"chamois" poems
*be ever gentle to thy words
treat them, your tools, well,
cleansing and protecting,
wrapping them in cloths of chamois and moleskin
that they may be well conditioned and
pour forth with a temperament clear and viscous,
reflecting their high honors and a noble lineage,
they are well-intentioned to exist far longer
than your meager temporal life,
upon this ever hasty, ever perpetual, orbit
give them all respect, their fair due,
they are treasure immeasurable,
for which you have been granted guardianship,
custody received from others to be gifted onwards,
yours, but for the duration
so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction
more truffle than trifle,
find them in the dark forest of your life,
use them sparingly, just for soaring,
take them from the roots of your trees,
shave them with a paring knife,
counts them in bites and measure them in grams,
even in grains,
for words are the seasoning of our lives,
agent provacateurs that can modify the moment,
bringing out to the fore
the flavor of the underlying
speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor them at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them*
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
240
Ah, Moon—and Star!
You are very far—
But were no one
Farther than you—
Do you think I’d stop
For a Firmament—
Or a Cubit—or so?
I could borrow a Bonnet
Of the Lark—
And a Chamois’ Silver Boot—
And a stirrup of an Antelope—
And be with you—Tonight!
But, Moon, and Star,
Though you’re very far—
There is one—farther than you—
He—is more than a firmament—from Me—
So I can never go!
10.9k
She was the rain
when I was spring
but summer became I,
alas it was just a fling
Naked branches in a
dendritic pattern
fastening on to leaves
as Fall fell.
But drives away the soft snow
the blizzards unwanted
a stormy winter
unexpected
Skyward, the dark side of the moon
drawn to the faint traces of light -
continuously teased the edges
of the forgotten surface
obsession consumed I
to start a spin
I grow to become the
hunter only to see
the chamois conquering
my struggle
like an insect trapped
in the strings of
the eight legged
she beast
beating a
rhythmic tune
signalling a
tell
tale
heart
the end of me
no bang
only a cleaver
silently shushing
with an overdrawn
whimper
and
repeat.
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 3:31 AM UTC
Hey girl where you going?
I’m very much a talker
Cos I can’t dance good
And I never been a stalker
Where you off to my l’il lady?
Hop in my left seat for a ride
Wind it up or slow it right down –
I can get you to the other side
I’m just a country boy
And I can take you up city streets, country roads
Just a poor l’il redneck
But I’m sure I can get you to where you want to go
I got a full tank of gas
I got an all-terrain SUV
You sure do look good
Buckled up next to me
I can take you up the fast lane
I can drive you round the cones
I can take you slow through the forests
I can take you fast through 30 zones
I got air conditioning in here
Chamois leather seats as soft as babys butts
I can take you across the smooth asphalt
I can take you through the deep ruts
Putting on my aviators
Just let me know if we’re getting close
We can slip on out
Or we can take the main roads.
Just listen to the music
And i can listen to you if you like
I can rev the V8 and take you there
Be it day or be it night
I got fully automated
And a nice little gear change
I got super beam headlights
With a three hundred foot range
I can go on the straight and narrow
I can take you down winding roads
Nothing’s a problem for us; we know where we come from
And I can get you where you need to go
Yeah, I don’t dance so good
But I’m a country boy,
A nice little country boy.
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 9:06 AM UTC
There are those down the bookies and them in the butchers and they're all a bit hooky, a right bunch of wrong 'uns,
young guns.
The police don't have a clue, but you know what?
they're all tooled up too, and what for?
for a war on the streets
blood down the drains,
making widows of wives who'll spent the rest of their lives looking through the curtains on lonely window panes watching blood down the drains.
Reminds me of what's behind me,
back in the days when crazy paving was the craze and the grass was covered in cartoon concrete,
I'd take a seat by the bow front and look out on the car, a Singer Chamois which was green, seen it parked in front of the house on crazy paving where there used to be grass through which no water was able to pass into the water table and so having to go somewhere it went down the drains, a waste of an element because we had no brains.
Hooky's not new it's what some people are and what some people do, we try and we die or we thirst for and win, but I always did think that to waste was a sin and now it is blood down the drains because we've all been trained, it's an army out there and they've got to go somewhere and the drains are open to all.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 6:59 AM UTC
All things that are on earth shall wholly pass away,
Except the love of God, which shall live and last for aye.
