"bray" 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
at times we tend to think
our democracy is safely founded and secure
only eventually we recognize
the need to constantly defend its fundamental rights
work steadily against their stealthy abolition
watch carefully the words of politicians
lest they betray what they pretend to say
think twice for whom we cast our votes
avoid contenders who too often bray
that these were not their quotes
listen to those who have good arguments
do not unleash too easy sentiments
and in the end cast our votes when called
in short
democracy turns out to be hard work
in case we shirk this
we soon pay the price
unfree societies have known
dictatorship corruption vice
have often needed centuries
to remedy injuries done
to find their four freedoms
and to recognize
democracy remains a living promise
a brilliant idea with many faces
always a work in progress
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 11:17 AM UTC
Somewhere, amongst the debris
of cigarettes after ***
chemicals to induce sleep,
I forgot what it means to love.
I forgot what it means to breathe,
to sit still, and just be.
Somewhere, beneath these hooded seams
of solitude and well-versed grief,
beats a heart less cynical,
less tamed by vague distraction.
My nervous ticks and bad habits,
line of best fit for a near-hit
of satisfaction:
This is not enough, I know.
This is not nearly enough
to cool the bray of life
that still rattles meaning in my bones.
I forgot what it means to love,
what separates a house from a home.
Somewhere beyond this thirst
for brand-new words
is a gratitude for all that has been.
Every cliché holds a truth.
Every sentiment, a cocoon,
that I should lie so still inside
until I am wholesome,
until I am new.
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 1:41 PM UTC
My dearest Frank, I wish you joy
Of Mary's safety with a Boy,
Whose birth has given little pain
Compared with that of Mary Jane —
May he a growing Blessing prove,
And well deserve his Parents' Love! —
Endow'd with Art's and Nature's Good,
Thy Name possessing with thy Blood,
In him, in all his ways, may we
Another Francis WIlliam see! —
Thy infant days may he inherit,
They warmth, nay insolence of spirit; —
We would not with one foult dispense
To weaken the resemblance.
May he revive thy Nursery sin,
Peeping as daringly within,
His curley Locks but just descried,
With 'Bet, my be not come to bide.' —
Fearless of danger, braving pain,
And threaten'd very oft in vain,
Still may one Terror daunt his Soul,
One needful engine of Controul
Be found in this sublime array,
A neigbouring Donkey's aweful Bray.
So may his equal faults as Child,
Produce Maturity as mild!
His saucy words and fiery ways
In early Childhood's pettish days,
In Manhood, shew his Father's mind
Like him, considerate and Kind;
All Gentleness to those around,
And anger only not to wound.
Then like his Father too, he must,
To his own former struggles just,
Feel his Deserts with honest Glow,
And all his self-improvement know.
A native fault may thus give birth
To the best blessing, conscious Worth.
As for ourselves we're very well;
As unaffected prose will tell.
Cassandra's pen will paint our state,
The many comforts that await
Our Chawton home, how much we find
Already in it, to our mind;
And how convinced, that when complete
It will all other Houses beat
The ever have been made or mended,
With rooms concise, or rooms distended.
You'll find us very snug next year,
Perhaps with Charles and ***** near,
For now it often does delight us
To fancy them just over-right us.
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You gave in to my courtship,
I cusped your face in my hands,
That was when we met in Amritsar,
I had clutched your cute fingers,
Nervous you seemed while smiling.
I can never forget that luckiest day,
Whatever anybody might bray,
Your eyes are truthful darling love,
I am very thankful to the dove,
Thankful to the dove of love.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 2:22 AM UTC
I shall never get you put together entirely,
Pieced, glued, and properly jointed.
Mule-bray, pig-grunt and ***** cackles
Proceed from your great lips.
It's worse than a barnyard.
Perhaps you consider yourself an oracle,
Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other.
Thirty years now I have labored
To dredge the silt from your throat.
I am none the wiser.
Scaling little ladders with glue pots and pails of Lysol
I crawl like an ant in mourning
Over the weedy acres of your brow
To mend the immense skull-plates and clear
The bald, white tumuli of your eyes.
A blue sky out of the Oresteia
Arches above us. O father, all by yourself
You are pithy and historical as the Roman Forum.
I open my lunch on a hill of black cypress.
