"bulk" poems
Prophesies of impending fall
creep stealthily over the Great Divide.
Gold-green Aspens shiver in the breeze
like leagues of fibrous wind chimes
serenading the mountain slopes
with aires of shimmering gold.
A few distant bugle calls echo
across the Big Thompson valley
as bull elks warm up for the autumn rut.
Sudden early gusts of frigid wind
bring waves of sleet and snow -
in tune with the turning polar axis.
The greater chill is soon to come.
The animals know it as do we.
Bears bulk up on grasses, roots and berries.
Elk and deer drift down from the heights
To show their young the ways
of the plains and river valleys.
We pull our sweaters on
and toss another log on the flames
and greet the harbingers of approaching fall
creeping stealthily over the Great Divide.
September, 2018
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 1:56 PM UTC
Selfishness is the most indicative sign of immaturity.
Like the way my little sister
couldn't be bothered
to regularly take our dog for walks
because it mattered only how much it inconvenienced her.
When your own feelings hold the up most importance
and everyone else is placed on this planet to play a role in your existence
kids are selfish
some adults are immature
Growing up has little to do with aging
rather, realizing that every living creature holds value;
Leaving the bulk of your ego behind.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 9:31 AM UTC
God knows how our neighbor managed to breed
His great sow:
Whatever his shrewd secret, he kept it hid
In the same way
He kept the sow--impounded from public stare,
Prize ribbon and pig show.
But one dusk our questions commended us to a tour
Through his lantern-lit
Maze of barns to the lintel of the sunk sty door
To gape at it:
This was no rose-and-larkspurred china suckling
With a penny slot
For thrift children, nor dolt pig ripe for heckling,
About to be
Glorified for prime flesh and golden crackling
In a parsley halo;
Nor even one of the common barnyard sows,
Mire-smirched, blowzy,
Maunching thistle and knotweed on her snout-
cruise--
Bloat tun of milk
On the move, hedged by a litter of feat-foot ninnies
Shrilling her hulk
To halt for a swig at the pink teats. No. This vast
Brobdingnag bulk
Of a sow lounged belly-bedded on that black
compost,
Fat-rutted eyes
Dream-filmed. What a vision of ancient hoghood
must
Thus wholly engross
The great grandam!--our marvel blazoned a knight,
Helmed, in cuirass,
Unhorsed and shredded in the grove of combat
By a grisly-bristled
Boar, fabulous enough to straddle that sow's heat.
But our farmer whistled,
Then, with a jocular fist thwacked the barrel nape,
And the green-copse-castled
Pig hove, letting legend like dried mud drop,
Slowly, grunt
On grunt, up in the flickering light to shape
A monument
Prodigious in gluttonies as that hog whose want
Made lean Lent
Of kitchen slops and, stomaching no constraint,
Proceeded to swill
The seven troughed seas and every earthquaking
continent.
6.5k
Once there was a little boy
With dreams that touched the sky
He was the darling first born son
Apple of his mother's eye
He was polite and kind to all
Regardless of their age
But never took kindly to those
Who would put his mind into a cage
So while his mother loved him so
He only made his father frown
And over the years his heart was crushed
By the man who only put him down
Approval is a funny thing;
It changes someone's life
In bulk it makes receivers shine,
In absence kills the heart with strife
So the little boy just ran away
Find love in other ways
And ending up more broken
Limping through each God-forsaken day
He wasted quite a bit of time
Feeling sorry for himself
Until finally he grew up some
And put old feelings on the shelf
"It's time to relocate," he thought
"Time to make a name for me."
It was time to take control of his life
Decide his own destiny
Then some girl came waltzing in,
Botching his newfound plan,
Eyes a portal to a lovely soul
And blemishless heart outstretched in hand.
This couldn't happen, not again
He wouldn't change his mind
This boy had places to go and be
And love was just not worth the time
So he packed up all his things again
His "life" a sentimental might say
And with out even a goodbye
Ran like hell the other way.
