"charted" poems
he once said to me...
*“I would blow warm
moist breath through
your toes...
I would do all the
wonderful things
to your big toes
that you do to me.
And most certainly
all the tension would
drain onto me...
I would draw
every last drop
from your toes
with little messages
along the way of my
charted course
to come up
your inner channels.
Resting in the sensitive eddies
behind your knees
we both breathe fire
wafting up and down
your thighs.”*
.... like drips of seduction off his tongue.
And he lingered on, saying...
*“Flaming lips wafting
together with desire,
reaching and pulling
with firey licks.
As I slide
my wet tongue
on up and hover,
breathing
you in
deeply...
through my nostrils
filling my *** senses.
Drunk on your fumes,
I'm consumed.
Circling the tip
of my nose
around
your hard,
pearly knot
feeling the heat
from your butterfly wings
my parted lips surounding
and easing the warmth
of my soul onto you
with wet hot breath.
And I ease the length
of my tongue to rest
completely over
your fire breathing wings ,
warm capable and ready..
leaving you in suspense.
Sliding ever so slightly
and slowly up your
slick silky lips,
tightening the tip
of my tongue -
flick flick
flick flick...
And I look deeply
into your eyes,
into depths
you've never known.
And then I'll take you
all in, with a suction
you'll never escape
or ever want to.
Never breaking eye contact
my tongue slides from bottom
and presses, emphasis
at the top slowly
over and over
settling you in.
We fall into
a oneness
and find
our groove.”*
And I said...
**
*“I wish I wasn't
still irritated with you
so I could fully
enjoy your seduction.”*
**
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 1:30 PM UTC
A movie star died a day or two ago
She was 97.
She would to say hello to my mother
At evening musicals full of teenaged boys
that I lusted after years ago
She would wave and smile with sparkling eyes
I’d look at mother
“Why?”
Amused, she would say softly
“I don’t know!”
We would giggle together
A rare event
Mother was no chorine
nor wardrobe mistress
She did not peak in the 50s
She did not dance with her husband
under the moon at the Bel Air Bay Club
Her daughter did not write a pop song that oddly charted
She did not struggle to remain in the public’s imagination
They had nothing in common but perhaps a lovely face and a skill at survival
Mom could make her husband move her closer to Johnny on the dance floor.
Whichever direction, Dad obliged.
They locked down that school today
Warned by a rifle in a photo
Of an unstable football pro
These women are dead now
so none’s the wiser
“When you’re a victim of bullying, an option is revenge." said the alumna.
“Just a precaution,” replied the school.
Mother would have been 97 this year as well.
Maybe they’ve met again,
two streaks of illuminated emptiness
Engaging with reservations
Over fitting in and going insane
Over the low self-regard in a champion
or
Being lost at sea.
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 5:26 PM UTC
Funny the things we recall.
Images that flash through our brain.
Some most vivid for me were of an old man.
Skin like creased parchment paper,
Lined and yellowed with age.
The veins visible just below the surface,
of a thin nearly transparent veneer.
Liver spotted flecks of red,
Charted paths from the toil of many years,
Palms callused forever from a life time of labor.
Big fingers knotted and misshapen,
The two inch tip of one gone missing,
Saw taken, at age sixteen.
Looking at those old hands, one could hardly guess
That still there remained gentleness in their caress.
For an old dog, or a little grandson in need of some
Companionable affection or parental love.
Those aged hands could also make things,
Toy sailboats, and wooden trains,
complete with caboose,
And guard cow catcher.
A cool flute whistle that actually worked,
He said it was like the Indian’s made,
Out Oklahoma way.
And he would know,
He cowboyed there.
His hands taught me to tie my shoes,
Open and close my first pocketknife.
Those same hands could become birds,
rabbits, butterfly's, all sorts of things.
When projected up on the wall,
Silhouetted by a naked back light.
His hands knew magic too,
Pluck silver coins right out of my ears.
