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Perig3e Oct 2010
Glacier,
Flake
Time
Crystal
Collective
Mass
Gravity,
Flow
Breakin­g
Celibate
Monastic
Oath
In
This
Cathedral
Tower
Bedrock
Cracking­
Groans
Moans
Under
Exponential
Cave
Crush
Crevasse
Plowing
Scori­ng
Tearing
Mush
Melt
Calving
Diving
Block
By
Block
Headlong
Into
­Wave
Reflecting
Clouds.
All rights reserved by author
brooke Mar 2016
you weave through the heifers with your arms out,
palms down, barely sweeping your fingers across their
hides as if you were gliding them along grains
of wheat or stalks of tall grass, with careful footsteps
as if only you know the way through the hay and straw
(the way you look at me says that there's a difference)

sometime at one or two am you are out walking among them
again, and they all rise with their burdened bodies, swishing
their tails and swaying from side to side with their engorged
bellies, softly groaning and parting. You are some sort of holy
man, they're smart, they know when to move, you say. But
I think differently, there's something in your body--a gentleness
that emanates softly, a warm light that cuts the denim coats and
steel-toed boots, you're hard but your voice comes out in this
southern sing-song that makes my chest ache, ears red and a
laugh as rare as normal midwest weather.

you don't mind, do you? and you fall into the recliner next to me
It doesn't feel the least bit wrong to sleep next to you, doesn't feel the
least bit right to let you do it because i can feel your heart swelling
through your carhartt, don't like to look at you when you're
leaning into the side door, because the sun does you some sort of
righteous justice, spilling into your irises--streaking through your
lips when you speak as if ending every sentence with I dunno is the gospel itself.


just let me know when you make up your mind
the inconsistency of it all doesn't fall on you, I realize,
once again choking on my own insufferable selfishness
not brave enough to make the right decisions (probably)
convincing myself that things can just work out as if
the most wrinkled material doesn't need an iron, needs some steam
needs more than that's just the way I am, this is just the way
you are, and here I am tortured by the thought of telling you
to shut up, how can you have pricked my heart and
still be
So far
Away
I've been hurting lately.


(c) Brooke Otto 2016
CA Guilfoyle Jun 2012
The wind moved in magenta waves
across long summer grass  
We drove to the usual lookout place
first the creaking, then the shrill
An ancient glacier crashing, calving,
splashing ominous waves that met us at the road
Wet washing horizontal rain
a moment of rebirth
dripping, dumbfounded
soaked immaculate
Don Bouchard Apr 2018
And the snow was melting from the hills;
Green was glowing down in the north pasture;
Crocuses were bucking a hard west wind;
Calving was swinging on, and spring barns to muck,
And you were yelling about some thing or other,
The way you always do, or the way you always did,
Back in the day when you were here,
And I was just a lazy kid.

Dad, you remain somehow this giant in my mind,
Sleeping or waking,
I see you still,
Hear your voice,
Watch you running
One job to the next,
Passionate about everything,
Restless and without rest,
Some nameless demon chasing you,
Pulling the rest of us in your wake.

So the last three nights I've seen you,
Sat at table across from you
To discuss my leaving the farm:
You concerned I was a fool to go,
And I convinced I could not stay.

I wish I knew the hold you have on me
Six years gone with you away, and me,
Two states removed and a career nearly done,
Still finding myself waking from dreams
That linger vivid on.
Dad, I still miss you. I guess this grieving never ends.
5
He is Sicilian, skin tawny the color of
toasted garlic
knobby knuckles but strong palms
steady and smooth and graceful
never wavering as he slowly depresses the plunger with his thumb
pushing two clear drops from the syringe
he ran out of dope so he soaked his old cottons
to **** out the residue
and deposit it in his vein
fist clenches twice and holds
and he dips the needle in
so light
so little
then his fingers shimmer away from his palm
and drop to his side

When I was 13 I took a trip to Alaska
my aunt brought me there and we rode on a boat
along the southern coast and through the fjords
One day we saw a glacier calving across the water
so ***** it looked like a cliff, but when a piece fell away
the ice that it revealed was deeply blue

He'd only traveled in the desert
from Austin to Iraq
but one night here
in Duluth, Minnesota
we lay on the roof and watched the Northern Lights
I told him that they were the color of glaciers
Don Bouchard May 2016
Sometime early in the year,
Calving drawing on,
Seeders and tractors
Lose their dormant chill,
Began demanding preparation,
Murmuring anticipation:
"Clean the seed for planting!"
"Till the soil and ready it for seed!"