The forms of men shall be as they had never been;
The blasted groves shall lose their fresh and tender green;
The birds of the thicket shall end their pleasant song,
And the nightingale shall cease to chant the evening long.
The kine of the pasture shall feel the dart that kills,
And all the fair white flocks shall perish from the hills.
The goat and antlered stag, the wolf and the fox,
The wild boar of the wood, and the chamois of the rocks,
And the strong and fearless bear, in the trodden dust shall lie,
And the dolphin of the sea, and the mighty whale, shall die.
And realms shall be dissolved, and empires be no more,
And they shall bow to death, who ruled from shore to shore;
And the great globe itself, (so the holy writings tell,)
With the rolling firmament, where the starry armies dwell,
Shall melt with fervent heat--they shall all pass away,
Except the love of God, which shall live and last for aye.
1.2k
I touch death
everywhere. It is
pleasant sometimes. It is shooting
upright stone forever
up. It is
cold metal blue, wind moving rushes,
holding on to a snag as smooth as couch
chamois. It is
feeling wooden table bones, random spontaneous
tapestries, my skin, your skin,
my clothes wet with substance,
drawn through mass downwards, on to
you.
I would let them go through me, if I
could, like smoke, like
talk, I feel
(deaf, mute) the smoke inside from
the drug inside. It would be outlawed
if they could
reach inside,
visible words of hair-lit thinness
on what is sought, reflections appearing on
the beyond side of ordinary surfaces,
tasting like
salmon. I saw the glinting
salmon meaning in a poem, Jorie. It was
like when the sun came out with her,
predictably, and I thought to trust it,
perhaps this once, for hurt can’t last
without the good also
lasting. Maybe I
just wasn’t listening right, this potential
human being, this possibility, this normal
occurrence, mundane, talked and
scribbled dismissively as a dejected
thought of dejection about dejection about
what it is
all about. Write it down,
it’s a crossword, long as the climbing
steps around the earth, senseless as
black.
white.
There could be much in nothing, but it’s
everywhere outside, and there are just a few
stars, really. The billions are
few
in the outward sinking sky.
See, I touch death, colorlessness,
everything, sitting on
ledges, feet dangling, today as yesterday
as tomorrow, trying to stop this thinking
habit, trying to be a Buddha about it, but the
wind is
cold
this time, and there are too many of you.
Maybe next time something will appear here,
in soaking colors and ever
pulsing acceptance, understanding
blood, moving,
living, meaning
from beyond here, tomorrow or yesterday,
but I hope today, before I am touched
by it, and realize
nothing.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 8:00 PM UTC
I remember gravel
crunching under feet,
sun beating down
a sea of heads. At a booth,
we were offered advice on cleaning
products and chamois.
We walked passed fake gardens,
pet prized-winning sheep,
soared overhead on the sky tram.
My parents bought me a pickle
from the pickle man. Large,
juicy, plump, thick, delectable...
My tiny hands wrapped around it;
my lips ******* delicious juice,
nibbling meaty flesh.
When they’d take it away,
I’d throw a fit; cry.
___They should’ve known then.___
Mar 12, 2018
Mar 12, 2018 at 9:04 AM UTC
SHORTS
What happened to old time lovers?
Are they all centipedes with arms too many and hands that stroll too far too much.
Mucky ducks with oily feathers, skin that's nearly tanned, skin thicker than chamois.
Better for cleaning cars and propping up bars, before shooting off drunk in their big flashy cars.
***************
Walking past Winchester cathedral thinking of religion, strolls by the river and trolls that hang out under the bridge.
More hands than centipedes, much bigger teeth.
***************
The sky is riddled with starlight.
The night is out of sight.
Behind eyelids and dustbin lids.
Irksome kids.
Chrysalides and ironic sides.
Dark room developments.
***************
Sipping milkshakes in bars
Music beating.
People meeting some new, some old.
Being bold, golden nuggets of suggestions.
Interjections will be sipping in dripping music.
Via ears that swallowed a delicacy.
As delicate as the child who spoke the words..I love nanny Livvi, tickled me.
Unknown before, thank goodness it's Friday .
End of a chapter, new understanding begun.
