"caribou" poems
PROLOGUE
The Flame, aflicker, licks and flays,
illuming evening’s negligees
With braided curls she swirls and sways,
and flits and floats in light ballets
APOLOGUE
A Flame, to conquer creeping fog,
flew dancing towards a random log
Her flight perplexed a leery frog
beside a silent somber bog
The Flame, a ripple, all alone
alit on leaves where birds had flown
The aching twigs began to moan
A rising breeze began to groan
The Flame arrayed an ancient oak
with torrid tongues and veils of smoke
A ****** bailed, the dam had broke
The leery frog soon ceased to croak
The Flame uncoiled and lashed midair,
consuming crowns with utmost care
A crazed coyote fled her lair,
left in the lurch bewildered bear
The Flame, unfurled, went wild and grew,
enkindled cats and caribou
Remaining... not a residue,
as reeking vapors bade adieu
The Flame revealed her strength unshackled
Flora, fauna crisped and crackled
Fire Witches clucked and cackled
One more forest stripped, then hackled
EPILOGUE
The arsonists were well aware
the Flame would travel everywhere
The weirs are gone, the land is bare,
and soon you’ll find a city there
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 5:15 AM UTC
There are some who may prefer a cloudless sky and the touch of a warm sun. These hearts are similar climates, and you may find them at no great distance from the equator.
Not mine.
My love is for the sedge and moss covered upland of frozen lakes, where the cold white blanket covers the steppes. Peace is found here, among the ice and whispered within the biting gale as it travels over her skin.
Her chill breath touches me, and I am not driven away.
For within my chest beats a fire as black as space between the stars.
And I go unclothed, as the caribou carry me across the frozen land.
I am the horned god.
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 2:01 AM UTC
Don’t release your *******
Just release my single
I don’t think it’s stunning
When that thing is jingle
******* taste like Pepsi-Cola
******* taste like Marabou
See a ***** – I say hola
Eat that thing like caribou
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 5:59 AM UTC
He is a bookworm humming marching tunes with a caribou.
They smell the sky, hear the sand, see the bright red light with their tongues.
Ed Ed the Knucklehead hides his hands in Ottawa.
Ed never hid his hands, he revealed them for all to see.
Splish-Splash, Splish-Splash, his webbed feet slap the tiled floor,tasting, tasting, tasting.
Walking, walking, walking
The foul-smelling wall of hunger screams empty codes at the freezing sun.
"Calculus," whispers Ed, "I want more Calculus."
The math will sneak by, he will feel its shadow; but not yet.
Sour triangles whirling openly greet the visitors.
Powerfully they mask their entrance embracing fraudulent identities.
The caribou now speaks his truth, "Ani rotzeh tachtonim."
Blindly the door opens and reveals all that the caribou desires stripes, rainbows, little flowers.
Down the long pathway to nowhere.
Feb 21, 2010
Feb 21, 2010 at 5:45 PM UTC
“I am the wolf!” I say
As I trot behind the caribou.
I’m salivating and my heart pounds
As I ignore the pain of miles jogged.
“I will never stop running” I say
As I swallow my thirst.
I run on and don’t slow;
Determined to sink my teeth into healthy flesh.
“I’ll never be the coyote” I say.
He desires only weak meat.
He laughs at the idea of a good meal
Stealing any morsel he can find.
“I’m not the coyote” I say
“I want to earn a true dinner.”
I absolve my petty desires
With my passion for the caribou.
--
I run through a field of rabbits,
Past by my potential meals to stop at shore.
I can just make out the lone caribou.
She is alone on her island.
She is beautiful and strong.
She looks me in the eyes - inviting and unafraid.
--
“Alas, I am NOT the wolf…” I say
“I am cunning and swift,
Yet unable to swim to her shore.”
My hunger rumbles as I stare.
“I am the fox” I say
I hope for the caribou,
But I try and try in vain
To fill her void with rabbits and the slain.
Jan 15, 2010
Jan 15, 2010 at 2:15 AM UTC
In the arctic wastes where the Inuit tribe hunts caribou and fights to survive,
I have been told since long ago that tribe has fifty words for “snow”
That seemed superfluous to me- Fifty words for one commodity!
If I was born an Eskimo, I’d have fifty words to learn and know
I do most of the shoveling here, my wife and children cheer me on.
The winter lingers long and drear, some days it seems the Sun is gone.
Despite the calendar I greatly fear that blessed spring is nowhere near
Tomorrow, the radio makes clear, we’re expecting six more inches here.
Some snow is like a sugary mist, granulated and sublime,
Quite useless for a snow ball fight, for that you need the packing kind.