Jan 19, 2012
Jan 19, 2012 at 10:10 PM UTC
The poet Phernazis is composing
the important part of his epic poem.
How Darius, son of Hystaspes,
assumed the kingdom of the Persians. (From him
is descended our glorious king
Mithridates, Dionysus and Eupator). But here
philosophy is needed; he must analyze
the sentiments that Darius must have had:
maybe arrogance and drunkenness; but no -- rather
like an understanding of the vanity of grandeurs.
The poet contemplates the matter deeply.
But he is interrupted by his servant who enters
running, and announces the portendous news.
The war with the Romans has begun.
The bulk of our army has crossed the borders.
The poet is speechless. What a disaster!
No time now for our glorious king
Mithridates, Dionysus and Eupator,
to occupy himself with greek poems.
In the midst of a war -- imagine, greek poems.
Phernazis is impatient. Misfortune!
Just when he was positive that with "Darius"
he would distinguish himself, and shut the mouths
of his critics, the envious ones, for good.
What a delay, what a delay to his plans.
And if it were only a delay, it would still be all right.
But it yet remains to be seen if we have any security
at Amisus. It is not a strongly fortified city.
The Romans are the most horrible enemies.
Can we hold against them
we Cappadocians? It is possible at all?
It is possible to pit ourselves against the legions?
Mighty Gods, protectors of Asia, help us.--
But in all his turmoil and trouble,
the poetic idea too comes and goes persistently--
the most probable, surely, is arrogance and drunkenness;
Darius must have felt arrogance and drunkenness.
5k
I was standing in the aisle at Bulk Barn
I was low on neutrinos and looking to stock up
I like to sprinkle them on my cereal in the morning
I made my way down the aisle and found the anti-photons
If you like your coffee black and not sweet
Then this is almost as good as other alternatives
My electron supply was fine
But I thought I'd get some anyway
Just for the ion-y
I don't understand the economics but I guess
The invisible hand does
When the clerk looked in my basket
She just waved me through
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 9:12 AM UTC
Through long nursery nights he stood
By my bed unwearying,
Loomed gigantic, formless, queer,
Purring in my haunted ear
That same hideous nightmare thing,
Talking, as he lapped my blood,
In a voice cruel and flat,
Saying for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..."
That one word was all he said,
That one word through all my sleep,
In monotonous mock despair.
Nonsense may be light as air,
But there's Nonsense that can keep
Horror bristling round the head,
When a voice cruel and flat
Says for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..."
He had faded, he was gone
Years ago with Nursery Land,
When he leapt on me again
From the clank of a night train,
Overpowered me foot and head,
Lapped my blood, while on and on
The old voice cruel and flat
Says for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..."
Morphia drowsed, again I lay
In a crater by High Wood:
He was there with straddling legs,
Staring eyes as big as eggs,
Purring as he lapped my blood,
His black bulk darkening the day,
With a voice cruel and flat,
"Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..." he said, "Cat! ... Cat!..."
When I'm shot through heart and head,
And there's no choice but to die,
The last word I'll hear, no doubt,
Won't be "Charge!" or "Bomb them out!"
Nor the stretcher-bearer's cry,
"Let that body be, he's dead!"
But a voice cruel and flat
Saying for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!"
4k
Black, Swiss cheese hulk on horizon
The James Longstreet
immobile old freighter of the bay
Towed to the ignominy
of its last commission
in the curled arm of The Cape
Tides flex their muscles against it
But The Longstreet is steadfast
in its dark purpose
Standing target for practice
A sortie if planes home in on its bulk
Honing their skills
on this “fish-in-a-barrel”
Thunderhead-etched pyrotechnics
Booming follows the miles over water
Against The Longstreet’s silhouette enduring
even God fixes sights
firing bolts across its bow
taking aim at our futures
Standing targets for practice
Vietnam? Cape Cod?
