"buttress" poems
A hippodrome as smoke adjourn
those can wrap Havanas blunt
while Manila fish for sordino
they reek of harvest yet exhume Moro
then San Mateo shall not a maraschino bane
whether they've sought bastion in Italy then
once their hopes shall keep ships ahoy
and Sabatini sing San Marino here
that sandcastle star await his lover in
"The Sea Hawk" a fine costume whence sail
those Antilles with a conquistador as buttress
in this play they call Those Philippines alas meet
El Duarte in a duet with his song set aflame with
great sleeves in such kleptocracy worldwide again.
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 8:35 AM UTC
The new day still saw the man
Whose livelihood was rubber.
He had worked really hard; earning his darkened tan,
He was the plantation's tapper.
The evening sun had long set
Leaving the plantation in a shroud of darkness.
Relying on what little light the moon would let.
He treaded carefully; sidestepping potholes and jutting buttress.
His sack slung over one shoulder,
He found his way to his trusty ride.
Nightly routine he would execute over and over
Mounted his bicycle and rode off with the moon as guide.
All day long, he had been thinking of the night before.
He had then learnt that he was the target of a ghostly trick.
As he cycled, he got worked up, more and more...
He cursed the spirit who had made him the fool so quick!
As he looked ahead, straining his eyes to discern the sandy track.
His eyes caught something that came within sight.
Standing by the side against a background of black.
There she was again...all garbed in white...
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
kids march to school,
merry, hands linked,
socks strangling calves,
backpacks swelling with milk teeth,
dangerous smiles.
in the centre they stand,
fronds shivering overhead,
buttress roots clutching earth
like they know what’s coming.
bags dropped in a ring,
offerings to something older
than the walls they study in.
fractures komorebi,
and in its faded gold
i see pareidolia,
grinning from the leaves.
the tree is temple and witness both.
the trunks sway in a rhythm
older than speech.
a tree at the border warns:
don’t take pride in the faces—
power is the thing they can’t hold.
if, my friend, you see the tree
cast out its own,
know those who give the orders
are across the ocean—
safe, distant, very clean.
owls, fat with promises,
every five years
stuff a new child’s face
into the stump’s rot
and call it a future.
the old tree votes unanimously
to shed its skin once more—
they call it progress,
call the rot reform.
loosen your roots;
the wind doesn’t care
which children
it strips for kindling.
Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 7:50 AM UTC
There just below the surface,
more present than you know
A prophetic Jeremiah,
tracks leading through the snow
His message serves to buttress,
those standing in the light
A pipeline to eternity,
—his vision gifting sight
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 11:24 AM UTC
he wasn't in the right headspace
he wasn't in the wonted circumstance
it happened neither occasionally, but on numerous occasions
however, his surrounding be approaching and expecting his so-called tough shoulders..
..to be cried on, to be leaned on or to be the place they can dwell in for some considerable time.
his heart was made of gold, but it felt like a block of ice.
nodded his head; means acceptance.
tossed a yes; means a welcome.
painted a genuine smile; means he's all about to listen.
he was there for people, and he will always be there.
but where are the people pace their footsteps out while 911 numbers were pressed on his life's phone button?
nought. zero calls back. all dead. stone deaf.
that's how we live in, being a living buttress to people as in fact people won't ever spend their seconds to be your place to go.
aside from the bitter truth,
survive.
Dec 17, 2020
Dec 17, 2020 at 7:04 AM UTC
Touch me not say the morning due to the sunrise disappearing as the sun grew
Touch me not say the coconut tree with its fruits hanging aloof,
Touch me not say the frog with bright red spots corking under the Buttress roots,
Touch me not says the indulging and then eluding dreams.
Touch me not says the maiden, playfully resisting her lover’s every move
Touch me not say the open shore to the teasing ocean waves,
Touch me not say the blood colored fruit to the naive traveler,
Touch me not say the blazing sun to Icarus, son you can’t fly to the sun,
Touch me not says the peeved kid pouting and showing it’s irk.