Your fluted bones and acanthine hair are littered
In their old anarchy to the horizon-line.
It would take more than a lightning-stroke
To create such a ruin.
Nights, I squat in the cornucopia
Of your left ear, out of the wind,
Counting the red stars and those of plum-color.
The sun rises under the pillar of your tongue.
My hours are married to shadow.
No longer do I listen for the scrape of a keel
On the blank stones of the landing.
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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
Donald quacks. We better duck.
Tell the Cubans to mute that trumpet
While we, together, improve our luck
(or end up ruled by a Socialist Strumpet.)
The mallard was rebuked by Mitt;
adversaries began to bray.
The ducklings murmured: *guy’s unfit
to be elected anyway*...
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 5:52 PM UTC
What does the donkey bray about?
What does the pig grunt through his snout?
What does the goose mean by a hiss?
Oh, Nurse, if you can tell me this,
I'll give you such a kiss.
The cockatoo calls "cockatoo,"
The magpie chatters "how d'ye do?"
The jackdaw bids me "go away,"
Cuckoo cries "cuckoo" half the day:
What do the others say?
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I took a walk with my love,
From Bray to Greystones.
Sharing smiles as we talked
Under a rainbow.
And the clouds rolled in
And the wind sprinkled rain,
Our path was etched in stone,
Along Erin's coast.
I took a walk with my love,
From Bray to Greystones.
Time unwent as we strolled
And dreamed of nowhere.
And the clouds rolled in
And the wind sprinkled rain,
Wild rushes and reeds so tall
They sheltered our way,
We moved through the day,
And suddenly,
We were two seabirds gently flying
And our souls
Were laid to rest, on the breath of heaven.
We devoted our lives,
Felt as one our spirits rising toward the sun,
Peacefully, so peacefully
And the Earth,
We felt her deep,
Undersong.
I took a walk with my love,
From Bray to Greystones.
Sharing smiles as we talked
And dreamed of nowhere.
We dreamed of nowhere.
Jun 19, 2012
Jun 19, 2012 at 3:26 PM UTC
*So all of them knelt down to pray
For their comrades who were gone too soon
In the soggy swamp where they lay
Weaker and weaker they grew, day after day
Cause battle had intensified throughout June
So all of them knelt down to pray
They wished to rewind time least to May
With the rhythm of their Heartbeat out of tune
In the soggy swamp where they lay
Clouds had cast a thick canopy allowing no single ray
To touch their bloated bellies threatening to balloon
So all of them knelt down to pray
From a distance they heard a Donkey in horror bray
Sending shock-waves through the battered platoon
In the soggy swamp where they lay
They'd agreed to wait for aid on a tray
'Course help would come but they needed it soon
So all of them knelt down to pray
In the soggy swamp where they lay*
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 4:47 PM UTC
Dim dawn behind the tamerisks—the sky is saffron-yellow—
As the women in the village grind the corn,
And the parrots seek the riverside, each calling to his fellow
That the Day, the staring Easter Day is born.
Oh the white dust on the highway! Oh the stenches in the byway!
Oh the clammy fog that hovers
And at Home they’re making merry ’neath the white and scarlet berry—
What part have India’s exiles in their mirth?
Full day begind the tamarisks—the sky is blue and staring—
As the cattle crawl afield beneath the yoke,
And they bear One o’er the field-path, who is past all hope or caring,
To the ghat below the curling wreaths of smoke.
Call on Rama, going slowly, as ye bear a brother lowly—
Call on Rama—he may hear, perhaps, your voice!
With our hymn-books and our psalters we appeal to other altars,
And to-day we bid “good Christian men rejoice!”
High noon behind the tamarisks—the sun is hot above us—
As at Home the Christmas Day is breaking wan.
They will drink our healths at dinner—those who tell us how they love us,
And forget us till another year be gone!
Oh the toil that knows no breaking! Oh the Heimweh, ceaseless, aching!
Oh the black dividing Sea and alien Plain!
Youth was cheap—wherefore we sold it.
Gold was good—we hoped to hold it,
And to-day we know the fulness of our gain.
Grey dusk behind the tamarisks—the parrots fly together—
As the sun is sinking slowly over Home;
And his last ray seems to mock us shackled in a lifelong tether.
That drags us back how’er so far we roam.