No difference to teens
before life’s ocean of conscription
Sand is cold beneath dunes
Beach grass rustles
to the pulsing surf
to the wind’s whispers
just below hearing
as if there’s a secret
that must be kept
We are targets for practice
We are meaningless din
Pulling our sweatshirts and blanket closer
The Supremes sing thinly
from transistor
“Stopped for a moment in the name of love—
Thinking it over”
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 2:14 PM UTC
Words Don't Walk
So
******* Talk
You'll
Speak it the **** up
Or
Get it in bulk.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 1:00 AM UTC
Pocket watch, I tick well.
The streets are lizardly crevices
Sheer-sided, with holes where to hide.
It is best to meet in a cul-de-sac,
A palace of velvet
With windows of mirrors.
There one is safe,
There are no family photographs,
No rings through the nose, no cries.
Bright fish hooks, the smiles of women
Gulp at my bulk
And I, in my snazzy blacks,
Mill a litter of ******* like jellyfish.
To nourish
The cellos of moans I eat eggs --
Eggs and fish, the essentials,
The aphrodisiac squid.
My mouth sags,
The mouth of Christ
When my engine reaches the end of it.
The tattle of my
Gold joints, my way of turning
******* to ripples of silver
Rolls out a carpet, a hush.
And there is no end, no end of it.
I shall never grow old. New oysters
Shriek in the sea and I
Glitter like Fontainebleu
Gratified,
All the fall of water an eye
Over whose pool I tenderly
Lean and see me.
3.7k
I'm not that girl, who smiles.
I'm not that girl who has a cute laugh.
I'm not that girl who every guy wants as a girlfriend.
I'm not that girl.
I'm not that girl, who can forget easily.
I'm not that girl, who can hold grudges.
I'm not that girl, who has her own people.
I'm not that girl.
I'm not that girl, who has popularity.
I'm not that girl, who everyone wants in their life.
I'm not that girl, who needs fame over friends.
I'm not that girl.
But,
I am that girl, who'll go out of her way to make you smile.
I am that girl, who laughs with you but never at you.
I am that girl, who has eyes only for that one special guy.
I am that girl.
I am that girl, who won't forget but will forgive.
I am that girl, who can never HATE anyone.
I am that girl, who pretends to love her life to not let anyone worry. Cz
I am that girl.
I am that girl, who fakes a smile.
I am that girl, who cares below her façade.
I am that girl, who never feels enough.
I am that girl.
I am that girl, who's actually very silent.
I am that girl, who's strength is slowly fading.
I am that girl, who slowly getting tired.
I am that girl.
I am that girl, who cries herself to sleep.
I am that girl, who's doesn't go to the balcony just to see the beautiful sight.
I am that girl, who's strength is slowly fading.
I am that girl.
But,
You see that girl, who's rude.
You see that girl, who can never say the right things.
You see that girl, who's mean.
You see that girl, who doesn't give a **** about others.
You see that girl, who's always in the wrong place.
You see that girl, who's annoying as hell.
You see that girl, who's always loud.
You see that girl, who's extremely bulk
You see that girl, who's never tired.
You see that girl, who's always smiling.
You see that girl, who never cries.
You see that girl, who's talking someone against self-harm.
You see that girl, that's forever strong.
You only see that girl.
~Ishvarya.
Jan 9, 2020
Jan 9, 2020 at 12:24 AM UTC
.
Henry VIII was a deluded monarch,
he could never have ruled the Earth,
for he hasn't seen his **** for years,
hiding beneath the bulk of his girth.
And wobbling onto the battle field
is not the behaviour fit for a King,
he would have to sit nursing his cysts
and hoping the ointments don't sting.
His eating excess was cause for concern
but his syphilis remained largely unseen,
and one really has to feel so sorry for
whomever it is that is currently Queen.
His penchant for young and younger Ladies
made him a stranger to baths and soap,
and his bed hopping antics to sire a son
bought him much trouble from the pope.