Touch me not says the volcano, feigning to be at rest
Touch me not says the deranged dog, to anyone who dare to come nearer
Touch me not says the humble cosmos, hiding all its beauty on a dark and cloudy night
Touch me not says the hissing cobra, I can **** an elephant.
Touch me not says the steaming ice
Touch me not says the thorny bushes,
Touch me not says the porcupine,
Touch me not says the diffident butterfly
Touch me not says the poet, can’t you see i am working i can’t be in distress
Touch me not, touch me not I am fine ……
Dec 20, 2011
Dec 20, 2011 at 3:41 PM UTC
Bull Connor,
like the Dutch Boy from Haarlem,
put his finger in a hole
to plug a burgeoning leak.
But Bull Connor,
unlike the boy from Haarlem,
did not foresee
the raging torrents of history,
smashing against
the crumbling walls
of the porous ****
he sought to buttress.
His decadent heroism
held no moral authority
to sustain
his ungodly labors.
His savage dogs,
hungry for meat,
bent on aggression
for a twisted masters bidding
were devoured
by the teeth
of a movement
hungry for justice.
His water cannons,
tiny water pistols,
******
into the mighty squalls
of a raging hurricane
that blew the stinking *****
back onto his face.
The weight of history
moves with the just.
Untruth,
arch rival of justice,
is blown away,
like an expired candle
snuffed out,
blessedly extinguished
from the first breath
of a glorious new day.
Bull Connor
doesn’t rest in peace.
He stands on
the other side of the river.
He is the rich man
driven by
insane thirst
begging for water
from a comforted
Lazarus,
now secure
in the *****
of Abraham.
Bull Connor
looks across
the chasm of fire
he knows
he'll never bridge.
Medgar Evers
and MLK Jr.
stand as keepers,
collecting tolls
for a heavenly passage
from the wages he earned
for his earthly work.
A forlorn
Bull Connor
forever searches
deep empty pockets
for fare
as Martin
and Medgar
patiently wait
with outstretched palms.
Music Selection:
The Soul Stirrers,
Jesus Gave Me Water
MLK Jr. Day
1/20/86
NYC
jbm
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 8:55 AM UTC
within Zieglerville, pennsylvania
genuine snow white hair
upon her noggin doth adorn,
perhaps she will divulge to me (in private)
after i croon (to said lass),
the melody of Jimmy Crack Corn
hmm...or, maybe this mission
perchance twill be doomed from the start,
and hence finding me forlorn
thenceforth, a backup contingency measure,
would warrant me to don my thinking cap,
and for extra ordinary reinforcement unfold
each Taj Mahal shaped ear flap
plus (for reinforced ironic steeliness),
aye also resort to buttress
any aural "stormy Dani yelling)
via walled in interlap,
which accouterment functions
as a double agent i.e. (or,
to be rather crude),
an audiological jockstrap
to vet or figuratively kneecap
any unwanted infiltrating leaping lap
ping "FAKE" distracting news
inducing madcap
mass media circus
driving this generic teetotaler
to pour himself a nightcap
essentially providing wig gull room
with very little margin of ear err, or overlap
against bigwigs to trumpet pap
pill low ma rendered free and clear
asper insidious (mama mia) paparazzi
charting imp pea ching fear
bringing out bare arms
most likely something internuclear
simply to discover visa vis authenticity
if cute employee
(sporting hair
white as the ****** snow),
which doth simmer and glare
blindingly, thus necessitating sunglasses
(I choose the Ray-Ban brand)
as recommended by cited
all time favorite pharmacist
who unwittingly (or simply because
my myopic eyes didst stare)
fixedly - drawn to such a darling (doll ling)
explaining any reason to go THERE
to CVS - that tis where.
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 5:58 PM UTC
O noble light, o noble lights!
The babe has learned to crawl,
and the virtues which we possess
call continually to the poor and
oppressed among us. I don't know
when this cry may ease, but
the Bugle tells us to buttress the hearts of
these oppressed folk.
We are not to stay still upon our light, rather
we are to make it burn brighter in our hearts.