His tired face matched his hands,
visual weathered, creased and
wrinkled road maps,
Of 89 years of rugged roads traveled.
Yet, his lively pale green eyes remained
forever fraudulently youthful prisms,
Eyes and spirit of a much younger man within.
But it is his hands most of all I shall remember,
Their imposing look and their reassuring
touches of tenderness.
I shall never forget my grandfather’s hands.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 3:12 PM UTC
Love is deep,
deeper than the sea,
and is as rough,
as the waves.
It has no limits,
no boundaries,
and it moves,
through you and me.
The oceans waves will tear our ship apart.
But we keep on sailing,
we knew the risks from the start.
Our sail is torn,
mast snapped in half,
but we still follow,
our charted path.
I can see,
bright skies ahead,
rest easy my love,
we are not dead.
The oceans waves will tear our ship apart.
But we keep on sailing,
we knew the risks from the start.
The sunshine will lead us to promised land.
Lead us down the right path,
take my hand.
The sunshine deceived both of us today.
The seas are still rough,
led us the wrong way.
Jun 29, 2012
Jun 29, 2012 at 6:13 AM UTC
70
“Arcturus” is his other name—
I’d rather call him “Star.”
It’s very mean of Science
To go and interfere!
I slew a worm the other day—
A “Savant” passing by
Murmured “Resurgam”—”Centipede”!
“Oh Lord—how frail are we”!
I pull a flower from the woods—
A monster with a glass
Computes the stamens in a breath—
And has her in a “class”!
Whereas I took the Butterfly
Aforetime in my hat—
He sits ***** in “Cabinets”—
The Clover bells forgot.
What once was “Heaven”
Is “Zenith” now—
Where I proposed to go
When Time’s brief masquerade was done
Is mapped and charted too.
What if the poles should frisk about
And stand upon their heads!
I hope I’m ready for “the worst”—
Whatever prank betides!
Perhaps the “Kingdom of Heaven’s” changed—
I hope the “Children” there Won’t be “new fashioned” when I come—
And laugh at me—and stare—
I hope the Father in the skies
Will lift his little girl—
Old fashioned—naught—everything—
Over the stile of “Pearl.”
4.8k
ECG
They showed the broken rhythm of my heart
With inky ripples traced in peaks and troughs
The night when sudden life was torn apart
Left echoes like a dry persistant cough
This paper trail more signature of self
Than any scribbled scrawl of given names
More indication of my vital health
Than any poet’s talk of light or flames
My quick survival charted there as fact.
“And here, you see a murmured aftershock”
The remnant spider scribe of heart attack
My ailing pulse, my brittle ticking tock
Once took a moment’s beat to catch its breath
And left me reeling at the edge of death.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 3:07 AM UTC
+
A bed-sits high and dry,marooned on a sandbank of night.
As radio 4-casts its nets to isolated ships like me that rudderless drift on into the light.
Still dark outside,no sounds,save the distant echoing bark of a hungry fox ----streets away.
Another dawn ripped blackbin bag of a day creeps and ouzes in
Heavy unfocused lids fogged in the steamy smokeyness of tea and a first fag
plenty of time plenty of time.
Time before the world wakes to the morning pips and its flushing, brushing, rushing sounds
A greyness gathers just beyound my pained curtains, as with a silent sigh a roosted blackbird clears its fasted throat.
Then as if by magic I 'm carried, scimming high above and beyound this mooring set in a silvered sea,on a welcomed mantra known to all.
As if a calling pray at day break,following each word in a moment subline
Un angle vole un angle vole.
Rockall - Malin - Hebrides
Humber - Fisher - German bight
Thames - Dover - Wight.
Each single secert understood and noted only by a few as I glide over in paced, pausey surf rolling words
North northeast - 994 - Falling slowly - Low pressure moving away - Gales 8 very poor - Backing 3-4 later - Mainly good - Becoming variable - Syclonic later - Increasing 6-7 mainly west - Swally showers for a time - Fair - Good.
