneath a tent
pitched and heaved in frustration,
riding the rail lines of someone else’s thoughts
Not worth the price of admission - I wave
as I exit this cotton candy dream world in search of the nightmares slowly unfolding
along platform bridges of age
and destined footpaths
The train departs…the giraffe cries
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 4:40 PM UTC
The stately oak stands solemn and quiet
Alongside the bucolic covered bridge
Its branches hanging downward as if tired
Leaves falling slowly into the current
Of the rain swollen Watauga River
The shadow of the tree clinging starkly
Onto the weathered century-old planks
Speaking of a time not so far removed
When bridge and tree was the gathering place
For a day's respite from a hard week's toil
Farmers, merchants, wives and children gathered
With picnic baskets filled with fried chicken
The women chatting in their new bonnets
The children wearing last year's Sunday best
While the men make bets like Roman soldiers
The low mound where the tree's roots are anchored
Bare earth beneath the lowest hanging limb
A crude stool of newly cut pine upright
While waiting for the next unwilling guest
Courthouse clock chimes the hour of Golgotha
r 14Jan14
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 12:40 PM UTC
Heh! Walk her round. Heave, ah, heave her short again!
Over, ****** her over, there, and hold her on the pawl.
Loose all sail, and brace your yards aback and full—
Ready jib to pay her off and heave short all!
Well, ah, fare you well; we can stay no more with you, my love—
Down, set down your liquor and your girl from off your knee;
For the wind has come to say:
“You must take me while you may,
If you’d go to Mother Carey
(Walk her down to Mother Carey!),
Oh, we’re bound to Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea!”
Heh! Walk her round. Break, ah, break it out o’ that!
Break our starboard-bower out, apeak, awash, and clear!
Port—port she casts, with the harbour-mud beneath her foot,
And that’s the last o’ bottom we shall see this year!
Well, ah, fare you well, for we’ve got to take her out again—
Take her out in ballast, riding light and cargo-free.
And it’s time to clear and quit
When the hawser grips the bitt,
So we’ll pay you with the foresheet and a promise from the sea!
Heh! Tally on. Aft and walk away with her!
Handsome to the cathead, now; O tally on the fall!
Stop, seize and fish, and easy on the davit-guy.
Up, well up the fluke of her, and inboard haul!
Well, ah, fare you well, for the Channel wind’s took hold of us,
Choking down our voices as we ****** the gaskets free.
And it’s blowing up for night,
And she’s dropping light on light,
And she’s snorting under bonnets for a breath of open sea,
Wheel, full and by; but she’ll smell her road alone to-night.
Sick she is and harbour-sick—Oh, sick to clear the land!
Roll down to Brest with the old Red Ensign over us—
Carry on and thrash her out with all she’ll stand!
Well, ah, fare you well, and it’s Ushant slams the door on us,
Whirling like a windmill through the ***** scud to lee:
Till the last, last flicker goes
From the tumbling water-rows,
And we’re off to Mother Carey
(Walk her down to Mother Carey!),
Oh, we’re bound for Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea!
2.8k
We stay up all night
to find words that rhyme.
We scribble. We write,
losing track of time.
We stare into space,
deep in thought.
From a child's fairy-tale
to the wars fought.
We can't stay still.
Our fingers, they itch.
With no path to follow,
in dreams we are rich.
We dance and fly
but crash to the floor.
We laugh and cry
with our emotions galore.
Smiling while judging,
we scribble. We write.
From petty love stories
to the furious fights.
Over incomplete lines,
we again lose sleep.
Muttering new words
as we silently weep.
We see the world
the way no one would.
We break the rules
the way no one could.
A new day begins
with all new themes.
"Which one to choose?"
Our minds scream.
We scribble. We write
with bees in our bonnets.
From epic ballads
to the melancholic sonnets.
With passion in our blood,
and a calloused hand,
we are poets.
Together we stand.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 8:02 AM UTC
Rock n’ roll music, Folger’s, and paint-smeared hands.
Dresser drawers filled to the brim with undeveloped camera film.
Blue bonnets and overgrown grass, pecans and crunching fall leaves.
Dirt roads and river-rocks, typewriters, polaroid cameras, and feather-quill pens.
Those hand-me-down blue eyes and brown ones that are “sometimes hazel.”
Crystal clusters and Lord of the Rings.
Countless mosquito bites and play-pretend games in the clubhouse.
Early-birds and night-owls.
Trudy; and Randy Hayes.
“Don’t touch everything you see,” and “If you say you’re bored, I’ll find work for you to do.”
Sweet tea and okra and southern dishes blackened and drenched in cheese or gravy.
Grandma always burned everything to make sure it was fully cooked, and to her, it was never burned, just “well-done.”
