"brome" poems
If you was deaf and blind
I would still be your friend
Not just to be kind
You fix my mind
You will always shine
You are mine
We are bound whit twine
You just give me the sign
To live
It will always be you and me
Even when we get old and drink tee
To my hart you have the key
And you will give my love for free
If you just is you
If you was deaf and blind
I would still be your friend
Not just to be kind
You fix my mind
Everything bad and good
I’ll tell it to you yes I would
You are the only one there understood
You are my Robin Hood
My everything
You can all ways come you my home
We are melted together like loam
You are my tome
Whit you I fly like a brome
Fly like never before
If you was deaf and blind
I would still be your friend
Not just to be kind
You fix my mind
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 6:21 AM UTC
How to break an addiction. Decide to live.
What can I learn from my pain. Danger.
And friends are merely friendly, live on independent
of your injury. You will not be missed in church on Sunday.
Grass. **** broccoli, burrito, stink, *** skunk.
I'm talking blue grama, upland bent, smooth brome,
riverside panic, wild rye, fowl meadow, spike muhly,
sweet vernal, salt marsh, bristly foxtail, little bluestem.
****** is unhealthy, opens lesions in the brain,
wormholes into hell, yet should be legal. I'll vote that way.
It may ease the pathos into non-existence
well as meditation, bird watching, last will and testament.
Each joint hurts, rib joints, spine joints, skull plate joints.
The head and hip and heart will hurt, all three.
Insomniac I like the way bones crack and clack like
wooden wind chimes, an untuned piano, a tree rack of wornout
shoes.
Never forget, the mind is the body paying attention
to what it's doing. Without that connection, each finger bent
or toe smashed is just added to the collection
of anonymous body parts of holocaust victims
in their mass graves. Better when every life saved
or lost is a front page story, an illusion of shared
sacrifice or joy, but that expresses only the surface
of our emotions. I'm mostly relieved to have survived.
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 9:32 AM UTC
Make your love unspeakably wild she told me
like the textures of your nakedness
in the dripping sun and blinding water
when its late, late august
before the first damp morning
when you can’t deny
that the real heat is gone from the night.
It's ok to be sentimental if
it keeps the buzz in your ears
in this nowish spot in time
when there’s less and less
to draw you out of your nest.
There’s every excuse for this dullness
after a quick seven years
the weight of it shows in your face
on your grandfather’s heavy brow.
You both wondered
why you sometimes felt like strangers in this place
and why the sweetness of brome
can send you reeling in the dusk.
Seven years gleaned of their mornings
like so many beans in a bright steel pan.
Arriving late and later still
I felt the dawns irredeemable chill
and in the bluest of October afternoons, she said,
may your love be unspeakably wild.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 6:20 PM UTC
When a petal was a rouse
weighted a ruffed grouse
only this accusation
arose their superstition
today my summation grew
with rust nestled wing
that alighted by a house
as wood in a broom
let in the ravine
a newness in Celtic
and at their word again
upon this knoll in
soon grazed on brome
ignited their noble cavil.
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 7:07 AM UTC
ox brome
laze his
trim and
tire infibulate
below and
water sink
his quinine
if she
arise pain
that spirit
heed the
noxious mud
where gastric
in her
bone only
a Bon
there seed
Nov 14, 2019
Nov 14, 2019 at 6:48 AM UTC
*I witnessed chalk clouds touching the Hesperides orange shroud , they in turn crossed nightfalls navy blue horizon ..
The shadows of Hereford cattle returning home , moonshine enveloping brown sugar brome
Evening songsters and prominent whippoorwills calling the day to close* ...
Nov 24, 2017
Nov 24, 2017 at 6:16 PM UTC