"cache" poems
a companion piece to
miniskirts & high heels vs. poetry & yoga^
<•>
a couple of buds at a local dive bar, drinking Buds,
talking loud about technology
and other manly man stuff
attract attention for our conversation isn't bout sports,
get approached by long legs in high heels and a miniskirt,
with the best come on line ever
any woman invented,
"you guys know about computers, huh?"
later after reading twenty or so of her poems,
and learning the degree of difficulty of the
downward facing dog pose
(adho mukha svanasana)
she said:
tell me again how I
*clear my cache,
change my font,
add more memory for new memories,
stop auto correct from making wont into want,
so I can happy write*
"wont thy thoughts to my heart thereof"
so I obliged and then
the geek in meek wrote
his first poem
after first clearing the catch
in his throat
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 12:35 PM UTC
•
i wish
to infinitely
soar•in the highest
of skies•always higher,
and always more•held back by
the string that ties•i'd still welcome
hale air•as it blows stunningly
fresh•meets and carries my
body bare•bearing invi-
sible treasures in its
cache...•the errant
breeze i'd openly
fight•but i was
made with a
shoddy kit
•i'm fail-
ing and
falter-
ing...
like
a
k
i
t
e
•
wi
th
a
**
le
p
u
n
c
h
e
d
th
ru
it
...
•
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 9:47 AM UTC
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn ****** our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.
8k
For Connie, a Friend Indeed
There are no pictures of poker-playing dogs!
The health certificates make for dull reading
And last month’s issue of Texas Monthly
Has not the old cache’ of Field and Stream
There are no pictures of poker-playing dogs!
Among the snaps of Baby’s First Haircut
Children and grandchildren in cute little frames
And lovely young girls all styled for the prom
There are flowers and scents and catalogues
But –
There are no pictures of poker-playing dogs!
Woof!
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 1:09 PM UTC
Summer Solstice
"Everybody knows that the change is coming
"Everybody knows that the deck is stacked"
Leonard Cohen
In Colorado, the Cache La Poudre is burning
That's where they hid the gunpowder
Has it blown yet?
In the Southeast Asia Enterprise Zone
The suicide nets are ready for another night's harvest
Do we understand that our beautiful electric screens
Are polished with blood?
In Syria, the death squads are arming
For another day in the abattoir
Everyone is ready for the bodies
I called out to you in the night
I dreamed you loved me
From the bottom of your soul
In the morning, your e-mail address
Was blocked, texts came back forlorn
The earth is crying out
But Jimi is so long gone
No one understands
And the wind howls alone
In the land of plenty
We're all tucked into our corners
Of the unlimited cage match
Our abs are ripped
Our tattoos look good
But our eyes are empty.
Winter is coming.
Jun 21, 2012
Jun 21, 2012 at 12:42 AM UTC
the green and waxy confusion is your cape and covering
topaz wings strum and flutter,
branches snap
beast and bug
geranium and dogwood
woodear spore and wolfsbane
flower and firm hedge
all wear goosebumps:
the whole army of generation, the waft and release
ready to conceive, to love and make root
to spill and ****
daylight, moonlight
well-fed and hungry
west and further west
a brush against your thigh flattens you
climbs your spine like a curse
robes you in purpose
to be and be alone
there you are: croucher, scuttler,
position known only to yourself
subclade of womankind
treasure in your soul
(in purses and pouches;
taking in, taking in)
it is private here and musty
you own your hands, your knees,
the dirt under them both,
the roots beneath that,
everything on the wind and below the blue sky
everything dark, and everything light:
kingdom of your own discovery
shroud and mountain and cache of mystery.
A door far away slides open
an echo of busy house, busy bones on the air.
Something in the oven.
Something in the heart.
What is the voice calling?
Who wants you home, child?
And if home is a warm meal, a bed,
a bath, a glass of milk,
a known touch,
then do you own your skin?
Aren't you small and lonely?
You are not.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 5:05 PM UTC
Suffering from cabin fever, I raided my cache of end-time sardines and went slipping and sliding down to the dock to feed the near-shore birds.
One lone Repelican sat upon a bollard by the boat launch seeming frozen to the spot. He was looking pretty grimm.
Taking pity on this cold, hungry waterbird former Marine-turned-Feeb, and apparently not stuck on I-275, this kindhearted Democrab was soon out of end-time sardines.
Telling him that I was sardine-poor but had one question I would like to ask concerning an investigation into questionable publicly financed bollard homesteading practices, the repugnant Repelican was not happy with me and stuck his long bill in my face while threatening to break me in half (like a boy) and throw me off of the effing dock before flapping away in a huff.