© Pagan Paul (09/12/18)
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 5:13 PM UTC
an assembly or
better named
a clump
of multifarious flotsam
presenting its untidy self
on a recent passing
streetcorner..
a hesitating photo records
a drifting pinecone
centering a stained
and shredding newspaper
a broken sharp stick
red rocks of scales and shadings
flecking dried green leaves..
order imposed by
framing and shaping of
the sidewalk corner..
might other forms emerge
with a focused patience?
a partial headline reads
...sound without the wires..
news of expanding connections
outside a material realm?
headline seemed embedded
in thick advertising bulk
announcing a continuing
culture of material weight..
much else of red and green..
the centering pinecone
occasional pineal symbol of
higher dimension entry..
somehow rightly here
in the dark center
of this mess
this a brief experiment
not yet for most an answer
a question now of mining
finding patterned varieties
in large nature's trove..
patient visions residing in
gathered fragments
if gathered they be..
expectations of more
in what persists
of this and that in
time... :)
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 11:03 PM UTC
Mark Twain to Helen Keller
“Oh, dear me, how unspeakably funny and owlishly idiotic and grotesque was that “plagiarism” farce! As if there was much of anything in any human utterance, oral or written, except plagiarism! The kernel, the soul—let us go farther and say the substance, the bulk, the actual and valuable material of all human utterances in plagiarism.
For substantially all ideas are second hand, consciously or unconsciously drawn from a million outside sources and daily use by the garnerer with a pride and satisfaction born of the superstition that he originated them; whereas there is not a rag of originality about them any where except the little discoloration they get from his mental and moral calibre and his temperament, which is revealed in characteristics of phrasing.”
Mark Twain
Dec 1, 2021
Dec 1, 2021 at 3:39 PM UTC
1. You buy flowers and a card as an excuse to write a poem, even though you're single.
2. When " How Do I love you, let me count the ways"... And you literally lost count.
3. When Cupid calls you corny.
4. When you make a poem out of those little heart candies.
5. Cupid throws up a little in his mouth after reading your exceedingly sweet sonnet.
6. You bought your kid Valentines day cards for his class and wrote haiku's on every one.
7. You ponder the box of chocolates, and how it is like life, though it sounds familiar, you title your poem "Life is Like a Box of Chocolates".
8. You buy roses and a card filled with your sweet words for your ex, though she calls you a stalker, you are glad she called you.
9. You recite Roses are Red, Violets are Blue, and you're in the shower.
10. You suddenly bulk up on Pablo Neruda, ready to take on the romantic world.
11.As you look at your hellopoetry site while driving, you see a smear of blood on the windshield, two small wings, and what looks like a bow and arrow.
12. When you write a poem and have no one to give it to, suddenly Mom is the best Valentine ever.
13. When you go on the big date, secretly you have your own penand paper in your back pocket, writing verses when you excuse yourself from the dinner table.
14. When you write a poem for your wife, your side girlfriend and your mistress, just because it feels romantic, it is Valentines after all.
15. When you give the wrong poem to your wife, instead of the mistress.
16. Your girlfriend is suddenly a diabetic due to your sweet poem.
17.When you write a poem on hellopoetry and dedicate it to your Valentine, even though you don't have one.
18. When you buy yourself roses and a box of chocolate, write a beautiful poem to yourself, you might be a romantic poet.