Hard her service, poor her payment—she is ancient, tattered raiment—
India, she the grim Stepmother of our kind.
If a year of life be lent her, if her temple’s shrine we enter,
The door is hut—we may not look behind.
Black night behind the tamarisks—the owls begin their chorus—
As the conches from the temple scream and bray.
With the fruitless years behind us, and the hopeless years before us,
Let us honor, O my brother, Christmas Day!
Call a truce, then, to our labors—let us feast with friends and neighbors,
And be merry as the custom of our caste;
For if “faint and forced the laughter,” and if sadness follow after,
We are richer by one mocking Christmas past.
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Man becomes woman woman becomes man
headline dictation that makes you understand
but what's this? The scene goes beyond extremes,
the black/white photograph is of color underneath.
But **** me, I'm being erratic. I'm standing on tables
shouting so your disdain's automatic. What's up with
this new fad? Uhmurika never had it this bad. We have
a literal metric ton of whining millennials wanting to be
special snowflakes. Man, who could take all of this social
pressure? Being held accountable for a miserable, literal lack
of knowledge about the world around us? Man, definitely not
for me. But seriously, bro, did you get your **** cut off? What's
up bro, **** you get your **** sewn on? That ******* ***** lacks
a ****** That motha ***** lacks the design that gives him a similar
package when his blood pressure rises. Don't talk to me about feelings
before you've had the operation -- because before you've done that step
it's better if you don't implore my empathy or patience because you're
just not real, I won't feel the weight of your complaints and frustrations.
Matter of fact, for you, ess jay dub, my emotional core's on vacation.
Leave me alone with your dialogue.
Discourse is not for me.
Leave me alone with your dialogue.
How do you prefer to ***
Is it this hard to admit to your audience there's something else outside
yourself? I can see how defining the lines with alacrity makes it easier
to breathe the air you breathe to stay alive. It must be nice to stand tall
and be you and not have to bray declarations of self to stay confident
and true to the compass. Walking is all it ever takes you yet when I say,
"Actually [...]" it's enough to make you think it's me getting in your face
with another liberal lecture, but I'm just keeping real straightforward
about which terms I prefer in our vernacular. Shut up, you **** up, we
advocate for your finish, only requiring you fit into our premise.
Leave me alone with your dialogue.
Discourse is just not for me.
Leave me alone with your dialogue.
How do you prefer to ***
I just think it's best to have some canned material
in case you need it.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 1:52 AM UTC
Apart from the Malice I'd like to Subsume
Are some Fortune's Tags which I strive to defer
And Mood the Dragon's Seasoned Pawn resume
Threw Slime instead; And dissolved my Brother
Shall I charge as your Fault? But then again,
Your same usual Stones pound my Bouncing Head
With no other Ritual to confront this Pain
You continue to bray; And play Mule instead
Unaware of the Grass you still do hurt
Blinded by the Light which you call Divine
Philosophy leashes your own True Worth
Sticks you in Trivia; And robs your eyes blind.
What is there to blame from such Harrowed Young
Since the Lord Philip's Man has not yet sung?
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 3:15 AM UTC
*Come, listen all -
listen to a very gentle fable
Of Donkey, Dog and Man
and the friendship
amongst these three*
1
Donkey and Dog are loyal servants;
they’ve served the same master
all their lives
It’s night now and
Donkey and Dog sleep
in the courtyard
while Master
snores in the house
A thief sneaks in
through the gate
and donkey whispers
as gently as he can:
*Hey, dog…There’s an intruder;
Why don’t you bark and let master know?*
And the old Dog growls as
quietly as he can:
*Why don’t you bray aloud
and raise the alarm?*
*Hey, but you’re the dog
and you’re man’s best friend,*
Donkey whispers in the dark
Man’s best friend, eh?
says Dog.
*But is man the dog’s best friend?
I’ve served the master for ages
and now that I’m old he neglects me
and is talking about taking another dog.
I bet he’ll have you skinned alive
when you’re dead!
To the dogs with him!
You bray if you like.*
2
*Oh I’ve never seen
a more ungrateful being,*
Donkey says.
*Master is the best
and though he treats
us harsh
it’s all for our own good.
