"burly" poems
One in the chamber
Two in the clip
Only a split second
Before your sanity slips
Street Dreams
Road Warriors
Lost causes rebel
Rob,steal,rape,kill...
They will
Trying to prove they are strong
Just to belong
That's not gangsta!
Your pants hangin off you
Make horny,burly convicts
Wanna rub up against you
Hydrofried and twisted
A walking statistic
Confident and content with failure
Same path passed on
You'll leave your fatherless children to cry
When your dead and gone
New sneakers,fresh cut, crisp clothes
But inside you **** like a black hole!
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
My family is a bunch of animals.
My mother is a lioness,
strong, brave, and full of pride,
with claws sharp as knives,
for anyone that harms her cub she will strike.
my father is a hyena,
foolish, never serious, and a lazy scavenger,
that doesn't do anything but eat the crap that he creates.
My grand parents are elephants,
big and strong during the day,
blind and helpless during the night.
My aunts and uncles are the herd of gazelles,
they graze when they can,
but when the lioness comes they silence and run away with fear.
My dogs are the shade that comforts me from the burning sun of life.
The day has come when the lioness shall not roam the tall grasses of the Serengeti.
Without the lioness the gazelles are persistently grazing,
depleting the grass,
grazing and depleting until there was no grass left for me to hide in,
they rammed and bucked at me like I had no right to grieve.
I was a helpless cub on that day and I still am,
wondering when the lioness will show up to be my heroine again.
But as the gazelles buck and ram,
a kangaroo and a zebra rush in,
embrace me,
and take me in,
I now have a second family with:
a savage tiger,
Italian chipmunks,
boxing kangaroos,
kick-ass monkeys,
elderly turtles,
burly bears,
religious zebras,
and untimely rabbits.
My second family is diverse,
but they never do the worst just as my first.
This is a story that I usually don't tell,
but this my past life so I must tell, tell, tell...
This is what God raised me to be,
This for me and only me.
One day the light will show for me,
and me and the lioness will forever again be free,
to roam the plains in the skies above,
just like a dove.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 3:55 AM UTC
8th grade.
That was the year everything
went to hell.
That was the year I went on a diet.
I decided to shed
my last shred
of dignity,
along with 60+ pounds
in order to impress the boy with the dark, curly hair.
That was the year I lied to my parents.
"Did you eat dinner?" they asked.
"Yes," I replied,
and they believed me.
They couldn't tell
that something wasn't quite right
with their perfect little girl,
who was starving for the perfect body,
and for attention from the boy with the dark, curly hair.
That was the year teachers began to ask questions.
Mr. May, with the spiky hair and burly arms,
glanced suspiciously at my pale skin,
eerily translucent and decorated with bruises.
Mrs. Fitz, who had recently been on a diet herself,
always made sure that I had a lunch,
although she never made sure I ate it.
Mrs. ***** a small woman with a big personality,
used to make comments about eating disorders
just to get a rise out of me,
and when that didn't work,
she went a step farther.
Mr. Daley, the 7th and 8th grade guidance counselor,
consumed every lie I fed him,
and when I grabbed a Jolly Rancher off his desk
on my way back to class,
he smiled with triumph,
as if he had cured me,
but he didn't see me throw it away
as soon as I got home.
Those extra 15 calories
would have ruined my chances with the boy with the dark, curly hair.
That was the year I couldn't leave the house without a sweater
because, even on the warmest day, I couldn't stop shivering.
That was the year all of my hair fell out.
That was the year I lost most of my friends.
That was the year everything went to hell
because of a boy with dark, curly hair.
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 10:48 AM UTC
tiny elves in my backyard on my stoop -
“PLEASE SIR, MAY WE HAVE SOME SOUP?”
running out from between blades of grass,
they shouted in unison with a burly crass:
“YOU MUST UNDERSTAND, IT'S A TUESDAY NIGHT,”
“AND TUESDAYS ARE SPECIAL IN ELVEN LIFE!”