Oh so good, each pure English comforting sounds heard over lapping waves of air.
The bushy wet nosed fox sulks and cowers away from the breaking sun, as the blackbird draws a dewdropped breath though golden nib and tapping gently, call a hidden choir into song just for me.
Reminding me of the things I'd for gotten I care about.
Sharp timed unwelcomed pips flood the ears to prise open sticky eyes from promised dreams and spoon-cuddles warm
As I set forth on wetted pavements, ready to decline into my charted day.
Yet smiling as if blessed and no longer alone
But filled with early morning salty thoughts of strangers
I
have
yet
to
meet
Feb 24, 2011
Feb 24, 2011 at 7:47 AM UTC
i washed and folded my dreams
my threadbare memories
everything i had and i
carried them with me
it was all so much
lighter than i remember
there was so much more
i was
wearing nothing
but my name
i never needed anything else
it
used to keep me
so much warmer
than it does
now
i never knew how cold
we are
i remember
looking down at my concave palms
the ones i knew were mine and
they opened so deep i could gaze
into the blazing eyes of galaxies
–my galaxies–
every star charted and named
nurtured and
loved
so loved
now i
im not even sure my hands are mine
i know my eyes arent
i know they
cannot be so hollow
they cannot be so hollow
when i went to unpack
every color drained into the ground
and
everything was
ashes
i
touched
my cheekbones and under
the faint shadows of my paper fingertips
my body crumbled
to
d
u
s
t
Oct 3, 2019
Oct 3, 2019 at 1:59 PM UTC
In foreign land of towering pines
And hammocks, mangrove-torn
A dark-filled night reluctantly
Bequeaths a pale dawn
Upon one battered cypress perched,
Amidst the morning haze,
Bright eyes stare out from part-cocked head
With piscicultural gaze.
Intently focussed on the brook,
That glides beneath the tree
Alive to every shadow’s sound
Yet never truly free.
For choicelessly these eyes are drawn,
As waters break below
And like a flash a head snaps back
And rippled muscles flow.
Within the slightest moment’s breath,
Two mighty wings released,
Two claws full-stretched, two legs reach out
The sinews, strained, unleashed.
The beaten air the only sound,
As time itself stands still
And, tracer-like, on charted course
The osprey meets its ****
With consummate and practiced ease
The painless end begins
The single deadly blow is dealt
As sharpened claws sink in.
Then up away into the dawn
And time resumes its course
Two final beats – then disappeared
Is this magnetic force.
The cypress perch and well-filled brook
As silent witness stay
And as they settle – calm again
The sun declares the day.
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
She was no saint, no wonder woman and yet
my mom possessed some of those qualities.
A strong sweet person, with a loving heart.
My father was no fool, but with mom's quite
strength and guidance he was a better, smarter
man and family leader. This fact never more
obvious than after she died at 54 and he had to
cope on his own without her. A grieving man
reduced to a child for a time. He never fully
recovered. Rational decisions eluded him.
No matter how well it's constructed,
Every ship needs a good compass and
strong rudder and my mother was ours.
My brother and I though grown and
aging men, still steer the course she charted.
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 4:10 PM UTC
Hints of maple kiss each of
your highlander grog fingertips.
The smell of her shampoo
pierces & permeates throughout
your living room, lingering still
to this day, on your pillow.
You told her you'd make a perfume
that smells like the car heater on
long drives home for Christmas.
Aromas of her laundry detergent
still live in your spine
like LSD.
When you turn your neck a
certain way you fall back
into trances of her & 1997.
Vick's Vaper Rub, NyQuil
Cough Syrup breath, with
a 104 degree fever. She
sobbed when her last
sea monkey died
You called her cartographer.
Intricate trails of herself connecting
each board of your apartment floor.
Charted long ago when her
candle still burned scents of warmth.