But your ingratitude offends me
and for the sake of decency and justice
and for all the values I hold dear
I shall have to do
a watchdog’s duty instead.*
And with that
the donkey brays aloud
and the cacophony is heard
in all the village
and the thief runs away as quickly as he can;
and the master comes running out with a huge stick
and seeing the donkey braying madly
with no cause but its own stupidity
the master beats the donkey well and proper
till all his own hands ache
and he goes back to bed
And now Dog and Donkey
lie down again together
in the courtyard
and Dog says to the quiet Donkey:
*Looks like you just found out
how it feels to be man’s best friend!*
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 3:17 AM UTC
Turn on the TV and switch off your brain,
tune into Jezza as you fade out the shame,
point at his cattle, and laugh at their pain,
forget their faces,
cos’ they all look the same.
Memorise headlines, forgetting you’re smart,
the news screaming fear, as this world ‘falls apart’
hating your neighbour’s a good place to start,
he’s likely a **** or a bomber
at heart.
‘England Expects’ is their asinine bray,
as they talk up the players on ‘Match of the Day’
before posting on Twitter that one of em’s gay.
‘Oh we lost in the semis?’
Start feigning dismay.
Forget about stress, skip working hard,
you can lend owt till payday, or just get a new card,
it doesn’t matter, if your credit is barred,
say you slipped in reception,
and hit your knee hard.
Now! Vital News! Our cameras have spied,
the markings of botox on that celebrity bride.
Maybe it’s scandal, there’s no rush to decide,
you’ve opened the box,
and its trapped you inside.
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 12:23 PM UTC
the censorship meme
alive inside me as a child:
some books were worth the mention of--
war and **** were not.
untimely at a pennsylvanian writers' club
where fear lodged quiet smile-halves
in talking clouds and farmyard metaphor,
to weekly bray the corner of an antique movie-house
newcomers weren't to share their work
we three were welcomed as an audience at best
we passed the others' writers' chapter-copies on
on which i scribbled notes of praise
on notes of theme-entwining anti-argument
and **** zests of vast significance:
notes of floral yearning, meadowed love--
iron skies and ahistoric dreams--
off and on archaic themes
of which we weren't to share
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 1:09 AM UTC
There are too many days..... I cant do this many days. Too many days where darkness wins. Fate laughs endlessly. I am Fate's comedic performer and he laughs without end. Like a donkey behind a carrot I am led and with the rasp of a donkey's bray Fate's laughter rings in my ears.
I don't think I can do this. Where joy is substituted by despair and happiness succumbs to death.... and the symphony of laughter is the tune. The strings on this puppet are frayed and worn but the puppeteer is relentless. How do you fix the strings of a puppet in motion? Who will catch the puppet if he falls? I can hear no answers above the laughter that rings in my ears and so this puppet on tattered strings dances on to the tune that Fate maintains. How long is a piece of string? It matters not if the string can carry no weight.
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 10:51 AM UTC
Tiny flame huddled close to fading wick,
A rag doll seized in the fist of a tempest.
Fading quick,
Wax molten in our grip.
Burning, viscous through trembling fingers it slips.
Knuckles crack like the fire in the hearth
Consuming logs uprooted from the earth
Giving birth to each ember on the mantle,
Dancing decay around subdued bowing candles.
Crying white tears upon the silent tables
The evening sneers at hush filled fables.
Horses bray in solemn stables
Dreaming of pastures new,
Wick snuffed out by daylights fingers
Flame made still by the morning dew.
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 6:51 PM UTC
I took a walk with my love,
From Bray to Greystones.
Sharing smiles as we talked
Under a rainbow.
And the clouds rolled in
And the wind sprinkled rain,
Our path was etched in stone,
Along Erin's coast.
I took a walk with my love,
From Bray to Greystones.
Time unwent as we strolled
And dreamed of nowhere.
And the clouds rolled in
And the wind sprinkled rain,
Wild rushes and reeds so tall
They sheltered our way,
We moved through the day,
And suddenly,
We were two seabirds gently flying
And our souls
Were laid to rest, on the breath of heaven.
We devoted our lives,
Felt as one our spirits rising toward the sun,
Peacefully, so peacefully
And the Earth,
We felt her deep,
Undersong.
I took a walk with my love,
From Bray to Greystones.
Sharing smiles as we talked
And dreamed of nowhere.