Cigarettes and carpentry and cookbooks. Wild blackberries and birthday parties at the lake.
Sleeping in all day and staying up all night and procrastination.
Shepherd's Pie, potatoes, and four-leaf clovers.
“Nil Desperandum. Never Despairing.”
I’m from a whole house that eats eggs for breakfast, and I’m allergic to eggs.
And trees as tall as buildings and buildings as tall as trees.
“You should never take the lord’s name in vain,” and “Jesus loves you, so you should love others.”
Day-dreams and stargazing and thunderstorms.
“All or nothing,” and “There is no try, only do.”
Old family pictures in dust-glittered frames.
We are crystals. We have facets, each one makes us who we are.
With only one window of our lives to express, we’d merely be glass.
I am a part of each of these things just as much as they are each a part of me.
Feb 25, 2021
Feb 25, 2021 at 12:36 AM UTC
My window allows me to look out on a meadow.
Nothing but grass, shrubs, meadow flowers and weeds.
The trees are in my eye line yet,
so far away they stand like soldiers on parade.
So, just a simple window, with a view of nature.
This window though is more than glass
It's a portal to the past.
I know, I've been there, and barely came back.
Souls walk in the meadow, they emerge from the trees
They beckon me to walk with them in the Autumn breeze.
Once, as a child I ran outside to look at all the people
Some wore bonnets, some had swords, others axes
Such was the horde. I remember the scene vividly.
Yet, they were all grey, even in the sun. Then,
they all turned and saw me.
Their eyes were white, opaque, like a drowned person's
Tattered fabric clung to bleached bones
Mouths moved with soundless words
Pleading arms outstretched
To me the little girl that opened the door onto the meadow.
I ran from the meadow screaming, tears streaming
icy fingers creeping toward me, hands grabbing,
over my shoulder I turned and looked, they'd stopped
right at the meadow's boundary, pleading into thin air.
What did they want? I was just a child. I could do nothing for
those souls lost in limbo outside my window.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 3:16 PM UTC
In the midst of old ravines and paintings, a succulent soldier dreams.
As dawn starts to paint, as the secondhand piano plays,
his azure iris will gaze
to the sun- the faraway maiden.
In hope that one day, he'd sunbathe and chase dreams
with spring nymphs in holy fields of bonnets and poppies.
Into the poetic imaginations he submerged,
eating dainty buns,saccharine berries and milk by a spiral pond;
and pirouette like butterflies on feathery grass with florets and mist.
Far across the sullen lakes, He'd run with the spring squirrels and foxes;
through the honeyed prairie, the crooned secrets echo faintly like a damsel's song.
In between His spellbinding tales, plants they giggle in harmonious blithe—
that even the gale who gush by in haste, would stop and peer with serene awe.
Abundance of miraculous faith He ignited to his vein,
for the black dots of his crest and spine to someday evanesce.
And in ease, realms of woodlands and lone moors abound upon his eyelids,
that mother nature awaits him.
tick tock, two steps away from the holy born of Christ,
He died of collapsed dream, like muddy landslide of wet monsoon.
His soul— a soul of a fey,beatific and mesmeric dreamer, perish away in stardust.
a shriveled lilac body, graven into a treasure box, a seraphic smile carved.
With waterfalls and chrysanthemums,
moonbeam and fog, an elegy,
and a handful of brimmed ash—the box sealed like a secret letter.
that dusted night
ashes charily scattered to the wide empyrean
along with a brush of vain agony.
Rest in peace, Floyd the cactus.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 7:43 AM UTC
656
The name—of it—is “Autumn”—
The hue—of it—is Blood—
An Artery—upon the Hill—
A Vein—along the Road—
Great Globules—in the Alleys—
And Oh, the Shower of Stain—
When Winds—upset the Basin—
And spill the Scarlet Rain—
It sprinkles Bonnets—far below—
It gathers ruddy Pools—
Then—eddies like a Rose—away—
Upon Vermilion Wheels—
2.4k
Her little face is like a walnut shell
With wrinkling lines; her soft, white hair adorns
Her withered brows in quaint, straight curls, like horns;
And all about her clings an old, sweet smell.
Prim is her gown and quakerlike her shawl.
Well might her bonnets have been born on her.
Can you conceive a Fairy Godmother
The subject of a strong religious call?
In snow or shine, from bed to bed she runs,
All twinkling smiles and texts and pious tales,
Her mittened hands, that ever give or pray,
Bearing a sheaf of tracts, a bag of buns:
A wee old maid that sweeps the Bridegroom's way,
Strong in a cheerful trust that never fails.