“sorry sir, soup is not for elves; mommy said!”
“DON'T LISTEN TO THAT OLD BAT,
IT'S LATE AND SHE'S IN BED…
...WE COME TO YOU IN NEED OF NOURISHMENT!”
“but, I’m just a kid and mommy discourages it!”
i said in my biggest voice, for the 900th time
as they threw up their arms, like I’d committed a crime!
running around in a mass,
they ran back, with such sass,
through the leaves in a big hurry -
on a hunt for soup they scurried...
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 6:28 PM UTC
© 2009 (Jim Sularz)
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, by wagon, train or foot.
Days not all that long ago, in tall ships made of wood.
“A gold rush struck in’49, all quite by accident.
A burning fever that cut men to bone, in a sea of dingy tents.
Day and night, they toiled and tolled, many headed home without a cent.
But some packed out bags of glistening gold, and made a stop at "Buzzard’s Breath."
"The town’s mud logged street, deep with horse manure, bubbled like a shallow grave.
With a Sheriff’s office, a livery stable, and a church for souls to save.
And a fancy house, on a grassy knoll – sign read, “Madam Lil la ****
With soft, curvaceous ladies who mined for hearts – and gold of a different sort.
Didn’t take long before easy gold, was extremely hard to find.
And burly miners, tough as steel, moved in to hard rock mine.
With bloodied knuckles, dented hats, they blasted at a furious pace.
To find the gold, called the Mother Lode, yellow blood coursing through their veins!
The mine they worked was called “Long Shot”, the men thought that name a curse.
But the miners hankered for the handle, "Buzzard’s Breath”, and the mine’s name was reversed.
As luck would say, they held a royal flush, when they hit that horse-wide vein.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found, this side of the Pearly Gates.
Eyes wide as saucers, they were all in awe, everyone was filthy rich.
The miners should have all retired and should have cashed in all their chips.
But a man’s hard to figure, when his blood is yellow, and he’s stricken with a gold fever.
“Eureka! Boys, *** the dynamite and a whole lot more mining timbers!”
They mined that vein to the bowels of the Earth, and the heat increased by day.
"Buzzard’s Breath" became the hottest place, to Hell – the shortest way.
And then one day, the men never came back. – Hell must have jumped that claim.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found – that’s where the Devil mines today!”
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, died a slow and quiet death.
Along with days of tall wooden ships, and the ghosts of Buzzard’s Breath.
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 5:46 PM UTC
Harried, Harassed, Hassled and Hounded-
These are the H-words I work by.
Harpies and Henchmen, Harridans and Heathens-
These are the H-folk I work with.
Hubbub and Hokum and Hurly-burly-
These are the places I do it.
Hoodlums and Hooligans, loaded with Hubris-
These are the clients I deal with.
Heartless and Horrible, Hateful and Hurtful
These are the attitudes around me.
Hopeless and Hapless, Haggard and Helpless-
This is the way I usually feel.
What happened to Happy, and Hopeful and Harmony-
These are the H-words I search for.
Hinder and Hobble, Heckle and Hamper-
These are the Hamstrings that trip me.
Heaven and Harmony, Humor and Honor-
These are the things that I strive for.
Havoc and Hades, Hurt, Hate and Hauteur-
These are the H’s that I have to conquer.
Hope, Help, and Herculean effort-
Is How I will finally get myself Home.