The worst is the wet sodden snow, the kind that threatens a heart attack.
It’s difficult to lift and throw; it hurts the arms and strains the back.
I told my wife I now know why they need fifty words for snow.
I have a few choice words I’d add; words the children shouldn’t know.
Those Inuit folk who fight to survive in the land of snow and ice-
Now I too have fifty words for snow, not one of which is nice.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 8:31 AM UTC
The Queen of the Tundra stands her ground
mounted on caribou formorians all around
glacier cool she watches with crystal eyes
as her snowflakes answer her call to the skies
Adventurers or fools what brought them here
insidious and evil an empire they would rear
The Queen of the Tundra stood her ground
sword stained enemies cold on the ground
if you go to her realm hide from her gaze
Queen of the Tundra till the end of days.
Feb 1, 2011
Feb 1, 2011 at 1:21 PM UTC
Like quicksand around my feet
procrastination keeps me.
I put things off
that I find off-putting;
It puts me in rough situations.
The kind of situations
that a man needs to grow.
How can you be upset with life
when your given all you need?
Nobody knows, it just sort of happens.
Everyone finds something
to complain about,
no matter how easy life is.
When the real wolves come
to overthrow us from our comfort
we are already too caught up
in ourselves.
We panic
We sink
We forget to remain
Calm.
And like being trapped in quicksand,
we are swallowed whole.
A nice stone fireplace.
Worn in chairs.
Tables covered in scratches,
stories people have forgotten.
Kind faces.
Delicious drinks.
I wish I lived in Caribou.
It's the kind of place
that helps me find peace
in the middle of the storm.
The kind of place
that helps me forget
about the small things.
Jan 12, 2012
Jan 12, 2012 at 2:44 PM UTC
I really wanna write pretty ****
Like about birds singing at night
or the tired steps of the one Mexican maid
as she passes by my house before and after work
I want to write pretty ****
About my mother’s resilience
Her words of encouragement
And the sound of defeat in her “mijo no tengo ni pa’ la leche”
I want to write pretty **** academic **** deep ****
About beautiful man of color
Trying to be anything but black or brown
Girlfriends claiming their white side
The silencing of accented voices
I am dying to write pretty ****
I want to write about her big *** eyelashes
And her fierce makeup
And how her face was flawless when they found her laying there
In a poodle of blood
Why would anyone **** someone so pretty?
It’s as if they hated pretty ****
Like the color of brown and black skin
And green trees and ****
Why do they like to **** pretty ****
Like spirituality and native languages?
And they give nobel peace prizes to ****** up institutions with ****** up policies that push people to desperation, bomb them, starve them, and at the end blame them,
They like to blame pretty **** too
I want to write pretty ****
Like waking up to the bright sun
And driving by the day laborers at home depot
Some of them look so hopeful, and some of them so defeated
Some of them sleep beneath the little tree on the parking lot
Why do you illegalize pretty people?
Ain’t freedom pretty and injustice ugly?
Then why don’t we write about justice and ****
About the caribou not having to be fenced
And native land returned to indigenous peoples
Why don’t we claim our inner beauty
And recycle all them ****** up magazines filled with cropped bodies treated as money, souless bodies,
The fashion industry is ugly
And why don’t obama talk about pretty ****
Like reparations and wealth redistribution
And getting rid of Deportations, Deportations that’s some ugly ****
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 3:19 AM UTC
(Happy 150th, Canada!)
Canada Day - Just One?
With love from an ‘umble Yank
But every day is Canada Day!
The afternoon plane lands in Halifax
When the hatch is popped, cool air rushes in
Even the fog is happy in Canada
The Muskogee never made landfall here
And so we pilgrimage for her, complete
Her voyage from ’42 to Canada
Wolfville, Grand Pre’, Le Grande Derangement
The Deportation Cross and beer cans
Well, God forgive the Redcoats anyway
Newfoundland
Is a bold
Anapest
The church spires in a line, the light is green
The bold young captain shoots the narrows wild
Can you find your way to your painted house?
To walk again the cobbles of Ferryland
And smell the very blue of the Atlantic
The sea-blown wind is cold in Canada
Blue Puttees and a mourning Caribou
Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord
Good children sing “We love thee, Newfoundland”
Quebec – royal city of New France
May Le Bon Dieu bless the Plains of Abraham,
And may God bless
The signs an English driver cannot read
The Coca-Cola streets of Niagara Falls
Yanks laugh at made-in-China Mountie mugs
And buy them, happy to be in Canada
A cup of Toujours Frais from – well, that place
But to us in your southern provinces
Below Niagara, Tim too is Canada
Though Canada goes on, these scribbles must not -
Your grateful guest wishes only to say
That every happy day is Canada Day!