The farmer, wanting rest,
Anxiously awaits first sprouts,
Anticipates the time to till the noxious weeds,
Watches capricious sky for signs of rain or hail;
Tends fences; guards his fields,
Where ripening grain cannot predict the yields.

June scrambling begins:
The readying for harvest,
The hopeful storage plans,
The preparation of harvesters
Expensive beyond budgets,
Soon to lumber out and gather
Dying summer in....

Autumn's chilling breath
Calls quickening to the work:
The gathering of straw,
The hauling-in of hay,
The opened stubble fields for cows;
The planting of winter wheat,
That first must sprout before frost....
(If not the seeding may be  lost).
Miceal Kearney Aug 2010
The barrel’s of water in the yard
filled by run-off rain
from corrugated sheds
washes the wellingtons,
the calving jack and
purges pests.
Otherwise, I’d have to waste
a cartridge.
Lindy Jul 2015
Cold is the shoulder wrapped in narcissistic delight -
The wanton
The diligent
The emptiness abides
But for iceburgs calving in the asiatic sea
Do they feel the tremor of the broken shard released
Can the blueblack glass reveal the depths of the mislaid man or
The woman -
Never given the chance to Be
It is too much to consider broken pieces should be saved,
Hidden for much later, when the sea will freeze again
Can he open to the touch
Can she build from what remains
We throw out the scattered remnants like the iceburg melting into sand
But consider the sand:
Remnants too, of shells and coral of bones and buildings fallen, broken, discarded
yet
Washing up on land
to build a new shore.
Don Bouchard Jun 2017
In March, she pushed a shining black calf
Into the world, and watched as it staggered
To wobbling legs waiting for her to rise.

She couldn't.
Pinched nerves,
Calving paralysis,
Unable to rise.

My brother and his wife
Bottle fed the calf for several weeks,
Waiting for a miracle,
For which the two had prayed,
And then one day the mother stood
Weak, shaking, but on the mend.

A couple weeks more,
And she was down again,
Stuck in front of the barn
With barely an appetite,
Drinking water from a bucket,
Resting upright in her own mess.

The calf was doing fine.

June 1 came, and field work to do,
My brother, ever patient, could wait no more.
Loaded his old 30-30 and headed to the barn.

He scratched the cow's forehead,
Told her she had been a good bossy,
And that he was sorry, and then looked at her.
He turned and emptied the rifle on the way to the house.

"Lord, it would sure do me a favor
If you were just to take her
So I wouldn't have to shoot her."

He returned to the barn and hayed the bulls.
On his way back to the water tank, he stopped
By his old friend and looked at her.

The cow raised her head,
And while my brother watched,
Her  eyes rolled up and back.
She sighed deeply, and then her head
Sagged down and she was gone.

He called me shortly after,
Still a little bit in awe,
A little bit in pain,
Glad to have me listen,
Though both our mouths were dumb
At the way God's prayers are answered,
And the ways His answers come.
Prayers, Cows, Life, Death
Hunter Green Dec 2019
My mind’s like rock but lava,
Ice but calving,
A mountain in avalanche,
Dreaming of insomnia,
A lion being hunted,
A man in the news.
Quickly removed from vital values,
No longer known for strongest qualities.
Easily swayed by a metaphorical gust of wind.
Reduced but mistaken by foundational niceties.
Marshal Gebbie Apr 2022
In the quandary the future holds for us now, that climatic extremes become exponentially more extreme, that deterioration of the natural order of things accelerates to the point where mankind can no longer comfortably exist, where rising coastlines inundate dramatically and inexorably, where food can no longer be grown on the Eastern side of the nation, where the western side of the nation is inundated with continuous rainfall, where land values plummet on one side of the nation and soar on the other, where the population is forced to flee unwillingly, screaming outrage, from one area to saturate another. That social disorder breeds the seeds of revolution in the face of the chaotic inequities being suffered at the hands of governments no longer capable of coping with it all.