1.9k
please don't move a muscle
don't mutter, don't breathe
like a photographed creature
I know you hate being confined
but I don't trust those mischievous
fingers of time and earth
as they dabble with our very beings
pocket a penny of your boundless worth
this us is not celestial
nor a flawless perfect scene
but it's chaos, it's inked lyrics on skin
and somehow there's space for you and me
between the endless open road ideas
born in this cardboard ghost town
and our opinions too fierce for them to hear
honesty never pleases the crowd
alone I know I don't belong here
but with you it's not just ok
we accept we're in no way superior
just speaking a different language
how did I find you as you are?
this ideal second set of eyes
to view this vast expanse of maps
like you cut through the undergrowth of lies
a world of black and white laid out
before us, car bonnets as the beach sun sets
and our colours bleed into the monochrome
I'm rich if this dream is all I have left
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 9:55 PM UTC
*Sonnet is love
sonnet is rhyme'
metaphorical pattern dove
so much sublime....
Popular with poets new
the Elizabethans too
their mistresses so few
used it to woo.....
John Donne, his life
catching the spirit of the Jacobean age
his need to express his love for his wife,
Anne, backstage......
Expression of religious passion
and simply reflections of death
The Victorians fashion
and so many more breath.....
Elizabeth Barrett Browning,
the Rossettis, so blue
and George Meredith were around
were so new.....
American poets noted
Longfellow, expounded
E. A. Robinson, devoted
Elinor Wylie, and Edna St. Vincent Millay, astounded....
Sonnets make us sing
makes us laugh
cry with saving grace brings
universal themes of love mon behalf.....
Keep writing those sonnets
all you wonderful and many more
poets, keep wearing your bonnets
that we all adore...*
Debbie
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 1:26 PM UTC
i watched the slow death of MTV.
the music palace impaled and heaved
onto a coal-hot pyre of cool kid consumer trash.
pregnant teens, range rover birthday bonnets,
& ***** jungle-sweat challenges.
smoke the spirits of stolen leaves.
traverse the cineplex stairs and exits
glowing. mammoth screens,
with their long shadows, long teeth, long
celluloidal gods.
death to this too.
set a heap of old chairs and furniture on fire
in the backyard, hoping neighbors will gather
to drink and laugh. or at least one of them to yell
and grab you by the collar,
violently whistling.
wait and bleed.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 7:23 AM UTC
Tiger Lily,
Glowing bright
Soft velvety petals
Swaying violently
Against the storm
Swirling winds
Entangle her soul
Struggles to be free
Its wrath subsides
And the flower stands tall
Tiger Lily
Brightest of them all
Wearing the yellowest of bonnets
The greenest of gowns
She curtsies up and down
And turns to the sun
Petals tainted wild gold
Amongst murky swamps
Tiger Lily
Shining ever so bright
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 11:01 AM UTC
Arctic Seasoned Disguise
Winter breathes in sepia tones along a lonely two lane street
divided amongst the sweeping frozen dunes
now forced into shouldered amnesty
Street lights shiver in snow capped bonnets
while sidewalks sleep ‘neath blankets of flittering flakes
The air, frigidly crisp…moves of tiny chiffon sparkles dancing
Rooftops, plump and soft, show off their frosted padding
as evergreens find alabaster fingers tickling their branches
in chilled teasings and frozen dustings
Footprints, once there are gone, covered and recovered again
all evidence of life is erased beneath pearl clouded skies
and faint outlines of distant thoughts
White on black stripes drape in glacial wanderings
spanning the slush of asphalt weavings
in straight line piercings across the wintry landscape
February reigns brutal, sub zero ponderings swirl
from high above the icebox wasteland, once brimming with color
now opaque in its arctic seasoned disguise…
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC
(Is there an emotion for mystical? I suppose it would be to be mystified. Perhaps awe is the word I am looking for. I was in awe at the sight of him! I was beyond mystified!)
It started in the Yellow Wastelands. Where life went to die. As life dies there, they become a part of the Yellow Wasteland adding to his spread and growth becoming a sort of crystalline lattice. All go willingly to the crystalline whisper. The whisper in recent theory emanates from the shining yellow crystals that grow among the Yellow Wasteland like blue bonnets in the Texas spring. Once the Whisper is heard the victim willingly partakes in what we call The March. The March is a mindless saunter to The Yellow Wasteland where upon arrival they lay in the yellow dirt and slowly begin crystalizing. We have tried stopping The March. But have been unsuccessful for many years. During the state of the march the victim gains a strange, extraordinary ability to control others as they see fit. If one or a group of people, try and prevent the march they will be controlled by the whisper to put the victim back on track. The final equation that we cannot solve is why one hears the whisper. There seems to be no pattern whatsoever.