The art of burning,
a front the fire place of
maple logs where you told her
to "Let go."
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 2:56 AM UTC
Sun feigns heat
in a clear slate of blue above;
I gaze upon pale, brown hills and fields
through the smoke of my breath
wishing it would at least snow.
There was talk of cow-tipping
when I was in fifth grade,
but cows would've broken their necks.
Ground covered in frozen grass
is no comfort for fallen cows at 15 Fahrenheit.
Our small lake
transformed into a debating ground for skaters and hockey players,
each vying for control over the weekend's
primary source of entertainment.
(The dreadful alternative: afternoons shopping with parents.)
When it finally snowed, a wonderland was made,
a knee-high, get-out-of-school-free card.
We charted expeditions in corn fields, wooded creeks
and stone-colored barns that were beguiling in the white
of Chadds Ford pastures like untended English castles.
Woods like a Pollack of burnt sienna and white,
their only sound is weight of snow bearing down on limb.
Beyond those whispers, just a roaring silence
when I'm still as ice fingers
trying to touch the ground from the roof.
The cats of Baldwin's Book Barn nap easily within,
as we dig for a pearl amongst makeshift shelves
full of hard-bound reads for snow-bound youth.
These felines, grown, need not the words,
but the pages themselves for fine beds.
A blue-white glow from outside casts a cold light,
illuminating prints of Helga and Christina's World,
a reminder to all who live down the road.
On such a winter day, I didn't care to remember
that soon there would be Spring kittens in the books,
and a lake full of children's swimsuits.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
Plotted, charted according to popular theorem,
meticulously fretted over,
worked and reworked--confirmed.
Follow the order and find the balance.
But, variables.
Solve for x where x is an unknown.
The question may yet have an answer--
a suitable conclusion to prove the proof,
but has the problem a solution?
At rest, we are simple equations,
rounding ourselves to the nearest whole,
adding fractions of a percentage,
drawing a line and calling the bottom number
-------------------------
TOTAL
But, variables.
1(x), where x is an unknown.
And all the fractions we add
leave us fractured,
divided from the solution, the end sum.
remainders to be rounded off,
estimates of ourselves.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 12:29 PM UTC
You’re gonna let the sun
always go to his rite,
It’s a sacrifice,
but he will be overall victorious
reborning to new glory.
Stretched out and watery
the wide cut of your eyes
by a vulnerable agony
that will receive forgiveness
tickling the elegant lines
of your delightful face.
Now the way is charted
Barefoot I follow,
listening to the soft crackling
of a bizarre heart
that is just a projection
of the concrete.
Only a fleeting idea the trajectory
where my compass is pointing at,
within the chaos of dissociated memories,
my own north is still you, son of the sun,
the same sun that you’ll let go
cause you know he cannot forget you…
…you are his pride.
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 3:14 PM UTC
by guess and by god, headstrong,
a recklessly charted course.
ruled by intuition and ammunition
we were captains together--but then the weather!
clouded our stars, washed away our vision, tore our sails.
my captain! i was desperate!
for you: i jettisoned my heart, threw overboard my sensibility,
let out all my rope until the Bitter End.
but you mean to abandon ship!
after all we've sailed through, and you mean to abandon ship.
you've left me with the devil to pay,
but instead i'll swallow the anchor, i'll swallow it whole.
forgive my mutiny,
but a dead captain is no captain, and the sea does own my soul.
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 8:13 PM UTC
Engraving each memory on a grain of sand
I captured time, for infinity, in a bottle
With tired eyes I sit there and mull
turning it around, over and over.
Will the sand ever pave the way forward?
Or will it cut deeper and deeper?
The grains may beckon over their own kind
wading through time, eroding like a river.
Perhaps there was a start to this all
A cold, unmelting person, thawing
as the lands shaped them, the scenery changed
but the river of memories just kept flowing.