The sage words of Sir David Attenborough echo down the corridor of sudden shuddering inevitability in that the scenario described above pertains to NOW not further down the track, not to some distant future….it pertains to our brittle, susceptible world of NOW!

Environmental analysts are screaming the message that deep ice sheet temperatures are rising dramatically, glacial thicknesses reducing forcing mass calving into warming oceans. Oceanic salinity is reducing and oceanic current velocities and directions of mass flow are radically changing with catastrophic effect on weather patterns globally.
Ionosphere particulates and mass atmospheric pollution is changing the nature of our skies, increasingly they metastasize to phenomenon’s of extreme which flail oceans and land mass with violence and unprecedented wrath.

In 1997 the Kyoto Conference conferred, (with a sense of great nobility), in that 90% of the nations of the world were represented and agreed, after exhaustive debate, on a programme of emission control and environmental conservation….they all congratulated themselves and each other on the intention of the monumental climatic task ahead…..and went back to their home shores and did precisely NOTHING!
After paying lip service to the great speeches made, after preening themselves with the glowing mantle of adopted environmental responsibility, they went back to their respective governments and conceded to immense political pressures and kick backs of Big Oil, Big Money and the Banks.
Political concessions had to be made for GROWTH, ideology was cast aside for the immediacy of Nationally urgent issues…. MONEY….the economic necessities of the moment…(In time we will get around to the Kyoto crap and that irritating child, Greta Thunberg)!
In Truth…..
The responsibility lies with the main polluters, China, India, USA, Russia, Europe, Japan and Brazil. All unwilling to acknowledge, all unwilling to submit to the pain of real emission control. All unwilling to realistically unite to combat the environmental Armageddon, now, at their doorstep.
Russia, for example, is more willing to start a war with neighboring Ukraine, killing thousands of fellow Slavs, brutally destroying infrastructure and priceless artifacts, sending millions to flee in terror to the West……instead of dealing with the monster in the room of thawing permafrost over the vast steppes of Siberia or combating the enormous sinkholes that are occurring with profusion in the East of that land. China will not communicate productively on environmental matters with the West despite rampant, continuous air pollution in Beijing and the problematic encroachment of desertification from the West. Brazil allows the systematic felling and burning of vast areas of its rain forest annually for the development of commercial palm oil plantations… thus destroying forever a significant amount of what represents the lungs of the planet, the Amazon rain forest.

The planet will force the issue, it is applying an in-ignorable  force now….EVERYWHERE…..ISN’T IT?

The two primary polluters must come together to show the way, The USA and China have to get into lockstep, forget their combative ideology’s, forget their nuclear standoff, Come together as survivalists…for that is what they are. Formulate an immediate plan to combat the atmospheric pollution, the runaway acidification of the expanding oceans, the steady implacable rise of the temperature of the air we breathe. Combine their technological and monetary wealth to develop new research into the immediate replacement of fossil fuels………If they achieve this, the rest of the planet must fall into place behind them, they have no choice. But the Big Guns must first, SHOW THE WAY!
TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE!
If this does not happen, the words of the wise, Sir David Attenborough will apply……THEN, WE, HUMANITY AS A CIVILIZATION, SHALL END!

M.
Foxglove@Taranaki, NZ
Laokos Feb 2021
bathed in a beam of distant light, i'm
dangling from the mouth of
the sun today. it won't come like
Fante. it won't come like Bukowski.
it won't come at all. it's rusted
chunked blood calving off from
graveled glaciers onto dead sea beds.
it's a joke, it's far away, it's not
meant for me. and so it seems...yet
there still exists a tiny heart somewhere
under all that pumping away almost
imperceptibly.  funneling what blood
is there to send life to these
fingertips. i don't know if it will
ever reach the page though. odds
are good that death will take me
before those veins reach any words
with weight.
but in the writing they have a
chance to stretch and feel and
find their way through the
labyrinth of time and being
human. they have a chance to
beat the odds. a trickle becomes
a stream. a stream becomes a
river. and a river becomes an
ocean. these dead seas will fill
once more whether i am: the glacier,
the trickle, the stream or the
river. my blood runs to that future
ocean...one way or another.
frozen blood glacier dead sea veins labyrinth human odds ocean
Evan Stephens Mar 2022
"For where thou fliest I shall not follow,
Till life forget and death remember,
Till thou remember and I forget"
-Algernon Charles Swinburne.