This is the day to make our character known in the
hearts of the oppressed.
Aug 31, 2020
Aug 31, 2020 at 10:34 PM UTC
Lonely Butterfly
Listen
do you hear it
the sound of wind rushing in
winter is on its way
with the clouds of Gray
the buttress colors of summer fads
I hide my heart in rain showers
the Flowers in my garden are faded
they look almost as lonely as I
the beauty of true clarity has succeeded
the veils of one’s true colors wove the sea
frost bitten blossoms in an envious eye
lost puzzled and all alone
Cold as stone in my home
I am a Lonely Butterfly ready to fly on high
I fly around in the dark world I live
to find my shining spot of true Love to Live.
Poetic Judy Emery © 1980
The Queen Of Darken Dreams Poetic Lilly Emery
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 1:36 PM UTC
Life’s Discards
What arises from a seemingly affront the house abandoned but a visitor arrives and calls for meaning
From chaos she perches on a suitcase in the center of the room wood paneled walls and a white stone
Fire place serve as the backdrop it gives the place its first telling impact a value is suggested put sight to
The test now family items strewn about only make up debris but just a time in the short past this room
Was filled with everything that engendered comfort now the flow is a negative one that runs down
Through each piece that suggests wicker chair you once were deemed precious and worthy of serious
Attachment now you belong in a trash heap but for the heart and mind that is left to assess it is a weight
Of brooding as you fix what at first just speaks of a simple travesty we feel and are moved by forgotten
Things without life or means to speak they convey essential truths they argue for endurance and a
Common thread that shows continuance even though they are abandoned and are thought to be
Worthless by the previous owner the stranger will carry them away in her mind and memory as items
She can’t forget because she elevated them to a place of endearment in the very disorder of ruin she
With tenderness without words ascribes to them a worth even if it is just costly shadows that now enter
The mystery and intrigue that intrude into all of our thoughts at times of contemplation where ever
They arise in the dark evening or at morning twig light this room and others like it make up the physical
Dimensions of that subconscious world the swirl and excitement that crashes against our outer lives
That gives it untold riches meaning without understanding but a buttress a force that defies attacks of
Various kinds we are more bemused than overwhelmed and that power rests in many things but a lot
Are just yesterdays discards
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 2:28 PM UTC
The Boys in Grey lined up that day with the flag rippling in the front line.
Drum and bugle poised and at the ready.
Cadence carried through the rank slow at first and then the piper caught a tune
to the slow march lockstep heads held high.
The Boys in blue mustered up and matched the grey line man for man. Faces looking forward frozen in the task. The task at hand was spectacle and specter bound and all rolled up in one.
To the quick march now. The orders came. hearts pounding as the bugle sounding brought the
moment hither.
Massive Cannons wheeled about as men and boys commenced to shout a deafening roar and thunder. The ground would shake and spirits quake the deafening roar when flesh and bone are left alone to buttress lines on grassy fields as grapeshot whistled loudly.
Rank and file. File and rank
ten thousand souls sent forward. The reaper's blade made steady work
in sun and shade.
Fathers, Brothers, sons and all to hasten to
Elysium's halls ,Thousands more would wail and fall
The dogs of war a rabid pack.
North and south would pay the price.Antietam.
Bull Run. Calvary with sabers drawn rushed headlong to oblivion.
And lay there crying for Mother in waning times of failing life
"Please someone inform my wife that I am bound for Glory"
"Please tell my mother That I miss her and that I love her dearly"
Antietam. Fields of ignoble endings. And later new beginnings.
Four score.
Conceived in liberty
We cannot dedicate. We cannot consecrate.
Of the people, by the people.