ljm
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 12:30 AM UTC
The air is burly
trees harvest soldiers on the line
combines, threads, manure, life--
A whole world lost amidst the flats
Saplings are the next season's
Almonds, Apples, Dates,
Waiting for food shelves and stockrooms
packed in banana boxes and given a place
They will find the plates of capitol city dwellers
They will be engorged far away from their origins
The Sierra-- oh the great plutonic mass
They are grey from age, peppered with white whiskers of snow
They are asking to be known as the interior
Pilgrims who traveled over their spines, seeking these fertile swampland
Now airstrips and dirigibles
The edges of clouds on the valley, the deserts and the mountains like folds of a book
they crackle in the sun and the skin of the earth shrinks in its gaze
Migratory birds dance in the fields, the lowly clang of bell
Bleached american flags tell us this is the land
The land of things and endless breadth
This is only California, but the majesty of it
a gem valley encased by the rocks, in silicates
A roaming place for cows, wanderers, farmers, dreams
Where the only edge of things is the mountains, saying
-Climb me, surmount me, lay me under your deeds-
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 12:26 PM UTC
His flabbered jowls were hung aghast
Beneath his slobbered liver lips
His bulbous eyes were overcast
By burly brows of stewardship
An overbearing egotist
He stood apart from infidels
Compassion dealt with belt and fist
Disdainful with no parallels
And there upon his lofty dais
In garments fit to drape a throne
He glared with bulbous eyes ablaze
Upon a ragged danger zone
A misbegotten anarchist
Audacious with his sweet implore
To strike a flaming catalyst
Emboldened by his quest for more
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 7:36 AM UTC
I don't want to be here.
I feel it in my mouth
Like a drink I can't
Bring myself to swallow.
An uneasy feeling
When I meet flashing eyes
And see lips curl in a sneer.
I don't like these people.
They don't much like me either.
Flat-screen televisions blare nonsense
Consumers bustle in
Sell sell sell
Buy buy buy.
Sniffs of disapproval
A burly manager with his finger in my face
This is how it is to be done
No personality
No individuality
Sell sell sell.
Aug 13, 2012
Aug 13, 2012 at 11:02 AM UTC
Walkin' talking gawking
the goats, giraffes, red panda
no **** tiger
exhibit like they promised
Alyssa in the OV
for a few days with her
Mom and Dad
My oldest Chris
and Sarah.
My grandaughter at our
first meeting
of course
adorable
even if a little frightened
of burly bear Grandpa
Cant say we bonded
but we blew kisses
and met
Aidan, Journey
and Cameryn
by strange coincidence
all my children
present at once
in our undersized home
lions, yes elephants yes
no tigers like they promised
for opening day
But bubbles
lifted by the wind to
great height
above the entrance
to pop
unceremoniously
to be noticed by only me
and Alyssa
at the zoo
Apr 14, 2011
Apr 14, 2011 at 9:34 AM UTC
The moment when your not at home, a public restroom even isn't around, your stopping off at a job site where construction workers work during the day. And big burly men take craps in porta pottys, with no toilet paper left but only left upon a ****** topped toilet seat. With the fresh stench of **** crap, and men's beer puke and *** smell aligning the walls of the ***** I wish an inventor (poet inventor) would make poet's special pottys. I'd be his co-creator. We'd call it,
Poetry pottys!
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 3:36 AM UTC
Cancer:
You bathe at night; soak
in the indigo twilight.
Exhausted from the
overload of emotion,
the lunar light cleansed your soul.
Leo:
Charming and cunning,
like the lion, you stalk your
prey. Find the weakness
and exploit it; start the fire,
and then claim your innocence.
Scorpio:
You are the end and
beginning of the cycle.
Reincarnation;
Take the heat, and rise from the
ashes in your final form.
Aquarius:
Water bearer, you
bring life to this alien
landscape. Barren and
undiscovered, this is your
chance to change the world. Long live
your work of innovation.
Virgo:
Tree branch rib cage and
ivy veins that nurture your
winter-bitten soul.
Precious sunlight has returned;
your garden will bloom again.
Aries:
The war going on
inside your brain is growing
tiresome. Your strength
is that of the ram, but you
can't always be the hero.
Pisces:
Submersion. Scared and
eye-level with the Angler.
Take pleasure in the
aesthetic. Perhaps a change
of perspective was needed.
Sagittarius (Father Jupiter Would Be So Proud):
Goddess of the hunt,
your need for adventure and
fearless heart combines
and incarnates the wander-
lust warrior that you are.