He called me later and asked to do lunch next week. Sardines on him.
r. ~ 29Jan14
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
for every action defined
there are infinite that remain
utterly unnamed and
are vitally spoken
in whispers on the
pieces never lived.
these incalculably splintering,
passively accumulating,
terrifyingly ungrasped possibilities
compile and cache
and compress and comeback
in the saddest seconds,
where one can merely conject
their meaningfulness,
realizing that there
is infinity in everything
and therefore potential
even in the kinetic.
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 2:52 AM UTC
Those twin galaxies of yours
Beckoned on my sister oceans'shores.
I swam away, I heard the lore,
'A furtive glance will ask for more.'
I hid beneath these bitter waters
heaven graciously showers,
And sank to their esoteric depth-
My treasured detaching step.
But these shrouds are latent webs,
Impalpable yet enthralling herbs,
That compelled those galaxies
Towards my oceans'caged reveries.
Astral lights came flowing
On my secret crevices - cosmic cunning.
On faint surrender, oceans reflected
Those lights thought connected.
But you feared degrees unknown,
Ceased the sailing, you will never own-
They you thought mastered the song of lorelei,
The depths you will die.
Was it that shed leering glimmer
From distant galaxies hover
Around the interval that mist covers
And stirring these waters?
My immensity is foreboding,
Your vastness is deceiving.
Would our core surface, if in mist
You linger and I in abyss?
You intoxicate me with cosmic light nothing can sober,
But refuse to drink from my oceans' water.
Your galaxies shine on infinity
But are not my property.
You are locked on a cache, no one could immerse,
Owned by some private universe.
The lore of your galaxies, a blurred maze,
An immortal quest to my gaze.
Feb 1, 2011
Feb 1, 2011 at 1:45 PM UTC
Decimating Destitution
Ravaged wreckage,
Ruins and rubble,
Depressing debris,
Ashes about,
Sky soaring shroud,
Misery maxed,
Fallen freedom,
Corroded cache,
Pillaged poverty,
Explosive extremities,
Covert corruption,
Dystopic dynasty,
Unknown utopia,
Infinity is inept,
Forsaken faith,
Rejected religion,
Cataclysmic calamity,
Decimating destitution.
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 1:57 PM UTC
Le bonheur n'est qu'une illusion
dans un monde plein de désespoir,
qui vis en noir et qui cache les miroirs
Le bonheur n'est qu'une illusion
dans un monde où la violence commande,
où le malheur gère pour endurer les misères
Le bonheur n'est qu'une illusion
dans un monde sans couleur,
sans sourires sans rieurs,
plein de fautes plein d'erreurs...
© Sùkeey
Jun 30, 2011
Jun 30, 2011 at 7:42 AM UTC
The fleeing clouds have cleansed the tawny earthen meadows
Migrating sun doth steal away waning light of summer’s glee
High atop fir boughs bow in wind whispered homage
To the sapience the coloured leaves hath gleaned
The sweet scent of auburn brindled pinecone clusters
Ooze of glistening pitchy resinous fruit
Sticky figured squirrels chatter while they gather,
Stashing a survival cache of acorns and spinner seeds,
For another moment in sleepy winter tide dreams
A swirling eddy of spiraling leaves whirl beneath the tall timber
Fluttering gracefully with a gravity only falling leaves embolden
Enchanting like the evanescent timbre poignant piano notes decay
Writhing silent as summer Jasmine’s fragrant final bloom
Dandelion wishes soaring higher to kiss the fleeting winged skies
Lazily adrift up and over Cascade Mountain Crest
Fuzzy treetop flyers ascending far beyond darting dragonflies below
The sliver of golden harvest moon’s blossom aglow ,…
While wishing upon a shooting star's paling gleams
Serendipity sown about whimsically in the blustery wind
For to sow the will of untamed heart’s desires
A festive troop of Chickadees clinging like tiny acrobats
Foraging on ripened ginger hued fir-cone seeds
Wings to the sky wave goodbye to the deciduous cadence
Softly wafting with a pungent Lavender potion scented breeze
There is a secret place where memories go to hide deeply alive
Amongst the wild wood and impending leafless trees,
The only place on earth I've ever understood a sense of belonging
Where Autumn coloured leaves whisper in the gentle breeze ,…
“I would do it all over again”
Come September ,..when the leaves come falling down
© ... September 15th, 2016
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 10:47 AM UTC
Tiger Wood's wins the Masters today
Another green jacket comes his way
Finally, his image stands large at the doorway
For it's been a knock and a hiatus of his cache
As the years after 2008 suffered from his play
No major championships one can say
Only gossip headlines, mugshots, and injuries in gray
Where once a phenom in his twenties on display
Such greatness and legend his star headway
His mid-thirties saw some of his luster fall in dismay
With mostly self-injury to his ego in disarray
It was hard watching a once proud man's fall and decay
Especially one that held his world at bay
With his swagger, swoosh, and shine turning to clay
And like a good drama of accents and descents convey
With the wait and weight on his shoulders belay
He turned the storybook pages of dismay today
The pressure of his swing, swing, and putt on display
And how he uncorked his demons is a pure bouquet
After 43 years of his years, he took the fairway
Running, running, today after his prey
It was great seeing his game not get away
Logan Robertson
4/14/2019
Apr 15, 2019
Apr 15, 2019 at 12:13 AM UTC
i
In the astrology set agora
Wherein mine agra doth rest
The backwoods to her cache
Is a peaceful gentle nest.