(c) Livvi
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 5:04 PM UTC
Drums and hums trance
as my pen traces
fixtures of pink eroded clouds
as the mount tops explode
to expose the Chamois
The old rocks melts
on the bridge under where
picturesque horizons
meander on scaled slopes
that overturn marvel with wit
The greenery of the forest
and the sound of the bears
evoke my ears
to hear as the rhythm
rapture to capture
The sky diminishes
as the melodious stars
parade and trade
their glorious mystery
of the lost rulers
The Lynxes spotlight
their padded claws
*and ***** attentive ears*
to hunt, count and punt
on the paced ranges of the Carpathian
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 6:26 PM UTC
We first laid eyes on you over drinks
and a late dinner in the Latin Quarter,
a short stroll from the Spanish Arch,
its historical significance gone
in a heartbeat along with expectation
of ambush by austere beauty
on those wind swept stepping stones
Inishmore, Inishmaan and Inisheer.
The River Corrib rushes
beneath Wolfe Tone Bridge,
grainy and black as your liquid
image on the screen,
countless heartbeats of moonlight
mingling quayside with the sea
in a salty embrace that stings
my eyes and seizes my throat.
The windows of St. Martin’s
frame the timeless river.
Chamois cloth of morning
lifts the stubborn tarnish of dawn
from its braided embellishments.
We tuck into our full Irish and drink
the watery coffee while you float
outside of time in your brackish sea.
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 9:03 AM UTC
(20 minute poetry)
Where the chamois go
out along the plateau
to where the winds blow and the Sun sets with that special lonely kind of golden glow
and silence undercuts the thermals.
It pleases the eye to wonder on high,
the eagles, another golden in the golden sky wonder why
I am here.
Away from the chaos of life in the city,
to absorb what is seen
to ponder on what will and if will
will still be.
On the spiral staircase and we turn about face
but the staircase is still there on the rise going nowhere
it's a ruse of no use to me.
The plateau is where we stow all the memories we own
the plateau is a home to me.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 9:22 AM UTC
We first laid eyes on you over drinks
and dinner in the Latin Quarter,
a short stroll from the Spanish Arch,
its historical significance gone
in a heartbeat along with all
expectation of ambush
by austere beauty
on those wind swept stepping stones
Inishmore, Inishmaan and Inisheer.
The River Corrib gleams
like vintage vinyl beneath
Wolfe Tone Bridge,
grainy and black as your liquid
image glowing serene on screen,
countless heartbeats of moonlight
mingling quayside with the sea
in a salty embrace that stings
my eyes and seizes me
by the throat.
The windows of St. Martin’s
frame the timeless river.
Soft chamois of morning lifts
the stubborn tarnish of dawn
from its braided embellished tales.
We tuck into our full Irish and drink
watery coffee while you float outside
time to the rhythm of the tides
in your small brackish sea.
May 18, 2017
May 18, 2017 at 8:14 AM UTC
One more on the to do list to do
one more thing that I have
missed out
One more devil to pay for
and for that
I will pay for
no doubt.
Window across the valley
mist on the mountain tops
the river runs ragged and slowly
until this all finally stops.
The chamois with feet very steady
gets ready to jump the crevasse
I think I might jump across with him, to
where the grass is much greener
it's making me
keener to try.
If I stay I will dry up and wither
like some ear of corn in the sun,
but if I die in the taking it's
me that is making
the choice
and the one
that is loading
the gun.
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 5:22 AM UTC
To incite the public to riot
they
lance with political precision,
divisive of course for to make
the division and a hubbub ensues.
This is not of our making and most certainly not for the wanting that's taking the bread from the mouths of our children.
Who them?
grey men
tally man at the door men
and TV license men
all want a piece of you and you with your eyes on the inside of your empty pockets with emery stitched hands scratching at chamois ain't got that fat or far enough away from the grey men yet.
There is time to drop your bombs on a parliament and time even more to discuss, but us men, unhappy men even when we are the men who've got, have got no time at all.
We might as well **** in the wind 'cause our voices come back in the lost echoes of Drachmas, islands we are and will sink without trace,
I face the facts such as they seem.
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 12:50 PM UTC
On trouve dans les monts des lacs de quelques toises,
Purs comme des cristaux, bleus comme des turquoises,
Joyaux tombés du doigt de l'ange Ithuriel,
Où le chamois craintif, lorsqu'il vient pour y boire,
S'imagine, trompé par l'optique illusoire,
Laper l'azur du ciel.
Ces limpides bassins, quand le jour s'y reflète,
Ont comme la prunelle une humide paillette ;
Et ce sont les yeux bleus, au regard calme et doux,
Par lesquels la montagne en extase contemple,
Forgeant quelque soleil dans le fond de son temple,
Dieu, l'ouvrier jaloux !
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