Capricorn:
Eyes like a doe; she
is wise, nurturing, and vast.
Motherly strength is
the coat worn over bared bones
and bruised knees. She's her own crutch.
Libra:
Neither side of your
scale may touch the ground.
Chaos may welcome
you with open arms, but she
will grow cold and deranged, love.
Taurus:
Though you are stubborn,
your heart is made of feather,
you fierce, burly ox.
Romantic and devoted,
the darkness in you is gold.
Gemini (The Twin Flame):
How exciting and
infuriating it must
be to look in the
mirror to face your best friend
and your greatest enemy.
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 8:10 PM UTC
Wind swept
Wild places the grass it puts on a veritable orchestra of movement as it undulates to the power of the breeze that passes
Mountain meadows splashed with a profusion of flowers they jiggle as if there tickled about something or other
The crest of the hill bordered with trees sloping down the hill children are running reminiscent of Jack and Jill
This utopia of nature sets aside the hurly burly the curvature of the hills still the wind hold the sun just right you it invites
Cross these pasture lands the feeding ground of many cattle and sheep the pride of the farmer who keeps
Inexorably bound by breed and creed for centuries this way of life flourishes among these native grasses
Tender shoots these roots give of their riches the sun and rain gives them a time to reign with joy all reaps
Pleasure in the walk letting fingers glide over the heads of tall grasses the silent telling of harmony filled poise
Future generations will be brought to these shadowed grounds they too will by their lives express and know contentment
Hourly they hold in sod that has known the breath of time as it has passed time and time again it enlivens breaks fourth
Sturdy and resplendent it shows all its dependability the same respect settlers knew is found the builders of this continent
Long shadows grow upon earths shoulders she knows the good and the bad but through resilience remains unconquered
The distant mountain stands eternal guard, it affects rainfall, mutes the winds force guarantying a peaceful valley
Perpetuity is taught in this land tomorrows unfold from days gone by with regularity they build and keep the way open
Stewardship the blessed hope working in harmony with all that surrounds at days end this will be the final sum and tally
The herdsman knows the time he invests it well always with broad vision does he act in this wisdom all will be victorious
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 8:45 PM UTC
capsized beating purple algorithm
for a heart,
cross-nit aspirations
still taste dirt on my teeth,
the mission creep of eager eyed poets,
carry a briefcase with my levi's --
close cut cigarette encounters,
all brick shantytown of a friendship
them lovelies run on endless,
it's starting to get cold outside.
restless sprites circle our *****
exhaling greek mythopoeics
every sure footed step.
alcoholism echoes in my skin
a depth charge i cannot cut out,
we all have broken thoughts here,
all have blind spots in our stomachs,
they read like a preacher's insecurities:
burly things we warm ourselves with,
the winters sting bitter.
something is wrong with me,
sinkhole of ambition and honey kisses,
all the great thinkers **** themselves,
it's the staunch lack of spotlight,
way the earth drips lackadaisical-like
we just call it a perfect orbit.
shake my hand and feel a goldilocks pulse
anemic shards of a cornered animal,
we cut right
to the bone
here, or so we tell ourselves.
and love is always the answer?
that sure footed toothy angel
so beautiful, it couldn't just be our
churlish blood,
frothing and calming,
frothing and calming,
electrons rise and fall to create light,
they still circle an untapped atrocity
perfectly,
like this, like it must be
god
or something close. something
stopping them from running, free
from bonds ionic or otherwise,
bare feet
beating the pavement until there are
no more stones to throw.
firstborns of the universe,
each star is a setting sun,
blinks staggered,
still grew us up quicker than most,
there is no aphrodisiac like heliocentrism.
them bones cut good
doped up on oxytocin,
those empty thoughts still rattling,
dig sharp -- then nice and numb.
and we cutthroat and glossy,
sharper than ever.
walk outside
smoke a cigarette
know how much you love her,
look at the stars --
it's ******* beautiful isn't it
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 7:57 PM UTC
My friends a hypochondriac,
doctor twice a week.