19. When your secret admirer is you, the secret poems don't have the same effect.
20. Last but no least, you might be a poet when you wonder if Cupid is lonely and write an invite in the form of a sonnet to see if the little guy will join you for a poetry reading.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 3:12 PM UTC
is it love
or the parasite ?
my pilot bulk
aims for relief
it pursues this via
your romantic correction
in public arena
a library stair
(i never prior encountered you)
one step as foreigner
the approach
and upon a swift internal pendulum
i make witless incisions
hurried mended sentences
directed stuns
invasive
i demand the compromise
of your company
hastily push at boundaries and
you're not so accommodating
but
on a further occasion
same building
we exchange a battering of conversation
that
then
matures
into barter-like use of language
despite my harassments
a civil cultivation is unearthed
tongue within this intelligence effort i lessen
loosen my demanding appearance
disregard my dignity
a skin suit about the ankles
you're open in a vein of similarity
you flesh out your own controls
we've progressed quickly
there's an aped conduct
and flashing attitudes
this time we share table space
a nearby café
we have become quite unmanned
repeated meet ups
upon humours we adjust small habits
and shake on perceptions where we overlap
it becomes
more an overlay of rationalities
than resented promises
fast time passes and
i move into your living space
i pick a wildflower
and put it in the tiny vase on your dining table
we agree on its colour
we agree on a book to make our bible material
we agree on the pitch of the tinnitus we share
the clothes i am to wear
i switch to your diet
and you cease taking medications
we sleep on your lawn like children
and bring down the night sky for comfort
during the day we wear our sleep
like a lubrication for our chores
and go about our productivity
in genuine partnership
yet
i feel we're just out of reach
of some dark harm
we are an excellent sample pair
it is all vital
we grow stronger the more we quiz it
recycling our **********
refine our agreements
await further impulses
and come closer to plug
so..
do we please love
or simply indulge a parasite ?
Nov 23, 2021
Nov 23, 2021 at 10:28 PM UTC
A caked that you don’t eat, but lift
Catch my drift!
A cast iron cake where you will certainly lose weight
The thought of a diet not being a fate
No knife to cut
Where there is a sentence follows but
The cast iron cake could be your exercise weight
But wait for Heaven’s sake
Now I said prior in not gaining weight
However lifting the cast iron cake, you will surely bulk up
But because it is a cast iron cake, there are no calories to lose
I see you being all enthused
I am watching you observe that cast iron cake
Now just remember, there aren’t any plates
Just a Cast Iron Cake to help you curve your appetite.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 6:46 PM UTC
Behold the tyrant that we've come to uphold!
He's holly and jolly but his intention is a fold!
An act you see? Like the holiday scene!
Giving gifts, sharing feelings all on the drop of a ring?
That's the way you might tell me. Tradition's the thing!
...No just misguided and mislead, you're a sheep in a sling
Forgive me for caring just a little too much when my brothers around me have brains leaking mush
It's the buy-in's I tell you they've rotten your brain
Like the sweet allure of candy causing cavity pain
It creeps up in bulk bins then swarms you in herds
Over-bearing advertisements have become the word
But this is wrong! Don't you see?
All this holiday greed!
"I want this, I need that, does that suit come in black?"
I'm sick of it all and I don't give a ****
I don't want any presents off that red fat man's sleigh!
I'm going to tear down my tree and set it up when I say
Not on some specific, planned out, or traditional day
I'll set it up a week from now or on a Tuesday in May
That's the sort of holiday I think I can brave
No unwanted gifts and forced smiles denied
Cause' the music is chill and the feeling sublime
They would leave with full bellies and a carry home plate
That is... if we did holidays all run my way
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 7:12 PM UTC
"polite for a yankee"
making stop sign bullet holes
we start the massive pump churning into irrigated watermelon rows
headlight round a shadow bend in nightline tree bulk
sleep with empty cans beside the ashtray couch on matted ****
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 7:22 PM UTC
Working your way out of ionic ******* can be
seriously interesting however, it can also be
lugubrious.