Shall not perish from the earth.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 2:38 AM UTC
My Moonlight archipelago,
my escape
I approach the buttress of boredom better known as your doorstep
I pull you in...
your hair stretches from clenched fingers and what follows down to the feel of my fingertips is religious in nature
under a broken blue street lights, i cradle inward, immersed now in infinite youth of lust... a flash of light... street lamps lit now a Coca Cola Red ... the color plays, a chromatic cinema fills through
your follicles
I spin you away momentarily and envy my shadow now pressing upon you
we are Cathars,
heuristic heretics,
learning love through touch in a hate filled land (the pesky conformity of late-stage Western Civilization)
still
Your ether look absolves me of this world’s sins
beam raw:
render quiet:
Baptize me in the esoteric and verbose stares, the *** is drawn on your lips, so mouthy, but saying nothing inside the long Chaplin silence,
you vacillate
and I’m vacant
my voice removed
spent, empty in the Valentino deadpan stares
Post Script: The gaze gave conversations: conversions still silent in her looks, a living Bible's worth of words in those sacred scripture holy eyes.
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 6:12 PM UTC
3/26/2015
after Frank O'Hara
The golden green buttress of
agrimonia lined sticky river water gnat towns
hasn't been seen in so long. But je pense beaucoup
quelle est que tu pense? beaucoup
An unwashed strawberry on my palm, bleeding. Ruby shards, shooting red bloodied streaks that could crawl down my forearm and drip into the floor. My innocent hands and they
near the fainted wisps of maroon wiped on the idea of the golden green Prospect house Ivy arches, trimmed agrimonial foothills and lilies in root beer bottles.
I trip on the curb and find myself looking more like the ones with the clean hands sin shorn hands.
Can I start again…?
Spring here in shy steps is making itself known. The Arabic signs of Bay Ridge Brooklyn beckon me to buy hats.
It is fogging glass and what am I thinking?
Beaucoup beaucoup.
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 7:08 PM UTC
grossly.fascinated of dense buttery light
the streets is painted laughing amber and whisper it
to her fair buttress
this milky sity
who's nigh detestable
glowing hair
roils with turgid junk
of cacophony drunk with
metal
rusty little. we'll go waltzing a polite **** of youth in your tawny veins
Nov 14, 2010
Nov 14, 2010 at 10:56 AM UTC
Tumbling down a hole in the earth:
Alice and her wonderland
(but that was just a mistake
of writing)
I was talking about the bushes in my garden
And the open skies
Of the lowlands;
What of it?
There is a colourful little finch
in the shrubs of my garden
There is a majestic eagle
(they that live here call Chipungu)
A self-contained buttress against
The blue heavens
Mar 12, 2021
Mar 12, 2021 at 4:40 AM UTC
in the hour of our frozen gleam
the minute of our fire.
in the year of our immortal toil
the day of our desire.
in the crease of our unyielding
lies surrender to the void.
to the matador, the bull
and from the horn, aplenty -
nothing good.
II
a masterpiece of blink, the love
that seldom loves the monument -
that stands before the world, a surge
of effortless bewonderment.
a shattering renewal
of a timeless thing to ponder with.
that carries every angel
far above the dread of human steps.
a sovereign note to fugue
is Love that covets
what it's never met
and nothing can consume it all
too ill equipped to join
with it.
III
summer past your face
is how the spring resolves
how winter sleeps.
the dead are long, but life
evolves to swell upon the earth's
descent... to buttress the oblivion
that howls amid the heaviness.
the weight of our conniption
fits the coma, mostly
now and then.
IV
pearls are made of glass men
that shill.
and the willing dark
contains it all.
and It
the dream
we fathom with.
and All
the pearl
we can't
recall.
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 8:10 AM UTC
I saw a falling star this morning.
It fell straight through the hole you're carving in my heart.
Right between Orion and Cariopea.
It looked just like you in the dawn.
It destroyed my face with a frown.
It killed a hope i had when i drowned in your bath water.
When my purpose gets lost in the bubbles.
Id help you all i could, could i help you at all.
Supporting your ribs like a diaphragm.
I can be the buttress to your breath.
Could, could i only help.
Bindings on a broken ankle to mend you to stand.
Splint a broken heart with a heat trail left by that meteor that is burning through.
The heats absence would take away my life.
The burn from pain would flatline me and i would not know life nor death.