We dreamed of nowhere.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 1:02 PM UTC
You are breaking everything with your (un)worn shoes
Stomping on stereotypes, evil, and souls
While tasting the smoke of a rolled cigarette.
Then you worship the streets in the background of jazz
Calling a revolution:
The king is dead, long live the anarchy,
Monarchy is buried under fedoras and ashes.
Damp fingers and open lips cease to surprise,
Just burning leftovers of shame and bray goosebumps
In churches. Heavy breathing nuns and squeaking altars...
Men, what can you see through the illuminators of your glasses?
Your planes and ships, machines have already turned
Back into pumpkins, bleeding cinderellas and their babies
Born in the tales of horror.
Evening - it's the new tomorrow! Instincts wake and it doesn't hurt
When you tickle the Milky Way in search of a Friend.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 8:22 AM UTC
She cannot be any more for me.
Cannot touch, cannot see or know
What it would mean to lie beside her.
Below or above or inside her.
I cannot kiss her skin enough
To satisfy my tongue,
At root, amid tonsil and gum.
There is nothing between my legs
To satisfy the ache I’ve beshouldered.
Nor to give her what she wants.
And yet to be the bearer of such lofty arms,
I have not the strength
To hold her to me, tight enough
Nor strength to let her go.
Therefore pianist or organist,
No digits can so far reach
To abrade this itch within me.
To what worldly force there is to bray,
No hips move expeditiously
Enough to shake this wanting free
Not rhetoric, charm nor Rationale
Bestow words to dissuade my need.
I have no arms to pull her closely,
Nor shape to fit her skin.
Yet I cannot be any less for her.
Jun 29, 2011
Jun 29, 2011 at 3:25 PM UTC
Lord, I bow down to You today
Whatever things that come my way
Please be with me, please always stay
Help me to be happy and gay
Despite of all the struggles each day
Of all the games of life to play
Make me stand, I don't want to lay
Like I am nothing day by day
Pliant like bamboo, here I stay
I only move like I do sway
But I will never fall and decay
And leave nothing in this world's array
So my dear Lord, these I say
Please guide me in this thorny way
To see beyond things in display
Let me feel You in every bray
Let me see You whenever I bay
Show me Your light, show me the ray
The beam of hope, please I do pray
Let me escape from this shade of grey
Pull me from being astray
Set my feet to ride on Your dray
Going to where I should stay
A place for me with no more games to play
Instead pure love to offer each day.
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 8:32 PM UTC
We should be hidden from their eyes,
Being but holy shows
And bodies broken like a thorn
Whereon the bleak north blows,
To think of buried Hector
And that none living knows.
The women take so little stock
In what I do or say
They'd sooner leave their cosseting
To hear a ******* bray;
My arms are like the twisted thorn
And yet there beauty lay;
The first of all the tribe lay there
And did such pleasure take--
She who had brought great Hector down
And put all Troy to wreck--
That she cried into this ear,
'Strike me if I shriek.'
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There's a beautiful sense of injustice in what has happened to you, I notice,
As I watch from afar, your eyes cold, your heart beating slowly.
Your voice is barely audible above the clamour of the room,
Your gaze set low, sinking beneath the glare of these 'spectators' to your humiliation.
They bray and holler, as you rock to and fro on your podium,
Your 'pedestal'.
Your mouth is silent as your mind cries out for help,
Lost and falling,
Further
And
Further
Into the pit.
The dark envelops you,
As you drown in the echoes of your wailing soul,
Bouncing off the walls
Of the trap
In which you find yourself
Caught.
Still, you remain silent,
Strong,
Dignified,
In the eye of the storm,
Against all odds,
As they jeer and laugh at you,
You sit still,
Your back straight and you head held high,
Yet I see through your stony exterior,
I notice the missing link in your chain mail suit,
I notice the gap in your shell.
And only I understand what it means,
As you briefly loosen your grasp
On the pendant of the locket hung around your neck
The locket which is keeper to your darkest secret,
The secret you have strived to keep safe,
And only I see the fault
In your near perfect act,
For your 'loyal' audience,
To whom you are a puppet.
Only I will know why this is significant,
As the small gasp you let free,
Flies between ignorant ears,
Until it disappears, like smoke.
I once knew you when you were happy,
Though you're more peaceful now.
And that is unfair,
And it is beautiful,
Because today will be your last.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 3:20 PM UTC