On this day my daughter heard the whisper. We walked with her for hours on end. My wife and son followed shortly behind whilst I walked beside her talking about memories and music. My son then caught up and started to play his lute. He played song after song and sang beautiful lyrics that they wrote together. My wife would then catch up to fix our daughters hair and clean her face as we walked and walked toward The Yellow Wasteland. There were times where we would walk all together in a line and pray and pray.
Over the Wolf's crossing trail was a hill. The hill was now called.
" The Last Ascend." The Yellow Wasteland can be seen below. We started the ascend up the last ascend. Tears flooded all our eyes as we were powerless to stop The March.
Feb 1, 2024
Feb 1, 2024 at 2:13 PM UTC
Star glass and light. Emotion engine, dream machine. This is my Lightcycle! With just thought I can catapult myself across the galaxy! I remember home and the fields of blue bonnets and Indian paint brushes. I remember looking up at the stars from Earth. Wishing to one day see them. But nothing is more beautiful than that blue star from afar. Earth shines and sings sapphire among the blackness we call space. But as I enter my solar system I no longer see her. I quickly thought stream home and find my planet is covered in a sick gray shadowy nebula. Something is here and is trying to take away all the souls of the Earth! I try and break through with my Lightcycle! The star shell fills with my anger and despair! Reds and tornados made of light dance within my Lightcycle! But to no avail the nebula seems to counter act my will! I close my eyes as tears flow. My lightcycle cries colors on the inside. As I open my eyes I see a cloud within my lightcycle that is made of all colors! It then clears as I see the harp with light strings the Dragon Secalos gave to me. This was the dragon I escorted across the galaxy! The harp then materialized in my hands and I played the melody of the star serpent! I cannot begin to describe the melody to you. It was like my dreams were playing for me. From afar I could see a blue star growing and growing. Only it was no blue star at all! It was the dragon Secalos! He was even more massive than before. His wings shined Star Earth blue. He must of been the size of our moon. He looked to me with glowing blue eyes! He spoke to me with his mind. " I will help you in thy darkest hour as you helped me." The dragon then flew toward our sun and completely back in an instant. He then emitted a beam of light that was all colors toward the dark gray nebula. The dark grey nebula filled with colors and seem to almost dissipate. The beautiful majestic Earth seem to almost smile back at me. " Thank you serpent of the stars!" " Thank you rider of light. "
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 6:47 PM UTC
And the sun is rising.
A crisp winter dawn is giving birth to this great city.
Rays of light kissing one way signs with promises amidst the building chaos.
The ear-spitting labour song gathers momentum and breaks into a cacophony
of horns panting, rails screeching, breaks shushing,
crowds pushing, rushing to the sound of can I get a hoagie?
a bagel, black coffee, eggs
scrambled into the pulsating clouds
light with smiles and heavy with the fuming of exhaust pipes
contracting to the crowning of car bonnets and head lamps and taxi cab signs
dancing in a place, to a pace and a rhythm constructed, conducted
by a lone woman in blue with benign brown eyes
leading a symphony of brake light beating, feet pounding, bus groaning,
venders sighing, newborns crying, school bus squealing,
pedal revving, fingers drumming, foot tapping pedestrians building
to erupt in a crescendo of a man asking to buy a cigarette for a dollar
and refusing to accept it for free.
To a heavy building door held open by a New York giant inviting me in;
welcoming me to the raw, ragged, rich, beautiful carnage
of the afterbirth.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 9:39 AM UTC
I hate writing in pentameter,
That nagging old parameter reduces
The breadth of expression's diameter.
It's a barrier, a boundary, a cage built around me.
I'd rather cast off the impediment and
Allow my thoughts to sediment freely,
Really, I just can't dig it, ya feel me?
After a while, it gets so **** repetitive, and
I'll bet it did drive Shakespeare nuts
When he wrote all his sonnets, back
When lords rocked big wigs and their
Ladies wore bonnets. That's another thing
It's been used and abused for like six *********
Centuries, contemptibly does this old relic
Haunt us and daunt us and taunt us
Writing's not meant to be a chore,
It shouldn't bore and indenture me, but
Rather, set me free me and
Instead be adventure, see?
Wow.
I'm Somehow,
Feeling much better now.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 9:15 AM UTC
This will be enough, this time
where the steps summoned storm fronts
like cat-calls
and half-assed apologies into the 3am
abyss.
This will prove the endlessness
of loneliness--
these the toads of your toes
as the tips of your tiny timid feet
kiss.
But I will tell you not to breathe
the heavy shouldered burden burned into your back
because you are more than empty
mason jars and grocery
lists.
And you will not breathe,
you will not breathe--
you will think only of breathing
but you will not breathe in
this.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 6:20 AM UTC