Jul 1, 2017
Jul 1, 2017 at 11:39 AM UTC
Wild caribou roam the plains
of the smooth golf greens.
A pest to all those who don the plus fours.
Emerging from the rough they charge
at will, impacting with the power of a comet.
They must be killed on sight.
An 8 iron behind the head usually does the trick,
and 19th hole is adorned with the coat stand silhouettes
of dispatched caribou heads.
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 5:16 AM UTC
I am from the outdoors
from Febreeze and smoked salmon
I am from the snow covered hills
and the ice covered lakes
I am from the crowded hockey rink
the cheers and jeers
and the season ticket seats
familiar and worn
I'm from hunting and fishing
from Stacy and Layne
I'm from the military
and bad eyesight
from " 'Merica!", "Let's get DOWN!"
and raps about vicious kitties
I'm from Def Leppard, George Strait
and the Beach Boys
I'm from Hacienda and Chili's
caribou sausage and moose jerky
From the fishing hook my dad
stuck in his finger
The collarbone my brother broke on the ice... twice
This is where I come from
These things are my past
and my present
But the future is in the distance
around the bend
beyond the horizon
And I am eager for it to come
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 10:31 PM UTC
Each pad sinks deeper into the soft
smushy, slush that was once hard like
Oak paneling in an old farm house.
The snow melts into calm reflecting pools
but constant spring is not a blessing
to the pink skin underpainting
of the great white bear.
He is not in a gold rush,
or a hurry, but he cannot swim forever.
The rising tides will bring the whales
closer, and only leave oil
and Caribou behind.
What shoes should you wear
when the ice goes renegade
and leaves you all but stranded
on a liquid isle?
Polar bears do not dock their boats
in Bernard Harbor,
so check your snow shoes
at the door and be prepared
for pirates. For when deer
jump eight feet into
pools, predators
should still know how to hunt.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 8:23 PM UTC
my lady’s rockin; her eyes open wide.
she walks towards me, pulsing her body
my lady smiles like she’s got something to hide.
we kiss so long I forget which tongue is mine…
teasin me, she backs up and takes a swig.
drops the last word, smile cocked to the side.
she fronts tough, much too slow to confide.
she plays aloof, yet all her actions scream, LOVE
my lady smiles like she’s got something to hide.
pouring *** and juice, here comes the Jekyll and Hyde…
once her double Caribou Lou’s kicked in
she’ll drop that last word, **** her fist to the side.
starts ragin jealous, that’s how we came untied.
“baby, love is the opposite of control,” I say.
so then my lady smiles like she’s got something to hide
she drops the last word, ego cocked to the side
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 3:50 PM UTC
Wily white meadow--
Bridles her name- silently
And--
Caribou hold their tears.
Roots promise with midst-
To miss her--
So cantaloupe may be-
In-every-second.
We aren't in lilac and lily.
But my paws are padded
Told-telling--
I walk.
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 2:29 AM UTC
large herds of caribou
as much as one million strong
spooked and frighten
by the seasonal changes and
being triggered
by their intincts
flow across the frozen tundra
organic life in full bloom
while the weak old and young
become prey for the meat eaters
finally we merged into greener pastures
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 5:35 PM UTC
hey butch
who ya kiddin'
you ain't no cowboy
no how
stick with ice hockey
now step aside
takes a lot more
slip it in a trollop
my grandpa shot better
hung 'em up to dry
in our back yard
on tremont street
under nevada sky
I learnt a noose knot
to catch my lizards
sold that snake
food with other gizards
I ******** caribou
and run them to a gallop
I knock off mafia heads
I take out cutters
florida boys don't scare me none
don't believe me
come and get me
find out for yourselves
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 9:42 AM UTC
12/05/10
Santa s workshop is as busy as can be
All the elves working frantically.
Christmas day is almost here, and the toys
Must be ready for the Christmas cheer.
The elves have but one thing in mind
And that’s to get the toys made in time.
All year long they are making these toys
And they play like all girls and boys.
For every 500 toys they make
They could swim in the indoor lake.
They have picnics and outdoor games
And no two are ever the same.
Have you ever played hide and seek in the snow?
Where you’re dressed all in white and they don’t know.
Or ridden on a caribou
and so many Other things that you can do.
Or playing with polar bears, walruses and seals.
Imagine how that would feel.
Or putting on the tails and tie
And wobbling with the penguins side by side.
There are so many games that the elves do play
And that’s one of the reasons that they stay.