The day is leaking out in the east,
from a spoiled, dripping lump of sun
that carves its way through calving cloud
en route to the pillow of your eye,

the eye that will never read this.
It's your birthday under cold green rain
in the almost-city, and my grief
stalks the quays, searching for a gift,

a gift that will never be given.
After all, "change is sovereign of the strand" -
the sea that burns blue and white,
inflicted with salt-ghosts that ring the sand,

the sand where I stood in a heart-sleep,
my name eroded by the spaces between stars,
with a cleaver stuck in my mind.
"Behold what quiet settles on the world" -

the world that has slipped away in the dark.
I send you a long sweetness, wrapped
in evening. I send you a poppy's red gown.
I send you whatever I have become tonight.
Right in front of all eyes to see to view
A politician doing his best to copy
The very pope himself hes trying to be
But for politics and of late getting sloppy

Hes placed and created a law now never
Complain about methods or as well he
Protecting all hes trying to represent true
Upon every land over oceans and sea

This is my planet its yours as well all true
But as good as ownership hes calving name
Taking over at his beck and call it seems
Warnings in place dare should any complain

Chicken do as they'er told sheep cattle too
Seems that countries now on that list to be
And all following as if hes lord master too
Over every ocean over all lands the man is he

So tied of that name it dominates all T V 's
Goodness knows what all do not know
Telling only he and his deciples such as seems
Doing his best to have every mind to blow

Won't be long a disc in ones **** unseen
By his law with all to see upon a scan
All of every woman ever born or living
All of every *** of living this day man

terrence michael sutton
copyright 2018
""""" ITS AGAINST THE LAW ANY SENDING ME DUCK TAPE """"""
Evan Stephens Oct 2021
Froichd-uilinn - the second drink of the day, taken while propped up on your elbow

I sink my bones, crooked in mattress,
lower the liquor to lip as calving sun
leaks through the east-faced pane.

I think back to La Fontaine Sully
in La Marais, on the way back
from the graveyard...

But to what profit?
My memory slices me open,
revealing a slow web of star-gutted stairs.

"Immer augen" my grandmother says,
or said, or will say. The street slouches
with honey-feet, red wine drips into the river.

Fashionable diners spread themselves
across the sidewalk. Laughter launches
like stones into this tower window.

Old thoughts are a slaughter.
A marriage didn't happen.
Bright lights against the meat-black

of night, the shroud-cloth
over my own face, lips wet
& shining with liquor.
Tubby in the calving throes
breaking free and clear
shepherding, milking, and honing
rambunctious as bovine bris
versus being stymied courtesy
cow - wordly bull aiming writer's block
for drought of creativity.

Asper this instance,
when a dearth of ideas
like a charred bait oven
finds me (a Brahms man) looking Bach
at drawing board and/or the clock
as if inspiration
can be found teasing out
whimsical child like spontaneity
recalling hickory dickory dock
rather than exacerbate
mental paralysis, akin

to an invisible vice grip,
which tension eventually
far worse than bill
lee esse ness, which former
grips with irony my chin,
I try release -
singsong restraint and chill,
ready to whip out power drill
not surprised finding sawdust,
viz of course after numbing skull
sticking head in deep freeze

or mounting temple
on dry ice, without
receiving nary a cavil
lack of creative noggin fill
intense concentration
invariably heats up "thinker"
as if being scalded,
skewered, sussed out
on a barbecue grill,
(which fixed attention),
never ever engenders

positive flow of ideas,
but absolutely ideal
for reducing a molehill
from a mountain dew,
nevertheless within ma mind,
before long prolonged
cessation to brainstorm induces ill
humor succumbing into
torturous mental state
(fall of the cider

house rules usher),
non poe whet
tick dark age,
whar ah felt jill
ted loom min hated
with panic ready to ****...
mice elf (cue Stuart Little),
cuz dem lil
cerebral cogs and wheels
malfunction for more'n a mill
yen times prompting

to scout graveyards
for fresh corpse, and lovely bones
if results rendered nill
jet over to Doctor Frankenstein,
even if aye gotta
hightail to Trans sill
vein ya, unless....
perhaps ye kind reader twill
donate yar viable gray matter tummy
(right after ya die) denny ya will
almost be him morte till!

— The End —