I was standing in the aisle at Bulk Barn.
low on neutrinos, I was looking to stock up
I like to sprinkle them on my cereal in the morning
I then made my way down the anti-photon aisle
if you like your coffee black and not sweet, as I do
this is almost as good as other alternatives
I did realize that
my electron supply was fine
but thought I'd get some anyway
just for the ion-y
I don't understand the economics of this transaction
but it is apparent the invisible hand does
When the clerk looked in my basket
I was waved through
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 7:56 PM UTC
I'm attracted to men who do things
the hippie health nut rock climbers
the con-going, larping nerds
the artsy poetry writing, painters
I'm attracted to results,
to getting up off the couch and going
to hikers, and bikers, to MMA fighters
these are the men that I want
The men who get up in the morning
with a purpose
the men who know where they're going
and why they're doing what they do
The men with mettle, with strength, with power
I want a man who takes control
Who's not afraid to spend an evening
away from me
If we have differing interests
He won't give up what he loves
for any woman
I'm turned on by men
with steel in their bones
With iron in their hearts
who don't take their hits lying down
To men with hobbies with talent
with ideas and dreams
that they're making happen
not just pondering
I hate talk
The muscles built for sight's sake
aren't worth a **** thing to me
I need skills, a brain with the bulk
I want a man who rarely rests
who never stagnates
who can take me out to do something new
I'm attracted to men who do things
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 3:35 AM UTC
SANDMAN
Can you see them?-lookin' for me to be them,
lookin' for my warmth to breath life to them,
the hollow men,yes men,fallow men,come follow men,
no heart no mind-mindsick and eyeblind,
sheep talkin' like wolves that I find,
most despicable-Dis-gusting unpredictable,
following the wind as it blows on their wick they're all
candles in the strong wind gutterin',
snipes from a distance yeah they're all utterin'
Great threats from great hollow chests,
that up close-don't stand inspection,
empty vessels-makin great noise,
hard men behind keyboards hands -poised,
with the poisoned pen ready to dip in the deep well,
of hatred they bring from deep hell's,
inside,a void,avoid if you can please employ-
aversion tactics needed,don't need it,
vampyres that need pyres,yellow they bleed it
Yellow right down to the backbone believe it...
CHORUS
*the hollow men,yes men,fallow men,come follow men,
Yes men Hollow men come follow men
Yes Men-Shallow men come follow men, the hollow men,
The hollow men,yes men,fallow men,come follow men,
Yes men Fallow men come follow men
Yes Men-Shallow men come follow then
while I tell you bout the Hollow men*
JAY
Yeah, **** right I can see them.
Trolls in holes. I'm willin' to bleed 'em.
Society's detritis,
..delighted by the slightest sign of weakness.
Bleakness of their lives underlined by the lies they employ..
.. in their contrived..
..cyber sphere.
Scavengin' on carrion.
Peckin' at the carcass. Behind the veil of anonymity.
Sit in darkness as they hammer out calamity.
No nobility or amity. Cyber-highway poison.
I got the remedy.
Hollow husks skulk and lust..
..for coat-tails to ride on. Soon turn to dust.
Rusting hulks their disgusting bulk decaying on the shore.
Soon to be forgotten.
The Yes Men, the Hollow Men, the fallow men.
The everything is borrowed men.
The no tomorrow men.
The follow slowly to the gallows men.
*The Hollow Men, Yes men, fallow men, come follow men.
Yes men, shallow men, come follow men.
Yes men, Hollow Men.
Never follow them. The Hollow Men.
The Hollow Men, Yes men, fallow men, come follow men.
Yes men, shallow men, deal in sorrow men.
Yes men. Don't ever follow them.
A fool strolls to the gallows man.*
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 2:15 PM UTC
His wife, George, was present with flowers.
Anne and Michael,his children, were there.
A headstone had been carved at the Quarry,
now all waited on Yeats to appear.
Soft and damp was that day in the graveyard
with the scent of turned earth in the air.
Beyond rose the bulk of Ben Bulben,
As the Lorry, with the poet, drew near.
Ten years he had slept in his coffin,
while the great nation states played at war.
Now Sean MacBride, the son of his rival,
brought him home, where he'd not been before.
At his birth, Yeats was a British subject.
By his death, a Dominion was here.
Now they laid him to rest in the free state;
the newly minted Republic of Eire.
A bhean chéile, George, a bhí i láthair le bláthanna.