Everyone is family, and that’s the way
It was meant to be.
They only know of love and joy
And they apply it to every toy.
So when you think of Santa and the north pole
This is the thought that you must hold.
louis rams
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
I know I'll survive now
Even though my mother
Drunk and doped up on her usual
Cocktail of potential overdose
Abandoned me at an early age
Even though my father
Money hungry and starving for a dollar
Forgot time is more important than money
Because I found myself homeless
On the street corners looking for love
Begging for change
Every passerby giving my pennies and quarters
Dimes and nickels
Thinking a penny tossed in my coffee cup
Would buy me a shower
A single meal my lion stomach roared for
Or save their soul because I'm a charity case
But it wasn't the type of change I looked for
I truly longed for
It came when you walked by
You gave me a glance
A simple curvature of your undeniable intoxicating lips
Which caused me to blush
You said hello
And I knew I fell for you
That I would be able to cash in all these coins for a chance at your heart
And baby if you think you have a hollow chest
I'll become a caveman
Call it my home
Chase away every saber tooth virus
Trying to seperate me from the only place I can call home
I'll hunt caribou and elk
With the spears I'll make from my bones
Make a feast over the fire
I'll make the moments we spend together a memory
With every cave painting I leave behind
As I kiss your body with gentle hands
I hope I found a new home
Because I have nowhere else to go
No other place I rather be
Than holding you and telling you
Grab my hiking gear
Give me a megaphone
I want the world to know everytime
I tell you in a loving tone
Baby...I'm home
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 2:51 PM UTC
The hunter’s bullet lodges in my side
like the pin bones of salmon wedged
in the back of my throat.
My life balances on the border
between my favorite comfort foods,
and the blade of the taxidermist.
You would make me into a trophy,
gutted and cured to become an ornament,
in your seasonal hunting cabin.
Raw honeycomb, Caribou marrow,
salmon roe stuck to my tongue,
psalms of my home made flesh,
call me back into my survival
instincts for my sleeping children.
She who outruns deer & devours
strong bucks with antlers the size of sequoias
could not outrun the champion sprinter,
American made bullets.
But when you realize your rumpus
disturbed wild things, there is no time to reload.
You brought a potluck into the den
of a slumbering mother with cubs.
My teeth are agonizingly real
And my jaws are in your belly,
rooting for the lost rib of Adam.
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 1:01 PM UTC
Canada Day? Just One?
With love from an ‘umble Yank
But every day is Canada Day!
The afternoon plane lands in Halifax
When the hatch is popped, cool air rushes in
Even the fog is happy in Canada
The Muskogee 1 never made landfall here
And so we pilgrimage for her, completing
Her voyage from ’42 to Canada
Wolfville, Grand Pre’, Le Grande Derangement
The Deportation Cross and beer cans
Well, God forgive the Redcoats anyway
Newfoundland
Is a bold
Anapest
The church spires in a line, the light is green
The bold young captain shoots the narrows wild
Can you find your way to your painted house?
To walk again the cobbles of Ferryland
And smell the very blue of the Atlantic
The sea-blown wind is cold in Canada
Blue Puttees and a mourning Caribou
Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord
Good children sing “We love thee, Newfoundland”
Quebec – royal city of New France
May Le Bon Dieu bless the Plains of Abraham,
And may God bless
The signs an English driver cannot read
The Coca-Cola streets of Niagara Falls
Yanks laugh at made-in-China Mountie mugs
And buy them, happy to be in Canada
A cup of Toujours Frais from – well, that place
But to us in your southern provinces
Below Niagara, Tim too is Canada
Though Canada goes on, these scribbles must not –
Your grateful guest wishes only to say
That every happy day is Canada Day!
Jul 1, 2018
Jul 1, 2018 at 9:35 AM UTC
The first time I stepped inside the house, there were strangers.
They had grimy faces and leather boots caked in wet mud.
Anxiety was radiating from me.
I was the new member of the tribe in this unknown territory.
I watched them devouring old soggy food.
"You're gonna love it here" One said.
a bit of relief was lifted--
and the strangers became my friends.
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 11:46 PM UTC
Jumping into the deep end,
let them find me now shattering all illusions and intruding on the why and how and where am I? but here still thinking deep.
In sleep there is a limitless draft to fill this cup and oftentimes I overflow into another dreaming, if another dream can thus protrude from this my dreaming overload and if all roads lead to one, which one and where?
I care to take a coffee, cake and break this fast, this endless task, this is a time to sit and make new plans.
This man's no friend to man not beast nor forest tree and in his singularity, uniquely and this one and only never lonely in his own company
is me.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 8:15 AM UTC