It never makes it to the sea, oh no
never to float away, or to discover paradise
reaching the end only to turn back
oh, I've captured the sands of time.
The memories now all fade into one
of reliving each moment, the joy and the agony
the cascading grains all sing the same song
of the life I've lived, quite a symphony.
The glass is full, there's no more space
the fields passing by were never meant to last
a new course to be charted, to discover, to seek
to fill and measure with a new hourglass.
Feb 27, 2023
Feb 27, 2023 at 12:25 PM UTC
maps are for lost
fools, going in predictable
directions, too afraid
of the unknown.
they'll never step off
the concrete, never feel
the rub of untouched
brush against their skin
or the adrenaline of
*where the **** am I?*
they play by the rules,
in lust with their cookie
cutter by the book lives.
maps. charted journeys.
these things don't interest me.
i want scrapes up and
down my arms and legs
because i dared venture too
deep. i want bruises and
bleeding because i got lost,
too lost. i want to get lost.
i want to lose the map.
i want to lose my little
here dot, the one that
follows me, red and angry
because i don't stay on the
path to that cookie cutter
life.
i want off this route. this
one that leads only to
y o u.
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 6:52 PM UTC
Splintered decisions
Now here’s the fun part
Finding which way is quickest to the stars
The quietest outro with the detour to mars
Despite all the downpour I’ve cut through and charted a path to the new
Looked past what you’ve put me through
I know I’ve done the same
All this time and the shame still plays in the back of my brain
Symphonies of deceit and false image of grandeur
Reliquaries built on the blood of the meek
High and mighty was the sheep
Lofty in aims getting fat for the feast
Deigned to believe it a wolf and was greeted with punctured lungs
Blood spilled from the throat of the unsung
Devoured on behalf of its insolence
Now the grave screams to be undone
At last I return to where I begun
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 3:11 PM UTC
I wrote a song about a story about a story about a song
Three minutes thirteen seconds
So, it wasn't quite that long
Filled with love and disappointments
All the things a good song needs
I wrote a song about a story about a story about a song
They said "write something simple"
I said "I'll see what I can do"
They told me "you can do it"
"you're the best at what you do"
I needed something with emotion
Something new and something hot
I wrote for fourteen hours
And this is what I got
I wrote a song about a story about a story about a song
Three minutes thirteen seconds
So, it wasn't quite that long
Filled with love and disappointments
All the things a good song needs
I wrote a song about a story about a story about a song
It was a little love song
You know...people could relate
I played it to the band
They said "Man, this song is great"
It's a little bit of Shakespeare
With some Poe there on the side
The song was full of highs and lows
It would take you for a ride
I wrote a song about a story about a story about a song
Three minutes thirteen seconds
So, it wasn't quite that long
Filled with love and disappointments
All the things a good song needs
I wrote a song about a story about a story about a song
In the end when it was finished
It charted, not for long
Then I realized the story here
Was the story 'bout the song
So, I wrote a song about a story about a story about a song
Three minutes thirteen seconds
So, it wasn't quite that long
Filled with love and disappointments
All the things a good song needs
I wrote a song about a story about a story about a song
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 5:24 PM UTC
I was told about this special book. I was told it was a magical book! Amazingly full of bright, light and insight. Allegedly one look and you were hooked and took! This great book of life baited, charted and crafted with will, quill feathers, leather and of weather. The great book of life highly and showily regarded the ******** the rife and strife.