ii
She's a cad of angelic estancia
I espy her espirit fandango
Her lace strand's floweth wildly
Fantasia of mine melody, extra terrestrial fangled.
iii
Mine Gage I handeth her, to not leaveth her side
An agala we shalt maketh romance, whilst gaiety is in her eyes
A Jardiniere to hold her tears, when Jasper's do cometh around
Jarrah to fill ourn kava diligence, diluvial amare is it's sound.
iv
No blunder head's to separate us
Just Bluebell's blush
To admire mine belle of a lamb
Her bema shalt be raised, when its me who is her man.
v
Ourn belvedere casa, ourn terrace to overlook
This is ourn story, not a tale of fools and crook's
The cover of ourn book, shalt we be entwined
Right inside the pages, of every lonesome lover's mind.
®Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Elsa angelica dedication
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 12:13 PM UTC
je ne suis qu'une femme
qui cache un enfant derrière son visage
cette fille qui me tient la main
et qui me suit avec pieds lourds
yeux soit au soleil ou au sol
mais jamais devant elle
et moi, je dois toujours
regarder derrière moi
pour faire certaine qu'elle n'est pas tombé
encore sur la terrain que nous traversons ensemble
ensemble, mais pas du tout
la même personne
je suis une femme, mais pas encore
fini mon enfance
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 1:05 AM UTC
wrapped up in caramel daydreams,
trying to resolve the screams,
down the windelstán, below,
is someone that he used to know,
one reached for a grip,
a one cold water sip,
but one could never hold,
as he was far too old,
nor old of age, nor old of gold,
but blood dripped down and it was cold,
thee chateau, a ****** mine,
crying crystals over wine,
given screams, now, louder tune,
mixing sugar with a spoon,
he can’t get them out his head,
wrapped, in bed he’s turning mad,
spiral staircase leads to cache,
he’s stabbed by guilt, gone in dash,
thee chateau still there remains,
screams still whisper, leaving stains.
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 1:52 PM UTC
Pulsating honor doth corroded hearts impound
A blustery breeze echoes cries from each, preceding battleground
A recurring, eager parade of reporters, gawkers freely roam distant mound
Below, fatigued, tidy mass of steeled infantry; to death's throes bound
Neighing horses conditioned to mayhem the pageantry doth confound
On opposite ridges, mounted turrets prepared hell's fury to expound
On signal, a synchronized, concussive chorus doth its dark melody propound
Scraps of metal shards initiate; commencing another, toilsome round
After lengthy barrage, wits collected a more lethal volley to stound
Familiar, urgent order to charge christens hallowed ground
With youthful ardor a wide-eyed bugler doth the bridled expanse unbound
Shrieking rancor from recoiling rifles; a familiar anthem doth resound
Recurring cacophonous medley, weathered nerves drowned
Once more, a mass of flesh surges into the abyss with mortal hopes crowned
Anon, shattered limbs; gory wounds misery's cache compound
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 9:59 AM UTC
I've a cache of four youth leaders
In the back of my mind
But it's best to keep
Them in the dark.
My fascination with
Binder clips
Just won't leave
My desk.
I swear, I do not
Remember last summer.
I also don't remember
The last four sermons in my psyche.
I will wear this
Nose ring like a princess
But I'm afraid
Of panic attacks and frosted doughnuts.
The water vaporizer and
The narwhals
Frequently run off together
And go to Somalia for Christmas.
I'm begging you not
To remind me of the Chevy t-shirt
Because I cannot get the
Ketchup and pasta off my reasons.
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 12:02 AM UTC
Her demise shook the world
And left an uprising in its wake.
She was human but the world
Obnoxiously called her a Dalit. Her
Skin was marred with scars of
The most gruesome kind but
Little do you know, they were
Her battle scars that she took
To the grave. Her body, a
Holy shrine was entered without
An invitation but you are not
Aware that her soul is purer
Than yours will ever be.