He looks so strong and burly,
but feels so sick and meek.
He heard there is a cure out there,
that heals what ails him so.
I just don't have the heart to tell him,
he's taking a placebo.
My friend is big and mighty,
and the sugar pills do work.
He says he's never sick now,
no aches, and nothing hurts.
I'm happy for him, really,
though I wish he'd known much sooner,
that sugar pills have what it takes,
to heal the kids of boomers.
Our parents taught us to be weary,
as they had had no means,
to heal themselves in the time of war,
when they were all just teens.
But times have changed, and we can now,
heal most every sickness.
But still there are hypochondriacs,
needing sugar to cure weakness.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 3:10 AM UTC
Urban Community Living:
Some days I actually noticed how grey it was
All of this space, here around us
As our half-beaten stone trodden 52 bus
Rolls into its unfortunate terminus.
Terminal more like.
The shops have boarded windows,
Bakeries have bullet-proof counters
Staffed by bulky bakers-cum-bouncers
A praised underground centre for perilous shopping
Dodge rival factions on various floors
Fighting for stair supremacy
And burly painted girls with latent spent applause
Some colour on the underpass is some relief
Only it warns of impending doom
for someone soon
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:17 AM UTC
Jovial mess on bed encapsulates heartburn diarama
a fresh coat Bismuth Business man with codeine red sweet stains on his dockers
3am Dharmic ranting
"job well done Wednesdays"
and "feel good Fridays"
Moronic howling immediacy
immediately vibrating cell walls within the twenty-something aged voice box device.
Burly chest galavant
push up to get the muscle fat
lean, and impress upon
the natural on-and-on
leave the face unscathed along
Have to be outside
Outside where it's most safe
ascend the incline just before the nightshade
lose your technology in the primordial Koi Fish Pond in oxymoronic fashion and let the nature of this dream leer at you from the area down below.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 1:32 PM UTC
They chase them down
through field and town
intending then to eat em'
with plastic forks
and champagne corks
they wallop and they beat em'
They chase by day
and most the night
though I can't understand em'
through thistle grass
and snowy pass
with knives they roughly brand em'
With Caber tossed
and y-fronts lost
these skirted men assault em'
big burly men
with beards yer ken
you really cannot fault em'
With claymore sharp
and Scottish harp
they catch and set to roast em'
with whiskey ryes
And blood shot eyes
these hunters fair do toast em'
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 6:19 AM UTC
I
duchess in labor;
trusted royal storks on call;
where is the baby..?
II
duchess delivers,
trusted royal storks receive;
a charmed boy or girl...?
III
duchess is relieved,
royal baby is conceived;
it's a burly boy!
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 6:18 PM UTC
Just the other day
I met Robert Goulet
I was surprised a bit
The way his mustache twitched
A mind of its own
Like in the Twilight Zone
Jumping right off his face
His mustache ran away
Teeny boppers next door
Giggled out of control
As Roberts mustached jumped
Landing in someones lunch
That's when the Maítre ď
Let out a girly scream
Quite an embarrassment
To all us burly men
Then throughout the day
The mustache of Robert Goulett
Made a name for itself
As it ventured about town
His mustache all could see
Has a tinder streak
Helping old ladies out
To get across the street
Why it even saved a cat
Giving all its nine lives back
Pulled it from a tree
That was burning excessively
At that same moment saved the town
Itself from burning down
But that story's much to long
To try to abound
The town was so impressed
They trimmed up the mustache
Of Robert Goulett
Then gave it a ticker tape parade
After that they named a street
Because of its heroic feat
If it had two hands to greet
Would have handed it the city's key
And if the mustache could talk at all
Would have given the greatest speech
If Roberts mustache had only known
It'd do this good out on its own
It would have left the upper lip
Along time ago
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 7:49 AM UTC
The hills burn
Smokey cloud
Over the valley
Wind whipping up
Sparks of misty droplets
Through the windows
Of the house next door
Shadows genuflect
On the asphalt before
The streetlight
Thick foliage shrugs
Its burly shoulders
Smells of wet
Sage on the mountain
Gently the spring
Has closed the
Throat of thunder
I close my eyes
But no lightning makes
Its traces behind my lids
Summer waits...