Brilliant parts of art from heart! Boldly guarded by angel’s darts! Holding from different angles. Behold! The pages of this book mangled, spangled and tangled. Through the ages… the corners scorned, torn and worn. In theory the inseams very weary and old. Amazingly and appraisingly with thrill they still fold! Merrily told
and eagerly sold. The great book of life’s pages is of age, cages
and wages, stages and rages! The great book of life each a way to encourage or engage courage. The great book of life was inspired and transpired by a baby in a manger. Some pages spell and tell of a stranger danger! The great book of life is about the beloved also of
the unloved. Chapters in capture, scriptures in measure, rapture-
or torture. The great book of life listen to my envision with precision! The great book of life envisions death’s breath. Missions, those enclosed in prisons and visions! The many, many scenes serene and obscene. The in-betweens, the kings and queens! Dragons, drones
and many, many thrones! The antic, frantic and gigantic! Magic, satanic and tragic! blizzards or wizards! Ancient, distant chants and rants! The great book of life, a chance from a glance. Traces of many faces, places and races! The great book of life claimed to have named those bordered, cornered, loitered and murdered. The great book of
life is it! Amazingly it tells bits of it all! Basically about the small that brawl. The tall, including some that awesomely, eventually fall! The great book of life collects and reflects the surreal or unnatural. The frail and the pale. Actions hailed while eluding a whale! This great book of life will it prevail? Yes prevail! Amen! The great book of life amen, amen.
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 10:06 PM UTC
like swirling colors, we begin at a party.
at a school
in a town
and a time on earth with the people and the streets and the trees.
tv’s/
like swirling oil of holy alignment. we begin
as a glob (or embryo)
tiny little me/you/each
(organic ******
as children, involved and wearing warm hats,
we wait
on furniture.
the home stretch is free
unto college,
unto seasons, moss or mold, to bud new spells.
boy dunked in the river/
baptized.
transformed into horror.
(summer slash winter)
little brother,
little baby orb of water / air / mountain(s).
fish.
my son becomes a stoner.
he puts a giant-squid on his head
& dances the cha-cha.
star ghoul &
star-calc, skull of light/
bits of she beaming through and known only as the sky at night.
charted;
astro-logically.
in goatsblood.
& the mathematic sacraments of babylon.
meat and feast on forests of tall city steel beasts in beams; towers;
with the blood of men to raise them;
molochi.
(the consumed one)
(consumers)
swallowing dreams and family force nutrients for more and more and
more; as said to sustain.
for life is to devour.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 6:08 AM UTC
I picked grey for the sheets
to cocoon our tangles
and black for the curtains
to block out the light
after sleepless skin bliss
in the morning we'd drift
merging aural wires
where flesh cannot press
unified on a fraction
of new foam mattress
dew lattice charted upon
have breakfast in bed
then get up and eat
giggling over tea steams
poured in black and red
Japanese porcelain cups
I found at the thrift shop
with cherry blossoms
fired on their insides
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 10:06 PM UTC
I am the asymptote.
You are the curve.
This is the closest, and
farthest I'll ever be. With you
my life has been more than a system
of following rules and norms.
No matter how close or far we become,
you'll be charted in my mind forever --
Pictures, messages, letters, drawings, gifts, glances, smiles, laughter, and
memories. I'll always cherish
this part of my life, and
I'll never forget you, and
this imaginary us.
I am the asymptote; you are the curve.
One day, maybe,
we'll bend the rules, and
defy gravity.
Come with me, and
let's head towards infinity
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 2:30 PM UTC
A way of life (you say you you are not a poet)
A way of life.
A not uncommon phrase.
But still, an uncommon concept.
What is our 'way' of life?
What is my way of life?
Beyond the supposed-to-do,
Which is a way, pre-charted for you
By others, how does one live
Above and beyond, the day to day?
You say you are not a poet.
I say way.
I say you have chosen a life,
Where words are jewels, choices,
Public choices, to be very praised,
Kicked or worse,
Ignored.
That is a choice. Test is:
I have a way,
Of speaking in my voice,
Saying what I need to say.
I have chosen the way of a poet,
For better or worse.
Don't tell me you are not a poet!
You are out there, to be read.
Courage is not lacking.
You have a way of life.
It is distinguished,
It is dangerous.
Only the brave
Dare come this way.
Craft can be learned,
Courage, never.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 12:54 AM UTC