Anne agus Michael, a pháistí, bhí ann.
Bhí A cloch chinn snoite ar an Cairéal,
gach fhan anois ar Yeats le feiceáil.
Bhí bog agus tais an lá sin sa reilig
leis an boladh de domhain iompú san aer.
Beyond ardaigh an chuid is mó de Ben Bulben,
Mar an Leoraí, leis an bhfile, tharraing aice.
Deich mbliana bhí chodail sé ina cónra,
agus an stáit náisiúin mór a bhí ag an chogaidh.
Anois Seán MacBride, mac a rival,
thabhairt dó sa bhaile, i gcás nach mhaith a bhí sé riamh.
Ag a rugadh é, go raibh Yeats ábhar na Breataine.
De réir a bhás, bhí Dominion anseo.
Anois atá leagtha siad dó a gcuid eile sa stát saor in aisce;
an bualadh nua-Phoblacht na Eire.
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 2:10 AM UTC
The Siren song
Sung by the Sea
Sounded so much
Sweeter
Before the boy
Was born.
Truth be told,
I was born that day as well.
We shared our first breaths.
Delicate and enduring atmosphere.
Sweetest, most overlooked element:
OXYGEN
Awoken our lungs
And spread life out
Through our
Fingers,
Toes,
Tears.
(His were louder,
Mine were longer)
We shared more than
rarefied air that day;
Excitement.
Confusion.
Love.
Fear.
Before I knew it
My Scorched sailor’s skin
Sought sanctuary
In
Landlocked love.
You see
The inconvenient, unfortunate, and unavoidable
Fact of humans is,
They like to eat.
And warmth is also nice.
Diapers.
And Kathy next door just got this great icebox and she says she doesn't know how she lived
without it and that in the long run it will actually save her money, what with buying in bulk and not
going to the store so often and leftovers.
So there’s that too.
So I work
Willingly, willfully
With wetness
On Back,
But not behind ears.
And my captain is a good captain,
A true captain.
Our pay is always waiting when and where promised.
Pennies are not pinched when providing rations.
He gave me this job out of the goodness of neighborhood.
But he has no child.
No wife.
Little reason to head to port,
And less to linger long.
I see my boy’s chestnut eyes in my dreams
And they act like the cruelest potion,
Which, when sipped
Leaves the drinker with only more thirst.
But there are dollars here,
And, what other skills do I have?
And, bellies are full.
I try not to complain.
Tonight,
I want the fireplace,
Roaring.
Our boy smiling, laughing
His cheeks having played chameleon
With the scarlet of our flag.
His mother;
Her eyes,
Outshining her hair,
Outshining the sun,
Scroll between our boy and the page,
As she reads his favorite book of tales.
He doesn't understand a word,
But I do.
We share an unnumbered smile.
He likes the pictures.
My mouth has tasted of salt for
64
Long
Days.
The ocean gives,
And the ocean takes away.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 4:23 PM UTC
The moon lulled itself
Into few second-long naps,
The winds whispered the smell
Of the oncoming rains
As ants did a tight-rope
On the tree's sleeves.
The dog pricked its ears,
Each time the tiny hurricane
Of dried leaves whirled round.
The spider attempted to balance itself
On the maze of its own making,
As the web threads strummed
A happy tune
In response to the wind.
The lull before the storm,
Was becoming too much of a bulk
For the clouds to bear,
Before a slant of water droplets,
(Some drying midway through
The atmosphere's layers,)
Stamped their arrival
On the parched layers
Of land, leaves and minds.
Streaks of lightning
Conducted a survey
On the distribution of downpour
Clicking vintage tinted photographs.
The rains slowed down to a drizzle,
The insects buzzed through a banter,
The moon tried to
Sneak through the clouds,
Surprised at its reflection
In a puddle on the street.
The morning wakes up
Smelling a misty presence
Of the (previous) night it rained.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 11:23 PM UTC