SoulSurvivor
(C) 4/7/2016
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 10:29 PM UTC
I challenged him
burly ******* captain
stubbled beard as coarse as sandpaper
standing there in muggy dusk
arms akimbo,
mama san starched uniform stained with swagger and sweat
two silver captain's bars ******* any of my brilliance or bravado
all he had to do was speaketh the words
“need those maps, head out at 2230 hours”
and that was a death sentence
which was commuted to life
if four decades since has been life
there are not words for the black
of moonless jungle
except nothingness and paralytic fear
and through that lightless, lifeless, abyssness
I crawled, crouched and crept along
sometimes as slowly as the minute hand on my watch
the silence, the silence, the silence
became my splintered cross
to carry to my place of crucifixion
at my Calvary Hill behind barbed wire, blue lead barrels and
fearful eyes
silence, silence, silence, black wordlessness
black soundlessness
punctuated by shallow precious breaths
and imagined slant-eyed demons
waiting behind each berm
to turn the timeless night into timelessness
of more black
should I chamber a round?
and follow its solitary sound
into the silent holy night
and shatter my own fragile fright?
would that end this knowing without knowing?
and answer the question,
“is this fear worse than the answer?”
since questions have answers but answers have nothing
the nothing of which I was sure I would become a part
in the silence, the silence, the silence
of the black canopied jungle
in Tay Ninh Province
in 1967
where I was sentenced to death but allowed to live
in silent, black wordlessness
sentenced to live
to wonder, after all these years of shivering fright and flickering light
did the captain become a human?
And was I really allowed to live?
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 9:58 AM UTC
Sitting at the counter waiting for my cheeseburger and fries, I noticed her.
It was the first time I felt like really eating a cheeseburger and fries
Since you looked me square in the face
And told me:
You didn't love me anymore.
She is beautiful, I'll give her that
But she's sitting at a table full of men
Burly men, not your kind.
What did she see in you?
What did I see in you?
What was her name?
Surely I remember that.
It was this name who caused the break up heard round the neighborhood.
She with her long, sun kissed-hair
(mine is short and black)
And her skin is bronze like a native Brazilian
(I am translucent, save for my many freckles)
Come on, you know it.
But then my food came.
And then it didn't matter anymore.
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 5:45 PM UTC
I sit here at the crossing of the ways amid and with the passing of so many days,I rest awhile.
No hurly burly,girly, girlies here, just me,the man,
sitting sketching out another plan, and one that won't **** me to another stretch of lonely roads
or heavy loads to carry
tarrying too long,going just that extra mile
for one more smile or kiss pressed like wilted flowers on my wanting lips.
I sit
still,
the crossing of the crossroads will occur and there I'll be
watching each and every wrinkle that appears and when the mists that roll around me clear
and the fear of moving on is gone
I'll go
back
to travel once again the empty streets and this time with the plan I have
I hope to meet
on equal terms someone like me,whose stomach used to churn at any thought of being any closer than arms length.
Sitting here silently,
weaving strength into my hands
to gather up my bag and with a certain sense of swag
swagger on.
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 3:38 AM UTC
the blinds hang heavy
transforming the room into a
baroque style painting
intense lights, intense darks
and your features hard.
you're angry at me because i didn't stay the night.
you're angry at me because it was 3 in the morning
and i wanted some place else to go.
i carry my heels as i walk into the
local truck stop
big burly men fat like flies
reek and stand in line with doritos.
i want to hear your voice crackle
over the pay phone.
listen to your static lecture
and i'll tell you i cut open my feet on
some rocks
and you'll hang up,
and that would be
my last quarter.
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 1:13 PM UTC