Remain in an infinite torpor.
Stasis to mind and feeling.
I lay in a drunk stupor sober.
I writhe in a motionless pain.
I die in a spring of health.
And i Own in a body i don't claim.
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 1:25 PM UTC
I see the world in shades of gray,
where has the color gone
My faith erodes with each new day,
a weakness growing strong
I sense a feeling deep within,
it spreads and reaches near
And tighten my coat against the wind,
a buttress to this fear
I hear your voice, the inflection slight,
its meaning still reveals
And reach for you in the waning light,
under cover that conceals
No longer red, or blue, or white,
prism distant and askew
I call once more in the cold dark night,
—alone, in search of you
(Villanova Pennsylvania: October, 2016)
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 3:53 PM UTC
i still remember the way
your fingertip traced
the Deathly Hallows
tattooed on my wrist
writing the word
Love in cursive script
we built a palace of palms
while our arms laid a foundation
flying buttress knuckles
and stained glass lips
your hand
was the first church
i felt whole within
and for a fraction of a second
i almost believed in god again
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 1:16 AM UTC
In my sombre sky, you are like a cloud,
Showering kisses like alacrious rains.
Promising me a world full of exaltations,
Your love has turned reality better than dreams.
I become the hyacinth twisted over your soul,
When the insatiable essences environ us.
Your gaze lights me with crimson color.
Cuddling and squealing are always my dulcet reminiscences.
Our nomadic kisses travel everywhere,
Guided by our fingers interlocked.
The enchanting elixir of yours,
Is like hot silk on my *****
Oh my love! You are the rains of solace.
Your buttress keeps me from falling,
And those caressing hands have always wiped my tears.
It was you who always melted the snow.
Here, I raise my song to you.
And as I love you, the birds pipe out,
The withered flowers brighten up,
And baby, I fall in your arms.
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 6:56 AM UTC
There’s an old Christmas tree—
dead, without its needles—
floating in the pond.
I remember the first
warm day in February
when my uncle dragged
the still-green tree
to the center of the ice.
He thought it would thaw
within a week,
and the tree would sink.
Minnows could find
safety from the big-mouth bass
and bluegills while they hid
in their buttress of little branches.
But it got cold again,
and the ice didn't melt
till late March. The green
needles persevered,
preserved by the frost,
the branches blanketed in snow.
The needles browned
and fell from the tips
when it got warm.
Now the tree’s
cocked awkwardly on its side,
and the very top—
the part you might place a star
or a little cherub
as the finishing touch
to a Christmas tradition—
scrapes the dying and decomposing leaves
on the muddy bottom.
The tree, the trunk,
that erroneous spot
drifting near the edges
of the blue-green water
—it floats aimlessly
as the minnows are swallowed whole.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 11:28 AM UTC
I am the last and the first
I am the best and the worst
I bridge the gap so you can walk
But I'm not supposed to talk
Can't shake these sins of grandeur
When I don't even know their names
I'll always be cool in your book
But never cruel enough
Stuck in this body-bag of skin
Vegetable smiles and grins
But bones always cast
Darker shadows than the flesh
What flavor is your marrow
How's your flying buttress castle
Is it filled with neon sparrows
Or dancing northern lights
Trip the light fantastic tango
Never be afraid to move
No matter how slow
No matter where you go
Don't want to be stuck
Reaching for the moon
Sorrow is pleasure played in reverse
Thirty-two bucks and a white leather purse
Serious ones have serious foes
Three pretty Mary's all in a row
Preserving oblivion
Friendship's in the past tense
Hallowed hollow strong straw men
Detox your polluted souls
Try to begin again
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 3:15 AM UTC
Silken stone
dewed damp
tipping to topple
over outcropping-
balanced buttress
feigning flightlessness
until, unexpected, uphill
avalanche advances
rushing, racing
poised to push-
rock rolls
sailing slow
slow
slow
slow-
explosion echoes
crisscross canyon.
Sheep stop,
listen long,
lingering
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 1:22 AM UTC