Her cache of memories will
Be drenched with flashes of
Hungry stares and lustful eyes
But also warm hugs and gentle
Smiles from her parents.
Something that the
Scrupulous media does not want
To reflect upon. She can’t be
A secret anymore; her caste
Cannot be a hindrance anymore.
She needs a powerful voice
And we must give her one.
As i recount this tale,
I am suddenly this girl. I
Consume her desires. I
Am her soul and spirit. And,
My fingers close in on against
Each other and I take labouring
Breaths. My throat feels like
Huge amounts of sandpaper were
Shoved into it. My eyes are watery
And blood shot and all you do is
Stare. My clothes are shredded
And little rags are my only trustful
Companions on my otherwise
Naked body. A string of wounds
Cover my arms and legs and you
Whisper about how sordid a
Scene this is. You mutter about
Me being a victim but the truth is
I am a warrior who survived an
Intrusion that was not supposed
To happen and yet, you back off
From a growing crowd and wonder
What you’ll have for dinner tonight,
Leaving me there on the ground,
Writhing in more than pain and suffering.
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 9:36 AM UTC
I hear her call me now; Calliope.
She dances in rooms made all of windows,
In delicate tones her calls reach sweetly
Stands naked amongst cast off silken bows.
So lightly she leaps among the sunbeams
Her gift bestowed, poetic cache replete
A tiny figure, seen only in dreams
On her face, her happiness shines complete.
I hear her laughter, tinkling playful sounds -
In her mischief, she will often refuse
To part with her gift, of which, she abounds
I’m glad you found me again, little muse.
© Lin Cava
Oct 30, 2010
Oct 30, 2010 at 7:53 PM UTC
We are thousand miles away.
Still I say,'stay away'.
People meet either because they are meant to be isolated or to be in their life forever.
We know we want each other,knowing that it won't happen.
Are you here to lessen my soreness and increase my my sprits. Let me tell you dear,I am in love and relationship with lugubrious. I am the most propitious and wealthiest person because I had had ever you in my lifetime, a cache.
What are we meant for?
For schism or forever?
When we are meant for nix,then let us not give each other unfulfilling expectations.
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 1:25 AM UTC
Growing or shrinking
last star exit in mind
New trend
Is life the dead-end?
Star casting kiss
No exit to miss
A friend
Finding courage
Circles and stars breath
condolences
Feeling nameless no
picket white fences
Eyes adored last glances
Society- Supreme- be
Forget me not Garden- of- Eden
Wish upon a star hidden?
The last digging dandelion
yellow ray
In the end no more suffering
until the day
Like poem book* open and end
Something stiff glued together her life
Paper- Mache
Making amends Sales man
Taking his last exit he picks desire
She's
The spitfire Rare- star sire
Computing- reliving- dying
dreaming
Don't settle for scheming
The last star exit
The last scripture
Vivid mixture
Mind storing like a cache
Rare Robin bird great
panache
Recherche last meal al -dente
Smell the last flower herbal- ritual
Petals open up new portal
Blue elf Viola sing like Mona Lisa
* * * *
Autumn red wine star bridge
Grenache field of mirage
Seeing stars you fell
Where's my falling angel
Strong words vocal
If its the last exit don't disconnect
Dots.. and dots.. connect
God casting
Its written stars for all in our name
Starry- end*
Jul 26, 2023
Jul 26, 2023 at 11:53 AM UTC
Le malheur se cache derrière milles profils ténébreux,
Et attend que le match insignifiant de vermine,
Infirme mon idée tordue de l'être amoureux.
Le malheur séduit au lit par ses promesses d'ivresse sauvage,
Qu'attendez-vous pour m'écrire,
Et m'aplatir dans ma désolante dignité au passage?
Le malheur s'invite seul à mes soupers assourdissants de vide,
Et exhume les faux espoirs assommés
De mensonges médiocres; alors je me les imagine...
**** de moi, et moi, **** de leurs pensées,
Entre les espérances dupées et celles perforées d'épines,
Le malheur me couve, le malheur se rend légitime.
Oct 20, 2019
Oct 20, 2019 at 3:56 PM UTC
To see you naked is to know the Earth.
The Earth glistening, empty of horses.
The Earth, reed-less, pure in form,
closed to futures, horizon of silver.
To see you naked is to see the concern
of rain searching for a fragile waist,
or the feverish sea's immense face,
not finding its own brightness.
Blood will cry in the alcoves,
enter with swords on fire,
but you will not know the cache,
of the toad's heart or the violet.
Your belly is a knot of roots,
your lips a dawn with no outline.
Under the bed's cool roses,
the dead moan, waiting their turn.
1.4k